Y'know that teaching position I mentioned in my last post?
Well, they e-mailed me the contract.
And what a contract it was.
Onerous terms? Yes!
Cheap pay? Yes!
Complete lack of paid leave or other benefits? Yes!
See, I'm currently getting $12.23/hr. I get $16 on Saturdays and $24 on Sundays. And this is fairly menial work- sure, it's repetitive and often frustrating, but at least it's in a field that I'm interested in.
However, this job paid $18-$20/hr, with no annual leave. No sick leave. No paid leave at all. I don't even think it included super. You needed to work as an independent contractor (and I assume this involved having your own ABN) and they had some bullshit about client exclusitivity- you had to solemnly swear to not teach anyone you'd taught during your employment for THREE YEARS after employment with the company had ceased.
Oh, and the usual forfeiture stuff if you...well, forfeited.
Did I mention the $100 bond?
And having to drive out wasting your precious petrol?
And the $40 penalty fee if you were sick and couldn't inform the parents of the child within 24 hours?
I'll pass, thanks.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
The Screaming Jets
I have a very nasty temper.
People don't believe me when I say this. Ever since I was a kid, I've had what one might call a short fuse. A very illogical short fuse that is prone to blowing unexpectedly.
Generally, I'm okay. I'm a lot better than I used to be, but occasionally stress will trigger a sudden screaming fit (a cathartic screaming fit) and I undergo a frightening transformation, becoming a hysterical Queen of the Harpies.
I'm not sure why this happens, but it does seem to occur around the same time every month, which means that I'm either part lycanthrope or that I'm at the mercy of hormones. I can always tell for the latter- there'll be one day of complete and utter woe-is-me-oh-the-angst!-the-angst! self-pitying depression and then the next day I'll be as narky as a wounded bull.
Today, I had another sudden violent explosion of inexplicable rage (again, at the appropriate time of the month). See, I need the car on Friday night because I am working until 12 a.m. Yes, 12 a.m. Because, naturally, EVERYONE WANTS TO SHOP FOR ELECTRONICS AT MIDNIGHT.
I didn't think this was such a big deal, considering that I don't know what time I'll be finishing up, and I'd rather drive myself home than inconvenience someone else. That, and I absolutely detest being 'picked up' like a schoolkid by my parents. I'm not four years old.
But no, both parentals require one car each for Friday night. And I would much rather drive myself home than have to be picked up after midnight. This should have been a rational point of discussion, but I was suddenly overcome by a fit of pure anger- mostly built-up frustration that I can't do anything without having to run it through my parents first- and of course, I had a fit.
It's not my parents' fault. I am living at home, and certain responsibilities and limitations govern the household. Obviously, freedom was always going to be severely compromised by financial security. But to my addled, sleep-deprived, hormonal mind (plus I'd just staggered off a ten hour shift at work) it was a national calamity.
Ten minutes later, I figured that I could ask one of my colleagues to drop me home.
That would have been the logical, sensible, non-yelling solution.
But that's not nearly half as interesting. And I'm still absolutely furious for no reason at all.
Which makes me wonder...what's your worst fault?
(Remember you can remain anonymous...so SPILL!)
People don't believe me when I say this. Ever since I was a kid, I've had what one might call a short fuse. A very illogical short fuse that is prone to blowing unexpectedly.
Generally, I'm okay. I'm a lot better than I used to be, but occasionally stress will trigger a sudden screaming fit (a cathartic screaming fit) and I undergo a frightening transformation, becoming a hysterical Queen of the Harpies.
I'm not sure why this happens, but it does seem to occur around the same time every month, which means that I'm either part lycanthrope or that I'm at the mercy of hormones. I can always tell for the latter- there'll be one day of complete and utter woe-is-me-oh-the-angst!-the-angst! self-pitying depression and then the next day I'll be as narky as a wounded bull.
Today, I had another sudden violent explosion of inexplicable rage (again, at the appropriate time of the month). See, I need the car on Friday night because I am working until 12 a.m. Yes, 12 a.m. Because, naturally, EVERYONE WANTS TO SHOP FOR ELECTRONICS AT MIDNIGHT.
I didn't think this was such a big deal, considering that I don't know what time I'll be finishing up, and I'd rather drive myself home than inconvenience someone else. That, and I absolutely detest being 'picked up' like a schoolkid by my parents. I'm not four years old.
But no, both parentals require one car each for Friday night. And I would much rather drive myself home than have to be picked up after midnight. This should have been a rational point of discussion, but I was suddenly overcome by a fit of pure anger- mostly built-up frustration that I can't do anything without having to run it through my parents first- and of course, I had a fit.
It's not my parents' fault. I am living at home, and certain responsibilities and limitations govern the household. Obviously, freedom was always going to be severely compromised by financial security. But to my addled, sleep-deprived, hormonal mind (plus I'd just staggered off a ten hour shift at work) it was a national calamity.
Ten minutes later, I figured that I could ask one of my colleagues to drop me home.
That would have been the logical, sensible, non-yelling solution.
But that's not nearly half as interesting. And I'm still absolutely furious for no reason at all.
Which makes me wonder...what's your worst fault?
(Remember you can remain anonymous...so SPILL!)
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Thinking...
My parents do not think very highly of my intelligence.
Admittedly, I haven't given them much reason to disprove this opinion, but that's not the point...surely the 'I-Trust-My-Child-To-Be-Sensible instinct outweights the I-Am-The-Parent-And-Thus-Am-Always-Right mentality?
Or...not.
Today I had a job interview. Again. For a music teaching position. (Again). Only this time, they pretty much offered me a twelve-month contract after fifteen minutes of chatting.
Which was kind of strange, considering the other music school made me jump through several hoops to even get to the bloody audition part...but this seems okay, it's teaching children in primary schools. The only problem is getting around my university timetable...which is going to be interesting. Very interesting.
Anyhow, I rang Dad before going to work to tell him the good news.
He said, "You didn't sign the contract did you? Did you even read it?" etc, acting like I was nine instead of nineteen...before I cracked it and finally pointed out, "YOU KNOW I DIDN'T SUFFER THROUGH ONE YEAR OF CONTRACT LAW TO BE TOLD THAT I NEED TO READ A BLOODY CONTRACT."
I even remember the bloody precedent- L'Estrange v Graucob, although this knowledge is about as useful as the little random facts that come printed on the back of Libra sanitary pads.
Secondly...my grand plan, as I explained to my interviewer, is to take a year off in 2009, and do music. Just music. Ideally, I'd like to teach for a year, complete my A.Mus.A, learn voice and violin, and travel to Greece. And possibly South America. And possibly Alaska.
My mother does not like this idea. In fact, she violently disapproves. She thinks I am being insensible, and she pointed out that time is money, and I could be earning money in that one year blah blah blah...she tried to use the opinion of one of my siblings as back-up for her argument, except I'm perfectly aware that that particular sibling thinks of the world in seven-minute billings...so that really had no weight.
Oddly enough, my father gave me some spiel about superannuation when I first floated this plan, but then shrugged it off, saying, "It's your life..." which would have been quite nice of him if he hadn't added, "...you can muck it up if you want."
Without sounding like a petulant five-year old, I wish I were financially independent...because then no one could tell me what to do. But since I can't afford to move out, no matter how much I wish I had my own space, I am somewhat restricted by certain limitations.
But never mind.
All I want for Christmas is one week off. I have a 9 a.m- 7 p.m shift tomorrow and I think I am just going to retire to the back room with the biggest vat of coffee I can find, and drown my misery in sweet-smelling caffeine.
Mmm.
Coffee...
Edit, post-evil-shift: I bought one extremely large cappuccino during my lunch break but it didn't make me even a smidgen more alert...when I woefully pointed this out to my colleague, he went and bought me an additional cup in order to wake me up. This didn't work either. Which makes me wonder...AM I BECOMING DESENSITISED TO THE MIRACULOUS RESTORATIVE POWERS OF COFFEE?!!!
Admittedly, I haven't given them much reason to disprove this opinion, but that's not the point...surely the 'I-Trust-My-Child-To-Be-Sensible instinct outweights the I-Am-The-Parent-And-Thus-Am-Always-Right mentality?
Or...not.
Today I had a job interview. Again. For a music teaching position. (Again). Only this time, they pretty much offered me a twelve-month contract after fifteen minutes of chatting.
Which was kind of strange, considering the other music school made me jump through several hoops to even get to the bloody audition part...but this seems okay, it's teaching children in primary schools. The only problem is getting around my university timetable...which is going to be interesting. Very interesting.
Anyhow, I rang Dad before going to work to tell him the good news.
He said, "You didn't sign the contract did you? Did you even read it?" etc, acting like I was nine instead of nineteen...before I cracked it and finally pointed out, "YOU KNOW I DIDN'T SUFFER THROUGH ONE YEAR OF CONTRACT LAW TO BE TOLD THAT I NEED TO READ A BLOODY CONTRACT."
I even remember the bloody precedent- L'Estrange v Graucob, although this knowledge is about as useful as the little random facts that come printed on the back of Libra sanitary pads.
Secondly...my grand plan, as I explained to my interviewer, is to take a year off in 2009, and do music. Just music. Ideally, I'd like to teach for a year, complete my A.Mus.A, learn voice and violin, and travel to Greece. And possibly South America. And possibly Alaska.
My mother does not like this idea. In fact, she violently disapproves. She thinks I am being insensible, and she pointed out that time is money, and I could be earning money in that one year blah blah blah...she tried to use the opinion of one of my siblings as back-up for her argument, except I'm perfectly aware that that particular sibling thinks of the world in seven-minute billings...so that really had no weight.
Oddly enough, my father gave me some spiel about superannuation when I first floated this plan, but then shrugged it off, saying, "It's your life..." which would have been quite nice of him if he hadn't added, "...you can muck it up if you want."
Without sounding like a petulant five-year old, I wish I were financially independent...because then no one could tell me what to do. But since I can't afford to move out, no matter how much I wish I had my own space, I am somewhat restricted by certain limitations.
But never mind.
All I want for Christmas is one week off. I have a 9 a.m- 7 p.m shift tomorrow and I think I am just going to retire to the back room with the biggest vat of coffee I can find, and drown my misery in sweet-smelling caffeine.
Mmm.
Coffee...
Edit, post-evil-shift: I bought one extremely large cappuccino during my lunch break but it didn't make me even a smidgen more alert...when I woefully pointed this out to my colleague, he went and bought me an additional cup in order to wake me up. This didn't work either. Which makes me wonder...AM I BECOMING DESENSITISED TO THE MIRACULOUS RESTORATIVE POWERS OF COFFEE?!!!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Tweens and Sexuality
I was at work the other day when I saw a little girl standing near the GPS systems.
A little girl, maybe eight or ten years old.
A little girl, wearing a scrap of fabric about 15 cm long that could generously be defined as a 'skirt'.
It was bloody ridiculous. I set my teeth and retreated into the back room, muttering darkly to myself and admittedly, feeling just a little old-fogeyish.
I also happened to chance upon another young girl about her age, tottering off to the bathrooms in knee-high brown boots, clutching a Louis Vuitton handbag. (I'm hoping that it was a fake...because the only Louis Vuitton thing I could ever afford to own would be maybe one square centimetre of leather with the corner of the logo imprinted on it).
Kids should dress like kids, not like miniature hookers. When I was little, I had knee length dresses, I happily wore oversized 80s hand-me-downs, and I even had bright pink leggings with saddle straps. Actually, let's face it, I'm still a horrible dresser. But I get seriously pissed off when I see all the crap out there that's marketed at pre-pubescent tweens.
On the rare occasions that I dare venture into Supre, I sometimes see little girls dragging their mothers around the store, dressed in hideous fluoro miniskirts or high-heeled boots. But that still doesn't beat what I saw whilst shopping in New Zealand a few weeks ago- a whole dance troupe of little girls, from some kind of performing arts school, were dancing to some hideous Christmas carols in the middle of a shopping mall.
Innocent enough, you say?
Except that they were dressed in short little red dresses trimmed with fake white fur with bright red hooker lipstick, dancing around provocatively in the middle of a public place. As I remarked to my aunt as we passed by, it was every pedophile's dream.
Sweetheart, you can dress like a slut all you want when you grow up. But you're a child. Go and play chasey, or cops and robbers, and for fuck's sake I will BURN that Dolly magazine if I see it in your hands.
And that, friends, is my message to the children of Australia.
A little girl, maybe eight or ten years old.
A little girl, wearing a scrap of fabric about 15 cm long that could generously be defined as a 'skirt'.
It was bloody ridiculous. I set my teeth and retreated into the back room, muttering darkly to myself and admittedly, feeling just a little old-fogeyish.
I also happened to chance upon another young girl about her age, tottering off to the bathrooms in knee-high brown boots, clutching a Louis Vuitton handbag. (I'm hoping that it was a fake...because the only Louis Vuitton thing I could ever afford to own would be maybe one square centimetre of leather with the corner of the logo imprinted on it).
Kids should dress like kids, not like miniature hookers. When I was little, I had knee length dresses, I happily wore oversized 80s hand-me-downs, and I even had bright pink leggings with saddle straps. Actually, let's face it, I'm still a horrible dresser. But I get seriously pissed off when I see all the crap out there that's marketed at pre-pubescent tweens.
On the rare occasions that I dare venture into Supre, I sometimes see little girls dragging their mothers around the store, dressed in hideous fluoro miniskirts or high-heeled boots. But that still doesn't beat what I saw whilst shopping in New Zealand a few weeks ago- a whole dance troupe of little girls, from some kind of performing arts school, were dancing to some hideous Christmas carols in the middle of a shopping mall.
Innocent enough, you say?
Except that they were dressed in short little red dresses trimmed with fake white fur with bright red hooker lipstick, dancing around provocatively in the middle of a public place. As I remarked to my aunt as we passed by, it was every pedophile's dream.
Sweetheart, you can dress like a slut all you want when you grow up. But you're a child. Go and play chasey, or cops and robbers, and for fuck's sake I will BURN that Dolly magazine if I see it in your hands.
And that, friends, is my message to the children of Australia.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
I'm Baaaaaack...
Sorry for the lack of updating...I was in New Zealand for two weeks and internet cafes were ridiculously expensive ($3 for 15 minutes?!)
We did a whirlwind tour of both the North and South Islands in 16 days, going through Christchurch, Dunedin, Queenstown, Twizel, Auckland, Napier, Wellington...plus a whole host of smaller towns. I can't quite explain the sheer number of sheep that whizzed past through the car rear windows, but I was quoted something along the lines of 14 million sheep happily residing in the country's rolling green hills and sunny pastures.
(Really, 'shag' was almost inevitably going to be attached to the word 'sheep' when talking about New Zealanders. They're EVERYWHERE.)
Highlights of the trip were the Shotover Jet in Queenstown, the helicopter flight around Fox Glacier, landing on aforesaid glacier, and watching the glaciers melting (which was actually rather tragic, but utterly spectacular.) I also went rolling down a hill in an 11-foot high inflatable sphere filled with water, squealing all the way...if you ever go to Rotorua, you have to go Zorbing. Admittedly, I wasn't too fond of Rotorua because the whole town smells like one big sulphur pit. To further exacerbate this, we went to see the sulphur pits at Wai-O-Topo, which hitched up the stink rating from 'sulphur pit' to 'boiling sewage' level.
I felt like retching.
Onto sweeter-smelling highlights, I also got to see this awesome rose garden in Wellington at the Botanical Gardens, and saw a Maori Haka.
On a more prosaic note, I also got immeasurable joy from the fact that almost all New Zealand supermarkets have a MUFFIN CABINET DEDICATED TO FRESH MUFFINS AND PASTRIES.
For $1.99, you could get a triple chocolate muffin smothered in chocolate with a chocolate Flake stuck in the middle. Or a lemon crumble muffin for 95 cents. Or a black forest muffin.
*drools*
Their pies really really sucked, except for the one steak pie I had at the top of the Gondola centre in Queenstown. I'll have to post up a picture of a Memphis Meltdown ice-cream, because the one that I opened had the most disturbing, phallic-looking chocolate protrusion at very top that I was forced to bite off. Even more disturbingly, it was filled with raspberry goo. But it was very tasty :P
Anyway...when I got back I was thrown into a 29-hour working week, followed by the boss asking me to go full-time until Christmas. It just meant that I got 9 more hours on top of my current roster, so I thought I'd give it a shot. So for the past week, I've been talking myself almost hoarse to customers- the pre-Christmas influx made last weekend absolutely insane, but I found myself actually enjoying it, mostly because I didn't have to go around stalking potential customers.
I know this hasn't been much of a post, but as I once said on my first blog, more Daphne-madness is pending...
P.S- Rosy, I hope you have a fantabulous time in London and thank you for your kind words on your blog. I almost apologise profusely for saying Happy Birthday in your Christmas card but I had to send it immediately because I was afraid it wouldn't get to you in time!!!
We did a whirlwind tour of both the North and South Islands in 16 days, going through Christchurch, Dunedin, Queenstown, Twizel, Auckland, Napier, Wellington...plus a whole host of smaller towns. I can't quite explain the sheer number of sheep that whizzed past through the car rear windows, but I was quoted something along the lines of 14 million sheep happily residing in the country's rolling green hills and sunny pastures.
(Really, 'shag' was almost inevitably going to be attached to the word 'sheep' when talking about New Zealanders. They're EVERYWHERE.)
Highlights of the trip were the Shotover Jet in Queenstown, the helicopter flight around Fox Glacier, landing on aforesaid glacier, and watching the glaciers melting (which was actually rather tragic, but utterly spectacular.) I also went rolling down a hill in an 11-foot high inflatable sphere filled with water, squealing all the way...if you ever go to Rotorua, you have to go Zorbing. Admittedly, I wasn't too fond of Rotorua because the whole town smells like one big sulphur pit. To further exacerbate this, we went to see the sulphur pits at Wai-O-Topo, which hitched up the stink rating from 'sulphur pit' to 'boiling sewage' level.
I felt like retching.
Onto sweeter-smelling highlights, I also got to see this awesome rose garden in Wellington at the Botanical Gardens, and saw a Maori Haka.
On a more prosaic note, I also got immeasurable joy from the fact that almost all New Zealand supermarkets have a MUFFIN CABINET DEDICATED TO FRESH MUFFINS AND PASTRIES.
For $1.99, you could get a triple chocolate muffin smothered in chocolate with a chocolate Flake stuck in the middle. Or a lemon crumble muffin for 95 cents. Or a black forest muffin.
*drools*
Their pies really really sucked, except for the one steak pie I had at the top of the Gondola centre in Queenstown. I'll have to post up a picture of a Memphis Meltdown ice-cream, because the one that I opened had the most disturbing, phallic-looking chocolate protrusion at very top that I was forced to bite off. Even more disturbingly, it was filled with raspberry goo. But it was very tasty :P
Anyway...when I got back I was thrown into a 29-hour working week, followed by the boss asking me to go full-time until Christmas. It just meant that I got 9 more hours on top of my current roster, so I thought I'd give it a shot. So for the past week, I've been talking myself almost hoarse to customers- the pre-Christmas influx made last weekend absolutely insane, but I found myself actually enjoying it, mostly because I didn't have to go around stalking potential customers.
I know this hasn't been much of a post, but as I once said on my first blog, more Daphne-madness is pending...
P.S- Rosy, I hope you have a fantabulous time in London and thank you for your kind words on your blog. I almost apologise profusely for saying Happy Birthday in your Christmas card but I had to send it immediately because I was afraid it wouldn't get to you in time!!!
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