Friday 2 April 2010


Do you ever stop and wonder how the hell you got here? Not in the biblical (or non biblical sense for all my fellow agnostics) sense of course. I’m hoping everyone at this point is caught up to speed on how they were made – if not, I’m seriously worried about the state of mankind. Well, more worried that I was before.

I’m talking about waking up and wondering how the hell your life ended up where it is. I suppose for some, the dawn of a new day reminds them that their life is pretty damn amazing (for those of you that fall into that category, don’t gloat, it’s rude). For others, like myself, I look back on my path and think, gosh, I thought I made the right choices. They all looked good on paper, they felt right more or less at the time, and yet here I stand, an aspiring writer (with some success to balance out the unbelievable slog) who is still deemed amongst her friends as the Queen of odd jobs. Yes, regrets I’ve had a few, but odd jobs, I’ve had A TON. But at least I can proudly say they have all been legal (a girl has got to have her dignity). Trust me, if I had the figure for it, I would’ve considered exotic dancing, those women make bank.

Let’s see, I’ve been a florist’s assistant – that didn’t last long as the damn thorns gave me so many cuts I thought seriously this is not worth it for things that will be wilted by the time I leave here. A catering waitress – many positives to this, one being free food whilst no one is looking, exercise (a tray full of canapés is a great bicep workout, trust me), meeting new people – although let’s be serious, unless my shirt was inadvertently missing the top two buttons, no party-goer is going to fraternize with the help. I’ve also worked in shops (the fray, now there is a challenging group of individuals. This of course tested my chameleon skills and I was amazed how quickly I could morph from designer girl – “those linen swatches are fabulous, aren’t they?” To therapist: “I promise you, in two months you’ll be back in your original jeans and your husband will be all over you.”

I’ve done physical labor, i.e. washed dishes (the hardest job I’ve ever had bar none, but in a sick way appealed to my OCD), walked dogs – anyone that knows me well will tell you how comical this is as I’m NOT a dog person. But I am however, a great actress, ‘oh my god, he’s adorable, I just love it when he licks the entire left side of my face.’ And of course, I have gone the nanny route, and watched children. The latter was by far the most tolerable and consistent. In many cases, the kids – once boundaries were drawn and we figured one another out – were much better company than grown adults. And I’m partial to children’s snack packs, (you see the running food theme here), so there was always goodies to share – “hey Louis, I’m starving, are you done with those raisins? Sharing is good.” Plus, I got to do fun and interesting things – having lunch with a three year old and discussing various types of sliced cheese can be damn amusing - that didn’t require sending a fax or fetching coffee for some lecherous boss that throws balled up bagels at you when you make an honest mistake, (and yes, I’ve been there too and stole plenty of office supplies. It helps retain one’s dignity). 

Then again, there were the few instances that led me right back to my question at the beginning, HOW THE HELL did it come to this? There was one night when, after hours of trying to settle a screaming child and having to stay on the floor next to his bed on the smelly carpet in my brand new silk/cashmere blend sweater (in the beginning I did actually try to look presentable) until he calmed down, that I realized I had not let the dog out in awhile. In all fairness, dogs are not my top priority when there is a child to keep alive. This one of course was very old, and infirm, and apparently needed to be let out and then stood over until it did its business. How I was supposed to do this, whilst watching the child was beyond me. So anyway, I go upstairs and the dog is moaning, looking near death curled up by the curtains. In the center of the room, on the cream carpet, is a giant steaming dump. The smell of course had overtaken the flat, and made me begin to gag. And it was in that moment, staring at the giant pile on the floor, that I thought to myself, I have a degree. I’m a bright girl. Seriously, where the hell did I go wrong?
Copyright © 2014 Anthea Anka - Delighted And Disturbed