Lou Sanz

My dad was making dinner the other night when suddenly he stopped mid chop, ‘are you eating potatoes these days? It’s just your mother and I were discussing earlier that I might make a nice potato based side tonight, but if you’re not eating potato’s then there isn’t much point’.

Curiously I replied yes to the potato question, hesitating only to pick up the TV Guide.

‘It’s just your mother said that you might not be eating potato, so I was just making sure.’ ‘I don’t think I’ve ever given up potato before dad. It’s really not a problem.’ But he’d seized all chopping now and moved closer to the couch as my mother emerged from the decking, glass of wine in hand, binoculars in the other. ‘No, what I said Michael….’ I watched as my mother sat herself on the chaise lounge, helping herself to a handful of wasabi peas ‘…was that Louise shouldn’t eat potato.’

I reminded myself that track suits pants have elastic waistbands because it’s part of their design and that I was wearing them because I planned on going for a nice brisk walk later on and not because there was no other option now that my girth couldn’t possibly support a zipper or button pant like garment. I was certain an eating disorder lay dormant in me and that maybe this conversation was the catalyst for its release. At 28 and with my self esteem back on track it seemed only right it should rear its ugly head now. I could do with the drama.

‘Now does that include sweet potato?’ my father enquired as he rummaged through this secret potato sack he kept hidden away under the sink. A few months earlier my mother had requested that all carbs be not seen in the house, and that is how I explained the cereal packets in the bathroom cupboard to visitors. No one ever seemed surprised by this after seeing my mother attempt to eat vegemite on toast blind folded – ‘if you’re body can’t see it, then it can’t really be food’. My argument about fat blind people was not welcomed.

‘You know what darling, I’m not sure if it does include sweet potato. I’d have to look it up on the Weight Watcher’s site.’ As my mother pulled out her Blackberry I dreamed of a time when I didn’t live with my parents, but as tears welled in my eyes I thought best not think about what might’ve been.

‘Ok, according to them, she can have half a steamed normal potato or one full steamed sweet potato. I guess it just comes down to how hungry she is. How hungry are you?’ Her eyes burnt into my elasticised waist.

‘Really, I’m not that hungry.’

‘Oh here we go. We’re not having a go at you Louise, so don’t get all victim on us. It’s just that we as your parents are interested in knowing what you put in your mouth.’

It would only fall on deaf ears explaining to my mother and father that at 28 years of age neither of them had any control over what I put in my mouth. It was a brutal truth that an ex boyfriend of mine had learnt the hard way and sometimes I found myself wondering how he explained that scar to all the other girls since me. I’m almost certain all of his encounters since that fateful Christmas night opened with the line ‘sorry bout that’.

‘I think we should have beans as a side this evening, until we work out where we stand as a family on potatoes’, my father proclaimed as he poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Only if you use the fresh olive oil to drizzle them with, otherwise they taste to green’ my mother lamented.

I decided not to self harm that day. I’d save it for a special occasion, or maybe I’d save it for Mother’s Day. I’m still undecided.

I suffered what the doctor called a ‘drug overdose’ the other day. My first ever! (Well I refuse to count my slight addiction to Sudafed in 97′ that had me thinking I looked like a supermodel, whereas in actual fact my mother preferred to use the term ‘crack addict’ – nor am I going to include the time I discovered the untold pleasure of mixing a nice Sauv Blanc and Panedeine Forte on a hot summers day listening to Joss Stone…. lets just say I was discovered thinking I was a guest on Parkinson discussing my ill fate romance with Steve Coogan…).. No, this time my foray into the numbing world of drug abuse was not my doing. It was all the fault of my father and his special ‘sleeping tablets’ and that coupled with my inability to read instructions led me down a very dark path that resulted in me standing in my knickers saying ‘no -that chairs mine! Mine I tell you!’ My father had been well intended; after all it was me that was insistent I catch a bus back to Sydney. It was me that thought it would be ‘good material’ but I’ll save the bus story for later – it’ll be in my new book entitled ‘THINGS I SHOULD NEVER HAVE EVER DONE’- there will be a sections called ‘Men’, ‘Transport’ and ‘Flatmates’. (Oh…feel the subtext). Dad gave me 3 tablets of something called ‘Still Knock’ – he said it was a mild sedative that would help me sleep, take the edge off life. He demonstrated himself with the aid of a neat scotch some Vallum and then the final touch – Still Knock, a Beatles album and a cold shower. I know I should’ve said no, but there was so much romance involved with the idea of travelling the highway, fucked up, kicking back. Maybe finally I would find a Sid to my Nancy. Let’s just say it didn’t exactly play out that way. About an hour out of Melbourne the bus driver put on Match Point and to escape the pain of it all I knocked back a sleeping tablet, blew up my neck cushion, undid my fly and prepared to doze off…after about 30 minutes I started to get concerned – I felt nothing, if anything I now found myself engaged in conversation with the woman seated next to me and started to prioritise important dates in my new diary – maybe sleeping tablets were the new speed? Only one way to find out I thought and grabbing my hip flask and I downed another sleeping tablet, turned to the girl next to me and I’m ashamed to say – I think I uttered the phrase ‘So little lady you from round these parts?’ Four hours later and I was still wide awake and trying to avoid the advances of a small Italian man who was sure I was famous and on the run – finally I turned to him and admitted that yes, I was Angelina Jolie and I just needed some space from Brad – it was all so suffocating this new relationship and no one seemed to understand that. Small Italian man said he’d understand, he’d understand so much that he was willing to share his lap blanket with me – to this day I still don’t know why I declined such an offer. As the sun came up and I was still wide-awake I decided that maybe I’d gotten it all wrong – I was meant to take all 3 tablets! God now it made sense! So down went the 3rd and last tablet as we pulled into Central Station and from that point on everything is a bit of a blur… I know I got in a taxi and suddenly felt very ill and directed him straight to the doctors, thinking I’d finally come down the dreaded Christmas flu – it really hadn’t occurred to me that alcohol combined with 3 sleeping tablets on a bus in the middle of nowhere was to blame…no, it took a doctor in a white coat to explain to me that I had taken 2 too many tablets and then he proceeded to ask if I was a happy person – of course I’m not I remarked, I’m a tired person…a really, really tired person. Finally making it home I decided that a cold shower would help. I thought about it long and hard but couldn’t quite will myself to the shower so I settled for a moist towellette on the couch and then I think I passed out. I woke up intermittently throughout the day, especially when my boss rang concerned about a text message I’d apparently sent him that read like so ‘C23t ma…work..no fe 3l nbad…help mexxx!!!!’ – ok, so loosely that translated into I don’t think I’ll be coming into work I think I’ve been shot with a tranquiliser gun!’ When I woke up a little later to the sounds of Tyra Banks show, lying in nothing but my knickers and a singlet top but I still had my Cons tightly on my feet I knew something wasn’t quite right. I’d even made myself a sandwich but had no recollection of any of it and now I standing at the front door knickers only and telling my next door neighbour that I was fine to bring the chairs he’d borrowed inside on my own – I just needed to sober up first and maybe put some clothes on. He offered to come inside and help me find my clothes but as was the case with the small Italian man I had to say no…and then I think I passed out again. I woke up to find myself fully dressed, chairs stacked neatly inside and a note that read ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t touch you’….ahhh, refreshing. Making myself some coffee I decided to do some work, but got bored of that, put my pyjamas on and convinced myself a good nights sleep was all I needed. Just as I dosed off and began to dream of being on Parkinson again my mother rang to let me know that I should drink fluids and that if I found myself passing out again to call her. I told her she was being unreasonable, we fought and fed up with the stress of the day I grabbed some Panadeine Forte, a nice chilled glass of wine, my David Duchovny biography and took myself to a place full of wonder and excitement for tonight I was going to dream myself to Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and Eddie Maguire was finally going to notice me, really notice me…

Dear Public Transport System: While it may have startled some people lately the idea of a man going around on your trams with a camera in his worn out Dunlops, a bum bag and a perverts dream, it barely raised one of my newly shaped eyebrows – you see I catch your trams, buses and trains and not a day goes by where I’m not propositioned, gyrated against, spat on, smothered, kicked, sneered at, pushed at, leered at, had God introduced to me, gotten a stain on my favourite dress, something smeared on my good shoes and beeen photographed without my permission (and I’m not talking a nice tourist shot of an ethnic girl on a busy metropolitan tram – ah la Mary Tyler Moore style). Your trams particulary upset me, but I guess it’s not your fault. I mean it’s not your responsibility to help me when a strange little woman assaults me because I don’t know if the No 96 stops at Elizabeth St, but all I’m saying is maybe I’d still be able to see out of my left eye if your driver had responded to her countless queries when the tram was in a stationary manner, and when I say respond I mean not pretend he couldn’t hear all 5 people tapping at his door to enquire as to why he’d failured to stop at the last 3 stops even though they’d all pushed the button, but like I said I guess maybe I’m laying blame far too easily on your organisation, I mean it’s my fault I felt the compulsion on a 36 degree day take public transport (your tram looked so bright and inviting) and you should bare no responsibility for the 13 year old boy trying desperately to rub himself against his girlfriend right opposite me on one of the hottest days of the year – a day when he was quite dearly in need of lubrication, and when I say lubrication I mean a nice cold drink – like the one your driver was drinking while he watching my 13 year old attempted porn show through his monitor in his sound proof room. No, no…I should not be so harsh, afterall you did catch the shoe camera bandit, and I’m sure much like you are, that public transport is safe once again and no copycats shall prevail- God know I expect nothing less. Kind Regards, Louise Woodruff Sanz

I wear eyeliner. I make no apologies for that, but when it results in me getting forcibly removed from a stationary train…I start to get a little piss

For some reason I often get mistaken for a hair dresser, even the girls that have been doing my nails for the past few months still think that, even though I have corrected them on many an occasion. Comments about how my eyes are tired from staring at a computer screen all day, how I adore their hand massages because as a ‘writer’ my wrists feel constantly strained (and this is not due to being a chronic self pleasurer as some might allude to…). I’ve even bought in published articles I’ve written from reputable magazines and asked if I could leave them in the waiting room for their other clients to enjoy (to this day they have denied my constant requests). One might be wondering at this point what this has to do with another tale of my woe? I’m on my way there. I bought my train ticket at the window (I like to think that somehow this small gesture keeps someone employed – and gives me brownie points in hell). The transaction apparently went smoothly, that is until the ticket man told me how much I reminded him of his wife. She was a bitch and she was also dead. (I’m now a big advocate of ticket machines at train stations). I ventured to platform 12, as directed, purchased a newspaper, tossed the sports section, and hopped in what I failed to notice was a stationary train. After about 10 minutes of being stared at by a small blonde man who blessed me under his breath every time I tried to avoid eye-contact with him, I got up to find out what was going on and dreaming of the day I’d have my own personal driver, who with the slap of a glove I could fire for such insubordinance…when suddenly I was confronted by a woman who bore a striking resemblance to a brick wall – the kind kids bounce tennis balls against, or as a high school kid you pashed behind. Her name was Sarah, though when we were at high school together, she was referred to as ‘the terror’. Rumour had it, that upon graduation she had tried to flee to New Zealand to shack up with some guy she’d met on the Internet. She’d run into strife when, while going through the metal detector she got a little worked up and was aggressively subjected to a cavity searched to make sure she wasn’t carrying a bomb. She would later recall the incident as the only time she’d ever needed help cuming. I was a little scared of her, and to top it all up she was a certified ticket inspector. ‘Well, well – if it isn’t Louie Da Fly’ she rumbled. ‘Barely recognised you for a minute, but then I watched you for a while through that window and then it was just like I knew it was you, cos I had this dream about you once and you were in it and your hair was really short – so that’s how I recognised you cos you looked like that girl in my dream, but she was proper tall and you’re not that tall are you?’ Supposing it was a rhetorical question I chose not to answer. Instead I smiled politely, and tried to get off the train –’Look it’s really nice to see you again Sarah – do you know what’s happening with the trains?’ The storm came suddenly, without warning – ‘What? Aren’t you even going to ask me how I’ve been? What I’ve been up to? Is this what happens when you get famous all of a sudden?’ (So sudden – I was caught completely unawares…) ‘You heard me! Someone told me you’d become one of those celebrity hairdressers, so I Googled you and there you were and I found your blog…ooh, so now you’re published…but I read it, not my cup of tea if I’m honest, but I thought I’d at least be in there somewhere – but it’s like you’ve forgotten me – why? Are you too busy with all your famous friends and their famous people parties? (I’m going to point out at this point that I was running late for a meeting at an employment agency…) Trying to ease the tension, I went for humour ‘I’m more of a stay at home with a DVD type gal.’ ‘You’re not funny,’ spat back Sarah. I hung my head ‘I know.’ A few seconds passed with neither of us saying a word. ‘You wear eyeliner’, she stated. ‘Yes, yes I do.’ ‘I’m rubbish at it. Eyeliner that is.’ The door was only inches away….’It’s pretty easy, practice really.’ ‘Teach me’ she asked, ‘Um, I really have to go.’ I responded, like a coward. ‘No, I’ve got a break coming up, we could go to the girls bathroom and –’she was insistent. My discomfort was growing. ‘I really must go Sarah, if you’ll just let me-’ ‘-oh now you’re in a hurry – you were sitting on a stationary train a few minutes ago and didn’t seem in a hurry.’ (damn Connex!) ‘Listen Sarah, I’m getting the impression and correct me if I’m wrong – that you think we have some sort of friendship that I’m obligated to rekindle – well my recollection is of a girl who smeared dog faeces on my locker – in short Sarah from what I recall you are no friend of mine!’ She said nothing for a moment. I imaged for a second that she might step back, nod her head and let me get on with my life – I was wrong. ‘Can I see your ticket?’ flipping out her official ID. ‘My ticket?’ ‘Is there a problem. If you can’t produce a ticket madam I’m going to have to escort you off the train.’ Ok – so she wasn’t taking my little outburst as well as I’d hoped. Searching my handbag, I began to panic, when suddenly I spotted the ticket at my feet. As I bent down to pick it up, I felt a clammy hand take my arm and start to forcibly remove me from the train. ‘I’m sorry, but failure to produce a ticket when asked is an immediate on the spot fine of $180.00′ – I swear she was grinning. I looked at the little blonde man with pleading eyes, needing his help, to look within himself – to acknowledge that while he’d been mentally undressing me he’d remember seeing my ticket drop from my bag to the ground. Both myself and Sarah stopped for a moment as he cocked his head, opened his mouth and proclaimed – ‘Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?…Don’t yah!’