There are some seriously angry people in this world. I came across one yesterday. Asshats united at Saturday shopping.

I dropped Elder Spawn at work. He works in Coles a few hours a week at the local large shopping centre. Actually, when I say large, I mean it’s bigger than a single shop, but smaller than a mall type thing. Which is totally irrelevant really.

Elder Spawn slinks out of the car, looking furtively from left to right because freakin’ hell! A public place? With your mother? At 16? The shame and humiliation! Even if there is money involved.

I drive on to the opposite end of the shopping centre to buy some magazines for MOTH, Younger Spawn and Step Spawn.

The place is packed. It’s the Saturday afternoon shopping frenzy in full swing. I see a spot in the next row, so drive around there. Before I start to turn into the park, naturally I check I’m clear.
There’s a car coming toward me, but he’s going straight ahead and past me so I throw on the indicator, and start to drive into the spot. A parking spot, two places away from the door of the shopping centre on a busy day. Cool, right? Wrong.

I get out of the car, and there’s a car sitting behind me. It’s the ‘no indicator, going straight ahead car’. I wonder what they’re doing, but start walking. Their window goes down.

The screaming starts. Apparently, I am a fucking, selfish bitch. Apparently, I have no respect for my elders. Apparently, I am a lazy, fucking lowlife scum with shit for brains.

I take a look at the car. Hanging out the window is an elderly gentleman (and I use the term loosely), red in the face, screaming it me at the top of his lungs.

I start to speak, calmly. To explain.

He shouts “Oh come on, we both know that’s bullshit!” proving that along with being a dickhead, he must be psychic, as I didn’t even get the sentence out, yet he knew what I was going to say.

I give up, and just walk off toward the shops. He drives off around the corner, with a few more choice expletives.

As I cross the road to the shops, he throws his car into reverse, and comes straight back at me. People stare.

I keep walking, albeit faster. He screams at me some more, and I say “Have a nice day” wave, and go into the shopping centre. I don’t know where he went, and I didn’t much care by then, although hell would’ve been nice

Shaking a bit, I stand in the newsagents.

*breathe* *breathe*

I don’t do confrontation well at all. It scares me. A therapist type told me once it probably dates back to memories of my dad beating up on my mother when I was 7 or 8. She thought the child in me equates shouting with violence, hence the panic.

Whatever.

I don’t care if he was older. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a rude bastard. He seemed to think I owed him something because he was grey with wrinkles.

Although I have a huge amount of inherent respect for the elderly, respect is still earned.

That bastard, doesn’t deserve any.

Working sucks.

I was thinking the other day, about the things that are going on in my life, and I have decided the main problem is that I work. 5 days a week, 52 weeks a year, for the term of my natural life. Or so it feels.

It doesn’t help I work with asshats. My boss is fine, if not an ‘interesting’ personality to work for (similar to Fatty Vautin, for you Aussies), but the accountant is a pig, and the highlight of the other staff members day is working out how many bread rolls my boss would like for lunch, then trotting out to buy them. He takes his roll run very seriously. Too seriously really.

This guy is a 45 year old man in a 94 year olds body. Seriously. If I get to the stage where I huff and puff just from walking up a few stairs, if I get to be that overweight I have gout and other assorted ailments, shoot me. Please.

But enough about other people, and back to me, the only one that matters.

I don’t want to work.

I want to stay home in my Pj’s, spending time on teh intermaweb, polishing my php and css skills to maybe make some wordpress themes, pottering in my vegetable garden, learning photography, making my own soap and candles, baking up a storm, and generally doing whatever the hell I want. Rather than what I have to do.

Taking in foster children would also be awesome. My ex and I did that a few years ago, but had to stop because we split up and blah blah. It’s most rewarding thing you could do for a little person.

When I was younger, I wanted to be a writer, presumably as did 75 percent of the internet. In primary school, I’d spend a good proportion of my holidays wandering about with a notepad furiously writing. About what I don’t recall. I still look back and wish I had pursued that.

If you didn’t have to work, what would you do instead? Take up crochet? Macrame perhaps? Open up a brothel?

What did you want to be when you were a kid? Before you growed up?

It’s this time of year when a young girls thoughts turn to Wimbledon. If she likes tennis that is, and I do.

I love a good tennis match. The problem here in Australia though, is that we have no decent players in the mens draw to support hence my undying love and devotion to the ever charming, likable and immensely talented Roger Federer. How dare Pat Rafter retire.

Because you see, the best mens player we have left is Lleyton Hewitt. What an ass. What a snotty little prat he is, and always has been, even when he was something close to being good.

I can’t stand him, and I’m sure my dog wouldn’t either. How can you like a guy that thinks the world (well, Australia, anyway) owes him admiration and respect because he’s a tennis player. He’s rude, he calls linesmen “spastic”, he screams “C’mon!” mainly just to try and piss off the opposition, and always has an injury excuse ready to trot out should he not do well.

And don’t get me started on the Lleyton and Bec circus. She’s an ex-soapie star (and I use the term loosely), and he’s, well, he’s just him. A pain in the ass.

They got married, and sold the pictures to a magazine for some ludicrous amount.

Then, when they managed to do the unthinkable and pop out a kid, - they pimped the first year or two of the poor things life to a womens mag for a cool million or so. Imagine that? Having a child. How the hell did they do that? No one else does - they were the first. Or so it seemed.

But it all went sour. Becs and Lley-ley weren’t getting the adoration they wanted, people were saying things like, oh I don’t know - he’s a asshat? SHe’s trashy and thick as a brick? And suddenly, they changed their tune. They wanted privacy. They resented the media intruding into their lives.

AUSTRALIAN tennis star Lleyton Hewitt has lashed out at the media over the amount of coverage given to his soap-star wife Bec and their young daughter.

Oh for fucks sake. They prostituted themselves and their infant daughter across any magazine or newspaper they could…and then when the money dried up, cried invasion of privavcy????? Give. Me. A. Break.

Now the media’s in overdrive because Bec’s up the duff again. Seems they must be low on funds because apparently? They’ve sold their story again for over 100 grand.

The supposedly now publicity and media shy Hewitts didn’t just announce the pregnancy to friends and family, then go about their private family business that Lleyton whined was so important to him. They rushed to OK! Magazine and announced the impending arrival with a 8 page spread. That just coincidentally paid a rumoured $100k.

Someone make them stop.

Bloody women’s magazines make me sick. But not as much as Bec and Lleyton. Money can get you a lot of things, but it cannot, and will not ever, buy you class.

And Lleyton? It won’t ever, ever, make you as good as Roger Federer, who last night gave you an absolute tennis lesson.

We have a largish house. That’s not a bragging thing, thats just by way of explaining the size of the pergola/awning/what-ever-you-call-it-in-other-countries (veranda?) we want built.

The house is a C shape basically, and we pretty much want to fill in the ‘C’, plus a bit more, with this roofed structure that we can sit out under in the summer, and freeze our body parts off under in winter and as our fingers slowly drop off, we can declare loudly how glad fucking we are to have it and wasn’t it a grand idea…

So it’s all good, until we realise we need quotes. Oh. My. God. The quoting thing. I hate it. MOTH hates it.

Why? Because all the tradeys we have had around our place for various quotes over the last couple of years have pretty much been dickheads. Idiots. Asshats. You call to book them to quote? They don’t turn up. They don’t ring back, they don’t DO…anything. It’s SO hard to give them work and PAY them for it! If they do a job, you can bet they leave a godawful mess behind.

But we want our pergola, so we finally get 3 dudes to quote.

Dude 1. Nice guy from large company, measures up, provides computer generated drawings, spends time deciding on stuff with us in his showroom. But…..we expect him to be pricey due to the overheads large companies have - but it ends up being competitive. The dog likes him too - this is important.

Dude 2. Local company. Measures up, quotes on the spot. HAS THE CHEAPEST PRICE - booyah!!!!!! And? The dog likes him.

Dude 3. Larger company. Didn’t like him when I rang to ask for a quote. Jumped down my throat on the phone saying “I don’t come out of hours, you know!” Screw you bud, I didn’t ask you to.

So, he turns up anyway. The dog doesn’t like him, and his quote ends up being $5,000 more than Dude 2, and $4,000 more than Dude 1. Holy hell. How does THAT work?

Dude 3 called me yesterday (at 8.00 freakin’ am!) to see how we found his quote. I told him he’s way out of the ballpark in comparison to everyone else. He asked who the other quoters were. I wouldn’t tell him and said “I don’t think that’s either relevant, or any of your business. Shouldn’t you be more concerned with your pricing structure given it is so out of whack with everyone else?”.

Note: Never call me in the morning. I am NOT nice before at least 10.00am and generally don’t like anyone. Ask my kids.

Anyway, he pretty much hung up on me. I chuckled and thought see you dickhead.

I knew the dog was a good judge of character. She pretty much likes everyone. But if she doesn’t like a person, you can pretty much bet it’s with good reason.

Had any good experiences with tradesmen? Got an insight into their asshatty behaviours?

So the junior spawn decided in his infinite wisdom, to rack his mobile phone bill up to $500 by downloading soccer videos, Big Brother videos, and music.

I am livid. I mean, Big Brother? Haven’t I taught him better than that?

Elder spawn of the might-have-been-twisted-testicle has always been so good with his phone (even better now he works 3 shifts a week after school at Coles and pays for it himself), that I guess I expected junior spawn to be the same.

Admittedly, junior spawn has had his phone for 6 months with no dramas, however that’s because he is well aware of the expenses of downloading stuff from a mobile.

I am not really speaking to him at the moment. He has had his mobile confiscated, he has no internet access on his computer, is grounded, and now has to withdraw all his meagre savings from the bank to pay me.

Enough punishment, do you think? What else could I do?

P.S. And to all those who offered torches, candles, hugs, and hopes of ass kicking, I thank you all. You’re all awesome. It’s just pretty much how things are from time to time here, although help is being sought.

In the words of Jeff Fenech* ( who could barely string a coherent sentence together, let’s face it): “I love yous all.

*He was an Australian boxer, for all you ingrates overseas. Not that I care either really. I hate boxing.