Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Operation Boyz II Men

Hi everyone!  That title will make sense later, maybe. This post is vaguely not-suitable-for-work because of a couple of pictures of butts.  You can probably see the first one already.  I'll keep typing just in case you opened this in a meeting and haven't scrolled down far enough to hit the butt yet.  Probably you should stop scrolling now, tab to a different window real quick and then read this on your phone.  If you are leading the meeting and happened to open this on the projector then you have my sincere apologies.

Was reading old blog post in the hopes of finding something of vague interest* and stumbled upon footnote that said "Charisma Biscuit would be a good name for a band, or a military operation" and guess what, this is still true**.  Many good band names would also be good military operation names, like Operation Arctic Monkey and Operation Atomic Kitten and Operation One Direction and Operation Das Racist and ok, maybe not that last one.

Operation Sex Pistols.

Speaking of linguistic errors and genitals, which we weren't before but most certainly are now, today I stomped professionally over to the copywriting department to ask something along the lines of "am I correct in thinking there is a testicle reference in your copy on this deal for personalised jewellery" but before I got there I was waylaid by a designer who had an important question, and the question was, "Do I need to pixelate the outline of the penis in this men's mesh underwear deal, or should I just put a little star over it?"

An alternate suggestion.

And by the time I had finished advising on the penis pixelation predicament I had completely forgotten about the testicle reference and, now that I think of it, Testicle Reference isn't a terrible name for a military operation either.

Particularly when one is invading Scandinavia.

In other news, had Dramatic Incident in supermarket car park yesterday; had put groceries (cider, Le Snak, meals for one) in back of car and was preparing to back enthusiastically out of park - it is on a slope, so one has to back enthusiastically otherwise one doesn't back at all, and then sometimes one gets stuck on top of the thing-to-stop-you-driving-into-the-garden with one's, um, bit-on-the-front-of-the-car*** which is potentially called a fascia but which I always thought was called 'The Fearing', which coincidentally is what I start doing when I get stuck on the thing-to-stop-you-driving-into-the-garden, and holy shit this sentence is a train wreck but my point is that I was about to start backing enthusiastically, except when I started the car it went "WEEEEEEEEKKK" and did not back at all.
It was like trying to back this pig.  

I tried again, tentatively, and the car went WEEEEEKKK again and lurched backwards so it was pokin' out into the throughway and I thought "OH GOD THE CAR HAS BROKEN DOWN OH FUCK" and then I thought "Ok Ally, you know what to do here.  Put hazards on. Put car into park. Put handbrake o-"  and then I discovered that handbrake was already on.  For fuck's sake.

What else has happened?  Not much else has happened.

Hopefully something interesting will happen soon.


**I also found a second footnote, on the previous post, that said "Operation Scummy Buttocks would be a good name for a military operation."  This was perhaps not my best work. 

***I don't know what anything is called on a car.  I know what most things do, but not what they look like.  We have an Automotive event coming up at work, and it has its own little logo, which I was presented with and said "This little logo is delightful, what are those thingies in the middle that look like flags," and the designer said "They are pistons. They are inside the engine."  


Tuesday, February 24, 2015

No Le Snaks were harmed in the making of this post

Just kidding I have eaten three.

Today a friend called near the end of the work day to tell me about a major personal development in their life, which I was genuinely invested in, but before I could sympathise they said: "Also today I took [colleague] to a meeting and he tried to fit an entire egg in his mouth in front of the client."  

And then I forgot all about the major personal development in the sheer joy and hilarity of the egg story and couldn't stop laughing for five minutes and all in all,  it has not been a day strewn with achievements.  


I did, however, manage to do my weekly shop! Because I am an Independent Lady* this shop consists entirely of meals-for-one, cider, rubbish bags if I remember which usually I do not, and the inevitable Le Snaks.  

Le Binj Eet.

Very occasionally there are also things like washing powder and toilet paper and toothpaste and all that other necessary but deeply un-fun shit that one has to buy when one does not really want to use baby wipes for what is admittedly their original purpose, but on a much larger scale. 

On a more serious note, the Backstreet Boys are playing in Auckland in I think May(?) and I really want to go and no-one will go with me.  

Apart from the fact that Backstreet's Back was the first tape I bought, and that for a couple of months I was going to marry at least one of them**, I just think that if a 90s boy band has the audacity to state in 1997 that as long as there'll be music they'll be coming back again, and then actually continue to come back even though it is almost 20 years later and they really should have stopped by now, then one should indulge them.  

"As long as we continue to fit our white suits, we'll be coming back again."

Normally I would rope in my sister for this kind of nostalgia-saturated lark but she is in Peru and therefore is no help.  I asked Delightful Colleague and she said "lol not for $90" and I asked Button and she said "ALLY" and then I was too afraid to ask any more people because there was too much playing games with my heart and also because professional adults are not meant to spend the afternoon trying to find colleagues to go to concerts with them, they are meant to do their reporting.   

This report summarises how I feel about my reporting.

Anyway, the key point is this: if anyone wishes to go to this concert with me then hit me up.  I don't care who you are, where you're from.  What you did.   As long as you don't make me go and see the Backstreet Boys by myself.

You can leave a comment or, if you would prefer your great love for BSB to go unnoticed, you can email me: tarquin.deathmongrel@gmail.com*** 

*Le Snak in my fridge, I bought it.  'Cause I depend on me.

**Brian.  But honestly pretty much any of them would have bee fine.  Preferably not AJ.

***one day I will get a more grown up email address, but today is not that day.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Who Speaks for the Trees?

I had something in mind for this post but then I got an email with the subject line "Who Speaks for the Trees?" and at the same time my mother txt saying 'i had a little donut for dessert which came with three disposable syringes filled with sauces and you injected the donut before you ate it' and also right then I accidentally typed 'donut' as 'docunt' and now I've forgotten what I was going to talk about.


update: while I was reading the email about the trees another txt came through from Mum which said 'i am now boiling the breakfast egg!'   thank you technology for your egg updates. 

Also I sent myself an email and Gmail marked it as important.

ANYWAY.  I was going to tell you a story, but not the one about how I put up shelves, and also not the one about how I checked my oil at 6am yesterday and was super proud of myself for being a Responsible Car Owner and then when I went to put the dipstick back in it was dark and I couldn't find the hole and then I realised that in fact it was I who was the dipstick.

The story is, however, vehicular in nature: yesterday evening I came out of the office and went to my carpark and was alarmed to see another car, scooting back and forth beside my car like they were trying to somehow line up and mate through their fuel caps.  

Beside New Car was a short yelling man. He was waving his arms at New Car's driver, who was looking increasingly panicked and coming closer and closer to manoevring right into my car.  I should probably mention that apart from my car and New Car the parking lot was completely empty.

"I'm about to go," I shouted helpfully over the already helpfully shouting man, as New Car edged painfully closer to my bumper, "if you move right forwards I'll back out."  

"Wait," he said, "We're practicing parallel parking!"



That's all for now because I have to make dinner, and by make I mean microwave, and then after that I have to do some reporting, and by do some reporting I mean look blankly at a spreadsheet for five minutes with despair in my eyes then have a cider and fall asleep and hope that the reporting is not required for some sort of surprise meeting tomorrow.  Fuck you, surprise meetings, you are a docunt.

Night night everybody.  

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

The Mother of All Updates*

*brace yourselves, it's 1500 words. Imagine all the productive things I could've done with those.  That's like 150 curt emails where you don't even bother with a salutation because you're so mad at the other person, but in a business way, so instead of 'Hi Anthony' or 'Good morning, Anthony,' it's just plain 'Anthony.'  And if you're really mad, you can put a dash, so they know you're serious, like this:

Readers - 

This morning Delightful Colleague sent me a screenshot of Very Serious Colleague's Spotify playlist and it was just the same Enrique Iglesias song over and over and now there's a whole department I can't go into without getting the giggles.  I hope your day as been  as entertainingly fruitful as mine.  

I realised halfway through this post that it's dramatically long (no wait don't go there are pictures) so I have put it into three helpful sections, not unlike 50 Shades of Grey, but better and quite possibly more sexy (as I said, there are pictures).  

Section One: Developments

Like a busy photo lab in the week after Christmas, life has been full of developments; the Chief Development (all of the other developments report to him) is HB's recent departure for Ireland, on matters both personal and professional.  By recent I mean about a month ago, but getting round to blogging is hard when you don't have the Internet at home and also sometimes you are drunk.  I shall leave HB's departure to the imagination, but in short his reasons were sound and there is no need to note in the comments what a terrible cad he is, although you are still welcome to do that and I shall let him know. 

The upside to the ridiculous emotional bludgeoning of HB's departure is, of course, that I get the car, which I love.  The car and I bonded over our shared devastation at HB leaving; while I played computer games for 10 hours straight and consumed half a bottle of whiskey (also straight), it broke down dramatically on the way home from the airport.  

Feel free to call it a cad in the comments as much as you like.

"Oh," said the car, "I see that your boyfriend has left, and you're moving house this weekend.  This seems like a stressful time for you.  Would it help if I needed a completely new transmission?"  And then the car made a noise of the kind that you hope not to hear from the stall next to you in a public toilet and suddenly we were stationary at a stop sign, not in the Hurrah, I'm Safety Conscious way, more in the Thank You Strangers for Pushing Me Round the Corner way.  

I learned three things from the car incident:
1.  How to steer a car when it is being pushed (apparently you do not have the handbrake on)
2.  How much it costs to replace a transmission (it costs man-at-garage-says-'are-you-sitting-down' amount, and the exact number works out at somewhere between 'shit' and 'fucking cunting fuck')
3.  That when the engine light comes on, and HB says "Just book it in for a service on Monday", you do not listen to him.

Section Two:  My New House

I have a new flat, and there is no-one else in it!  Taking nothing away from how much I miss HB and would very much like to be still living with him, this is ridiculously fucking delightful.

Note the lack of other people.  I'm not sure who left that whisky there.

I love it.  I love that I can come home and know that there won't be anyone else there and everything will be where I left it and if I want to get into pyjamas at 6pm and watch Masterchef in bed for four hours then BY GOD I CAN.  

I love that nobody has broken my good paring knife by using it to unjam the paper shredder and I can put art** up on the walls without anyone saying THAT IS SHIT ART TAKE IT AWAY and the internet won't suddenly disappear because paying bills is apparently for chumps and no-one has drunk all the milk whilst simultaneously pouring grape juice under the fridge as a surprise for another day and the couch hasn't been taken outside for airing in the rain and there aren't any hungover strangers on the couch and holy shit, you guys, living by yourself is the best.


Living by oneself has many, many exhilarating highs, like when you find the PERFECT place for your toothbrush cup, and goodness me it looks delightful this is practically a show home and I wonder when Home & Garden magazine are going to call perhaps I should realign the bathmat-

- and it also has many devastating lows, like when you realise that actually you haven't found the perfect place for your toothbrush cup after all, and also, your toothbrush has fallen out the window.

Part Three: Learning Things

Living by yourself also poses a new, unique set of Things To Learn.  Being in a relationship for years and then suddenly not-being in a relationship is a weird transition, especially when the person you used to ask important questions of  - questions like "is it better, from a safety angle, to use the four-plug with the bent prong or the four-plug that I spilt the whisky on?" - is suddenly Not There, and you have to assess the risk of electrocution all by yourself.

Go home four-plug you are drunk

Luckily I am good at learning things.  So far, I have learned the below things:

-  How to put up bookshelf
-  How to put up clothes rail, poorly
-  How to connect washing machine
-  How to deal with flood
-  How to connect washing machine properly
-  How to deal with additional flood
-  How to tell 'tap fully on' from 'tap fully off'
-  How to perfectly position bucket behind washing machine
-  How to amass enormous washing pile because scared of floods
-  How to create interesting, work-appropriate outfits out of bizarre clothing items
-  How to visit launderette down the road.

I have also learnt that when you're selecting a flat you gotta look at how much storage it has.  This flat, while delightful, has exactly no storage.  This is problematic because if I were a video game character I would have spent my life so far ignoring gaining skills and levelling up in favour of wandering around the map collecting random items and putting them in my backpack.

But what if I need it for a future quest?

I don't really have an answer for that issue.  I'm just letting you know.

The final thing I've learned is about scales.  Weirdly, I've never had a set of scales in any of the houses I've lived in.  We bought some so HB could weigh his suitcases and therefore not get kicked out of the airport, or whatever happens when your suitcases are too heavy, and now I have them!  

I like having scales.  You can do all sorts of interesting things with scales.  You can weigh yourself, and then take your shoes off and weigh yourself again, and then you know exactly how much your shoes weigh.  And then you can eat a lasagne, and weigh yourself again, and you know exactly how much the lasagne weighs.  And you can weigh yourself, and then go to the bathroom, and then you- 

Anyway.  That's fun with scales.

430 grams.

I think that's all - apologies for the long, rambling post but there was a lot to get through and I think now we're all up to date with the Life Events shit and can go back to Turkey Tales and Bullshit Work Stories*** and all the other things you know and love.

Here's a picture of me from today because you haven't seen one in a while, and it's nice to imagine what I look like when I am telling the story.

Imagine this, but with less enthusiasm, and also much prettier.

*I deleted the original footnote but it was about bucket lists.

I know why it's called a bucket list but I still think it's a ridiculous term.  Also, imagine the impact on people who work in hardware stores and bucket manufacturing centres. 
"Rupert, have you seen Sarah's bucket list?"
"Yes, she shared some of it, she's always really wanted to travel to Europe but never really found the ti-"

**the watercolours are by Aimee van Essen. 

***the other day I was perhaps a little bored and was sitting at my desk with no shoes on and a pair of chopsticks in my mouth like tusks, waving my feet around and generally being a walrus, when Button walked past and looked at me and said, "Ally.  You are a manager" and I felt a little embarrassed, but then sometimes when one is being a walrus it is difficult to remember that one is also being a manager.