Tag Archives: winery tour

Giant Cigarettes & MC Hammer

10 May

I have listed below a number of events that have occurred recently at work. I am beginning to think I may be “dismissed” before I even get the chance to skip up to my boss’ desk and hand in my resignation.(FYI: 30 days and counting…)

1. Whilst returning from making my 15th coffee for the day, stop past my co-workers desk. Speak about pressing issues such as what we’re doing on the weekend, the shitful standard of food the canteen presented for lunch, what an arsehole Sandra Bullock’s husband is, and the logistics of trafficking cocaine into the workplace so that we can both raise our wages to ‘standard’. Somehow, somewhere toward the end of this conversation, I decide to break into a little dance which involves singing MC Hammer’s – ‘Can’t touch this’, and slapping my rear. Director of company walks past, confused and slightly irritated. I don’t know if it was the move I was busting, or my chosen outfit of large MC Hammer pants and corporate suit jacket, however he did not look overly impressed.

2. Email ex-employee overseas. Tell her about my grand plans on returning to study. Received this email this morning:

FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK! Alis, I’m sooooo stupid!!!! I just realized that I’ve sent the email which was supposed to be a response to your last email also to James, Virginie and Sara! I’m sooo sorry I just clicked on the reply button and when I realized that the email goes to everyone it was too late!!!! I’m so sorry!

I mentioned that you want to go back to Uni and leave work! Shit!!!! Can you go and see James and tell him that I was wrong or something? I’m sure he won’t tell anyone! I will write him an email as well! That’s what happens when you use work emails! I hope you are not angry, OMG!

Let me know what happened! I hope no one will say anything or tell anyone! So sorry babe!

James works for our company. In Human Resources.

3. Arrive at work around 45 mins late as per normal. I may be tardy, but I am most certainly consistent. After morning coffee is made, emails checked and facefuck stalked, I proceed making group bookings for the winery tour I have organised this weekend for a group of friends. Ensure I look extremely busy whilst boss walks past as I am busily faxing off forms (to wineries, bus companies etc). I’ve mastered this non-working business…

Senior Idiot: So Alis, now I understand.

Alis: Yeh, well it’s been a lot of work but I finally got that report wrapped up. Sorry I just didn’t have the time to attend that meeting this morning.

Senior Idiot: What I meant was, I understand why you turn up late everyday with bloodshot eyes. You’re an alcoholic…

Boss places “Fax Confirmation” form on desk, containing winery booking dates.

I ponder for the next 4 hours until home time if he is referring to this, or if he somehow knows about my personal challenge to self to consume 4lt of cask wine each night for the past month.

4. Co-worker decides to quit smoking. Co-worker acts is quite chuffed with their efforts and decides to be a complete knob for weeks on end by telling me that I should quit too. I blow smoke in his face and tell him to piss off. After 4 weeks of pain, I discover co-worker outside sucking down a cigarette. Ha! So naturally I decided to make a ‘welcome-back-to-smoking’ present. My boss felt this was “non-compliant”.

5. Metallica presale. Limited seats, millions of fellow Australians going crazy trying to secure their seats to this rare show. Naturally this took precendence over any work from around 10am-12am. “Fuck, fuck fuck!!! This thing keeps timing out!!” “What thing Alis?”, comes an irritated call from the senior idiot’s office. “Uhhh, the internal purchasing program. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out. Cos that’s the sort of proactive employee I am !” 1 hour later and I still don’t have tickets. We can’t miss out on this show, it’s Kirk’s birthday and he always gets cream-pied – something that everyone should see before they die. Right, time to call in the troops as I instruct my co-workers to start logging in on their computers. “What? You’re in the middle of something?” “I.Don’t.Give.A.Fuck- LOG ON NOW!!!!!”. Yes!!! I finally got in, what the hell is this timer thing down the bottom? 2 mins to finalise purchase or I lose tickets. Fuck, fuck fuck. Ok, breath Alis.

Enter Boss sitting on desk. “So Alis, I’ve been thinking about the marketing strategy for Quarter 3…” I turn to face him, whilst clicking psychotically at my mouse. 1.35 minutes to go. Hurry up, senior idiot and finish your little rant so I can secure these damn tickets. Oh who am I kidding? There’s no room for politeness here. I must end this Metallica mayhem right now. ” Look sir, I’m really sorry but I’ve got 2 mins to lock down these Metallica tickets. It’s Kirk’s bday. I’ll come see you in a bit ok?” Senior idiot looks flabberghasted and a deeper shade of aubergine than normal but I’ve pissed him off so much he walks off without a word. Right. With that settled, I now have 34 seconds to book these tickets….

So in reflection of these past few weeks, I’ve come to the very depressing realisation that I must knuckle down as I cannot afford to be fired prior to quitting. It would take away all the fun of resigning! Months spent on a highly thought out plan which involves walking into his office in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle costume with large samurai sword, slamming my resignation down and declaring, ” I’m going to work with Splinter the Rat because he has offered me a world of knowledge and endless supply of pizza. Two things this company cannot give me.And I have been promised the auspicious title of ‘Hero in a Half Shell’ which quite frankly shits all over my current role.” Or something along those lines…

My future colleagues. Radical.


Beetroot & Port Toffee

22 Mar

aka DeathI know…. sounds delightful, doesn’t it? Well let me tell you from personal experience that Beets, Port and Toffee should never be put together. Ever.

Sunday night, candles, excitement in the warm autumn breeze… It was our annual girl’s dinner. An annual occasion when I stupidly decide to produce a 3 course meal for 6 eager and high-pitched females. There were a number of odds against me last night, all undeniably self-inflicted.

Day-long winery tours are unimaginably wonderful. Glass after glass of holy grape juice, party buses with loud music and even louder occupants. And the best bit? The looks from well-bred wine connoisseurs looking down their noses at us; the uncouth rascals of generation Y. What?! You don’t think it’s a good idea for me to do a drunk walrus impression on the tasting counter? Bollocks. It’s a brilliant idea. What?! The bus has left without us…. Oh no, scrap that, it’s just moved around the corner. Quickly, call all the troops I just txted saying I was stranded in the Yarra Valley. Crisis dissolved. As I said, winery tours are amazing. The next day is not so good. And so, when I decided to cook the meal the next night, well my hangover decided to kick my ass. Physically, mentally and spritually (OH GOD !!Why the fuck did I say I’d cook dinner??? That’s about as spritual as I get).

Oh yeah, and the recipe I decided to cook? Never cooked it in my life. But it was on MasterChef, so surely I could master it? Right…? Wrong.

Me: Hello Mr. Cute Butcher. May I please have one lamb saddle please?

Mr Cute Butcher: Sure sweetheart, flank on or off?

Me: Flank? That sounds hot… Umm, I’d like to say take it off, but unfortunately for this recipe, the flank must remain on. I think.

Mr. Cute Butcher: Flank on for the lady. So what are you exactly cooking? And what does the recipe ask for?

Me: See that’s just the problem! I reallllly don’t know, and it just says Lamb Saddle! (sweet, naive girly voice in full swing and roping cute butcher in)

Mr.Cute Butcher: That’s ok darlin’, we’ll sort it out. You just show me the recipe and I’ll handle the meat.

Me: Oh I bet you will!

Mr.Cute Butcher: Now, how long are you going to cook it for?

Me: Oh you! Hahaha. (cute girly laugh now working some magic)

Mr.Cute Butcher: Errm, yeh. So I think you should cook it for around 1 hour and 15 minutes.

Me: Really? My recipe said 15. Crap this recipe is going to be a fucking disaster. God, I’m an idiot….(Head hitting on bench repeatedly in time with hangover migraine)

Needless to say my cute,pathetic,naive girly voice transformed to panicky, helpless, hopeless case who desperately needed some sedatives. I’m pretty sure feminists around the globe would have sneered at the irony.

With the odds against me, my dinner actually wasn’t too bad. Sure, the lamb was slightly undercooked, border-line ‘baaaaaaing’ and the spinach ball looked like a combo of a gallstone and a cat’s hairball. But the real ‘piece de resistance’ was most definitely the Beetroot Glaze. Iraq’s been developing a weapon of mass destruction- I can guarantee it shall be no match for our Beetroot Glaze. This shit could kill nations.

I tried and tried and just couldn’t get the fucking glaze to work when my bestfriend Kate stepped in and took the reins. I was relieved to hear she’d been hiding her masterchef skills for the last 25 years, and was indeed a gastronomical genius. So she set to work boiling the glaze (in her words – “If everything else fails, just cook the shit out of it!”) and it actually started to resemble an edible sauce, rich in colour and thick in substance. So thick, it started to resemble toffee like my mum made for my school fairs when I was a kid.

The exact moment I became suspicious of Kate’s culinary skills was when she nervously whispered to me that we would have to put the sauce on last minute before serving and run the gauntlet to the table as fast as we had ever moved in order to give everyone their meals before the toffee-like substance sets on everyones plate’s. Masterchef-in-hiding, my ass.

The beetroot glaze set rock-hard on everyone’s plates wayyyy before we reached the table.. From now on when we have guests over, I will have to explain why there is a deep crimson lump on each of our 6 dinner plates. Someone claimed to have broken a tooth, but I suspect they were stirring poor Kate. Another victim- the fork whose prongs were badly injured and deemed futile. A possum may or may not have been killed as a result of someone frisbeeing the beet-toffee into the trees…

And so, I repeat. Beet, Port and Toffee should never be put together.