Wog

All posts tagged Wog

Today’s Lunch – 5th February 2020

Published February 5, 2020 by helentastic67

Today’s Lunch

Good Mental Health Day

Despite the next month of foodie posts would have you believe I don’t go out for dinner very often. Saturday just gone I went out for dinner with some friends. They are actually closer friends of a friend who couldn’t make it. So, I went out with a really lovely couple.

Anyway, my neighbourhood has an abundance of gourmet pizza places and burger places. Both exe Saturday night we did Italian pizza. A place called I’l Pizziaolo. Translation, the pizza maker. I did get better taking photos after the first course. In photos it went like this: going with other friends in a few weeks and one of those friends is more Wog than I am. He will cope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Late Saturday night having already eaten what I refer to as my standard, standard Saturday wog lunch followed by more Italian for dinner. An ache in my side made me think for days, days! I had eaten too much food from the same food group. That being Wog.

Monday, I greeted my carer with the question, what’s in here? (Pointing to my side) Then questioning, kidney, liver? Which internal organ is so pissed off with me? Alas, I think I found another reason why I do not do chilli and pepper. It hurts my internal organs. Still going there again, just can’t eat the home made traditional Italian salamis.

Meanwhile, back to the present. Today’s offering is, a bolognaise arancini with side salad and medicine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cheers,
H

 

Career – Part 1

Published April 26, 2019 by helentastic67

 

Career

It’s such a weird word isn’t it? Today, I thought I’d cover a little of my work history, sort of.

I grew up living in the country, I didn’t grow up on a farm, I was considered a “Townie”.

By the time I was sixteen, I was a full-time student, a part time check-out chick and a “when ever babysitter” I’m not complaining. It was what it was. But I had NO SOCIAL LIFE. None, Zero.

Over Christmas, I picked up seasonal work on a blueberry farm. So, don’t talk to me about blueberries. I don’t get it. You are on your own.

I only picked when there was no work in the shed packing. Let me tell you the difference. While picking, my older sister would give a decent rendition of “I found my thrills on Blueberry Hills”. Good times. But it was hard going.

Packing, while arduous, we started at 6am and went hard until 4pm.There were no guys in the packing shed. It was considered that men distracted the women in the sorting shed. So the “no”is important? Sounds so 1950’s, or is it just me? There was the constant smell of bleach from the cleaning products. It paid better, but was stressful. The best berries went to export somewhere like Germany and at the end of the season we sorted all the berries that was deemed too small, mangled or mouldy out so, it could go to be made into pies or jam. You’re welcome.

Even when I did that job from 6am until 4pm, I would go home, shower, eat something and go to my supermarket job from 5pm to 9pm.

Good thing I was planning to be a poor art student. My two days of cherry picking marred by heatstroke and sleeping under the tree on a bull-ant nest, just because I picked the wrong side of the tree first. What? You heard. There is a right and wrong side of a tree. Yes! You pick the side first that doesn’t get the morning sun, then in the afternoon you pick the side that had the morning sun.

So, while I stayed living in the country another year after completing high school because I didn’t get into what I wanted to go on and do, I got into TAFE art course for a year. It was fairly stock standard course to go do and build on a folio if you didn’t get a course in the city.

I was still doing the full-time study, part-time work and xyz babysitter. Still no social life.

When I moved to Melbourne, it took a little while, but I was eventually introduced to really cool night clubs. Night clubs became my social life.

The first clubs I was introduced to were full on “WOG” clubs (again, don’t take offense, my father is Italian, so I can use that term) Lebanese, Turks, mention of history of guns blazing and drive by’s at the first club I went to Brunswick back in the early 90’s. Also, where I heard the fantastic piece by O’Fortuna in Apotheosis. I think I went out and bought the last twelve-inch vinyl copy to come into the country. Because it heavily sampled them from a well-known classical piece of music, it was banned.

The vibe in the clubs was electric, but then there was some really shifty stuff about wog clubs. The continuous stream of standing around the outside of the dance floor and girls dragging their boyfriends behind them, who would seem, lean in for a cheeky snog.

What! Yes! Outrage!

A guy that was with the people I was with pinched me on the backside so I turned and delivered him a slap. His sister and two friends came up to me all gangster-bitch like to take a piece of me. “I know he’s an asshole, but he’s my brother” so much for sisterhood.

The following week, a friend of his came up to me and told me the “pincher” wanted to buy me a drink, maybe he should have started with that.

I don’t know why I’m still single, but I don’t think it’s because I’m prepared to slap men if they deserve it. My ass was offended.

But that is to say, I digress.

While I studied to be a Visual Merchandiser, that being shop front window displays, shop layouts etc. I didn’t get into that, I didn’t have a folio, I couldn’t drive (to do freelancing) and I wasn’t a guy and gay. So, I couldn’t get a job with Myers.

I know, What? Those gay bitches get everything, so, I had started giving out some passes for the first club I worked for.

When I finished my course and disillusioned about what I really wanted to be doing for the rest of my life. Yeah, like that’s realistic to imagine someone of my age staying in the same job/company/industry for all of my working career.

To be continued…

Love or Hate, Hit Like

Published April 15, 2019 by helentastic67

Love or Hate, Hit Like

There will be some posts I write and you read when you won’t ‘Like’ at all what I have to say. You may not believe me even. You will be absolutely fair to want to HATE it.

However, you should still give me a ‘Like’ because I say it as I see it and then you can do something about what you have heard if you can and if you believe in it and think the world can be a better place for everyone.

These days I live in a rather wog area of Melbourne, they are mostly baby-boomers in age, their children having moved out, started their own families with more room in suburbs slightly further out.

On a rare occasion, there is a 50-somethiing still living with parents in this neighbourhood and it’s because on occasion the “child” is still in many ways a “child”.

It means they have intellectual challenges for those reading this post, don’t have to live with every day.

Being Italian

Published November 27, 2015 by helentastic67

Being italian

I should also mention, I will use the term “Wog”, from time to time and to those who are unaware.

Wog.

Now, I tried to do a Google search and after an attack of OCD and being distracted by rubbish for 20 minutes, the basic definition of Wog is ‘a foreigner’.

I learned from an early age , it actually meant “Western Oriental Gentleman”, but in Australian culture we really save it for Italians and Greeks that immigrated to Australia back in the late 1940’s and after. The immigrants also came from other European places too, however w!!hen Aussies use that term, we generally mean Italians/Greeks!

I went to a Private Catholic School where even the kids with 2 Italian parents would yell out and call me a wog! And I only have one Italian parent. I don’t consider myself a ‘wog’ per say, but I think I’ve .”

Great Italian food culture and that ‘feed an Army mentality’ and all the other good stuff from my mum. The great CWA –cooking/baking.

CWA being Country Women’s Association of which she does not belong and does not need to. Anyway, occasionally I’m going to drop the ‘Wog-bomb’ and I feel I’m allowed as I’m a little Italian as I like to say…

I speak a few words of Italian and even less Greek, but when I walk into my GP’s office, the 2 Greek ladies start speaking briskly in their native tongue and you can pick up a lot from their hand gestures and tone!

I have often discussed this with my GP who is Greek!

They’re tone says “Oh, that’s a pity, but she’s so pretty! Hopefully she has a husband!”

WTF?!

I usually get asked by the Greek ladies on my tram in guttural/broken English “you Greek?!”

I return in the same tone “no Greek, a little Italian.” I tell them from my father and they often ask from what part of Italy?

After the last 10 years or so living in an area with plenty of ‘wogs’ that can put my finger tips together and tap my forehead and reply “Calabeze!” Given up years ago saying “Calabrias” The hard movement is to symbolize “stubborn!”

The Italian from that area are known to be stubborn. Sounds about right!

Years ago, I worked across town in a Supermarket and a guy asked where the Tzatziki was? I confess I was younger and didn’t know what that was. I tried a cheeky question to ascertain what it was. FYI: If you aren’t sure, it’s a dip! It’s kept in the Supermarket in a fridge.

He looked at me rather disgustedly and asked how I would not know what this ‘thing’ was.

I asked “why?’, this wog motioned to my name badge and said ‘you’re Greek!”

Why do you say that?

“Your name is Helen!”

FUCK OFF! (Obviously not what I said, but I then explained I was not.)

So many times I’ve had to respond to the query “You Greek?” Always asked or as a statement and I always respond with “No! No, Greek!” Greek ladies always look so disappointed. I am surrounded by Greeks these days. The good ones luckily. My GP! My Chiropractor! My taxi driver, young John! So lucky!!!

I have a mobility scooter, which I like to call Hell on Wheels!

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