When you are

severely unemployed, it is thirty one degrees, your mother and her mother have driven you insane, you


a) watch them eat lunch
b) call your wife
c) cause havoc at David Jones
d) wear only a swimsuit out in public with Docs
e) drink ridiculously priced booze on a roof
f) all of the above, there are too many options, for fuck's sake.

If you guessed f, you actually read all of the options, and you should take a photo of yourself at this moment for posterity.

But really, when I see my father's side of the family, it is great, calm, relaxed and makes some sort of deaf sense. With my mother, all I hear are inaccuracies, uncalled for injustices, bitching and aggression.
Oh, and bullshit.
Things get lost in translation and all of a sudden I am an awful daughter who is overweight and talking only perpetuates my feeling that I am in a slapstick.

Thankfully, after calling my wife to regain my brain and watching two old women eat three dishes, I arrange to meet her at Rooftop Bar.
I look at homewares for thirty minutes because I am secretly a hundred-and-twelve and then make the slightly evil people of David Jones panic for a while by not-really-but-kind-of setting off an alarm by ripping the tag off a dry-food and slapping it on a tray of witlof that got bought by a suit.
That sated me.
But let me get this straight, I hate Rooftop.
I hate the hipsters.
I hate the crepes (they have a peking duck crepe where they list the ingredients of peking duck along with the duck, calling the duck itself "peking duck" (how fucking inaccurate), as well as serving a bolognese crepe. Um, gross).
I hate that they overcharge. Who the fuck pays $9.50 for a pint of Coopers PALE (let along sparkling)???
I hate their inattentive staff.
I hate that their inattentive staff short-changed me in my dirt-poor (literally coin stacking now) state and didn't squeeze the lime in my vodka soda.
I hate that they serve everything in plastic.

Am I done?

You're asking me how I can be unhappy with that view, and sun, and booze, and free afternoon on a Tuesday, aren't you?


Well, it is simple. I am a wench. I am a poor, poor, wench.

And I am sick of being unemployed.
The only good thing about Rooftop are the people that I run into that buy me beers in return for my mothering them in their states of poverty.


My wife got hungry so she ordered a salami Piadina. I think it was $8.50, but I could be lying. She was still hungry after this, if that is any indication of the size.

And her housemate (the random dude with the giant 'tasche, whose name I cannot reveal) ordered one with olive tapenade and then chugged half a pint to get back to work on time.

He is a champion, even though he doesn't know it is no longer November.