Saturday, February 26, 2011

RBT! Not to be confused with NRB...

Aussie random fact (I'm done with the Aussie slang because I've stopped paying attention to the ridiculous things they say - instead I will delight your eyes with a fun Australian fact):

  • A trashman makes around 70k a year. 

In other news, the most exciting thing happened to me yesterday! It was about 10pm and I'm driving home from work (I'll touch on that momentarily). And traffic flow in Sydney is non-existent. Stop. Go. Stop. Stop. Go. Go slowly. Stop. Slam on brakes. Rarely is ever just drive. Anyway, I'm at the part where I "go", then I quickly reach the part where I "slam on brakes." Cops are lining a main road that takes me home. Awesome. 

I inch along and see that cars are being approached one police officer at a time. They're all holding this little instrument and sticking it in the driver's side window. A wave of utter excitement takes over my body.

It's an RBT! If you recall, an RBT is a Random Breath Test issued by police officers at any given moment of any given day to calculate your BAC. It's so vital to the upkeep of the Aussie society, that they've given the RBT its very own television show. I hope, hope, hope I'm on it. But I didn't see a camera. Unless it was in the breathalyzer. Anyway, I pulled up to the cop and frantically, but ecstatically, rolled my windows down. I was clutching my hands under my chin like a child does/I do when cake is around. He asked if I minded participating in an RBT to which I interrupted him by saying "NO WAY! I'M SO EXCITED!"

He stared at me and stuck the breathalyzer in my face. It wasn't like the ones in the states that you have to blow on, so I asked him what to do.

"Just count to 10."

"1! 2! 3! 4! 5!..."

I was rudely interrupted at 5 by a loud beep. He looked at me and said, "I only got to 5, ma'am..." Then I told him I was drunk. Then we had a laugh and a high five and I sped home. 

Moving on.

Yes, I'm gainfully employed. No, they're not real jobs. I'm a nanny and a waitress. However, I'm very thankful to have a job at all, let alone 2. This was a sweet blessing as I was quickly running out of money. My mother thinks it's very odd that I'm a nanny. I half agree. I don't thrive to be in a business surrounded by little tiny baby children because they don't understand my sarcasm, but I do enjoy their company. I think they're funny. And they're great models. I took my camera to work today. Creepy? You be the judge. If anything, it's less creepy and more negligent. What the moms don't know, won't hurt them.

I primarily nanny for an ex-cop/personal trainer who is unbearably thorough in all she does. I had a background check done on me. Good thing I passed my RBT. Anyway, I nanny for her when she goes to work in the mornings, about 3 times a week. As a personal trainer, you work obscene hours of the day. I go into work at 5:30 in the morning to watch her 2 kids sleep while she teaches an old mum how to properly do high knees and butt kicks.

My days usually don't start until 10am, so making it to work on time is a miracle only God can perform. And hallelujah to the God most high, because it's 20 bucks an hour.

Mandi the PT birthed 2 children, Lorcan and Carrig. I'm convinced she found these names in one of the Harry Potter series, but she and her husband claim they're Irish. Top o' the mornin' to ya, your names are weird. But they're really cute boys. And they're oddly well behaved. It must be the ex-cop discipline. I'll probably start the Nanny Chronicles soon. They do and say some funny shit.

On Fridays, though, I assist another girl with the nanny responsibilities. We go to the beach and watch a bunch of tiny baby children for moms who are working out with Mandi. It's called Pram Fit. (Pop quiz! What's a "pram"? Bingo. It's a stroller.) It's actually a pretty clever thing. Moms dump their babes off with us in a room with a mat and some toys, and they go get their pump on. It's about 3ish hours every Friday morning. But I get to meet other babies that I want to steal. The main nugget I've got my thieving eye on is Ginger. I call her Ginger Baby. For hilarity's sake we'll say she's a redhead. But I think she has about 7 hairs right now. I took pictures of Ginger Baby all morning. Look at her! So sassy.

My other job sucks. And is boring. And isn't worth mentioning. But now I'm going to because I want to complain. I'm a waitress at Ablaze, a Tapas restaurant about 13 minutes from my house. Everything they do is inefficient, and the management staff is a joke. I think there was an American girl who worked there before me, because they all assume I've got the brain capacity of a cotton ball. Regardless, she set the bar way, way low. So now, I have to suffer through any conversation I have with them because they speak slowly and loudly and use words the toddlers at Pram Fit could even understand.

But there's this one guy, Cam. He's the bartender. He claims he's a musician and he wears black skinny jeans. And he asks me about America. I make sure to tell him all the things that would appeal to him: cheap booze, slutty girls, musical towns he must visit, etc. His eyes light up every time we talk. Which is a nice contrast from toddler town.

Why can't everyone treat me like a foreign goddess?