Sunday, December 28, 2008

Squeegee Man is Not My Boyfriend

I’ve spent many a year on the lookout for my boyfriend. I don’t think he’s going to show up any time soon if the rule “it’ll happen when you least expect it” is anything to go by.

I expect it every day.

Even when I try to trick myself into thinking I’m not expecting it by busy-ing up my day with errands or brunch or a movie, deep down, I still expect it. Kind of like hiding the biscuits at the back of the pantry. You still know they’re there, because you put them there.

It’s not very feminist of me to be worrying about finding my boyfriend. I should be content that I have a job, and money for biscuits, and opinions. But hell, even feminists want someone to cuddle. So, I’ve decided to try something new and start focusing my attention on the men, women, etc who aren’t my boyfriend, because they seem to be in abundance. And that’s comforting.

I drove to the Tan today to sit by the river and contemplate my navel, because they won't let you have a blog unless you do things like sit on grass for no reason or have an epiphany on a train.
A cyclist rode by. Maybe a cyclist will want to stop and be my boyfriend, I thought. It would make a nice story.
Party Guest: "And how did you two meet?"
Me: "He rode past me on the Yarra and then stopped for no other reason than to be my boyfriend."
Party Guest: "Wow. Nice story. But, why were you sitting by the river?
Me: "Blog Law. I have to pense for five hours per day."
Party Guest: "Ah. Have any good epiphanies?"
Me: "Nah. Maybe if I catch some public transport during peak hour..."
Alas, the cyclist did not stop and hence, is Not My Boyfriend. (What larks, using words like ‘alas’ and ‘hence’! Oh, the blog!) Although... that's not so bad. It means I'd have more of a chance with Fictional Party Guest. We seemed to hit it off okay.

On my way home from pensing, I was stopped at the Punt Road lights and a squeegee man approached my car. He is Not My Boyfriend because he squeegeed me against my will. This is what American pop psychologists call a "dealbreaker".

Even though I shook my head ‘no’ quite vigorously and then backed it up by mouthing the word ‘no’ and then followed it up with a layer of ESP-style, ’please leave me alone, please me alone, please leave me alone’; squeegee man winked at me, implying it was ‘on the house’ (even though I’m pretty sure there was no house anywhere in the picture) and proceeded to douse my windscreen.

This was awkward because no one could tell I’d mimed ’no’, so it looked to the other drivers like I was financing a smackie. And my reputation for the 40-odd seconds I am at a set of traffic lights is very important to me.

I’m under enough scrutiny as a chick driver in a Hyundai excel without being seen as holding up traffic because I am offering patronage to a beanpole with a crack habit and a Pump bottle. ‘No’ means ‘no’, dude!

Green light.
Streaky windscreen.
Ready for a cup of tea and a biscuit from the back-of-the-pantry.


  1. Thank GOD squeegee man is not your boyfriend. Great opener Canary. You have a wonderful writing style. But defending of bloggers everywhere, we don't only have epiphanies on busses and by rivers- poetic as this may seem- we have them in the kitchen, bathroom, garden, at the shops, anywhere we choose... but mostly we just SAY that it was by the river, its sounds so much better.

  2. I hate those squeegee smackies! they have crazy eyes. did you feel obliged to pay him?!


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