Washing, Up

I'm currently folding two weeks' worth of washing and while this is productive it is also boring, like the start of a military campaign where you're busy training your troops and filling your granaries (?) and not actually having any battles.  

"Lord, what tidings from the North?"
"The sock battalions grow larger and the tee troops become legion, but sort of a disorganised legion, because I can't find the shirt folding thing.*"

There isn't even a battle.  It's not like I just need to finish the washing and then a wizard will teleport in through the wardrobe and take me off to the Andromeda Galaxy's Annual Tiger-Riding Bon Jovi Night** as some sort of a reward.  I'm only folding everything because it's on the couch in laundryish mounds and I need to sit on the couch and do some work.  "So, Ally, how was your weekend?"  "Well, first I had to get the laundry out of the way, but then I got to do some work!"  Fuck's sake.  

Anyway, last night I had a dream that I was a character in a video game - pause to fold some undies - and every time I died*** I had to go back to a save point and have a baby.  What doing, subconscious?

(Before you ask, this interesting dream does not mean that I'm pregnant.  It's cool fun to be a lady because every time you feel a bit ill, or tired, or very hungry, or not hungry, or generally out of sorts, the first thing people say is "Pregnant!"  They turn from friends and colleagues into smug embryo-detecting motherfuckers.  Then they smirk: Tee hee, I gotcha! I saw you leave the last half of your bacon and egg roll.  You're so pregnant right now.  You don't  have to tell me these things, I just know.  Havin' a baby, that's what you're doing. Am I right? I'm right, aren't I. 

Stop doing this, everybody!  Not only am I not pregnant, but if I was, I certainly wouldn't choose to announce it to family and friends via the subtle medium of  a half eaten bacon and egg roll.  Instead I would post an Instagrammed picture of the roll on Facebook with the message, "Couldn't finish my roll today... weird... usually I love bacon... whatever could be going on???" then wait for the 100,000 comments to come rushing in before ending the suspense by saying "YES! You guessed it, we're pregnant!"

Also! While I am having pregnancy related rants - which apparently I am, although I'm not sure how that happened - can everyone please stop saying "we're pregnant"?  (Everyone, but especially people who are actually pregnant.  People who aren't pregnant, I'm not sure why you would be saying this in the first place, but whatever, as you were.) "We're pregnant" is an annoying phrase because it's not true. 

"We're having a baby" or "We're going to be parents" or "We're going to fulfil our evolutionary purpose, after which we can die" are all acceptable and true things to say, but 'we're pregnant' isn't as good, mainly because the harsh truth of the matter is that only one of you is pregnant.  (Spoiler alert: it's the lady.  Or, if both of you are ladies, it's the lady who is currently growing/hosting/gestating the baby. I say 'currently' in case you're planning to swap over halfway through, which is unlikely in reality but would make an interesting premise for a science fiction movie.) I know, because people tell me, that having a baby is a lovely shared experience etc. but there are heaps of technically accurate ways you can announce that, without keeping the audience guessing: "John and Mary are pregnant?"  "Yes!"  "What, both of them?")

In summary: stop assuming ladies are pregnant, stop saying "we're pregnant", and the washing is still not folded.

p.s. if you are a sayer of "we're pregnant", we're sorry if we offended you.  "We" is me and the dog, Boizey, and we are sorry in the same way that you are pregnant, in that one of us isn't.


*"Shirt folding thing?" I hear you ask. "Who uses those? What have you become?"  But they actually save heaps of time & effort, and are cheap.  I would include a picture of a nicely folded t-shirt but I'm not that far gone, you can google that for yourself.  Or just imagine a folded tee.  I'm sure you've seen one.

Apparently there are many helpful websites which will take you through a step-by-step guide on how to fold a fitted sheet (in text, audio or video format, such is the level of technology and free time that we as a society possess); I looked some up out of interest but they all have different methods, none of which is "roll the sheet up until it is as small as it will go, then wedge it into a corner of the laundry cupboard" which is odd, because that is of course the correct way to go about it.

**Is this a night where you ride a tiger and watch Bon Jovi, or where you watch Bon Jovi ride a tiger?  I don't know, because I haven't finished folding the washing.  I don't even know if it's Bon Jovi the man, or Bon Jovi the band.  Life is hard.

***honestly, this was pretty much constantly.  Whoever was controlling videogame-me in the dream was a really shitty player.   WHAT IF THE VIDEOGAMES WE PLAY ARE SOMEONE ELSE'S DRE- oh shut up

Tramping

So I was sitting in bed reading the other night and received an email with the subject line, "Why?" It was about blogging, which the more observant of you may have noticed I haven't been doing an awful lot of recently, and while I was tempted to reply "Because" I realised that isn't actually a reason and I had better write something.  So I sent back a somewhat melodramatic email (did I mention I was slightly drunk? I was slightly drunk) promising to write a blog post this weekend, and now I am, although technically it is Monday.

What have I been doing?  Tramping!  This whole time! I haven't been blogging because I've been In The Wilderness!

See?

No, that's lies.  To say I have been "doing" tramping is possibly slightly inaccurate as it's technically a thing I only did once, not something I have incorporated into my remarkably sedentary lifestyle.  HB* and I went on a four day tramp after Christmas (it was meant to be a 2 day tramp but it was longer than HB remembered).  I had 'Folsom Prison Blues' stuck in my head for the first two days and that 'Carry On' song by fun.** for the next two.  On the third day I fell in mud and stank out the hut. I'm an excellent tramping partner.

I prepared for the tramp by purchasing a $200 pair of tramping boots and doing absolutely no exercise whatsoever, which really paid off halfway up the Hill (we went up several, but only one was drastic enough to merit capitalisation).  HB, who is a proper tramper, trudged up the H in a slow and steady fashion while I paused on likely-looking flattish bits before taking a deep breath and launching myself upwards in a sort of headlong charge, made more headlong by my pack lurching forwards over my head and my tendency to roar the first two lines of Folsom Prison Blues as I stomped upwards. (The bit about the train, except instead of train it was me.) Then I would get out of breath and stop and have a barley sugar. I repeated this all the way up the H, which  HB says is not the way that a proper tramper goes up an H, but whatever.

I also took a rather nice photo of a sunset over the hut (it is below this paragraph) and actually really enjoyed the whole thing.  It's nice to be sitting in a hut in the middle of nowhere, reeking faintly of mud, playing 500 and drinking wine out of a... skin,*** all the while safe in the knowledge that you're totally out of cellphone reception and can't possibly do any work.  

We topped off an idyllic four days by walking out of the bush and taking photos of each other in comical "back at the car" poses.  Hugging the car!  Throwing our arms up in joy to be back at the car! Taking off our packs in front of the car!  Turning the key in the engine of the car! 

Turning the key in the engine of the car?

Checking the lights weren't left on in the car. 

Opening the bonnet of the car.  

Shouting obscenities at the car.

Walking away from the car.

WALKING AWAY FROM THE CAR FOR ANOTHER THREE HOURS BEFORE REACHING THE MAIN ROAD AND HITCH-HIKING TO THE NEAREST TOWN WHICH IS ACTUALLY JUST A PUB WHICH ONLY HAS MAGAZINES FROM TEN YEARS AGO AND ONLY HAS ONE TELEPHONE WHICH YOU HAVE TO PAY $8 TO USE AND SO YOU CALL YOUR SISTER AND SHE'S REALLY ANNOYED BUT COMES AND GETS YOU ANYWAY AND THEN COMPLAINS BITTERLY THAT YOU HAVE STUNK UP HER CAR.

And then it flooded and we couldn't even go in and get the car back.

And because you have been such good readers, here is a picture of me in my tramping pants.  

I look rather rotund for an outdoors aficionado, but that's mainly because I'm wearing 15 layers of jersey.  

*for anyone who has forgotten, HB is the Handsome Boyfriend (and also a sort of pencil, a brand of Irish ice cream and German cigarettes, and a model of 1920s automobile).

**I hate the way fun. have formatted their band name, it's fucked up that whole sentence

***is it called that? The thing inside a wine box? I would also like to state that I don't make a habit of drinking wine-out-of-a-box but it's a lot easier to carry than bottles. Not that I carried it.  HB carried it, because he is a very nice sort of pencil indeed.  

Grab All The Ones

Note: somewhat further down this post there is a picture of a butt plug.  Just in case you're reading this at work, on the bus, or somewhere else where a small* picture of a butt plug** might cause consternation. 

*probably. I haven't chosen the picture yet, it may be medium sized

**or two

Hello everyone! I'm still here, immensely busy with work, charging magnificently through the world of online sales like a small, cheerful hippopotamus charging through the great green greasy Limpopo river, except that everyone understands what the hippopotamus does with its day. 

People (at parties, mainly) often say polite things like "So what do you do?" and I say with some excitement, "I work at GrabOne!" and they say "Oooh..." which is what you say when you wish to convey that you are interested in the topic at hand yet entirely ignorant about it (without actually having to put yourself through the unenviable horror of Not Knowing What A Thing Is, Out Loud.)

Anyway, they say "Oooh" and I say "Yes" in a meaningful sort of a fashion and they say "...what is this Grab One?" And then I am slightly stuck because I believe the Proper Industry Term is "group buying website" but the Term People Actually Recognise is "daily deal site" and so I usually say "Oh, it's one of those group buying daily deal website thingies, you know" in a casual fashion.

And then they brighten and say, "Gosh, you must sell an immense amount of crap!" or some slightly more tactful rephrasing of that sentence.  This is frustrating because on any given day we are selling lots of nice furniture and clothing and vitamins and only about 5 percent crap, but all anyone remembers is the Baby Shampoo Cap* and related deals, and now I am forever categorised as a purveyor of baby-shampoo-crapness. 

56 people purchased this. What exquisite taste they have 

One of the more interesting parts of work is helping to vet the deals that go on the site; making sure the crap is kept at 5%.  This is immensely satisfying when you get it right, and request a product that sells well; when you get it wrong it is hugely baffling.  

As an example, here are two items that I thought were firmly in the crap pile:

One is a miniature fan without any blades, and the other is a fake iPad for gullible children.  I did not think people would buy these things.

They both sold hundreds.  Which is why work remains exciting - sometimes you get a guaranteed winner, which is exciting to begin with, and then sometimes you finally give in to a pleading sales rep who is trying to make $5k in half an hour to beat some sort of arcane target and go "FINE I will run the fake iPad for gullible children" and then boom! surprise hit, which is even more exciting. 

My favourite surprise hit was car eyelashes, which are exactly what they sound like: eyelashes for your car, to make it look sexy and feminine.

This car has seen a lowered Subaru and is one step away from turning on her hazards and popping her boot.  Notice she is doing "duck face" with her numberplate.

We all had a giggle about them in the office and then we sold HEAPS and now every time I am shyly fluttered at by a hairdresser's Audi I feel slightly guilty about what we have done to society. 

This would be a good time to have a little break for a cup of coffee, or maybe get off the bus and start walking to your house, because I still have lots to talk about and we aren't even CLOSE to Butt Plug Picture Time.

However, not all products are car eyelashes: one of the most awkward moments in the job is when you answer the phone and it's a highly excited sales rep who is convinced they have the next surprise hit, and they say, "Ally!  I've got a great product!  When can we run it?"  

And you say, "Well, what is it?" 

And they say, "It's fake nails.... for your cat!"  

I am not making this story up. 

And then there is a painful few minutes where one of three things happens:

1) you explain that it isn't quite the right product for the market at this time, and they accept this

2) you explain that it isn't quite the right product for the market at this time, and they say "But think how many people have cats in New Zealand" as if that justifies their batshit insanity, and then you tell them to email HB because he is better at saying "Naff off, Rupert, we are not running this"

3) as you begin to explain that it isn't quite the right product it suddenly dawns upon them that they have just suggested a really quite preposterous thing, and they abruptly change the subject to something safer, like complaining about the helpdesk.

Which brings me to my next point: I am getting better in general at predicting what people will spend money on, but especially in one market which I did not anticipate: Sex toys.  We have a monthly feature called "GO Intimate" (the GO is for GrabOne, the Intimate is for because classy) which sells adult products.  

I did not think when I started this job that I'd be fielding emails with "Fleshlight" in the subject line and politely explaining that in general, we really don't feel that our database is quite ready for that just yet...

No, it is not "more tasteful" because it is pink.

And yet, I am.  And that is why work remains interesting.

On which note I will finish this post because I know that now you've gotten to the picture of the butt plug you're all going to stop reading anyway.

Perverts.


*I actually loved the Baby Shampoo Cap deal and if I had a baby I would purchase one immediately, then another one after the first one broke when I tried to put it on my own head.  Seriously, scroll back up and look at that baby again.  (Ignore the butt plugs.) See how happy he is without any shampoo trickling into his little eyes! See how joyfully he gnaws on his duck! When you can purchase this kind of happiness for only $10* we are truly living in a magnificent world.

*plus freight 

50 Shades of Crap

Have you guys read 50 Shades of Grey?  I haven't because someone told me that apparently you can find porn with pictures right here on the Internet.  

Anyway, last week we sold a similar book called Bared to You and I read a bit, because of market research: I shan't reproduce it all here, but you should probably know before you read it that the author rather favours the word cleft.  Here is some.

"He sank into an elegant crouch directly in front of me. Hit with all that exquisite masculinity at eye level, I could only stare.  Stunned.   Then something shifted in the air between us. 

As he stared back, he altered . . . as if a shield slid away from his eyes, revealing a scorching force of will that sucked the air from my lungs. The intense magnetism he exuded grew in strength, becoming a near-tangible impression of vibrant and unrelenting power."

Good, isn't it?  NO.  

"He altered, as if a shield slid away from his eyes, revealing a scorching force of will that sucked the air from my lungs."  Oh yeah, I totally had a moment like that in the car this morning, except it turned out that HB had just shoved a whole Berocca in his mouth and was gearing up to burp Berocca fumes at me.  

Anyway - as I was reading this and trying not to barf in my mouth, I realised three things:  a) this is just Mills & Boon with a better cover and a title that isn't "The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress*" and b) anyone could write this! and c) I probably shouldn't be reading this in the office.

So to that end, I have made an Erotic Fiction Plot Generator, so you can write the book and be the millionaire.  Simply select your favourite word in italicised Trebuchet as you read, to complete the plot. I'm sorry about the formatting, but I can't figure out a better way to present it.

Note: Female character's name should be slightly unusual and very feminine; can also be old-fashioned, while staying on the right side of Mildred.  Male character's name should be suited to a British lawyer: upper-class, faintly menacing, and never one syllable.  

***

Violet meets the reader in a generic scene, where we learn that she is talented/successful/passionate/independent yet naive/underconfident/clumsy/disorganised, albeit in a winsome and charming way.

She moves to a new job/city/stage of her life, metaphorically speaking and on her first day in her new environment, literally/figuratively bumps into Raphael, who is far more sophisticated/powerful/worldly/rich/royal than her.

Through a series of startlingly predictable events,Violet and Raphael are inevitably drawn to one another.   While Raphael is not particularly compassionate/generous/sensitive/kind, he is very sexy.

Violet and Raphael totally bone, which you ideally want to happen by about chapter 4 so that nobody gets bored and stops reading.  They have sex in ways which Violet finds surprising/unusual/downright bizarre,yet strangely enjoyable.

As their relationship deepens, Violet discovers that Raphael's negative behaviour does not in fact stem from anger/cruelty/disdain/blatant douchebaggery, but is instead the product of pain caused by his Dark Past.

Only Violet's innocence is able to heal the Dark Past Pain. Raphael resists, but not for particularly long.  They have sex every half a chapter so that nobody gets bored and stops reading.

Violet is able to help Raphael grow emotionally as he has helped her grow sexually, and they all live happily ever after.

***

But the important thing, of course, is that you put in lots of filth.

I'm not sure how to finish this post, so here's a picture of the man we drove to work behind the other day:

Undies!

*'The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress' is a real book and I will bet you 10 percent of your pending royalties that it is better than 'Bared To You.'