Hi my name is Hannah, and while I may be the Grammar Police’s Commanding Officer, I am the latest member to enlist in the Anti-Pronunciation riot squad. When did my membership commence? Last week, when I was in a fine dining restaurant ordering my meal.
“What would you be having this evening, ma’am?” The eloquent waiter asked, notepad at the ready.
“For entre I’d like to order the scallops”.
“Excellent choice, the scah-lleps are very fresh”…. Oh no scallops like dollops, or scallops like gallops… have I been saying it incorrectly my entire life?
“For main I will order the basil crusted beef fillet with potato and shallot salad”
“One bay-zhil fih-lay with potato and shah-luht salad,” He repeated my words as he scribbled down my order…. Come on, ba-zhil, fih-lett and shuh-lot are perfectly acceptable too right?….
“And for my dessert, wow those macaroons sound amazing; what filling do you recommend”
“Yes the mack-arh-rons are very popular here, especially the white chocolate and almond flavour”
….I ain’t got time for this. Bring me my food.
The other day I found myself desperately rummaging through my wardrobe attempting to find some sort of needle in a haystack of ill-fitting garments and obsolete accessories. I HAVE. NOTHING. TO. WEAR. Yes, I decided that amongst all the things I ain’t got time for, I really needed to make time for a wardrobe update. I needed a new style, a new ‘look’. And what better place to start than General Pants, the go-to store for all Sydney trend-setters?
For those of you not from Australia, General Pants is an overpriced clothing store that appeals to three core style groups; indie-identifiers, modern punks, and ‘non-mainstream’ hipsters (ironically, a very lucrative market segment). Whilst it presents itself to be a subversive urban-wear outfitter, in actuality, General Pants can be considered the McDonalds of the retail sector; they can be located in just about every shopping centre you enter. Walking into one of these types of fashion stores is comparable to crossing over into an absurd alternate universe….a universe where all the cool kids appear to be keen on hideous short-sleeved Hawaiian-print shirts… a place where one does not require any optical justification to wear thick-rimmed specs… a world I soon realised that I do not have time for.
Rate your ability with Chopsticks:
1- Does stabbing my food count?
2- I need to use both hands.
3- I can use them, as long as the objects are large and square
4- I can pick up more than 3 grains of rice with them
5- Samurai: soup consumption
If I had to rate my chopstick aptitude, I would probably give myself a big fat 0. The above scale is rendered inapplicable when it comes to me. In other words, I’m that one person at Yum Cha that will deny chopsticks and ask for a fork because I simply ain’t got time for ’em. Continue reading
Microwaves. They are a true blessing to cash-ridden university students and to culinarily-challenged singles around the globe. They are the pinnacle of convenience, and yet ironically, I ain’t got time for ’em. No, I am not Jamie Oliver. I do not profess to despise microwaves because of the starchy, fatty concoctions we place inside it. Microwaves are not entirely at fault here; they do not deserve to cop the blame for our expanding waistlines. But do you know what they should be accountable for? My second degree burns. That’s what.
Upon commencing a new job, my boss attempted to introduce me to their point of sales system. As she seamlessly click-click-clicked away, my thought process went something like this:
I understand, I sooooo got this under control….Hmm alright, maybe it’s harder than I initially thought, but still, it isn’t too difficult. I can get the hang of- wait. What did you click? What screen is this? Please repeat, please repeat….she isn’t gonna repeat.
What. Is. She. Doing.
….annnnnnd I’m out.
*Mental white noise*
As I simply stood frozen beside her, she turned around and asked, “Are you even paying attention? You have this dumbstruck look on your face”. Sometimes I just need to wear a sign that reads, “Mental buffering, one moment please”. It was at this point I realised, my brain is stuck using Internet Explorer while all you intelligent beings seem to have downloaded Chrome or Firefox.
Multitasking; A fantastic time-saving skill to those who flaunt extreme skill, coordination and organisation. It provides an efficient solution to the web of procrastination that we persistently entwine ourselves in; representing the very means by which our society operates. It makes convenience even more convenient, taking expedience to the extreme. Ironically however, I ain’t got time for it.
Why you may ask? You see, I exhibit a severe case of butterfingers syndrome. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce myself; I am the bull in the china shop. My face frequently hi-fives the floor, my centre of gravity is nonexistent and I find myself constantly tripping over my two left feet. I am a walking hazard, and when walking hazards attempt to multitask, disaster strikes. When gravity is your enemy, not only will nothing get done, you may wind up defending your negligence before a judge in a courtroom. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Continue reading
I live in a city where the ‘S’ word is uttered on a daily basis. ‘F’ bombs have infiltrated everyday lingo, and at Uni, you may even hear the abhorrent ‘C’ word casually exchanged during conversations around the lunch table. Now before you become too repulsed to read on, I should inform you that I am talking about the NEW ‘S’, ‘F’ and ‘C’ words.
Superfood. Flaxseed. Chia.
If you’re standing by a cash register purchasing a train pass, a flat white or lottery ticket and have your coins out, calculated and ready to be handed over seamlessly, blessings be unto you my friend. But if the phrase “I think I may have 45 cents in here somewhere” frequently finds its way into your daily repertoire, and is proceeded by you foraging through your bag like a possum digging through mounds of junk… I ain’t got time for you.
When I was younger, I used to follow my dad to the register at our local café and supervise his order. While most children would longingly glare at the picturesque pastries, creamy carrot cakes and moist, mouth-watering muffins that stood behind the glass counter, I instead would ensure that my dad remembered to change his usual double-shot flat white order to a cappuccino. Why? So that I could indulge in the warm chocolate frothy goodness that sat proudly above the strong coffee beneath. Each spoonful of aerated milk felt like a cloud disintegrating in my mouth, and the mellow hum of espresso that lingered on my tongue excited my taste buds.