Choosy Beggar

The Final Countdown

2007-04-17T00:01:00.001+02:00

As I usher in the end of an era, I wipe a single tear from my misty eyes. While emptying out my desk, I reflect on my time at The Company and wonder, "How the hell will I ever stop laughing? My stomach is killing me."

Oh yes, such is the happiness that has infected me. I can feel the grin stretching my face and it's as if tiny little elves of joy have thrown grappling hooks into the sides of my cheeks and are currently making their way up my body, bringing laughter and good feeling to all parts.

I have approximately 3.5 days left at this asylum for the socially inept. And man is it gratifying to know that soon the dour and gloomy patrons of this soul destroying environment will be eating my dust. Feast on my contempt you monkeys.

The final chapter of my entire experience working here concludes with a bang as I recently discovered that approximately 6 (count 'em, six!) of my colleagues have also resigned. Granted, they work in a completely different section of the company, but still - SIX in one go. This place is obviously charming the socks off of everyone here.

So all that's left to do is to look forward to a more fulfilled and respectable future. One which doesn't include having grisly fantasies about the various ways to murder one's colleagues / bosses during a staff meeting.

The Final Countdown

2007-04-17T00:01:00.000+02:00

As I usher in the end of an era, I wipe a single tear from my misty eyes. While emptying out my desk, I reflect on my time at The Company and wonder, "How the hell will I ever stop laughing? My stomach is killing me."

Oh yes, such is the happiness that has infected me. I can feel the grin stretching my face and it's as if tiny little elves of joy have thrown grappling hooks into the sides of my cheeks and are currently making their way up my body, bringing laughter and good feeling to all parts.

I have approximately 3.5 days left at this asylum for the socially inept. And man is it gratifying to know that soon the dour and gloomy patrons of this soul destroying environment will be eating my dust. Feast on my contempt you monkeys.

The final chapter of my entire experience working here concludes with a bang as I recently discovered that approximately 6 (count 'em, six!) of my colleagues have also resigned. Granted, they work in a completely different section of the company, but still - SIX in one go. This place is obviously charming the socks off of everyone here.

So all that's left to do is to look forrward to a more fulfilled and respectable future. One which doesn't include having grisly fantasies about the various ways to murder one's colleagues / bosses during a staff meeting.

Pour Myself a Cup of Ambition

2007-03-15T08:04:00.000+02:00

Have you ever had one of those dreams where Wentworth Miller has declared his undying love for you and you find yourself co-habiting with him in the Malibu mansion he bought as a celebration of your love, sipping Cristal and being fed bon bons? And when you wake up you feel cheated out of the incredible bliss you so obviously deserve.

Well, that's how I feel at the moment, except that I haven't yet woken up from the glee that I'm experiencing as a result of quitting my job at The Company. I feel like I'm floating around in a state of semi-dementia as I realise that my life is about to change so much for the better. I've managed to land myself what could only be described as 'a dream job', working in an industry that actually excites and motivates me.

I will no longer be subjected to painfully boring morning meetings where arrogant suits discuss how much money the company is making and devise strategies on how to finagle the clients and get their grubby little paws on more...MORE.

I will no longer have to listen to the banal lunch conversations that I have been subjected to for the last 14 months.

I won't have to retch into my dustbin at the blatant display of ass-licking that goes on in this place.

Never again will I have to work on a project that is so boring it makes me want to push my clutch pencil through my eye and swirl my brain around.

No more will I have to do all the work while some enterprising account manager takes all the credit.

There is not one shred of sadness or remorse, only pure unadulterated happiness towards the knowledge that I will soon be shutting the door on this chapter of my life.

2007 - I knew you'd be a goodie.
Roll on the good times.

Once More, With Feeling

2007-03-02T08:36:00.000+02:00

I haven't really been feeling the whole blog vibe lately, have reverted back to the ways of our forefathers and made use of pen and paper. Completely un-techy and conducive to wrist ache. But I have some time on my hands this morning (well, by "time on my hands" I naturally mean "felt like slacking off") so thought I'd post something...anything.

It seems that perhaps my blog was originally about complaining about...well...everything. I'm not really struggling to make any sense of my life - I seem to have settled into a calm comfortable place that only calls for the occasional hissy fit. Ok, reading through that I realise that I sound like a drugged up zombie; kidnapped by the government and subjected to mind control so that I become a maniacal killer as soon as I hear the special password.

I'll snap out of that, shall I?

So. What's been happening with me...Obviously everyone thinks that their own life is uninteresting (well, with the obvious exclusion of Britney Spears who clearly thinks that the magic bubbles in her vodka and coke are whispering the secrets of Atlantis to her) so I'm not sure where to start. Still with New Guy who really isn't so new anymore but an absolute sweetie nonetheless. Still work for the Company who continue to take the proverbial piss so I'm actually actively looking for alternative employment. Have moved to my own little place - a small one-bed apartment all my own. Dirty dishes be damned! Manky floors - so what? It's great.

'Twas my birthday a week ago and I had a really fun party at the bowls club - because that's how I roll, homey. It was interesting to put a whole lot of different groups of friends together in one place and see them get on and meet one another and get partying. It was a blast and I got some choice gifts as well. Had the most fun putting together a birthday CD with all the hits from 1982 (year of our lady's birth) to 2007. Had to combine some truly special 80's classics with the embarrassing 90's pop that we all know and love (Ice Ice Baby, anyone?).

And so this has been my first week of being 25. I'm a grown-up now. I should be investing in property and having dinner parties and wearing mink stoles or something. Wait...sorry...I just jumped back in time to the 1930s. It seems that my generation are taking the longest to settle down and actually do those things - everyone's so restless, so acutely aware that there may be something better out there - be it in our careers, our relationships or our finances. Personally, I blame reality television - giving hope to the countless untalented plebs in the world who actually believe that they might have some divinely alloted gift that could deliver them from the hell of their mediocrity, like the hand of God plucking them straight out of their trailer park and repositioning them in their Hollywood Hills mansion. And my favourite part of all these shows is when the winner gushes about how they always knew that they were destined for greatness - like anyone would actually admit that they're completely shocked that they haven't ended up as an assistant fry cook at Uncle Jumbo's Chicken Emporium.

All by myself

2006-12-05T11:47:00.000+02:00

I've never been shy to go to movies by myself or take myself for coffee. In fact, there are times when I prefer to do these things alone as I find myself incredibly good company. Nobody understands me like me. I have a running joke with a mate overseas that I don't DO company as most people annoy the living crap out of me. All these people with their 'opinions' and their 'conversation' and their general ignorance. Bah humbug. If I'm given half a chance, these unsuspecting (and usually well-meaning) individuals inevitably wind up on the business end of a sarcastic insult. Not my fault, I swear. I am a veritable bucket of enthusiasm and I love socialising, but it must be with people who have bothered to learn how to string a sentence together. Call me elitist, but I don't see why I should be polite when faced with idiot ramblings like, "did you know that Marie Antoinette didn't actually say "let them eat cake"?" or "did you know, even though he painted like that, Picasso was actually a very good artist?". Wow guy, I too read those chappie papers when I was like, eleven. Thanks for anointing me with this precious blessing of your knowledge so that I may go forward and prosper in the crazy maze of trivia we call life.

But I digress...

The reason I was talking about enjoying my own company is because I have clearly reached the point where it looks like I am perpetually alone. I went for dinner recently (with a certain someone, I'll have you know) and as I arrived at the door to the restaurant where we were meeting, the maitre d' smiled at me sympathetically and stated "table for one". She already had the lone menu in her hand and was about to usher me to the darkest table in the corner of the restaurant so that the rest of the patrons wouldn't be subjected to my ugly display of solitude. Why even guess at that kind of thing, lady? That's as bad as seeing a larger woman and saying, "so when's that baby due?". Don't assume that I'm flying solo here buddy. There are various men kicking down various doors all over this here city for the chance to hang with me! Got it??? What irks me is that she just seemed so damn sure! You can imagine the icy glare she found herself faced with after I had managed to stop blushing and stuttering about meeting someone on the b-b-b-b-b-balcony.

Still, I have to wonder; maybe my mother put her up to it.

Promiscuous Boy

2006-11-23T01:34:00.000+02:00

Is everyone else aware of the fact that Ryk Neethling seems to be hocking his body left right and centre lately? Celebrity endorsement has taken off in this country in a big way and Ryk is definitely reaping the financial benfits. I had no problem with the Lays, USN and even the Yogi Sip spots. Audi and Tag Heuer were logical choices as everyone loves a winner and what better way to flog your product than to have it draped over a hunky Olympic gold medal winner? Oh that Ryk, with his cheeky smile and the seductive look in his eyes…he could sell microwaves to Amish women.

But I have to protest the giant billboard on the corner of William Nicol and Republic that has this Adonis of a man scantily clad (as per usual) and up to his navel in Jenna Clifford jewellery. This is blatantly Jenna Clifford’s way of publicising her own wet dream of one day owning a pocket-sized Ryk with whom she can have her dirty kugel way. It’s obvious that she knew that the only way she was ever going to see Ryk naked was to make up this farce of an ad campaign and pay him a truckload of cash to dive out of his tidy whiteys.

Look, I’m a red-blooded woman and I like thinking of Ryk feeding me Lays crisps as much as the next girl but this is a bit pathetic. What does jewellery have to do with swimming? It’s not like you ever see Ryk pimpin’ it with his macked out bling. It’s just not a logical reference. And Jesus wept, Ryk, put it away! If I ever manage to slip that rufey into your drink and get you back to my place, the mystery is gone – every bloody woman in SA has seen you sans clothing. It’s just not exciting anymore. Whenever I see pictures of you wearing clothes it’s like seeing a polar bear in the desert – it don’t make no sense.

Looney Tunes

2006-11-13T14:56:00.000+02:00

I recently broke off a friendship of about five or so years because I couldn’t handle the utter neediness of said ‘friend’. It’s a long and whacky story and Choosy’s in the mood to share!

I lived overseas for two years and kept in touch with a handful of my varsity mates – obviously the less interesting and more religious (read: dull) ones fell by the wayside (this is a topic for a WHOLE other blog). So when I came back I prepared to move back into my 2 bed flat which had been rented out to one of my varsity mates (let’s call her Eddie) and a friend of hers. The plan was to share the place with Eddie (chucking out random friend) and split all the bills etc. It’s a really great flat and I was excited to get back in there.

Anyhoo, all went well and we were getting on famously – I am an easy-going kinda gal and although I have a fondness for getting my own way I certainly do not consider myself argumentative or confrontational. Unless challenged – nobody puts Choosy in a corner. So we went out one night with another varsity mate, Legs, who is also a top chick and parties harder than Courtney Love on acid. Eddie, after a few drinks, decided to play the part of the grumpy, belligerent brat and proceeded to berate Legs and me for being shallow, callous slags who were clearly only interested in being friends with thin, pretty people.

Excusez-moi? Come again? Non comprendez vous … Legs and I literally laughed out loud but soon realized that that was clearly the incorrect approach to this specific problem as Eddie was starting to look like the girl from the Exorcist – I swear she was spitting green stuff…The evening ended rather badly with Legs (who I’ve never even seen raise her voice before) telling Eddie in no uncertain terms (or volume) what a pathetic creature she was and Eddie in full blown hysterics in the parking lot of Panache. Lucky me – I got to go home to tension so palpable it was basically oozing out of the walls.

The reason that what she said hurt me was because I’ve never based my friendships (or even my romantic relationships) on looks. It’s never ever occurred to me that someone would ever do that kind of thing, I mean, lordy, are there even enough decent people in this world to limit yourself to being friends with the aesthetically pleasing ones – I have a hard enough time making friends with females in general, I’m not going to go out of my way to cut more people off!

So we eventually had our first little chat about why she behaved the way she did and I got to hear all about how hard her life is and why she’s so depressed. Really? Are you? Well let me wrap you in this blankie of cotton wool and pat your head so that you don’t feel sad. Please can I protect you from the big bad world and if you feel like you need to take out your frustrations on someone can I be the first to volunteer for a good old character bashing since that seems to make you feel so much better about yourself?

But I forgave her and we moved on with our lives. She didn’t see Legs again and Legs, understandably, wasn’t interested in subjecting herself to that particular brand of crazy anymore.

Because I wanted to salvage the relationship, I invited her out one night with a group of mates from a different circle. I thought it would be nice for her to meet new people and just chill out on a Friday getting drunk at the Jolly. She proceeded to be incredibly, embarrassingly rude to all my male friends. It was cringeworthy – she was truly a social hunchback. I called her on it and asked her why she found it necessary to be so nasty – she snapped that not everyone could be like me and that sarcastic was her ‘thing’. She told me to stop telling her how to behave and stop trying to change her. I lost it. Admittedly, I lost the plot a bit – here I was, being so super nice, inviting her out for a drink with MY friends, who she had just been so unnecessarily bitchy to, and she had the cheek to tell ME where to get off? I don’t think so. I told her to stop bothering me and to go home before I said something I regretted. It was not a pretty scene, I apologise to anyone who may have been at the Jolly that night.

So, anyway, she stormed out and about half an hour later I got a call from the boyfriend of a friend who lives in the same complex as me. He told me that he needed to take Eddie to the hospital and that I should come and meet him there.

Great.

To cut a long story short (excuse the pun!) Eddie had decided to gouge two massive gashes into her arms. So much so that when my friend saw her he could actually see the muscle and the fat through the cuts. She had been tranquilized and stitched up and I drove her home in cold, grey silence. Now I understand that people in these situations need help and kindness. They need love and positive attention. But if you had been in the situation you would understand my complete fury. She had had no intention of killing herself. People who self harm usually do it in private places so that no one can see. When something like this happens, it is purely for attention. She had cut herself to teach me a lesson. To show me that I should never disagree with her or upset her because she was fragile and I was an uncaring bully. To make me feel so bad that I would grovel and plead with her to forgive me and be my friend. So that I owed her something.

Well, cupcake, I have news for you: in the inimitable words of Tyler Durden, “you are not a beautiful or unique snowflake”.

And so the began the demise of our relationship. I kept very distant from her and spent more time with my other friends.

Then one night I got a call from the same friend whose boyfriend had found her bleeding in our kitchen that night. She said that Eddie had barricaded herself under her desk at work and was refusing to come out. Yes, you read that correctly. The backstory is that she was having a full blown affair with her boss and he had eventually called it off and wanted nothing more to do with her. She had not taken this well, refusing to stop calling him and making several attempts to corner him in their boardroom after hours etc…Finally he had told her, in no uncertain terms, that it was over and to leave him alone. She proceeded to scream at him at a company function and berate him in front of passerbyers. She then fled up to her office and curled up under her desk in the foetal position. And which lucky lady got to go and coax her out from under her desk? Ding ding ding! That’s right, you guessed it – ME!

Ugh, the humiliation. So she sniffled her way home, prattling on and on about how much she loved him and why couldn’t he love her blah blah blah. Women are stronger and better than this and she was giving womankind a bad name.

The next night I came home to find papers from the sheriff stuffed under my door. She was being charged with sexual harassment. Needless to say I fled the scene and left it for her parents to deal with. After a one more month of painfully avoiding each other in an 80sq meter flat, she finally moved out.

I hear that she has a decent new job and is getting better but the point is that she let herself get to a place where nothing made sense. Where her self indulgent moping caused her more pain than accepting that life is sometimes unfair and knowing that we all have to go through some awful crap before we realize that we have the strength to pull ourselves up and get on with life and the living.

Obviously, I’m not including people who genuinely suffer from bi-polar disorder or manic depression; people who cannot logically distinguish between rational and irrational anymore. I know that there are people out there who need so much help and love and support but in this instance I felt like nothing I could do would ever be enough – she needed to believe that she had been let down so that she had a reason to behave the way she did. She just seemed more content in her misery and chose to stay that way.

I guess we’re all responsible for our own happiness and I choose a huge helping of happy please.

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

2006-11-09T17:33:00.000+02:00

mor‧ti‧fy Pronunciation Key - [mawr-tuh-fahy] Pronunciation Key - verb, -fied, -fy‧ing.
–verb (used with object)
1. to humiliate or shame, as by injury to one's pride or self-respect.
2. to subjugate (the body, passions, etc.) by abstinence, ascetic discipline, or self-inflicted suffering.
3. Pathology. to affect with gangrene or necrosis.
–verb (used without object)
4. to practice mortification or disciplinary austerities.
5. Pathology. to undergo mortification; become gangrened or necrosed.

The mortification I recently experienced was not as a result of gangrene or necrosis, although, looking back on the experience, those are two highly preferable conditions to the one I found myself in recently.

I had made a quick trip to the supermarket to buy my monthly supply of ‘feminine hygiene products’ and was intending just to pop in, grab what I needed and hightail it home before the really arsey traffic set in. All in a day’s work.

I’m not squeamish or embarrassed about buying tampons and pads and since I’m just running in quickly, I never get a basket to carry them in – as If that would suddenly make them invisible to my fellow shoppers anyway. I like to think that by brandishing them in plain view of the rest of Pick ‘n Pay I’m doing my bit to unnerve those WASP-y neurotics you can see doing the should-I-shouldn’t-I dance with the full cream milk in the dairy section. Ah the sweet smell of arrogant feminism in the morning…

I’m a sucker for marketing so you can imagine my glee when the newest gimmick, ‘feminine fresh wipes’ for your handbag, was offered as a freebie attached to a packet of pads. “Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans – I’d better stock up on these puppies”, I thought (yes, I really do have this kind of internal monologue going on in my head) so I grabbed a few along with some boxes of tampons (I like variety).

I made my way to the till and happily plopped everything down, got out my purse and waited for the cashier to ring it all up and bag it. But what would this story be if that had happened? On another level of boring, that’s what. What actually happened was that she looked up at me with eyes wide with what might have been either fright or pity and said, “You must use all of these? Hau! Shame.”

I was gobsmacked. Was she judging my sanitary towel fetish? Did she wonder how it was possible for me to be walking if I was in such dire need of all those products? And the worst thing was (that’s a bit of a throwaway line – it was already pretty awful) she actually waited for an answer. It wasn’t rhetorical, she was fully prepared to have a conversation about my menstrual cycle right there at the till point. What was I supposed to say? “Better safe than sorry”? She literally waited for me to mumble something about variety and marketing, which clearly was not the answer she was looking for because she replied with a knowing wink to the person BEHIND me. Jesus wept lady, have a heart. Luckily the woman behind me had the decency to smirk into her single ply loo roll. Cretins.

She had it coming

2006-10-19T15:56:00.000+02:00

I'm baaa-aaack! One WHOLE month without a blog entry. Shoooweee, writing this I'm like a bulemic in a pie factory!

So London was fantastic. I had a blast, drank a lotta ale and danced like an elf on fire. A little bit sad to be back but geez things have seriously hotted up here lately - and I'm not just talking weather.

The Company took us for a schwanky dinner at a certain hotel in a certain part of sandton square last night - it was basically a big thank you for all our hard work and an enthusiastic pat on the back for being the best team since, well, ever.

You're probably thinking, "Wow, that's nice of them, what splendid chaps" But that's where you'd be mistaken. Sorely sorely mistaken. The evening started with our CEO asking Super C and I whether or not the bumpkin we work with was a good boss...

Before I detail the aftermath of this comment, I'd like to pause to reflect on the situation we have at work. That is, let me break it down for you right here:

There are four of us who work together: Super C, Bumpkin, Newbie and little ole me. Super C and I are known for rocking and being generally fabulous. What can I say, it’s tough at the top. Newbie is a sweetie but needs to grow some cahones and stop being everyone’s packhorse. And then there’s Bumpkin. Bumpkin likes to think she’s the boss of everyone else and has been quite opportunistic on this front, cultivating a more-than-a-little-absurd version of the truth wherein she does all the work and we inevitably drool all over ourselves. This pisses Super C and I off because:

a) she worked here 5 months before I joined, hardly time to be deemed management material methinks AND we often help her out with things that she can't do because she doesn't know how or doesn't have the ability and she still takes the credit for it
b) we all do the same work and have the same responsibilities (or would have if she didn’t greedily jump in to ‘help out a director’ so that everyone would congratulate her on her hard work and dedication to the company)
c) we all work just as hard and put in long hours when needs be but because Super C and I manage our time better and have learnt to say no without fear of being called slackers because we know how hard we work, we get to go home on time while she wastes her life at her computer at all hours of the day and night, just so the big cheeses will see her and comment on her brilliance. Sometimes I think she just stays and surfs the internet but craves the recognition of being here later than everyone else. Which brings me to my next point:
d) she sucks up to the directors. Blatantly. Unabashedly. Unscrupulously. And then still tries to weasel her way into our fold and be all chummy with us? No thanks, go sell your crazy elsewhere, we’re all stocked up here.
.
Anyhoo, back to the story at hand. The big bossman asked Super C and me if we thought she was a good boss. Amidst coughs and snorting into our wine glasses we managed not to giggle too much and mumbled something incoherent. Now the problem here is that Bumpkin didn’t say a word. She just waited and looked at us with her suck-up bambi eyes and expected a real answer when HER answer should have been, “don’t be silly, we all work together, I’m not their boss! How utterly absurd” But she didn’t. The clamour of crickets chirping was deafening. She’s obviously promoted and fed this idea into their heads and is now sitting back waiting to reap all the glory while we’re treated like the special needs class.

So to cut a long story short, Super C and I have cut her out. She is persona non grata. Her name is mud. She no longer wears the mark of the chosen ones.

I mean come on, in the corporate social hierarchy, we all need to stick together and work as a team. It’s us against them (the big cheeses) and if you start to stab your colleagues in the back just to get a pat on the head from the big guns then you sure as hell aren’t winning yourself any favours.

As long as Super C and I maintain a united front, we can’t go wrong. Here’s to the BCI!!!

Leaving on a Jet Plane

2006-09-19T10:29:00.000+02:00

Enough with the fuckin' sunshine. Enough with the spreading of joy and the heralding of all things good. As if having a violent strain of flu that closely resmbles the ebola virus was not enough, I now have to contend with Commander Clean's denim clad sugar mommy being around all the fuckin' time. And Florence Nightingale she is not.

Picture this, if you will:

We open on a bedroom littered with packing detritus - boxes, tape, clothes in piles on the floor. Our heroine is in bed, dying from a previously undiscovered strain of flu that, in the future, will wipe out mankind as we know it.

Choosy (to herself in delirium): Rage, rage against the dying of the light...
Sugar Mommy: not very far in the packing are you, honey?
Choosy (through gritted teeth): yes, well, the flu you see, I-
Sugar Mommy: I remember when I packed my place up...blah blah blah
Choosy: Look you ugly, old lump of uselessness, get the fuck out of my room before I breathe toxic fumes all over your heinous over-teased head.

Ok, so I didnt actually say that but halfway through her rambling I started up a hacking cough to remind her who's boss. She scarpered pretty quickly.

She clearly has designs on moving in with Commander Clean and wants me out ASAP. Trust me lovie, I am trying my damnedest. I have one more night, just one more night of this and then I can close the 'Living with OCD' chapter of my life. You are welcome to it, just don't be surprised when he decides to snuggle up next to his first loves - the mop and bucket - instead of you.

As an aside, I leave for a ten day holiday to London Town tomorrow afternoon - can't bloody wait! I'm gonna stay wif me mates what I worked wif and we're gonna get well pissed innit! I have to sneak out of The Company around 1ish so that I can make my 4PM flight...not really bovvered but a tad worried they'll catch me leopard crawling past reception...

Bring on the London sunshine! (before you die in a fit of laughter, they're apparently having an Indian Summer - read: 'freaky heatwave')

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Take on me

2006-09-18T11:11:00.000+02:00

First things first: my weekend. Heaven I tells ya. Pure heaven. It all kicked off at one of my oldest friend's birthday bash. She had organised a Murder Mystery soiree which was actually a lot more fun that it sounds! Everyone dressed up to do justice to their characters (I was cast as ‘the slut next door’ – strange that…) and attacked the sangria and gourmet pizza dinner with a gusto deserving of some kind of health warning.

Having guessed the murderer correctly (being of the paranoid CSI generation) we retired to the upstairs flat and proceeded to murder (pun intended!!) some great 80’s classics with the PlayStation SingStar game. Holy schmoly is that fun or WHAT? Seriously loving C and my rendition of A-ha’s Take on Me. We may have sounded like drowning cats but hey, since when has the ability to actually carry a note been a prerequisite for karaoke?

Stumbled home at 2AM and woke up on Sat with a burning throat and a deep regret for not having paid attention in voice class at varsity…STRAINING!

Spent Saturday being pampered at a beauty parlour – compliments of The Company, who is trying to win us over with gifts and flattery…I’ll take it but I can’t guarantee that I’ll like it…

Got to hang out with New Fella on Saturday evening and spent time just laughing and chatting and having some drinks, which is pretty much perfection for me at the moment. He gets some special props for looking after me when I had ‘lady cramps’ and liking me even though I turned into a whiny, moany monster.

Having that indecisive ‘love’ quarrel with myself in my head. Not sure if it’s appropriate to be saying how I feel yet…may be too soon, but maybe not…aaaaaargh, I don’t know. Had such a wonderful evening with him last night – movies and drinks and really great conversation which just makes me want to ravage him right there on his bar stool. Got home and had a truly amazing evening *blush*. So much so that I felt that familiar girly emotion welling up and bursting to tell him how I feel…

God I just read through that – vomit! I sound like a fucking high schooler. Jesus wept, I’d better fucking toughen up and stop living like a fucking Mills and Boon character in my head!

Excuse the rant.

Oh it must be mentioned that last Wednesday I had the girls from work around for a serious bought of drinking and pizza making. I even rolled the dough with my own fair hands. Commander Clean was away and we went apeshit. Inhaled 5 bottles of wine and started going through his drawers – tallied up a nice total of competely freaky items in his bedside table:
1 x tube of K-Y Jelly (large);
1 x litre container of hair gel (industrial strength);
2 x sets of denture mould thingies (totally freaky);
A veritable schmorgasbord of strange instruments and knick knacks.

WEIRDO!

Movin' on Up

2006-09-06T10:00:00.000+02:00

In the immortal words of Arnold Schwarzenneger, "Hasta la vista, baby".

I am leaving Commander Clean to scrub and polish and shine his way into oblivion! Bring on the dirty dishes that stay in the sink for more than 2.5 seconds before being pro-hygenically sand blasted by His Lordship. Bring on the water that drips onto the floor without having to re-wash the entire living room with a bleach / ammonia compound scientifically formulated to cleanse the fun out of any dinner party. Bring on the piles of laundry being left in the washing machine because I NEED to go out and can't wait around for the stupid geriatric machine for two hours.

Woop woop! Oh healthy sense of messiness, envelop me. I am sorry that I beat you into submission while living with the Grime Gestapo, I can only imagine the rank disorder that we will be capable of in our new place...

It is such a pure and unparalleled joy that I feel when I think of stripping naked to shower and actually leaving the clothes lying on the floor! Gasp! Such eccentricities were surely only meant for royalty...surely this cannot be how normal folk live? Oh the deprivation I have endured!!!!

Ok, so enough with the hyperbole. I am psyched because I am leaving the palace of perfection to live in a normal flat with a normal friend who has the normal quota of general psychoses.

Have found a gorgeous little freestanding duplex / simplex? I can never remember the difference. It's in a great complex and our wee house even has its own garden. Neighbours are not too close and we're opposite the pool - yay for summer cocktails in the sunshine! I'm going to view it again tonight - obliged to show the parents, even though nothing they say could quell the love that I have in my heart for this place.

Joy joy joy!

Here, for your perusal is a list of transgressions I have suffered at the hand of Commander Clean:

1. No freezer space. I cannot buy food in advance, even though there are three freezer drawers, as he has stacked them with a year's supply of steak, chicken, pizza and ice cream. Ice cream that he does not share.

2. Sneaky additions to my rent. My rent was meant to be all inclusive but now I am paying extra for the cleaning lady and her taxi fare as he is too cheap to fork out for this.

3. Washing. He actually told me that we should do our washing together because it will save on electricity. As if I'm doing half loads or washing my panties on the three hour cotton setting. So now I'm supposed to put his icky boxers in with my Jo Borkett work shirts? I think not.

4. T.V. I was enjoying a rather humourous episode of Malcolm in the Middle recently when he actually changed the channel to what he wanted to watch. While I was sitting there! Watching my show! And you know what he switched to? Biker Build Off on Discovery!!! Can you say 'white trash???'

5. Misogyny. He doesn't miss an opportunity to lament the idiocy of women and how we're obviously the weaker, dumber sex. It makes me so mad I just want to hit him with my handbag, filled with bricks.

There are many more petty annoyances but I'll put those all behind me and move on to bigger, happier things.

Finally, I can actually look forward to going home, instead of experiencing the mounting dread that looms over me when I leave work.

So long sucker, I won't be back!

It's no way to make a livin'

2006-08-29T15:31:00.000+02:00

Oh the things I have seen... I haven't posted a blog as I have been recovering from the massive shock my system recieived from being bent over and screwed up the jaxie by The Company. This was obviously followed by an extended bout of binge drinking (by extended I mean from Thursday to Sunday) and subsequent frenzied CV sending.

Let me break it down for you.

On Wednesday The Company decided that it was the right time of year for a bit of ass raping and called us in to talk salary. Basically we've been fighting a losing battle for the past six months regarding a promise they made us and now refuse to make good on. So, to cut a long and depressing story short, they tried to finagle us out of even more money and effectively bring our earnings down to roughly that of a street urchin. Snot and trane ensued and they backed off a tad - only to tell us how ungracious we were. Clearly they were expecting us to grovel Igor style and lisp out, "yeth mathter, thank you mathter".

Luckily we had a company function that night so my two very pissed off colleagues and I decided to drink our salary's worth in company-sponsored liquor. We soon realised that this was only equal to two glasses of wine and decided to revert back to the old favourite of drinking our body weight...Cue the shots of Sambuca. After imbibing a satisfactory amount of covert shooters we proceeded to bitch and complain at the tops of our voices about how badly we'd been bent over by The Company (don't worry, everyone left after the MD closed the bar due to our excessive disply of alcoholism). We carried on drinking, even though they had the cheek to make us pay and ended the evening with a gleeful bout of traffic cone abduction. I know, how old AM I?

So moving on to Friday night...I skipped work as an act of protest (who am I kidding, I'm a total coward - it was just dumb luck that the directors were all away on a spiffy spa weekend cos they can) and just arbed around doing as little as possible. Then met up with the same two colleagues who inspired the drunken excess the night before and got down to some serious drinking at My Grill My Bar. Oh dear. Oh dearie dearie me. Thus began an evening of cheek pinching (of both the ass and face variety) to rival all that has come before. You see, when I'm drunk I get a bit touchy feely and woe betide any man who may not aprove of my hands on approach as he will only incur my drunken wrath (this is usually characterised by giggling and trying to put on puppy dog eyes but only managing to look loose). We voted that My Grill My Bar had become a total dogshow when Graeme Smith overheard us talking and made some unsuspecting comment and C turned around and called him a poes.

We high tailed it to Manhattan and cut up a rug on the dance floor (while still managing to pinch some seriously hot asses) and made a few enemies through our irreverant behaviour:
Me: "she's a Maneater lalalalala"
C: this guy next to me looks like Wentworth Miller...
Me: I know, I just grabbed his ass
C: Is that why he's moving away?

If you were one of these people, I apologise profusely - I really am usually such a nice girl...

So this week is dedicated to job hunting and lying low in case of sudden dismissal...like a midget at a urinal, I'm going to have to keep on my toes.

Weekend Lover

2006-08-21T08:41:00.000+02:00

Don’t you just love it when people enquire about your weekend activities on a Monday morning and as you’re about to launch into the riveting adventure tale that they ASKED you for, they cut you off and proceed to tell you, in minute detail, what they did from Friday to Sunday, often with asides to explain their level of involvement with all the characters implicated in their boring little yawn-fest of a weekend. Why do you hate me? Why? Did I do something to you and are you now exacting your revenge in some subtle psychological way?

Anyhoo. How was your weekend? Well MINE was fantastic…

One thing I must get off my chest though, we were out on Saturday night having birthday drinks with a mate of mine and there was a girl at a table behind us with a voice that puts nails and chalkboards to shame. The girl sounded like Dee Dee (from Dexter’s Lab) on helium…like Minnie Mouse on speed…I could go on. The thing was she was also LOUD. Patrons at tables all around us were turning around to see who’d made the obvious faux pas of switching the bar’s plasma screens from Fashion TV to Cartoon Network all of a sudden. How does she have friends, I wonder…? I mean they MUST know; they must feel the incredulous stares of bemused spectators boring into them everywhere they go. I bet she’s the one they plan to cut out of the circle. You know how there’s always that friend that you avoid seeing, but are forced to because someone takes pity on them and invites them out. That’s her. I’m telling you. And the saddest thing is that she really thought she was the life of the party, with her bouffant hairdo and her pikachu impression (I’m serious – she was doing impressions). Ugh.

Otherwise, nothing much to report. New Fella and I had some great conversations about life, music, memories and capitalism. He’s just wonderful. But I’m not going to turn into an enormous pile of marshmallow-ey goo and gush about him ad nauseum because that’s just unattractive. I had to sneak into my flat this morning (after sleeping over at New Fella’s place the entire weekend) in an attempt to avoid the disapproving looks of my flatmate, Commander Clean. Commander Clean is a neat and tidy little fascist. He borders on having O.C.D. and hovers around me whenever I wash dishes, trying not to twitch and holding himself back from giving me tips on whether or not wiping anti-clockwise is indeed the most effective method of cleansing cereal bowls. He also takes all the space in the fridge and freezer and recently (and this is truly the gravest transgression) he either helped himself to or threw out my left-over chocolate mallow mousse that I had so lovingly prepared for dessert when I was actually AT my flat (which is pretty infrequently). Supercilious little toad wart.

So here goes for another week. Woo.

Her name was Lola...

2006-08-18T09:27:00.000+02:00

My ex is dating a stripper. Like a real one. A lady of the evening who takes her clothes off and shoves her noombies in the faces of paying clients. Now, there are two tangents that I could possibly take this on:

1. The piteous self-loathing this inevitably causes me as I face the stark realisation that I will never have a stripper body, no matter how many trendy new eating disorders I adopt; and from this the gag-inducing understanding that stripper fit body = great sex for the ex. I think I just died a little inside.

2. The hilarity that ensued when he told me. I mean, come on, even by his own admission, dating a stripper is like driving a Vespa: fun until your friends find out. When she texted him to ask why he was running late for their lunch date, it was humanly impossible to avoid the obvious “tell her to keep her panties on” line.

Yes, I think we’ll stick with number 2 (that doesn’t sound right…).
It’s probably a good idea to explain that my ex also happens to be my best friend. Cue derisive jeering and condescending head pats while you look at me with pity and lament my obvious naivety. Honestly, I don’t have the will or the inclination (or your interest, I’m sure) to explain it so I won’t.

So back to humiliating him on a public platform; the obvious problems with dating a stripper are the tedious working hours – she apparently only has Sundays off. Because that’s when the good patrons of the stripping community are at church. Obviously. So the frolicking and chandelier swinging can only be conducted once a week as she actually lives in the strip-club owned ‘stripper house’ where no men are allowed. I envisage a Playboy Mansion style home where giggly, busty blondes cavort in fountains of champagne and hobbies include rubbing suntan oil all over each other and nipple-tweak tag.

Hmm, maybe I’ve been watching too much late-night e-tv…

Start Me Up

2006-07-31T15:37:00.000+02:00

So seeing as plagiarism and copyright infringement is generally frowned upon in these circles I'm going to try to be as honest as humanly possible for a creature so prone to hyperbole and slowly introduce myself and all of the ridiculous people who impinge on my personal quest to be left alone. Look, I'm not a hideous grouch, I swear, like most kids my age (24) I can drink my own body weight in wine (whilst pretending to actually know the difference between a good one and a rubbish one and feigning interest when ever-knowledgable aquaintances attempt to teach me the difference) and I'm generally sweet and personable. Generally. It's just that when I come into contact with hideous morons who seem to be sent from Hades to make my life as painful as a cat-washing contest, I immediately cease to be the loveable rogue that I try so hard to market myself as and become some sort of jugular ripping monster, spewing hate and vitriol as far as the eye can see. Seriously, if hate was a commodity, I would be Richard Branson.

So to start, howsabout a little A-Z of the hates in my life ( I hear that lists of these sorts are well popular on blogspots) :

A: Apathy - any form of disinterest in or indifference to my own personal hardships, most disconcerting when someone moves away from you mid-sentence at a cocktail party .

B: Bastards - men who: fuck you over, fuck your friends over, fuck you and never call, fucking take all your money (see Fucking Taxman) .

C: Colleagues - I vehemently dislike most of them and their inane, braincell-destroying conversation. This obviously doesn't apply to the kick-ass Super C.

D: Dogs in People Clothes - It's just selfish and unkind and I bet you wouldn't be seen dead in that hideous turquoise jumper so grant your poodle a little more street cred, lest he gets beaten up by the neighbourhood chow-chow.

E: Eddie - this is the nickname of my psychotic ex-flatmate. Hilarious stories are often told at her expense. She's a weirdo bunny boiler and therefore deserves any abuse that comes her way. Feel free to insult her if you're having a bad day and need to vent.

F: Fucking Taxman - probably wouldn't be so bad if The Company paid me decently.

G: GO - what a lame satellite channel, why don't you just call yourselves Purile Teenage Wank Channel?

H: Horror Films - cannot watch another American remake of a Japanese horror film, let alone the original. Those Japanese are seriously fucked up - The Ring damaged me beyond any kind of psychiatric assistance.

I: Illiterates - and I don't mean the type who weren't granted the luxury of education, I mean the type who make stupid comments like, "oh I haven't seen that" when you're blatantly talking about a book, not the film version of said book. Grow a brain, people.

J: Jerseys - I don't own any nice ones. The ones I do own can be grouped into 2 categories: 'overgrown skater lesbian' and 'so old-school my granny wouldn't be seen dead in it'. I refuse to invest in any more as I convince myself that summer is just around the corner.

K: Klingons - ok, this refers to both the trekkie fan variety and the socially inept. So basically the same thing then.

L: LOL - this is pure lazy. I refuse to use this abbreviation in any form of short message service or email. You may as well paste a polaroid of you sitting in your underwear, eating nik naks and surfing internet chat sites at one in the morning to your office bulletin board. Shame on you.

M: Mater - we don't get on at the moment, share in my pain...or just point and laugh, that's fine too.

N: Nerds - this is a tad unfair, seeing as I was the General Knowledge Team Captain in junior school...and the IT guy always helps me out at work. Still, I can smell the stench of his superiority when he clicks one thing to fix my (often) mulfunctioning machine. He's probably reading this right now...

O: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder - my neat-freak flatmate, Commander Clean, has this.

P: Practical Jokes - man, I am NOT a fan of these. It's never funny to believe that a spider is in your hair, no matter how plastic-ey it looks.

Q: Quantum Physicists - godddamn know-it-alls.

R: Religios - these are people who are gung-ho for religion - any kind - and enjoy reminding you that you will be burning in the firey pits of hell for enjoying yourself and not sharing in their deep love of the unproven. Luckily I don't believe in hell - so bring on the margeritas and dancing girls.

S: Soup - liquidised food in a cup. Gross.

T: The Company - the place where I work. It is well documented that unless one remains super vigilant, they will always try to fuck one over. Half of The Company is currently looking for alternative employment and would rather eat their dentist's toenails than have to spend another month as a slave in this corporate sweatmill.

U: Undies - men who wear tangas/y-fronts/briefs/speedos etc should be nailed to a leper. Boxers and boxer-briefs are the way of the future. Embrace it.

V: Ventriloquists: Just. Plain. Scary. People who can converse whilst downing a pint of water are clearly in league with the devil.

W: Winter - I'm so over it already. Bring on the tacky garden furniture and the pasty beer bellies.

X: Ugh, give me a break, I really like x-rays and xylophones.

Y: Yahoo - the silver medallist of search engines.

Z: Zoo - don't tell me that the Tiger is joyous at the prospect of having to exist in a 5 x 10 concrete box for the rest of his natural life.

Geez, hopefuly this blog thing gets easier...