I am now on holiday, and as you may remember I had previously advertised for a Catsitter. As nobody seems to take me seriously, not one person replied offering their services. So, yesterday I was forced to put little Colin in a HOME for cats who's mothers have got better things to do.
I feel like I've failed him. I left him, after a little cry which he duly ignored in favour of hissing at the other cats, and explained to the woman, Deb, that he's very special and needs lots of attention. I'm slightly worried that the biscuits she put down for him were NOT of an upper class variety, and that they were, in fact, a 'budget brand' of biscuit. One thing I know for certain is that they weren't 'Kitten' biscuits. I explained that I'd provided her with a high quality Kitten Food of varying flavours in Colin's little backpack, but I don't think she heard me...
So, potentially, Colin is starving, being attacked by other cats, bullied and berated by a bunch of felines whose parents clearly don't give a shit about them, and my poor little cherub's arguments of "but my mummy loves me!" won't matter at all. In fact, I think it might just make it worse.
So, I'm in a situation where my pride for looking after my little baby in such a loving and caring manner has completely disappeared because it's probably just made things worse for him in the hell hole of budget brand cats that I've placed him in. God only knows if he'll ever talk to me again, when I eventually pick him up, or if he'll have turned into some kind of feral, unloved, uncared for kitten and I'll never see my little precious Colin, as I know him, again.
I tried, Colin... I promise you I tried for an alternative method of care... but, alas, my readers did not respond...
Showing posts with label ordeal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ordeal. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Towing & Ferals
An interesting evening on Saturday - quite pleasant, in fact. That is, until I discovered that my car had been TOWED away. Now, originally I laid full blame on my own stupidity for parking in a tow zone. But after the ordeal of getting him back, I realised that I was lucky to be alive, and any blame should be placed firmly on the head of the government...
After phoning around various tow companies, speaking to all manner of people from god knows what sections of society, I found little Jayden in a tow yard in Newstead. I made my way there to be greeted by a queue of ferals. The building was more like a tin shack, housing a grotty old sofa with sweat marks on the arm rests, and a small balding man behind what I can only assume was once the door to a prison asking people at the top of his lungs: "Are you a hoon tow, crash tow or parking tow?" I was the ONLY one who was a parking tow, and once this had been made public to the league of ferals sitting on the sofa, I was officially 'prey'.
After being told that I had to pay $300 to get my car out, I thought about complaining. The ferals, however, were eyeing my Gucci handbag greedily, so I paid up and made way for the pregnant woman standing behind me. She managed to spill half of her bottle of jack daniels on the counter before enquiring as to how long she had to find the money. Pleasant...
I was led through to the garage, and Jayden stood out like the jewel that he is, amongst the plethora of rust buckets and tin cans frequenting the tow yard. I inspected him for scratches and any excess dirt, and was about to complain about a dirty hand print on his boot, when the pregnant woman started screaming about the 'fucking pigs'. I thought it best to leave.
After a long hot shower and a cup of tea, I realised just how lucky I was to get out of there alive. Since coming in to work this morning, I have constructed exactly 2 emails of complaint and will be distributing these accordingly. I'm just musing the idea of claiming emotional trauma...
After phoning around various tow companies, speaking to all manner of people from god knows what sections of society, I found little Jayden in a tow yard in Newstead. I made my way there to be greeted by a queue of ferals. The building was more like a tin shack, housing a grotty old sofa with sweat marks on the arm rests, and a small balding man behind what I can only assume was once the door to a prison asking people at the top of his lungs: "Are you a hoon tow, crash tow or parking tow?" I was the ONLY one who was a parking tow, and once this had been made public to the league of ferals sitting on the sofa, I was officially 'prey'.
After being told that I had to pay $300 to get my car out, I thought about complaining. The ferals, however, were eyeing my Gucci handbag greedily, so I paid up and made way for the pregnant woman standing behind me. She managed to spill half of her bottle of jack daniels on the counter before enquiring as to how long she had to find the money. Pleasant...
I was led through to the garage, and Jayden stood out like the jewel that he is, amongst the plethora of rust buckets and tin cans frequenting the tow yard. I inspected him for scratches and any excess dirt, and was about to complain about a dirty hand print on his boot, when the pregnant woman started screaming about the 'fucking pigs'. I thought it best to leave.
After a long hot shower and a cup of tea, I realised just how lucky I was to get out of there alive. Since coming in to work this morning, I have constructed exactly 2 emails of complaint and will be distributing these accordingly. I'm just musing the idea of claiming emotional trauma...
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Investigatory Exposure.
Once again, my sleep has been disturbed by the ever present yobs that reside in my corner of Brisbane. This morning, at exactly 02:41, I was woken up by the sound of a 'boy-racer' vehicle slowing down from a very speedy trip down my street, right outside my house. This was shortly followed by an extremely loud THUD from above me.
Yes, something had been thrown onto my roof, and the culprits had escaped. After a short period of being frozen with fear, I exited my room, checked on Colin (he was a little frightened), and recovered my trusty friend the butchers knife from the kitchen. Me and the knife went outside to wield ourselves threateningly in the street, before realising that I had no underwear on and was in fact exposing myself.
Knife and I went back inside, and tried to fall asleep. But due to the excitement of not only having a large something sitting on top of my house, but also the fact that I'd just flashed my wears to the neighbourhood, I found it hard getting back to sleep. When I had just started to drift off, at exactly 03:57 the thing on top of my house woke up from it's apparent impact-induced coma, and preceded to scratch around for half an hour directly above me.
By the time I'd started to drift off again, my alarm went off and it was time to investigate the mystery in daylight... with underwear ON. And of course, there was no evidence to be found. I now sit here, having had 4 hours sleep, and I wonder... why does this kind of thing happen to me?? Is it my house? Or is it the fact that I have a tendency to expose myself to my neighbours?
Yes, something had been thrown onto my roof, and the culprits had escaped. After a short period of being frozen with fear, I exited my room, checked on Colin (he was a little frightened), and recovered my trusty friend the butchers knife from the kitchen. Me and the knife went outside to wield ourselves threateningly in the street, before realising that I had no underwear on and was in fact exposing myself.
Knife and I went back inside, and tried to fall asleep. But due to the excitement of not only having a large something sitting on top of my house, but also the fact that I'd just flashed my wears to the neighbourhood, I found it hard getting back to sleep. When I had just started to drift off, at exactly 03:57 the thing on top of my house woke up from it's apparent impact-induced coma, and preceded to scratch around for half an hour directly above me.
By the time I'd started to drift off again, my alarm went off and it was time to investigate the mystery in daylight... with underwear ON. And of course, there was no evidence to be found. I now sit here, having had 4 hours sleep, and I wonder... why does this kind of thing happen to me?? Is it my house? Or is it the fact that I have a tendency to expose myself to my neighbours?
Thursday, October 18, 2007
In Preparation...
How does one prepare for a holiday? It's been so long since I had one, I've forgotten what I need to do. I have a vague idea that at some point I should turn on my out of office... but it stops there.
In case any of you aren't aware (not very likely), I will be "On Holiday" from the 4th November, through to the 19th. (Note the use of 'th' on the end of those little numbers there...) My good friend is coming to the land of sunshine from the land of doom and gloom (England) for a whole two weeks of fun. For the purposes of anonymity, I shall call him 'Long Man'. He is, after all, very long.
I now realise that this sounds slightly perverse... he's tall - long - in the height sense of the word - I have no idea about anything else that might be long... I'm digging a hole...
So, back to the topic at hand. How do I prepare? I was reading Marie Claire last night, and spotted numerous things that I think are needed; bikini, suncream, waterproof mascara, midori. So, I guess I'll start by purchasing these things and then see where I'm at.
It's all very concerning - what happens if I don't prepare adequately? Or if Marie Claire is wrong? I've got a sneaking suspicion that a holiday needs a hell of a lot more than the above items, and that personally, I need to have a good old think about what it is that I will need, and perhaps not rely solely on Marie Claire. Especially as I don't even like Midori...
I think a spreadsheet is in order. It's the only possible way that I can organise the thoughts and products flying around in my head. In times of need, Excel will provide.
In case any of you aren't aware (not very likely), I will be "On Holiday" from the 4th November, through to the 19th. (Note the use of 'th' on the end of those little numbers there...) My good friend is coming to the land of sunshine from the land of doom and gloom (England) for a whole two weeks of fun. For the purposes of anonymity, I shall call him 'Long Man'. He is, after all, very long.
I now realise that this sounds slightly perverse... he's tall - long - in the height sense of the word - I have no idea about anything else that might be long... I'm digging a hole...
So, back to the topic at hand. How do I prepare? I was reading Marie Claire last night, and spotted numerous things that I think are needed; bikini, suncream, waterproof mascara, midori. So, I guess I'll start by purchasing these things and then see where I'm at.
It's all very concerning - what happens if I don't prepare adequately? Or if Marie Claire is wrong? I've got a sneaking suspicion that a holiday needs a hell of a lot more than the above items, and that personally, I need to have a good old think about what it is that I will need, and perhaps not rely solely on Marie Claire. Especially as I don't even like Midori...
I think a spreadsheet is in order. It's the only possible way that I can organise the thoughts and products flying around in my head. In times of need, Excel will provide.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Big Girl
Every now and then, as humans, we inevitably do something which fucks everything else up. For example, let's say you have an uncontrollable urge to tell someone that you're thinking a certain thing - the telling of this thing isn't necessarily that bad, or wrong in any way, but for some reason the whole world turns to shit once the words have left your mouth.
I recently let my guts fall out of my mouth - quite literally - to a very important special friend of mine. Yes, I had inadvertently turned into a big fucking girl, and felt the need to tell all. Since this event, the following things have happened:
I felt astoundingly rejected.
I felt decidedly angry.
I realised it was all my fault.
I cried for 24 hours.
Now, it's not all doom and gloom. Although I know it's going to take a while for the tears to completely subside, and for the uttered feelings to go away, (perhaps they'll never go away completely), but at least I am now in the position where there is some positivity on the horizon.
Yes, I will survive. I will eventually stop blaming myself. I will move ..... on .... perhaps. Urgh.
In the meantime, I'll be spending a stupid amount of time in the gym (2 hours of intense cardio this morning. woo.) and spending the rest of the time NOT under my doona weeping quietly to myself.
I recently let my guts fall out of my mouth - quite literally - to a very important special friend of mine. Yes, I had inadvertently turned into a big fucking girl, and felt the need to tell all. Since this event, the following things have happened:
I felt astoundingly rejected.
I felt decidedly angry.
I realised it was all my fault.
I cried for 24 hours.
Now, it's not all doom and gloom. Although I know it's going to take a while for the tears to completely subside, and for the uttered feelings to go away, (perhaps they'll never go away completely), but at least I am now in the position where there is some positivity on the horizon.
Yes, I will survive. I will eventually stop blaming myself. I will move ..... on .... perhaps. Urgh.
In the meantime, I'll be spending a stupid amount of time in the gym (2 hours of intense cardio this morning. woo.) and spending the rest of the time NOT under my doona weeping quietly to myself.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Elements of Dumb
On Friday I made a decision of extreme consequence. For your reading pleasure, I have detailed it, below:
The Idea:
Friday saw me in a mood of amazingly dull proportions, so I decided to do something exciting. I decided to drive to Sydney. (For those of you who live overseas, and think that Sydney is the capital of Australia and is located 'somewhere in the middle', here is a map.) Something that I had neglected to view the importance of was the local weather reports for the Central Coast - I believe the term used by the weather man was 'natural disaster area'. Did this phase me? No. I woke up at 3am, and left Brisbane with a spring in my step. This was the first element of 'dumb'.
The Action:
Having gone out the night before, I left Brisbane on 4 hours sleep. Apparently I'd forgotten the energy that it takes to drive such a long distance, and I'd also forgotten the fact that being awake is vital to the act of driving. By the time I reached the Gold Coast, I'd consumed 4 extra strong lattes, and two cans of red bull, and I was still falling asleep at the wheel. I was desperate - I had to keep driving, but I couldn't. So, as an act of last resort, a total of 3 hours into my journey, I began to sing. These were no ordinary songs - they were self-composed lyrics put to popular nursery rhyme tunes. I believe this was the second element of 'dumb', and also comprised the first stage of lunacy.
The Problem:
The weather was fair and sunny up until 20 kms before Newcastle. Then the shit hit the fan, and the land was strewn with faeces of the precipitous variety. My average speed went from 110kmh to 30kmh. I couldn't see Jayden's bonnet, let alone the road. I was, for the first time in my life, thankful for the dirty great big 4WD that I was following. We passed the hole in the highway that had previously seen the death of a small family, and that was when Jayden started to tell me that he was running out of petrol. I pulled into the petrol station only to be told that they had no electricity on the entire Central Coast so there was no petrol. My only choice was to try and make it to Hornsby on the petrol that I had. Later on, as I was parked on the hard shoulder with Jayden's little hazard lights flashing, I was again thankful for the 4WD, and Mick - the driver - who had a can of petrol in the back of his large boot. Mick, and the 4WD, saved my life.
The Arrival:
After almost falling asleep at the wheel, and running out of petrol on the highway in the middle of a cyclone, I had made it to Sydney. I crossed the harbour Bridge and almost pissed myself with sheer relief. Somehow I made it to Camperdown, found my friend, and all was good. Until I remembered that I had to drive back - here we had the third element of 'dumb' and the second stage of lunacy, that is, prior to this realisation I actually believed that I could magic myself back home.
The End:
Had I known that an excessive amount of driving necessarily causes the loss of one's sanity, I might not have chosen to commit myself to this journey. When I reached the Harbour of Coff on my return to Brisbane, the songs I was composing had reached a new level of shitness. I had unwittingly devised a 'mix' of the Pizza Hut/Kentucky Fried Chicken/McDonalds song, mashed up with Beyonce's Crazy In Love. It was appalling, it was shit, it represented atrocity of such magnitude and I am ashamed that I remember how it goes. However, it was this element of dumb, with the late addition of interchangeable lyrics, that got me through to the Gold Coast, and finally home to Brisbane.
The Afterthought:
As I'm sure you can appreciate, I won't be driving to Sydney again. I fully admit that the idea was a whole world of dumb, and I only have myself to blame. I haven't gained anything from my execution of this plan, except that I now have a deeper appreciation of the creative tendencies at work inside my head. I am, indeed, a veritable song-writing genius.
The Idea:
Friday saw me in a mood of amazingly dull proportions, so I decided to do something exciting. I decided to drive to Sydney. (For those of you who live overseas, and think that Sydney is the capital of Australia and is located 'somewhere in the middle', here is a map.) Something that I had neglected to view the importance of was the local weather reports for the Central Coast - I believe the term used by the weather man was 'natural disaster area'. Did this phase me? No. I woke up at 3am, and left Brisbane with a spring in my step. This was the first element of 'dumb'.
The Action:
Having gone out the night before, I left Brisbane on 4 hours sleep. Apparently I'd forgotten the energy that it takes to drive such a long distance, and I'd also forgotten the fact that being awake is vital to the act of driving. By the time I reached the Gold Coast, I'd consumed 4 extra strong lattes, and two cans of red bull, and I was still falling asleep at the wheel. I was desperate - I had to keep driving, but I couldn't. So, as an act of last resort, a total of 3 hours into my journey, I began to sing. These were no ordinary songs - they were self-composed lyrics put to popular nursery rhyme tunes. I believe this was the second element of 'dumb', and also comprised the first stage of lunacy.
The Problem:
The weather was fair and sunny up until 20 kms before Newcastle. Then the shit hit the fan, and the land was strewn with faeces of the precipitous variety. My average speed went from 110kmh to 30kmh. I couldn't see Jayden's bonnet, let alone the road. I was, for the first time in my life, thankful for the dirty great big 4WD that I was following. We passed the hole in the highway that had previously seen the death of a small family, and that was when Jayden started to tell me that he was running out of petrol. I pulled into the petrol station only to be told that they had no electricity on the entire Central Coast so there was no petrol. My only choice was to try and make it to Hornsby on the petrol that I had. Later on, as I was parked on the hard shoulder with Jayden's little hazard lights flashing, I was again thankful for the 4WD, and Mick - the driver - who had a can of petrol in the back of his large boot. Mick, and the 4WD, saved my life.
The Arrival:
After almost falling asleep at the wheel, and running out of petrol on the highway in the middle of a cyclone, I had made it to Sydney. I crossed the harbour Bridge and almost pissed myself with sheer relief. Somehow I made it to Camperdown, found my friend, and all was good. Until I remembered that I had to drive back - here we had the third element of 'dumb' and the second stage of lunacy, that is, prior to this realisation I actually believed that I could magic myself back home.
The End:
Had I known that an excessive amount of driving necessarily causes the loss of one's sanity, I might not have chosen to commit myself to this journey. When I reached the Harbour of Coff on my return to Brisbane, the songs I was composing had reached a new level of shitness. I had unwittingly devised a 'mix' of the Pizza Hut/Kentucky Fried Chicken/McDonalds song, mashed up with Beyonce's Crazy In Love. It was appalling, it was shit, it represented atrocity of such magnitude and I am ashamed that I remember how it goes. However, it was this element of dumb, with the late addition of interchangeable lyrics, that got me through to the Gold Coast, and finally home to Brisbane.
The Afterthought:
As I'm sure you can appreciate, I won't be driving to Sydney again. I fully admit that the idea was a whole world of dumb, and I only have myself to blame. I haven't gained anything from my execution of this plan, except that I now have a deeper appreciation of the creative tendencies at work inside my head. I am, indeed, a veritable song-writing genius.
Friday, May 11, 2007
I'm Out.
That's it. I'm out. I can't go on anymore, I can't do it any longer. My body is saying NO.
I was on the cross trainer this morning with my trainer barking "Go Faster!!" down my ear and I physically wasn't able to go any faster and I CRIED. That's right, tears of pain and sheer exhaustion. I'm fucked off because I've now only got one more day of this Challenge, and I'm not allowed to drink more than one litre of water a day, and I'm not allowed to eat any carbs and basically can only eat vegetable products and lean protein (and I'm not even allowed protein today just in case my body builds any more muscle and therefore weighs me down).
So the story is that I'm existing on ... FUCKING NOTHING. I can't eat a fucking thing and I'm truly and utterly fucked off with this fucking fuck fuck fucking challenge!!!!!
**Breathe**
But it's ok... yes, it is ok. Tomorrow, after being weighed and photographed and measured and blah, I am going to have a lovely breakfast followed by a bit of shopping followed by a bottle of champagne and a massive chicken curry with rice - WHITE rice. tee heee la la la ha ha la la!!!
I think I've lost my mind. Maybe it's the fake tan seeping into my brain... That's right, I had to get a spray tan last night, as instructed by the Challenge organisers. Apparently it makes you look more toned and my photo's will therefore look better and I will stand more of a chance of winning. I don't even want to win anymore. I've got to where I want to be, I'm over it. I just need to get back into normal eating and being a normal person. Without putting on any weight obviously. Christ. How boring have I become? Am I really so pre-occupied with my weight and appearance that I can't think of a single thing to say about the almost traumatising experience of standing naked in front of a complete stranger while she sprayed me with a coffee-like substance which was hooked up to a hose attached to a mains-powered generator?
What have I become??
I was on the cross trainer this morning with my trainer barking "Go Faster!!" down my ear and I physically wasn't able to go any faster and I CRIED. That's right, tears of pain and sheer exhaustion. I'm fucked off because I've now only got one more day of this Challenge, and I'm not allowed to drink more than one litre of water a day, and I'm not allowed to eat any carbs and basically can only eat vegetable products and lean protein (and I'm not even allowed protein today just in case my body builds any more muscle and therefore weighs me down).
So the story is that I'm existing on ... FUCKING NOTHING. I can't eat a fucking thing and I'm truly and utterly fucked off with this fucking fuck fuck fucking challenge!!!!!
**Breathe**
But it's ok... yes, it is ok. Tomorrow, after being weighed and photographed and measured and blah, I am going to have a lovely breakfast followed by a bit of shopping followed by a bottle of champagne and a massive chicken curry with rice - WHITE rice. tee heee la la la ha ha la la!!!
I think I've lost my mind. Maybe it's the fake tan seeping into my brain... That's right, I had to get a spray tan last night, as instructed by the Challenge organisers. Apparently it makes you look more toned and my photo's will therefore look better and I will stand more of a chance of winning. I don't even want to win anymore. I've got to where I want to be, I'm over it. I just need to get back into normal eating and being a normal person. Without putting on any weight obviously. Christ. How boring have I become? Am I really so pre-occupied with my weight and appearance that I can't think of a single thing to say about the almost traumatising experience of standing naked in front of a complete stranger while she sprayed me with a coffee-like substance which was hooked up to a hose attached to a mains-powered generator?
What have I become??
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Sartorius
I have strained my Sartorius muscle.
"The sartorius (sar-TOR-ee-us) is the longest muscle in the body. Extreme efforts in athletics can overcontract, overextend, or overwork the muscle. Treatment is painful, and often difficult to perform."
The text book I have quoted from [The Trigger Point Therapy Workbook] goes on to explain how one should treat a strained sartorius. It says that a deep, sharp, circular movement is required along the full extension of the muscle, to be applied for 5 minutes, at least 5 times a day until the strain subsides. The problem is that my trainer did this 'massage' this morning, and my leg is already bruised to fuck and even the slightest touch causes great pain and discomfort.
I now refer back to my post, on Thursday May 3rd, entitled "For Fuck's Sake...". Once again it seems that leading a healthy lifestyle causes pain, and going to the gym makes your muscles unable to do their daily task of walking, moving etc. Ergo, exercising makes you unfit.
In today's environment of anti-obesity and endless initiatives centred around getting our nation fitter, I think that my discovery should be made public. So, next time someone on the TV tells you to do '30 minutes a day' of exercise, or to eat '7 servings of fruit and veg' each day, please refer to this post, and previous relevant posts, for details of the empirical research that I have undertaken in the last 12 weeks. That is, bear in mind that such physical activity and healthy eating WILL make you feel like shit for the majority of the time.
Trust me people; the pain and suffering I have gone through has given me nothing except a disturbing ability to last a day on 1/4 cup of muesli, a small tin of tuna and a carrot.
"The sartorius (sar-TOR-ee-us) is the longest muscle in the body. Extreme efforts in athletics can overcontract, overextend, or overwork the muscle. Treatment is painful, and often difficult to perform."
The text book I have quoted from [The Trigger Point Therapy Workbook] goes on to explain how one should treat a strained sartorius. It says that a deep, sharp, circular movement is required along the full extension of the muscle, to be applied for 5 minutes, at least 5 times a day until the strain subsides. The problem is that my trainer did this 'massage' this morning, and my leg is already bruised to fuck and even the slightest touch causes great pain and discomfort.
I now refer back to my post, on Thursday May 3rd, entitled "For Fuck's Sake...". Once again it seems that leading a healthy lifestyle causes pain, and going to the gym makes your muscles unable to do their daily task of walking, moving etc. Ergo, exercising makes you unfit.
In today's environment of anti-obesity and endless initiatives centred around getting our nation fitter, I think that my discovery should be made public. So, next time someone on the TV tells you to do '30 minutes a day' of exercise, or to eat '7 servings of fruit and veg' each day, please refer to this post, and previous relevant posts, for details of the empirical research that I have undertaken in the last 12 weeks. That is, bear in mind that such physical activity and healthy eating WILL make you feel like shit for the majority of the time.
Trust me people; the pain and suffering I have gone through has given me nothing except a disturbing ability to last a day on 1/4 cup of muesli, a small tin of tuna and a carrot.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Fuck
Here's a scenario for you:
Last night I set my alarm for 05:45, in order to be at my colleague's house at 07:00, to make it to Toowoomba (150kms away) by 09:30 for a client meeting. This wake-up time would provide me with enough time to do my hair, look respectable, pack the car and head off for a leisurely drive out west.
At roughly midnight, the area I live in suffered from what's formally known as a 'power cut'. I like to call it an ALMIGHTY FUCK-UP.
So, instead of waking up at 05:45, I woke up at 06:55 - I officially had 5 minutes to get ready, leave the house, and drive the 8kms to my colleague's house. NOT GONNA HAPPEN. After phoning her and calmly explaining the situation, ("fucking hell you're not gonna fucking believe what the fuck i've done my fucking alarm didn't go off and fuck i've just woken up and fucking hell fuck fuck"), I showered, I dressed, I put on some mascara and jumped in the car. All within 5 minutes.
Whilst in the car I decided to phone my mum and calmly tell her what had happened, and enquired as to whether she had also suffered from a similar 'power cut' scenario, ("i fucking just woke the fuck up because some fuckwit electricity company decided to fuck up big time in my general area and fucked me over and i'm supposed to be in the fucking back arse end of fucking western nowhere in 2 hours and i have no fucking idea what the fuck i'm going to do"), and that made me feel better.
It turned out that after jumping 6 red lights and breaking the speed limit roughly 12 times, I made it to colleague's house by 07:30, and we got to the meeting with 1 minute to spare.
I am a god damned time lord genius.
Last night I set my alarm for 05:45, in order to be at my colleague's house at 07:00, to make it to Toowoomba (150kms away) by 09:30 for a client meeting. This wake-up time would provide me with enough time to do my hair, look respectable, pack the car and head off for a leisurely drive out west.
At roughly midnight, the area I live in suffered from what's formally known as a 'power cut'. I like to call it an ALMIGHTY FUCK-UP.
So, instead of waking up at 05:45, I woke up at 06:55 - I officially had 5 minutes to get ready, leave the house, and drive the 8kms to my colleague's house. NOT GONNA HAPPEN. After phoning her and calmly explaining the situation, ("fucking hell you're not gonna fucking believe what the fuck i've done my fucking alarm didn't go off and fuck i've just woken up and fucking hell fuck fuck"), I showered, I dressed, I put on some mascara and jumped in the car. All within 5 minutes.
Whilst in the car I decided to phone my mum and calmly tell her what had happened, and enquired as to whether she had also suffered from a similar 'power cut' scenario, ("i fucking just woke the fuck up because some fuckwit electricity company decided to fuck up big time in my general area and fucked me over and i'm supposed to be in the fucking back arse end of fucking western nowhere in 2 hours and i have no fucking idea what the fuck i'm going to do"), and that made me feel better.
It turned out that after jumping 6 red lights and breaking the speed limit roughly 12 times, I made it to colleague's house by 07:30, and we got to the meeting with 1 minute to spare.
I am a god damned time lord genius.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Sociologist's Dream
I spent the whole of yesterday in a town called Ipswich. This town is west of Brisbane - a long way west. The westest I've been I think. And the westness shows in the veritable goldmine of a population. During my day I encountered the following specimens:
- Fem-Chav: Wearing a t-shirt that's too small for her, she wanders the Ipswich City Shopping Precinct with a gold chain around her chubby neck smoking a Stuyvesant cigarette, which she lit by striking a match on the flies of her jeans that broke about 9 months ago as her fiancee was attempting to make baby Tiffany.
- Tradie: He owns the town, he is king of all he surveys, he sits in the food court eating his extra large kebab and super sized Powerade because he'll need the energy when he gets home tonight, when he'll sit in front of his TV to watch Today Tonight as his fiancee heats up yesterday's leftover pizza. He had a hard day looking for work, and the yellow flourescent vest and King-G trousers he's wearing are soaked with sweat.
- 30 yr old Grandma: She had her first child Kyla at 16, and is now expecting her third grandchild, J-Den. She once got highlights in her hair but the hairdresser fucked it up so she beat her to within an inch of her life and is now banned from said hairdressers so can't get them re-touched. She doesn't care if her hair is half blonde and half grey because if anyone fucks with her, she's got a whole family of feral children who are adept at stealing, trashing and generally fucking with other people's cars.
I feel that my trip to Ipswich has opened my eyes. I'm glad to be back in Brisbane alive, and with all my belongings in tact. Unfortunately, next week I am going to Toowoomba - which is a whole 80km further west than Ipswich. Who knows what species I will find...
Friday, March 23, 2007
TFI Friday
Some of you (in the UK) may remember this lovely TV show, hosted by the very ginger Chris Evans and if I remember correctly, Billie Piper? Perhaps that last bit was made up.
Anyway, today I'm using it in it's non-TV related sense. i.e. Thank Fuck It's Friday. I've had a busy old week, and events yesterday just made it seem a hell of a lot worse. Notably, I had a little accident with a pillar in the car park, and now my lovely little Jayden has a big dent and a lot of white paint down his left hand side. I put a bandaid on him though, so he'll be right until I can get onto the insurance people etc etc etc.
BUT I am not going to let this little ordeal, or the fact that I have two meetings on a Friday - one of which is scheduled for 4pm this afternoon - ruin my day. I'm going to have a fantastic day, so fantastic that everyone in the universe will be incredibly jealous of it, and will eternally ask of me: "Bazza, how on earth did you manage to have such an amazing day? That was truly incredible, I could feel the happiness ebbing out of you and touching the hearts of all whom you gazed upon."
Oh! And, I found a pair of trousers that never fit me, and I'm wearing them today! They're even a little baggy on me! Yay!!
So yes, fucking annoying little incidents aside, I'm in a brilliant mood. Once I've had my coffee I'll be in a state of mind to show this mood physically and emotionally, and not just via the written word. (The perma-scowl on my face will disappear when the effects of the caffeine sink in.)
Anyway, today I'm using it in it's non-TV related sense. i.e. Thank Fuck It's Friday. I've had a busy old week, and events yesterday just made it seem a hell of a lot worse. Notably, I had a little accident with a pillar in the car park, and now my lovely little Jayden has a big dent and a lot of white paint down his left hand side. I put a bandaid on him though, so he'll be right until I can get onto the insurance people etc etc etc.
BUT I am not going to let this little ordeal, or the fact that I have two meetings on a Friday - one of which is scheduled for 4pm this afternoon - ruin my day. I'm going to have a fantastic day, so fantastic that everyone in the universe will be incredibly jealous of it, and will eternally ask of me: "Bazza, how on earth did you manage to have such an amazing day? That was truly incredible, I could feel the happiness ebbing out of you and touching the hearts of all whom you gazed upon."
Oh! And, I found a pair of trousers that never fit me, and I'm wearing them today! They're even a little baggy on me! Yay!!
So yes, fucking annoying little incidents aside, I'm in a brilliant mood. Once I've had my coffee I'll be in a state of mind to show this mood physically and emotionally, and not just via the written word. (The perma-scowl on my face will disappear when the effects of the caffeine sink in.)
Monday, March 5, 2007
The Ultimate Test
This weekend presented me with a fairly large trial - that is, my father came to stay, at my house, for two nights. Let's give you a little bit of background shall we...
Last time he came to stay, for one night, I had 3 panic attacks, and ended up having to ditch him onto my sister because I couldn't bare to see the man anymore. He told me that my house wasn't very nice, that I'd put on weight, and lots of other similarly nasty comments were thrown my way. So, I was expecting a similar show this time round.
However, I seem to have created a new persona on top of my already limitless oeuvre of internal characters. This new 'front' is called "Hard Bitch". I like her. A lot.
The main tenets of this character focus around said father, and work as a coping mechanism. It enables me to answer yes or no to every question, and I didn't take the bait for any of his little arguments that he enjoys so much. Yay!
In short, I'm very proud of myself, am feeling incredibly empowered and would like to say Screw You to a certain paternal influence and his little world of mind-fucks and games.
P.S. He now knows that I'm not a lesbian, as I told him that I was expecting a male visitor on Monday night, so I couldn't possibly go out to dinner with him. (Of course, I wasn't expecting any such visitor, but felt it was wholly necessary to stop the endless questions about "any boys or girls" I might have met.
Last time he came to stay, for one night, I had 3 panic attacks, and ended up having to ditch him onto my sister because I couldn't bare to see the man anymore. He told me that my house wasn't very nice, that I'd put on weight, and lots of other similarly nasty comments were thrown my way. So, I was expecting a similar show this time round.
However, I seem to have created a new persona on top of my already limitless oeuvre of internal characters. This new 'front' is called "Hard Bitch". I like her. A lot.
The main tenets of this character focus around said father, and work as a coping mechanism. It enables me to answer yes or no to every question, and I didn't take the bait for any of his little arguments that he enjoys so much. Yay!
In short, I'm very proud of myself, am feeling incredibly empowered and would like to say Screw You to a certain paternal influence and his little world of mind-fucks and games.
P.S. He now knows that I'm not a lesbian, as I told him that I was expecting a male visitor on Monday night, so I couldn't possibly go out to dinner with him. (Of course, I wasn't expecting any such visitor, but felt it was wholly necessary to stop the endless questions about "any boys or girls" I might have met.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Baby Poo
Yesterday I was going to make the trip to the dreaded library and sit with the amazingly numerous infidels who are also attempting to look like they have important computer things to do, but I was too busy with baby poo.
My little semi-niece/cousin Ellie, age 3, has a slight problem. She can wee in the toilet, but for some reason, she can't poo. This problem is probably due to a retentive disorder, i.e. a need to retain all things solid and not see them fall to the wayside like urine does, and has a side effect of still having to wear a nappy.
I was watching her run around the garden chasing my mums dog with a large pair of scissors, when she suddenly starting talking about poo. This roused me from my daze, and I asked her why she chose that topic of conversation, and what was wrong with yelling "CUT DOGGIE" over and over again as before? She came up to me and said "You wipe my bum".
Ummm... No. The stern look I held with this refusal didn't seem to do the trick, so she dragged me to the toilet, sat down on it, and instructed me again. This time however, she showed me the poo. Yes, she had in fact done a rather large, very adult like, poo in her nappy.
Now, I've not had much contact with people who come to below my hip, so I handed her some toilet paper and said 'wipe'. So she wiped. Here lies my mistake... She wiped, with the toilet paper in her hand, but managed to get the majority of said fecal substance onto her hand. She looked at me with a panic in her eye, and said "It got on me! It's on me!". Christ. I realised that I actually had to deal with this problem. It wasn't going away, and the smell most definitely was here to stay.
So, in short, I wiped, I got a small amount of poo on my own hand in the process, I wiped again, I found a clean nappy, I wiped some more, I put the nappy on, and then I wiped my hand with utter disgust and sent her running outside while I frantically washed myself.
I was still slightly traumatised when my Mum came home and started laughing at me, saying 'awww she changed her first nappy how sweet look at her face ha ha isn't she funny' NO I AM NOT FUNNY OR SWEET - I AM FUCKING DISGUSTED!
I ask you, HOW do mothers get any satisfaction at all from a person who gladly wipes poo on them, and who doesn't know how to clean up after themselves? If I was against the idea of babies before, I'm now thinking of starting a species-cleansing and eradicating babies as a whole unless said parents can sort them out in the first few months and make them self sufficient.
My little semi-niece/cousin Ellie, age 3, has a slight problem. She can wee in the toilet, but for some reason, she can't poo. This problem is probably due to a retentive disorder, i.e. a need to retain all things solid and not see them fall to the wayside like urine does, and has a side effect of still having to wear a nappy.
I was watching her run around the garden chasing my mums dog with a large pair of scissors, when she suddenly starting talking about poo. This roused me from my daze, and I asked her why she chose that topic of conversation, and what was wrong with yelling "CUT DOGGIE" over and over again as before? She came up to me and said "You wipe my bum".
Ummm... No. The stern look I held with this refusal didn't seem to do the trick, so she dragged me to the toilet, sat down on it, and instructed me again. This time however, she showed me the poo. Yes, she had in fact done a rather large, very adult like, poo in her nappy.
Now, I've not had much contact with people who come to below my hip, so I handed her some toilet paper and said 'wipe'. So she wiped. Here lies my mistake... She wiped, with the toilet paper in her hand, but managed to get the majority of said fecal substance onto her hand. She looked at me with a panic in her eye, and said "It got on me! It's on me!". Christ. I realised that I actually had to deal with this problem. It wasn't going away, and the smell most definitely was here to stay.
So, in short, I wiped, I got a small amount of poo on my own hand in the process, I wiped again, I found a clean nappy, I wiped some more, I put the nappy on, and then I wiped my hand with utter disgust and sent her running outside while I frantically washed myself.
I was still slightly traumatised when my Mum came home and started laughing at me, saying 'awww she changed her first nappy how sweet look at her face ha ha isn't she funny' NO I AM NOT FUNNY OR SWEET - I AM FUCKING DISGUSTED!
I ask you, HOW do mothers get any satisfaction at all from a person who gladly wipes poo on them, and who doesn't know how to clean up after themselves? If I was against the idea of babies before, I'm now thinking of starting a species-cleansing and eradicating babies as a whole unless said parents can sort them out in the first few months and make them self sufficient.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Connectile Dysfunction
I am currently sitting in a public library due to connectile dysfunction. This dysfunction has come about due to being walked out of my job yesterday - told to collect my personal effects and leave the building. Bastards.
But hey, I have some holiday now before I start new job. But I will not frequent public libraries just for the use of their internet connection, because the amazing amounts of feral and elderly people is shocking, and I think I'm getting a cold.
Now, Incredibly Jealous Colleague, who is an IDC as well, dobbed me in to the boss for a conversation about him, in which I cast him in an apparently unfair and nasty light. Truthful, is more the word I'd have used. So, now she is public enemy number 1 - in the world of me. Due to this, I will disobey the Blogging Rule of Anonymity and tell you her name:
Her name is Nicole, and she's a fuckwit.
So, I'll now go and hang out with my mum for a bit, like a proper unemployed person, and I'll talk to you all soon.
But hey, I have some holiday now before I start new job. But I will not frequent public libraries just for the use of their internet connection, because the amazing amounts of feral and elderly people is shocking, and I think I'm getting a cold.
Now, Incredibly Jealous Colleague, who is an IDC as well, dobbed me in to the boss for a conversation about him, in which I cast him in an apparently unfair and nasty light. Truthful, is more the word I'd have used. So, now she is public enemy number 1 - in the world of me. Due to this, I will disobey the Blogging Rule of Anonymity and tell you her name:
Her name is Nicole, and she's a fuckwit.
So, I'll now go and hang out with my mum for a bit, like a proper unemployed person, and I'll talk to you all soon.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
New Month, New Job
Pretty self explanatory really, but in my usual style, I'll elaborate.
Came in this morning and informed Current Boss (CB) that I had been offered more money, and I planned to take the new job. He took me into a meeting room and said, effectively:
Came in this morning and informed Current Boss (CB) that I had been offered more money, and I planned to take the new job. He took me into a meeting room and said, effectively:
- If you take the new job, the relationship between our company and theirs will be affected, (which involves a substantial amount of lost revenue on both sides).
- I shouldn't be thinking about money, I should think about what my current company stands for and what it can offer me.
- That they'd just sacked off a potentially good applicant because I said I'd take their offer of a new role, so if I left they'd be screwed.
- I should go and think about it.
So, I went and thought about it - about what he'd just said to me. He'd put me in a position that wasn't very pleasant, and ultimately, I don't want to work for someone who was happy to lay that kind of shit on me, and pay me crap money for the pleasure.
Therefore, notice was given, and PNB - who is now NB - was informed.
I feel like a weight has been lifted, and I have finally made a decision about my career which has nothing to do with my current company.
So, here's to February - my last month with CB and current job! Woo hoo!!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
I'm Wanted
Well, after seeing a rather ugly side to myself, previously entitled 'Impatience', I handed in my notice - or tried to. They went away, cleaned the shit out of their pants, and came back with a monstrous offer for me to stay here.
After a sleepless, and drugless (!!) night, I realised that all I really wanted was for my current employer to appreciate me, and value me. In a fiscal capacity, obviously. So I've got what I wanted.
BUT I just phoned Potential New Boss (PNB) and she's going to come back to me with another offer. Just to confuse things. But I'm pretty sure that I'm happy now, and will gently tell her where to go.
So, oh pleasant and patient reader, hopefully this ends the seemingly never-ending job saga. I'm sorry to have bored you senseless, and I promise to only blog things of interest in the future.
After a sleepless, and drugless (!!) night, I realised that all I really wanted was for my current employer to appreciate me, and value me. In a fiscal capacity, obviously. So I've got what I wanted.
BUT I just phoned Potential New Boss (PNB) and she's going to come back to me with another offer. Just to confuse things. But I'm pretty sure that I'm happy now, and will gently tell her where to go.
So, oh pleasant and patient reader, hopefully this ends the seemingly never-ending job saga. I'm sorry to have bored you senseless, and I promise to only blog things of interest in the future.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Impatience
So, the job saga continues. I have given her my references (courtesy of the lovely people at the Guardian Newspaper) and I fully expected to find out today. BUT NO. I've just heard that my hopeful new boss is out of the office today so I'm not going to find out about my potential new job until tomorrow - AT LEAST.
I am so sick of waiting. It's been a week now, since my final interview, and she's had my reference all weekend. RUBBISH.
But some good news came from this weekend - I'm getting a brand new car!! yay!!!
And the enthusiasm stops there.
On another annoying note, the girls at work are going to get their blood taken today - they prefer to call it 'giving' blood. I have been spared from this ordeal thanks to an extended period of time living in the UK - home of CJD and all things Mad and Cow. So, I'll spend the rest of the morning telling the girls to shut the fuck up about their damned generosity and won't allow them to forget the inherent stupidity in giving away some of your body's vital fluids.
I am so sick of waiting. It's been a week now, since my final interview, and she's had my reference all weekend. RUBBISH.
But some good news came from this weekend - I'm getting a brand new car!! yay!!!
And the enthusiasm stops there.
On another annoying note, the girls at work are going to get their blood taken today - they prefer to call it 'giving' blood. I have been spared from this ordeal thanks to an extended period of time living in the UK - home of CJD and all things Mad and Cow. So, I'll spend the rest of the morning telling the girls to shut the fuck up about their damned generosity and won't allow them to forget the inherent stupidity in giving away some of your body's vital fluids.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
A Whole World of Dumb
I had an interesting argument with a colleague this morning:
We were talking about how our boss is so stressed out all the time. I said, yep, he's gonna have a heart attack one day for sure. And she said, "Or he'll get Cancer."
Um, I'm sorry? What?
"He'll get Cancer. Stress causes Cancer."
I didn't quite know where to start with this one. So i began with, 'No. No it doesn't. Stress may be able to trigger and aggravate some forms of Cancer, but it doesn't 'create' Cancer.'
And she disagreed. In fact, she is still disagreeing with me. I was about to turn blue in the face, but managed to squeeze out 'let's just agree to disagree'.
My god - I never knew that such dumbness was possible in a person of 28 years old. That's right - she's not only more senior than me, but she's also older than me. What a KNOB.
And I can now add 'Incredibly Dumb Colleague' to my list of why I can't wait to leave this place.
But I won't let it stress me out... I might get Cancer!! urgh... the stupidity...
We were talking about how our boss is so stressed out all the time. I said, yep, he's gonna have a heart attack one day for sure. And she said, "Or he'll get Cancer."
Um, I'm sorry? What?
"He'll get Cancer. Stress causes Cancer."
I didn't quite know where to start with this one. So i began with, 'No. No it doesn't. Stress may be able to trigger and aggravate some forms of Cancer, but it doesn't 'create' Cancer.'
And she disagreed. In fact, she is still disagreeing with me. I was about to turn blue in the face, but managed to squeeze out 'let's just agree to disagree'.
My god - I never knew that such dumbness was possible in a person of 28 years old. That's right - she's not only more senior than me, but she's also older than me. What a KNOB.
And I can now add 'Incredibly Dumb Colleague' to my list of why I can't wait to leave this place.
But I won't let it stress me out... I might get Cancer!! urgh... the stupidity...
Monday, January 22, 2007
I have an itchy finger...
Luckily, this is just the kind of ailment I need right now, in order to take my mind off the interview I have in 30 mins.
Now don't get me wrong, I am totally prepared for said interview - I have my presentation printed out 3 times, my notes printed out, and I have emailed the preso to my hotmail account and have it on disk. What could possibly go wrong?
I'll tell you what could go wrong, oh naive reader - my itchy finger could get progressively itchier, to the extent that NOT itching it is completely impossible, and I itch it so much that my finger swells and goes bright red and eventually EXPLODES all over my presentation and all over my hopefully-future boss.
Am I nervous? Surprisingly not. If I am doomed to a fate of being called 'Exploding Finger Girl', then so be it. SO BE IT.
Now don't get me wrong, I am totally prepared for said interview - I have my presentation printed out 3 times, my notes printed out, and I have emailed the preso to my hotmail account and have it on disk. What could possibly go wrong?
I'll tell you what could go wrong, oh naive reader - my itchy finger could get progressively itchier, to the extent that NOT itching it is completely impossible, and I itch it so much that my finger swells and goes bright red and eventually EXPLODES all over my presentation and all over my hopefully-future boss.
Am I nervous? Surprisingly not. If I am doomed to a fate of being called 'Exploding Finger Girl', then so be it. SO BE IT.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Feeling Younger than Ever
Yesterday I went to the Dentists, and a Hygienist with very large, white teeth told me that I was a 'naughty girl' for not having been for two years. Before I had the chance to say, 'You call me a naughty girl again and I'll punch your shiny teeth into the back of your head', he'd shoved the sucky thing into my gob, and was attacking me with the scraper.
The pain was ferocious. There was blood, there were tears, and there was Playschool on the TV, acting as a distraction for those unlucky enough to be hygienised. As I desperately tried to wriggle out of the clutches of this toothy demon, but was distracted by Big Ted playing with a space ship, I realised what was happening:
I wasn't at the Dentists - I had been transported to my childhood. An act of regression so worrying, and so fierce, that I was paralysed by the shock of it. All I could do was keep watching Big Ted, Jemima and the gang, while the man with the scraper told me how bad I'd been, and how I had to floss every night before bed. I've just turned 25, and here I was being told off for being a bad girl.
At the end of the gruelling ordeal, he told me that I'd have to come back every 6 months for this regressive dental therapy (he calls it cleaning), and that if I didn't, my teeth may fall out by the age of 50. I told him that I don't expect to be alive, let alone have any teeth, by that age, so not coming back at all should be just about fine with me.
After receiving a disapproving look, and a 'tut tut', I left... with a sticker of a very large tooth that had apparently fallen out of someone's mouth and had mutated to form a smile and two eyes. I thought that I probably should have pointed out the irony of this image to the Hygienist, but I didn't want to risk having a letter sent home to my parents.
I've decided that if brushing and using mouthwash isn't effective enough, that's not my problem - it's the problem of the Dental Association, who should feel free to contact me with an offer of compensation for my ordeal.
The pain was ferocious. There was blood, there were tears, and there was Playschool on the TV, acting as a distraction for those unlucky enough to be hygienised. As I desperately tried to wriggle out of the clutches of this toothy demon, but was distracted by Big Ted playing with a space ship, I realised what was happening:
I wasn't at the Dentists - I had been transported to my childhood. An act of regression so worrying, and so fierce, that I was paralysed by the shock of it. All I could do was keep watching Big Ted, Jemima and the gang, while the man with the scraper told me how bad I'd been, and how I had to floss every night before bed. I've just turned 25, and here I was being told off for being a bad girl.
At the end of the gruelling ordeal, he told me that I'd have to come back every 6 months for this regressive dental therapy (he calls it cleaning), and that if I didn't, my teeth may fall out by the age of 50. I told him that I don't expect to be alive, let alone have any teeth, by that age, so not coming back at all should be just about fine with me.
After receiving a disapproving look, and a 'tut tut', I left... with a sticker of a very large tooth that had apparently fallen out of someone's mouth and had mutated to form a smile and two eyes. I thought that I probably should have pointed out the irony of this image to the Hygienist, but I didn't want to risk having a letter sent home to my parents.
I've decided that if brushing and using mouthwash isn't effective enough, that's not my problem - it's the problem of the Dental Association, who should feel free to contact me with an offer of compensation for my ordeal.
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