31 July 2010

Eating for free


Inspired by the story of the grim eater and by the fact that my grocery bill has risen about 30% in the last six months, I searched the web for free food ideas and here is a summary of what I found (from the semi-sensible to the desperate and disgusting).

1. Gather surplus
Know someone with a bumper crop of zucchini or tomatoes? Gardeners often need someone to offload their extras on to, especially if you cook up a nice dish and share it with them.

2. Sign up for freebies
Free offers abound on the web. Sign up for every cereal sample, muesli bar and snack that you can find, and enjoy a few meals on someone else's dollar.

3. Barter
Barter your skills and services for the foods that you need. A quick car repair or a bit of mending work could turn into your next meal. This is a sensible idea but while you’re not paying with cash, you’re still paying with time. And who has time?

4. Start a perennial garden
Annuals get all of the attention in the world of edible plants, but perennials are the real bargains. There is the small issue of start up costs to contend with but you could plant a garden of perennial herbs, vegies, fruits and legumes, and every harvest after the first will be free.

5. Visit your parents
Ah, the age-old practice of going back to your childhood home for free food. Most parents (especially mothers) wish their grown children would visit more. So, make them happy while feeding your face at the same time. While you are at it, take some laundry to throw in the wash. That will save you money on your electricity bill, as well. Besides, your Mum will probably do it for you. (Just kidding, Mum.)

Hell, while you're at it, inflict yourself and your housework on your siblings, friends and colleagues, too. Your sister could clean your shoes and your boss could wash your car. Maybe you could even shoot for aquaintance assistance. Your dentist could prepare you a roast while running your dirty dishes through her dishwasher. And your accountant - get him to wash the dog while the souffles are in the oven.

6. Donate blood
Not squeamish? Need a sugar fix? Donating blood will secure you a generous supply of cookies and juice. If the staff at the blood bank seem a bit stingy, tell them you are feeling light-headed. They don’t want you walking out the place and collapsing, so that should keep the cookies coming. In the process of procuring some free food, you will have helped to save a life. Sounds like a great way to spend an afternoon.

7. Learn about timeshare
If you have three hours to spare (yeah, right),sit through timeshare meetings and you will get something free in the end.

8. Get samples
Get free samples at the supermarket. Do you think they’d give you the demo schedule if you rang them?

9. Go to church
Festivals, meetings, openings, receptions – it seems every occasion includes food these days. Keep a look out for any event that offers free food to the public, and take advantage of it. Church events can be particularly fruitful. If God doesn’t strike you down for your ulterior motives, you’ll be all set for coffee and sandwiches after the service.

10. Say it’s your birthday
This is a great way to get a free drink, dessert or maybe even a meal at restaurants with a birthday club. Of course, you don’t have to reserve this for when it really is your birthday. However, many establishments have wised up to this trick and ask for ID, in which case you may find yourself in an uncomfortable position.

11. Forage
Learn how to identify edible foods in the wild, and enhance your diet with free-for-the-taking fruits, vegetables, mushrooms and nuts. You could even go fishing. Hmm, there’s so much wilderness in a capital city - not. If you did go further afield, you might even find some of those special mushrooms to change the colour of your impoverished day.

12. become a freegan
Where do all of those grocery store cast offs go? Usually straight to the skip bin. There's a subculture known as freeganism that attempts to put that waste to good use. Call me fussy, but I reckon if it goes in the skip bin, it stays in the skip bin.

So there you go – if you have no pride, no conscience, no sense of personal hygiene and tons of free time, you can practically eat for free. Personally, I think I’ll just buy less Chocolate teddy bears and more Home brand.

The grim eater

A funeral home has stopped a fake mourner gatecrashing funerals, eating the food on offer, and even taking home leftovers. He had a backpack filled with Tupperware containers, and when people weren't looking, he was stocking up.

The company eventually took a photo of the guy to distribute it to its branches.

The ‘grim eater’ attended up to four funerals a week during March and April this year before the funeral home stopped him. He stopped coming after a staff member took him aside, telling him he could still come to funerals but could not take food home with him.

Image: Simon Howden

30 July 2010

An afternoon of economics with the CEO


There once was a genius called Wayne
Who melted The Monstress' brain
She couldn’t walk the dog
Let alone write her blog
But tomorrow she will try again.

29 July 2010

It is not gliding for me anymore


My French is a bit rusty but between a cryptic email from Molly (hope you get better soon, Molly) and some French news sites clumsily translated by Google, it seems that 80s legend Plastique Bertrand – whom I (thought I) saw sing live at the most recent Countdown concert in Hobart – with Molly (hope you get better soon, Molly) - has been accused of lip synching...to someone else's voice.

Because the film track and music track are recorded separately when making a music video, artists usually lip-synch their songs and imitate playing instruments, too. (Okay, I suppose this makes some sense.)

Also, artists lip-synch strenuous dance numbers in both recorded and live performances - if artists didn't lip synch, these performances would need incredibly trained lungs. (Um…yeah, we’re paying you gazillions, so train.)

The NSW government is considering new laws to make singers print disclaimers on tickets if they plan to lip synch concerts – live should be live.

The Eurovision Song Contest has banned lip synching.

Okay, lip synching isn't a crime but, in my book, neither is it cool.

Would Plastique really stoop so low?


A brief history of lip synching
(Anyone else noticing a 1989 spike here?)

1970
The Partridge Family – aside from David Cassidy, the cast uses lip synching to make it seem as though they can sing.

1989
Milli Vanilli is famously busted during a live performance on MTV when the recording of the song Girl you know it's true jams and begins to skip, repeating the partial line ‘Girl, you know it's…’ over and over on the speakers.

(I’m sure they wanted the earth to open up and swallow them but fans attending the concert didn't seem to care or even notice - and the concert continued as if nothing unusual had happened. I'm not sure if this says more about the quality of the music or the quality of the drugs the fans were taking.)

Black Box scores a number one hit with Ride on time - another case of a pretty face lip-synching to someone else's vocals.

The New York Times claims Bananarama’s concert at the Palladium was basically lip synched (shame they couldn’t have got better singers to lay down the vocals, really).

The same source says Depeche Mode adds vocals and a few keyboard lines to taped backup onstage. But hush your mouth – DM would never do this!

2001
The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette calls Janet Jackson ‘one of pop's most notorious onstage lip synchers’.

2008
A nine-year-old Chinese girl lip synchs at the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony because the seven-year-old singer is ‘not pretty enough’ to perform as China's representative.

2009
Britney is roasted over lip synching at her Australian shows with fans storming out of the Perth gig after only a few songs. In New York on her comeback tour, Brit reportedly uses her actual vocal chords a big three times – twice to thank the crowd, and once to sing a ballad – though the vocals during that number are apparently questionable.

2010
Scottish fans accuse Eminem of lip synching, including having his microphone turned off while trying to ad lib.

And this, of course, brings us back to Plastique…

From what I can gather (though I could very well be wrong), he has been accused of not actually singing his 1977 song, Ca plane pour moi (kind of a downer for a vocalist). He started off denying the claim but, in news just to hand, he admits he didn't sing any of the songs on his first four albums - rather, his producer, Lou Deprijck, sang and also wrote the songs. The engineers of the studio have confirmed this.

It seems he would (stoop that low, that is).

Stay tuned for a blog post on ‘bad website translations via Google’.

(Hope you get better soon, Molly.)

Image: renjith krishnan

28 July 2010

Imagine...


Imagine a world with no hair: no Jennifer Aniston envy, no ‘Rita regrowth’, no waxing and shaving, no throwing out grocery bags full of product that didn’t deliver, no embarrassing eighties photos of spiral perms, no Hair, no men with nose and ear hair issues, no dog and cat hair on your clothes…

Imagine a world without huntsmen spiders.

Imagine a world where international postage did not cost three times the value of the contents of the parcel.

Imagine a world where jaffle makers were easy to clean.

Imagine a world where makeup retailers didn’t feel compelled to wrap everything from eyeliner to foundation in miles of sticky tape. You’d buy new makeup and simply open it and put it on rather than breaking nails battling to undo it and giving up in frustration.

I'd like that world.

Let's create a parallel universe like that.

Image: Paul Martin Eldridge

27 July 2010

Toasting Bec


There are two kinds of people – those who follow the recipe and those who couldn’t if their life depended on it.

Someone who has abandoned the recipe, tossed the whole cook book and practically set fire to the entire kitchen is Rebecca Docherty – the Liberal-National Party’s 30-year-old newbie candidate for the Queensland seat of Griffith (Kevin Rudd’s rocking chair…er…seat). She’s a skinny blonde barmaid-turned-finance manager - whom Rudd recently snubbed - and she just scored a two-page pictorial spread in Grazia.

"I have champagne tastes on a beer budget. I used to buy the glossy magazines just to look at the pictures," Rebecca confessed. So, she must have been pretty stoked that she got to keep the glam clothes from the shoot.

In contrast, Jules got herself a thrilling 13-page feature in the August Women’s Weekly, complete with at-home photos, no doubt. I’ll bet the interview’s about as startling as Serapax.

In contrast, Rebecca gave her mag a gutsy quote on same-sex marriage: she says she has gay and lesbian friends and understands why they may want to formally recognise their coupledom. This is not a sentiment that would ever enter Tony’s, Julia’s or Kevin’s pantry.

Kev holds Griffith, the safest Labor seat in Queensland, by a margin of 12.4%. But if I were voting there, I’d say Kev's not worth a can of beans and toast Bec instead.

26 July 2010

5 more things I love


(in no particular order)

1. My big blusher brush

Soft, fluffy, luxurious and decadent for perfect peachy cheeks.

2. Mr Sheen

Just the fragrance makes me feel more together. Mr Sheen is about comfort and order – everything in its place and a place for everything. When my room has been Mr Sheened, I can be fairly sure all is right with the world.

3. New notepads

I like old notepads – it’s fun to look through old shopping lists, budgets, quotes and doodles. Who the hell is Greg? you ask yourself. And who does this phone number belong to?

But a new notebook is a whole other kettle of fish – so full of promise; practically reeking of all the fabulous thoughts and ideas you will surely place inside. (Of course, it ends up being more budgets and shopping lists and mysterious phone numbers probably belonging to the plumber or the lady next door, but that’s not the point.)

4. Snail mail

Okay, not bills but cards, letters and parcels (especially parcels!) delivered by actual post rock. (Although those annoying white cards that tell you to pick something up from the post office annoy the hell out of me - who has time to go to the post office?) I love eBay (eBay means parcels), Brands Exclusive is also good. And birthdays are generally snail mail magnets.

5. The Mists of Avalon

If I were stuck on a desert island and I had this book with me (and a pair of reading glasses), I’d be quite happy, thanks.
Image: Rasmus Thomsen

25 July 2010

5 things I love


(in no particular order)

1. Crispy clean old jeans and my tomato red long sleeved shirt

Yeah, the shirt has bleach marks but it’s the best colour and with some faded old jeans just out of the wash, my brown corduroy jacket, nice lingerie and a splash of perfume, I feel comfortable, clean and ready for creativity.

2. Fresh French gels

Looking and feeling ‘finished’ with a beautiful French manicure.

3. Bürgen pumpkin seed bread

Stupid expensive but worth every penny. Dense, textured and very filling. Practically guilt-free portion size. Particularly delicious toasted with chicken, cheese and freshly ground black pepper.

4. Clean sheets
Bedding washed in Radiant laundry liquid followed by (anything but lavender) Fluffy fabric softener. Sheets line dried then finished with five minutes in a hot tumble dryer. Blanket on six then turned down to three once I'm tucked up inside. A lullabye. No alarm. Heaven!

5. Meditation

Talking with the universe. Not a ‘should’ like eating greens; instead a gift to myself – an hour of growth, relaxation and love - all for me!
Image: Suat Eman

24 July 2010

Hold the phone


At the risk of sounding like an old fogey, I remember the days when people answered the phone and said ‘how are you?’ not ‘where are you?’

It used to be that there was one fixed line in any given house (hell, my bestie didn’t even have a phone when we were growing up – we’d have to arrange a time for me to call the public phone at the old folks’ home across the road from her house).

Generally, the household phone was located somewhere central (like the kitchen) where everyone could hear your calls because cordless was yet to be invented. If you wanted to talk with your friends, you had to be prepared to speak politely to their parents first. My mum even put a padlock around the dial on our phone to (try to) stop us running up the phone bill.

More than 800 million people around the world currently use mobile phones and that figure is growing. Australians bought around 3.5 million mobile phones in the last 12 months.

Mobile phones are a mixed blessing.



Keeping track

You can ask your partner to bring home milk, tell the teen to wait because you’re running late, track your sister down in a department store… People have never been so connected.

On the flipside, because I can text and chat via phone so easily, I chat F2F less.

Another negative is that GPS is getting a bit ‘big brother’, don’t you think? And even without that feature, sometimes I don’t want to be found (like if I’m on leave and the boss calls).

Also, it’s hard for kids to leave any stresses at school/netball/singing lessons when they’re sending and receiving texts all evening. Home used to be a haven. Now it’s just one more space where the world can find you.

Then again, finding other people can be tricky – many don’t list their mobiles in the WhitePages.

Health and safety

With a mobile phone, you can tell someone if you’re in trouble from just about anywhere in the world – cars break down, rides don’t show, wallets get stolen and dates go wrong.

On the other hand, despite laws that ban the practices, people talking or texting on phones while driving cause car crashes.

Also on health, did you ever consider how much bacteria covers a mobile’s surface? Iiieeewww.

And don’t forget, some people reckon mobile phones cause brain tumors.

Entertainment

Games, music, movies, internet… Need I say more?

Recording

Taking photos, recording speech and taking video is available to everyone. Not only does this make sharing content easy but it’s also practical. When some muppet ran in to my car, I photographed his car and number plate as well as the damage to my vehicle for the insurance company.

Tools

Calculators, maps, calendars, reminders, alarms… These are all good but now you have no excuse if you forget your wedding anniversary.

Fashion statement

Like clothes, shoes, bags and other accessories, you phone can say a lot about you.

This is not cool if you have a fugly old brick.

Expense

Trapped on an inferior plan or with an obsolete phone is not where I want to be. I ran over my $800 Motorola one year in to a two-year plan and about five minutes after the insurance expired. Not happy, Jan.

If you go over your cap, you can pay through the nose.

Then there are ringtones, apps, accessories and repairs to pay for.

Rudeness

Some people haven’t quite got phone etiquette down pat and will take calls in the middle of a meeting or coffee date.

Environment

Mobile phones and accessories contain toxic heavy metals that can be an environmental hazard.

Australians are hoarding 10 million old phones. Unless we find an alternative, many of these will end up in landfill.

Regardless of the downsides – especially the fact that there are hardly any phone-free zones any more – if I leave home without my mobile, I feel naked – or worse, as though I’ve left my arm or leg behind.


I love my phone – but I really need to upgrade soon. I have serious iPhone envy.

Image: Gregory Szarkiewicz

23 July 2010

Rules for naming your children


Cruetly to children is rife.

Taylynn is not a boy’s name; it’s an affliction. And Laquishita is a full blown disability.

Some parents ought to be incarcerated for nomenclature crimes against their children.

Not mentioning the obvious like checking the poor kid’s initials don’t spell P-I-G or something, here are some guidelines for coming up with monikers for your offspring:

1. You are not a celebrity. Naming your child Fifi Trixibell, Moon Unit, Pilot Inspektor, Kyd, Sage Moonblood or Apple is not going to make you (or them) a star. It is just going to make you a laughingstock.

2. Made up names are unique for a reason. Ayliana, Jolissa, Jezeret, Keilyn, Novalee and Harpel sound like trailer trash.

3. Name your child something the average person can pronounce. Not:
• Choire (COR-ee)
• Chia (SHY-a)
• Jaii (like Hawaii).

4. In a similar vein, don’t pick a normal name and spell it in an exotic way. If you’re calling your kid Jane, spell it J-A-N-E. If you want to go really wild, throw in a ‘y’ (although unnecessary letter y’s are generally a key indicator of stupid spellings). Do not spell Jane:
• J-A-I-N-E
• G-A-I-N-E
• Z-S-A-I-N
• Q-B-U-K-L-E.

5. Don’t spell something backward: Nevaeh, Nivek and Ekin are plain bloody lufwa.

6. Consider the dangers of noun names. Patience could be Ritalin dependent, Sunshine could be an emotional vampire, Hunter could wind up a weedy kid with Coke bottle glasses sticky-taped together and bandaids on his knees, and Chance might not stand one.

7. Theme names are bad. If you name your kids on a theme, they will divorce you and no one will blame them. These are real:
• diseases (Fever Bender, Cholera Priest, Mumps Sykes)
• food (Bread White, Mustard M. Mustard)
• professions (Cook Cook, Doctor Love)
• sins (Avarice Sullivan, Sloth Washton)
• pets (Good Dog)
• ...and if you thought Wednesday Addams was unfortunate — wait till you meet Monday Monday.

8. It’s not funny to name your child something that sounds like a phrase when you say it (especially if it’s a bit off colour). The following are real names:
• Henrietta Grubb
• Naught E. Bishop
• Theresa Green
• Ima Whore
• Mike Hunt.

9. Don’t name your child anything that includes non-alphabetic characters. Prince was making a stand against Warner Bros’ commodification of his name when he changed it to a love symbol and even that was not cool. The following are not names, they are demonstrations of your stupidity:
• La-a (La-DASH-a)
• ½ (this kid will spend half his life trying to be whole)
• @ (pronounced 'ai ta' in Chinese and meaning 'love him' - hard as it is to believe).

10. Anything to do with transport is idiotic. Here are some examples of what not do:
• Kia (it’s a good thing the kid wasn’t born in an Oldsmobile)
• Busdriver (this is going to be especially weird if the kid grows up to be a plumber)
• Number 16 Bus Shelter (this was upheld by the New Zealand courts).

Possibly the worst baby names I have ever heard are:
• XTL (CRIST-al)
• Abcde (AB-sid-ee) – really.

Children are not accessories. If you want something with a ‘cool’ name, buy a dog or a boat or brand your home brew.

Image: Dynamite Imagery

22 July 2010

20 things that piss me off


(in no particular order)

1. People saying they’re going to do something (put the dishes away, meet me for coffee, go to the doctor) and then not doing it.
2. The man at the dog-wash making inappropriate jokes about blows and knobs in front of my 14-year-old daughter.
3. Cheques. This is the digital era. EFT it.
4. Being on hold – especially when the person who put you on hold reckons he’s Bruce from Brisbane when he’s clearly more like Dwijesh from Delhi.
5. People who set up for bar class directly in front of you, so you can’t see in the mirror.
6. Bad or even indifferent service – checkout chicks of the world, smiling never killed anyone.
7. Indecent prepositions.
8. When you order something and unbeknownst to you, it has tofu in it (especially if you don’t realise until the tofu is in your mouth)
9. People who say, ‘I don’t want to be rude, but…’ and then (practically inevitably)proceed to be rude.
10. Being sick. Who has time to be sick?
11. Poor tech support (wait, was that a tautology and an oxymoron all in one point?)
12. People who clearly can’t understand ‘Eight items or less’ – yes we know it’s grammatically incorrect, buddy, but figure it out.
13. Groups of three or four people who dawdle while taking up the whole footpath – not everyone has all freaking day.
14. Homophobes – yo, Red Cross, rethink your blood donation rules.
15. The overuse of exclamation marks.
16. People who don’t replace the empty toilet rolls and paper towels; who don’t refill the liquid soap; and who don’t empty the dishwasher – it’s not beneath you. Honest.
17. People who whinge when the world and its grandmother doesn’t fall at their feet, even though they’ve done nothing to make their lives the way they want them to be.
18. The noise Siamese cats make.
19. Soapbox vegetarians/vegans, Catholics and reformed smokers.
20. The Palmolive NutraFruit ad where the girl is so desperate to use the product she showers in a public fountain – it’s soap, for Chrissakes.
Image: Gregory Szarkiewicz

21 July 2010

Time to rethink


Hi [online retailer that sells books and other items],

Has it occurred to you that offering someone discounts and prizes for buying items similar to those they recently paid full price for (with no freebies or bonus items) has a tendency to make said person feel as though they were ripped off the first time round?

Further, consider this: sending me a bunch of emails about buying watches is a little like closing the gate after the horse has bolted. I bought two watches from you this month. I only have two arms. Do the math.

Perhaps your marketing department needs to have a little rethink about your strategies.

Send me offers about shoes or barbells. But give me a break. I haven't even received my two watch purchases yet.

The Monstress


Image: healingdream

20 July 2010

Posts I nearly wrote


Coming up with ideas for blog posts is really not that difficult. But coming up with blog posts that work…that’s another story.

So far this week, for instance, I have considered the following as possible topics:
• navel gazing (looking at sickos’ jars of decades old lint was just too gross)
• 5 quotes I like (deciding was too tricky)
• why I love the gym (even though I don’t today because my ankle’s caning after my workout yesterday)
• wildlife of the Galapagos Islands (I may yet pursue this one)
• Steve is a no good, rotten fink (fodder for this potential post centered on a scoundrel poisoning my fabulous heroics at work yesterday)
• why PR is a vital part of crisis management (don't ask Steve, he clearly has no freaking idea)
• what happens to juvenile, sneaky, unprofessional people who behave in underhanded ways and refuse to play nicely with their colleagues (Steve found out today. Ha!)
• 20 things that piss me off (this number was a bit limiting right now - come to think of it, 100 would probably be a bit limiting in my current state of mind)
• why you can't tickle yourself and other puzzles
• places I would rather be right now
• how Justin Bieber gets his hair Ray Martin still but soft at the same time (I had to actually watch three (count 'em) YouTube videos to answer this – all starring the teen twerp).

Ah! The journeys I take to bring blog posts to you.

(If you want to know about Bieber's hair, look it up yourself. Iiieeewww. Bieber fever is worse than belly button lint. I feel so dirty.)

Image: Suat Eman

19 July 2010

5 weird blog posts about Mexico


1. The Mayor of Veracruz, Mexico commissioned a statue in honor of Edgar Hernandez, the little boy who was the first person in Mexico to come down with swine flu – nothing weird about that. What is bizarre is that little Edgar survived H1N1, and now Mexicans follow him into the bathroom to steal his urine and ‘make themselves swine flu-free’.

2. With an estimated worth of $1 billion, Mexico’s most wanted man Joaquin ‘Shorty’ Guzman has made it onto the Forbes magazine list of the world’s richest people this year.

3. Some Mexican culinary delicacies include:
• eyeballs – you must remove the iris, since it's bitter
• bull penis – some people compare it to shrimp (and they say size matters...)
• bull testicles – these are called ‘criadillas’
• grasshoppers
• worms – but not all types (well, that’s a relief!).

(Amigos for dinner, anyone?)

4. Forget Sweden, go to Mexico for a real massage where a local plant mixture is applied to your skin with cactus paddies. It’s said to remove toxins and rejuvenate you. The itchy service is quite costly, starting from £130 (about AUD$230) per hour. Might be worth it – if you like it rough.

5. The Spanish/Mexican artist, Santiago Sierra, created an exhibition of human excrement at London's Lisson Gallery. The 21 blocks of shit each measure 215 x 75 x 20cm and were collected by ‘scavengers’ in New Delhi and Jaipur, India.

Image: m_bartosch

18 July 2010

If I were retired...


If I were retired. I’d get up at sensible o’clock and make breakfast. I’d drink my tea while I checked my email, read the paper online and updated my blog.

Then, I’d take a shower and do a little housework before doing something fun: clothes shopping, visiting, baking, writing, doing volunteer work, meditating, riding my motorbike, beach walking, playing computer games or reading.

Later in the afternoon, I’d go to the gym or walk the dog. On the way home, I’d pick up any groceries we needed.

Then, I’d make dinner and spend the evening relaxing with a book or a DVD, going to the theatre or talking on the phone.

If that all became boring, I’d take on projects like renovating the house, making a vegie patch and learning leadlight. I’d sort all my photos, swim with a dolphin, make a claymation movie, learn to sail and volunteer abroad. I’d hand make cards, do Outward Bound, learn to surf and test drive a Ferrari. I’d travel to Greece, Mexico and Egypt, figure out how to juggle, water ski and learn to make sushi and soufflés.

Come to think of it, why wait until I retire? I think I’ll do some of that stuff now!

17 July 2010

20 things you never wanted to know about camels


1. Forty to fifty million years ago, camels were the size of rabbits and lived in forests in North America.
2. Humans domesticated camels about 5,000 years ago.
3. There are 17 million camels worldwide – 90% are dromedaries (the ones with one hump).
4. In scorching heat, a camel can go for 17 days without drinking.
5. A rat can last longer without water than a camel, and so can a giraffe.
6. You’ve heard camels called the ‘ships of the desert’, well, they can actually swim.
7. Camels have a reputation for spitting but they don't (it would be a waste of water). What they are actually doing is vomiting on you.
8. Camels never run, they just walk faster.
9. A camel has 34 teeth.
10. Despite the hump, a camel’s spine is straight.
11. Want to remember the difference between dromedaries and bactrians? Take the first letter in their names, make it a capital and drop it onto its flat side. The ‘D’ in dromedary has only one hump. The ‘B’ in bactrian has two humps.
12. A camel's poop is so dry you can use it immediately to start a fire.
13. Camels can eat thorny twigs without hurting their mouths but they avoid stony deserts, which hurt their feet.
14. Baby camels (calves) are born without humps.
15. Camels live until they’re about 50.
16. Camels can be milked, but the flavour is an acquired taste. Camel milk doesn’t curdle.
17. To combat sand, camels have three eyelids, two layers of eyelashes and can close their nostrils.
18. A camel can drink about 200 litres of water in a day.
19. There are over 160 words for ‘camel’ in the Arabic language.
20. Abdul Kassem Ismael, Grand Vizier of Persia in the tenth century, carried his library with him wherever he went. The 117,000 volumes were carried by 400 camels, which were trained to walk in alphabetical order.
Image: m_bartosch

16 July 2010

No sale


Dear [company which shall remain nameless or you’ll probably sue me],

Thank you so much for assisting me in deciding which email marketing software solution to recommend my company spends thousands of dollars on this year. Let me give you the tip: it’s not you.

When you were highly recommended to me by a reputable source, I dutifully put my (completed) purchase submission to senior management on hold to factor in your product, fully expecting that my experience with you would be one of untold delight and that your program’s offerings would deftly annihilate the competition.

My main task was to complete your (freshly created) column in a comparative table. The data to be entered was simple tick or cross (yes, you did have a fabulous tropical neon blue wigwam for a goose’s bridle or no you didn’t).

My first port of call was your website. After groping and stumbling around your site for more than thirty frustrating and fruitless minutes, I decided that effective communication was not your fort̩ (this was somewhat alarming given your field of alleged expertise) Рin fact, effective communication was not in your repertoire, your wardrobe, your office or even on your freaking planet.

Nevertheless, the recommendation stood. So, I clicked on a promising looking ‘live chat’ button. After all, you were local and I had ‘live chatted’ with one of your United States based competitors earlier in the day, so I knew how quickly this functionality could clear up any lingering questions and niggling doubts. (However, as I had completed only three of the twelve ‘features’ fields in my table, the lingering questions were considerable and the doubts were growing at the rate of Otto the fish.)

I obediently entered my name and company, my email address, my phone number, the names of my children, the number of times I have ever been to church and my shoe size, then expectantly clicked ‘submit’. Promising loading-type imagery ensued before your message appeared: ‘Everybody’s on a break and no bastard wants to give up their Monte Carlo and Tetley’s to talk with you – call us after morning tea’ (or words to that effect).

(The Otto-sized doubts would soon need an enormous saucepan to contain them.)

That original recommendation must have been really good – or I must be incredibly dogged, because after venting profusely all over the handy junior (think gallons of black slime with poisonous worms), I phoned the number you conveniently provided on the ‘f*** off’ screen of your failed live chat.

Steve or Sam or possibly Scott answered on the first ring. He not only sounded remarkably like a human being, he also seemed charming, friendly, intelligent and as if he might actually be able to be of some assistance. Clearly, first impressions can be deceiving. Steve/Sam/Scott was actually a complete moron in disguise.

(Soon Otto would need a bathtub.)

S/S/S informed me that I should have called the sales number in Sydney (silly me!) and rather than patch me through or have one of his sales colleagues call me back, he helpfully trotted out the sales number and I conscientiously jotted it down. ‘Ask for Chris or Luke’ he said.

Now, I have established that I am persistent and resilient in the face of adversity. I am not, however, a doormat, floor mat or any other type of rug, runner or carpet. Let me be very clear. At this point, I would have delivered all my company’s marketing communications via carrier pigeon before allowing the firm to purchase your product.

However, curiosity won me over. I dialled the number, played receptionist roulette and scored Luke.

From the outset, Luke’s demeanor struck me as lurking somewhere between puzzled and bewildered. When he needed to ask his colleague the answer to every second question, I realised he was leaning more towards retarded.

(Make that a swimming pool for Otto.)

His eventual response to one of the questions (that he didn’t know the answer to) really capped off the conversation. It went something like this:

Me: ‘So, can I send video using your email software?’

Luke: ‘Just hang on again…’ (Whisper with colleague in background – what? You guys don’t have mute buttons or hold muzak?) ‘It’s not best practice to send video by email.’

Are you seriously telling me how to market my company???

Me: ’Is that a “no”?’

Luke: ‘That’s right.’

Once I uncurled my hands from white-knuckled fists, wiped the blood from my nail-gouged palms and regained the ability breathe, I followed up with one last question. The biggie. That’s right: price.

‘Certainly, we can provide you with a price,’ said the ever-accommodating Luke. ‘I just need to shoot through a questionnaire by email. If you can complete it, we can look over your needs and expected use and one of our team will contact you to discuss your requirements and negotiate a price.’

Through gritted teeth, I told Luke the details of our expected usage and suggested that even a ballpark figure would assist in the timely completion of my report. My cursor blinked expectantly in the bottom right hand field of my table.

‘No problem,’ said Luke (and I breathed a – premature, as it happens – sigh of relief), ‘I just need to shoot through a questionnaire by email. If you can complete it, we can look over your needs and…’

So, dear [company which shall remain nameless], Luke’s email is foundering unopened in my ‘Deleted items’ folder and the proposal I submitted to senior management was somewhat scathing about your email marketing...er... – I was going to write ‘solution’ but I think ‘quagmire’ might be a better word.

Not yours (not ever, not even close),
The Monstress

Image: Salvatore Vuono

15 July 2010

Donuts make my brown eyes blue


The teen has declared that ‘when’ we buy her a kitten (shortly after she trains Nellie the dog not to eat it, which will likely be soon after salt blossoms at the rate she's going) she is going to name it Tequila.

My fourteen year old has never (I hope) encountered tequila, let alone partaken of the dubious delights of slammers, laybacks or lick, sip, sucks (try saying that after a couple of quick ones – hell, I can barely type it). So, out of all the possible names for kitties, chooses Tequila because…?

‘It’s a bird’s name. In a book. Miss Hunt told us.’

‘Ri-i-ight…?’

‘You know, Tequila Mockingbird.’

I laughed til wine almost came out of my nose.

When I relayed the story to my boss, she confessed that she thought for years Elvis’ ‘Return to sender’ was ‘Return Lucinda’.

(I’m told) it’s really quite embarrassing when you walk around singing ‘Slow talking Walter, the fire-engine guy’ for thirty-something years only to discover that the lyrics are actually, ‘Smoke on the water, fire in the sky.’

Similarly, I can never hear the Go-Gos Our lips are sealed without recalling one DJs confession that he had always heard ‘Alex the seal’ (Wayne’s World fans probably think ‘islands of seals’).

Greg from Dharma & Greg has a habit of mucking up the words. He says: ‘I want to rock and roll all night... And part of every day!’ Dharma tries to correct him (‘...Party every day’). Greg drunkenly replies, ‘If you party every day, how can you get enough rest to rock and roll the next night?’ Hmmm.

There are other mishearings: Round John Virgin crops up every Christmas, just about every nine-year-old finishes the Lord's Prayer with ‘and lead a snot into temptation’, and the number of times ‘Jesus’ crops up as ‘cheeses’ in hymns, prayers and elsewhere boggles the mind. Brie and cheddar, anyone?

I am also amused by the following (I’m not going to include any from James Reyne – he mumbles so much we’ll be here all day):
• ‘Rock heel sway, talk heel sway’ instead of ‘Walk this way, talk this way’ (from the Aerosmith song)
• ‘Australians are all ostriches’ rather than ‘Australians all, let us rejoice’ (if you dson’t know where that’s from, move to Botswana)
• ‘Take your pants off and make it happen’ instead of ‘Take your passion and make it happen’ (from Flashdance)
• ‘This is ground control to Major Tongue’ – which should be ‘This is ground control to Major Tom’ (from Space Oddity)
• ‘She's got electric boobs, her mom has two’ instead of ‘She's got electric boots, a mohair suit’ (from B-b-benny and the Jets)
• ‘Hold me closer, Tony Danza’ – actually, ‘Hold me closer, tiny dancer’ (from the Elton John song).

These kinds of mishearings or misinterpretations are called ‘mondegreens’. Some chick called Sylvia Wright coined the term back on the ‘50s after mishearing ‘laid him on the green’ as ‘Lady Mondegreen’. The term was enshrined in the 2008 update of Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary.

Wikipedia reports that the top three mondegreens reported to ‘mondegreen expert’ (I kid you not – imagine his business card!) Jon Carroll are:
• ‘Gladly, the cross-eyed bear’ (from a hymn) instead of ‘gladly the cross I'll bear’
• ‘There's a bathroom on the right’ instead of ‘There's a bad moon on the rise’ (the line at the end of each verse in Bad Moon Rising)

...and the top mondegreen of all time:

• ‘'Scuse me while I kiss this guy’ rather than ‘'Scuse me while I kiss the sky’(from Purple Haze).

To sum it all up, Sylvia reckons: ‘The point about what I shall hereafter call mondegreens, since no one else has thought up a word for them, is that they are better than the original.’

Tequila Mockingbird? She might be on to something there. Cheers!

Image: federico stevanin

14 July 2010

7 real but weird disorders


1. Pica – fifty cents worth of mixed wing nuts, please

You’ve heard of anorexia and bulimia. Well, pica is an eating disorder where people eat weird things like: dirt, glass, sand, wire, hair, faeces, lead, plastic, chalk, wood, coal, string and needles. (My dog, Nellie, clearly has pica.)

2. Alien hand syndrome – get your hand off it

This is a rare disorder where even though you can feel sensation in your hand, it feels possessed by a force outside your control. (This often happens to me when I’m passing the cookie jar.) The condition is also called Dr Strangelove syndrome for obvious reasons.

3. Foreign accent syndrome – I'm French. Why do think I have this outrageous accent, you silly king

If you have foreign accent syndrome, you suddenly and unexpectedly develop a foreign accent. (My dad does this every time he talks to my Dutch grandmother. Does this count?)

This may not be a fatal disorder (nobody ever died of sounding Chinese), but sufferers need to get used to their new accent or may employ speech therapy to help their speech revert.

4. Alice in Wonderland syndrome – eat me

This condition distorts visual perception so that close objects appear disproportionately tiny, as though viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. It’s usually temporary – the syndrome is associated with migraines, so perhaps when he wrote about Alice, Lewis Carroll was describing his own experiences with these headaches (or maybe he just ate one too many special mushrooms.)

5. Ondine's curse – the girl leaves him breathless

Ondine’s Curse victims can’t breathe spontaneously but must consciously will each breath. They suffocate if they fall asleep.

Ondine's Curse borrows its name from the legend of Ondine, a water nymph, who fell in love with a human, thereby forfeiting her immortality. Though he promised his undying love, Ondine found him asleep in another woman’s arms. As he had pledged to love Ondine with every waking breath, she cursed him so that he would die the moment he fell asleep.

6. Hypertrichosis – the folically well-endowed

People with hypertrichosis have hair growing all over their bodies – including their eyelids. Even their ears can sprout long curls (and I thought my partner needed a nose and ear hair trimmer). Some sufferers have a hairy little appendage called a faun tail. These folks have always attracted enormous interest, especially as sideshow stars.

7. Genital retraction syndrome – penis panic

Victims of genital retraction syndrome become convinced that their genitals are disappearing into their bodies. It can be contagious, sparking off ‘penis panics’, such as the one that overtook Singapore in 1967 in which thousands of men became convinced that their penises were being stolen. The story was contained by a complete media blackout.

Often blamed on witchcraft, it's thought to be an extreme overreaction to normal genital shrinking from cold or other causes.

Image: Engraving scanned from an original book dated 1866, this is a line art illustration by John Tenniel from Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

13 July 2010

Joan


I like Joan* despite the fact that she is the kind of girl who irons her sensible underpants, combs her perfect pencil thin eyebrows and probably scrubs the already pristine toilet after every use (I’m sure her excrement is germ free and pine scented).

When I first met Joan three years ago, she was flawlessly dressed, wearing a Cue skirt with a Country Road top. Her hair was bobbed becomingly and her shoes matched her handbag. I soon learned that her entire wardrobe faultlessly mixed and matched – comprising tasteful shades of black, beige, charcoal and pearl grey (no favourite pink jumper or ratty blue sweats to be found).

Her handbag was perfectly organised, her workstation was immaculate – her calendar was always on the right month and she never had piles of paper on her desk, she had fans. She could fold up a newspaper/napkin/letter (and, I’m told, strip of toilet paper) so quickly and crisply that she could have created Sadako’s thousand cranes on her own before morning tea. I’ll bet there were no lolly wrappers on the floor of her car – in fact, even the car mat lint and dashboard dust was probably in hiding in fear of its life.

Joan remembered everybody’s birthday and gave understated, elegantly wrapped ‘thoughts’ to one and all. She worked harder and longer than everybody else. She didn’t sweat at the gym.

All this, and she was nice.

Surprisingly, soon after I met her, Joan told me she was never, ever having children.
She couldn’t cope with an animal, let alone a baby.

Joan regularly murdered pot plants. Nintendo Pocket Pets in her care continually carked it and the only living breathing pet she had ever (briefly) tolerated was a goldfish. Even that became too much for her and was dispatched to take its chances in the sewer system. A baby stood no chance in her world.

Let me add some further context…

Joan was an individual who lined up her (same brand) herbs and spices in alphabetical order – with all the labels facing front. Ditto CDs. And books.

She told me her idea of a ‘fun night in’ was rearranging the tins and packets in her pantry, refolding and colour coordinating the (beige and pearl grey) towels in her linen press, updating her DVD catalogue spreadsheet or arranging her shoes (still in their boxes) by colour, style and replacement value.

Joan has been known to drive halfway to work, idly wonder whether she remembered to raise the bathroom blind and rush home to check that she did (not because some poor pittosporum might need the sunlight but because her house would not look symmetrical if the bathroom blind was down while the laundry blind was up).

Then there are volume/heat/power controls. Joan could only run an electrical appliance on an even numbered setting. The car radio, for instance, could only be played at volume level two, four or six (eight would be too loud). The hairdryer could only be operated on heat setting two (of three). I don’t even want to think about more personal appliances.

Joan also had laundry neuroses.

She had to separate her laundry into whites, colours and darks (fair enough). She then had to divide colours (clearly mostly her partner’s) into a rainbow of loads – pinks, oranges and reds; blues and greens; yellows; and greys. O-o-okay. Slight overkill, methinks, but it takes all kinds.

Here’s where she lost me. She had to subdivide each pile into clothing types (evidently, the washing machine would explode if a shirt were laundered with a load of socks). She must have done thirty loads of washing every week. She probably singlehandedly kept Lever & Kitchen in business.

And on the clothesline? Only pegs of the same colour could hold up the same garment (for example, you couldn’t have a blue peg and a pink peg – or *gasp* a wooden peg – hanging up the same top). And if the pegs actually matched the garment (pink pegs, pink top – so much the better). OCD much???

Joan cleaned under her fridge once a week, dusted daily, and squeegeed her shower screen twice after each shower. She could only have silver and red ornaments on her Christmas tree and just the thought of tinsel gave her hives.

My point being, if plants were disorderly and fish were untidy, imagine what a kitten – or, indeed, a baby – would have done to her well ordered world.

Fast forward and Joan straggles in to work an hour late on her first day back from maternity leave in a rumpled dress and a pair of ratty leggings because she hadn’t given a thought to clothes and hadn’t even realised she didn’t own any trousers that would fit. Her shoes are scuffed, her hair hasn’t seen a cut or colour in six months and there’s a blob of baby puke on her left shoulder. I don’t think she’s wearing any makeup. And when someone mentions housework, she just laughs.

Ms Consc-y does not a scrap of work all day but instead swaps baby stories and photos with the other young mums, repeatedly calls the childcare centre, expresses milk, reads my magazine over coffee and leaves before I do.

I am not criticising here. I think it’s bloody hilarious. And lovely.

Little Miss Ava* has finally enabled Mama Joan to loosen up!

…I wonder if Joan still has daytime throw pillows for her bed and night time sleeping pillows that need to be swapped over each morning and evening...I’m guessing not.

*Not her real name.

Image: Clare Bloomfield

12 July 2010

My fantasy supermarket


Even I think it's tragic that my fantasy life currently centres on grocery shopping. Nevertheless...

Nobody likes grocery shopping, but if you have to do it, you might as well do it in comfort and style with a minimum of stress and fuss.

In my fantasy supermarket, there is no carpark angst and no trolley rage.

No grizzly small children are allowed and there is a free professional childcare centre at the entrance.

In the vegie section of my fantasy supermarket, the vegies are always fresh. There are always enough plastic bag rolls and they are always where you want them – not two aisles over near the onions when you’re trying to buy capsicums. There are also always paper bags for the mushrooms so you don’t end up with a plastic-wrapped sweaty wad of grey pulp.

The plastic bags in my supermarket are clearly marked with tear off points (the perforations are more than sufficient to allow the bag to be removed from the roll with the slightest tug – there’s no need to wrench and wrestle. Further, the bags are clearly marked with a big friendly arrow, pointing to the end that opens – no guessing games needed. And the bags themselves open effortlessly – no wondering if the bag is, in fact, a cruel Candid Camera type joke and doesn’t actually open at all.

Still in the vegie section, near the potatoes, particularly the loose Dutch creams, Kenebecs and pink-eyes, there is a complimentary box of antibacterial wipes and a rubbish receptacle, so that the dirt on your fingers from selecting potatoes ends up in the bin and not on your jeans.

In my supermarket, as in other supermarkets, the management recognises that health restrictions mean customers must use tongs to pick up their loose bread loaves. To help said customers comply, tongs are large enough and open wide enough to pick up said bread. Further, the chains by which the tongs are attached to the wall are actually long enough so customers can manoeuvre a loaf of bread from the shelf into the waiting bag.

My supermarket never runs out of critical cooking ingredients like fresh rosemary, zucchinis or Mexibeans.

In my fantasy supermarket, not only are the prices per 100g/litre/item listed. There are also helpful tags in each section saying things like: ‘this one’s the cheapest’, and ‘this one’s the best quality’. Best of all, none of the tags cover one another and they are all in plain English and at least 12 point type. They all relate precisely to the item they are under.

Barbecue chickens and toothpaste are always sold at half price.

The deli is not the length of a runway and the counter staff notice and remember who arrived next (grim, fat old cows who lie and claim they arrived first are instantly evaporated). The staff don't sigh impatiently when you order numerous items and they don't think 300 grams is 200 grams.

There are no more than five varieties of anything – especially tissues – to choose from.

In my supermarket, signage is spelt correctly and is grammatically sound. 'Eight items or less' is outlawed and replaced with 'No more than eight items'. And all the customers follow this guideline - there are no chockers trolleys in the express lane (the evaporation ray at work again).

There are never any more than two people ahead of you in a checkout queue. There are gazillions of checkouts and none of them has one of those nasty little green signs on it saying, ‘Sorry, checkout closed’ – especially when you can clearly see two staff members chitchatting idly by the service desk (no staff members chat idly near the service desk or anywhere else).

When you are shopping alone and you begin unpacking your trolley at the register and suddenly recall that you meant to get a tub of low fat Philly cheese, your blood pressure levels are safe. In my fantasy supermarket, you easily catch the attention of a hovering staff member (whose sole duty is to make your shopping experience an utter delight) and he zips across to dairy, practically at the speed of light, and retrieves the (correct) forgotten item.

In my fantasy supermarket, the checkout chicks know what all the fruits and vegetables are. You don’t have to identify, apricots, radishes or leeks for them.

Nobody scowls at you as though you are a planet-destroyer if you decide to use plastic bags.

When you pay, you can use your cheque, savings or *gasp* your credit account and you can use your Frequent shopper card, even if you order your groceries online.

Once you have loaded your groceries in to your car, a helpful person appears to return your trolley for you. He doesn’t give you back your gold coin because you didn’t have to insert one to use the trolley in the first place.

I still haven't figured out how my fantasy supermarket might help me deal with getting the groceries from the car boot to the kitchen cupboards but I’ll work on it. Oh, hang on. That's what teenagers are for (I knew they had some purpose!).

Image: Free-StockPhotos.com

11 July 2010

Drinks I have known and (almost) forgotten


There are three drinks that will never again pass my lips:
• Stones green ginger wine
• Mercury cider
• Scotch whisky.

When I think of these, I think of them on the way back through my mouth. Yuck.

You’d think I would feel the same way about port after the cask debacle/s – but I can sip a post-dinner glass these days (not, however, if it came from a cask).

The most amazing drink I have imbibed was something called a Pan galactic gargle blaster from Rockefellers in Salamanca Place. I was underage and it was blue and bubbly and arrived in a fishbowl with multiple straws.

Another revelation was the worm. I can’t recall exactly how it went but it was a shooter with a squiggle of grenadine coated Advocaat suspended in something clear.

For a while, vodka and orange, vodka lime and lemonade, and Southern Comfort and Coke were the drinks de jour. But they’re too much like lolly water for my middle-aged tongue.

Important things I have learnt about drinks:
• Pernod is something to watch other people play with – it tastes vile
• paint your nails pink if you’re planning to drink Cosmopolitans, so you’ll match
• Midori and lemonade only tastes like cordial (ditto Anything Cooler or anything and raspberry) – it sneaks up and packs a punch.

Which reminds me, a couple of years ago, I had an intense crush on lemonade icy poles (Kirov lime vodka and Coke). Even though they’re brown and alcoholic, they taste like the real on-a-stick deal.

From the first taste, white wines progressed predictably from the cheap and sickly (fruity lexia), via moselle and riesling to chardonnay. There was a slight detour when I discovered sauternes but it hurts my teeth just thinking about the sweetness. After a brief and torrid fling with pinot gris, I settled in to a steady affair with sauvignon blanc.

I have never been much of a red wine drinker – the headaches aren’t worth it and it turns your teeth grey. But the progression went much as the whites – from bubbly, syrupy Maglieri via merlot to shiraz. I never did grow in to the big (or even the medium) reds – except in a boeuf bourguignon.

These days, a glass of sparkling is just the ticket to kick off Friday night drinks (I had Moët once and was disappointed but I was very taken with Bolly) and a G&T (Bombay Sapphire) is perfect on a summer Saturday. A nice Marlborough sauvignon blanc (like Oyster Bay) is the norm with dinner. A Bailey’s over ice is a terrific nightcap.

My penpal tells me absinthe is quite the experience, though what would possess anyone to drink something green that tastes like liquorice is beyond me – even if it was in the form of something called ‘green fairies’. Perhaps it was novelty value. Apparently, the ritual goes like this:

Put a special flat spoon (with various shaped holes) over the top of your glass. Put a sugar cube on the spoon. Pour your absinthe shot over the sugar. Light the sugar cube. If you get flaming bits of sugar dripping into the glass, that's a green fairy. When the fire goes out, pour cold water over the remainder of sugar cube until it’s melted. The absinthe turns from clear greenish to a honeydew melon cloudy light green. (Chemistry in action.) Add ice cubes and have at it (if you’re feeling brave).

I suppose I can’t bag him out too much. The other night, my son had me try a Flaming something or other – bourbon and apple juice. *Shudder* Let’s just say it was a waste of good apple juice.

10 July 2010

Top 10 'I feel old' moments


1. My son asked me, ‘Mum, what are those big black CDs called?’

2. The sales guy in Angus & Robertson called me ma’am.

3. In 2004. my daughter thought I was cool for knowing the lyrics to Summer Rain by Slinkee Minx (I didn’t have the heart to tell her Belinda Carlisle did it first in the 80s).

4. My daughter told me I wasn’t embarrassed to change in the gym because I ‘didn’t need to worry about all that anymore’. (Believe it or not, she’s still alive.)

5. I dragged out an old manual typewriter and my daughter didn’t know what it was.

6. My daughter didn’t know Mr Snuffleupagus was originally invisible.

7. I went in to a costume hire place for an 80s party and they tried to rent me a dress I’m sure I once owned.

8. I found events that I actually remember in a history book.

9. I realise people turning 18 this year were born in 1992.

It’s not all bad, though.

10. When I was 14 and heading home from my part time job, I was stoked when a mother said to her little boy, ‘Stand up and give the lady your seat.’ Wow, I was sooo grown up!

Actually, maybe it is all bad. That was 26 years ago.

09 July 2010

What's in a name?


My boss at the superannuation firm where I work wants an impressive job title for our newly minted Business Development Officer. It can’t be anything to do with sales or marketing, she tells me, because this might put the punters off. And business development sounds a bit too much like sales, so it gets the flick.

How about ‘Customer Relationship Manager’? I ask, through gritted teeth, trying not to think about how many times I will bash my head against my desk if this new girl is promoted from ‘officer’ to ‘manager’ before she even starts, especially since I’m a lowly ‘coordinator’ – the fact that my big trap will have caused the rise is just icing on the cake.

Luckily, the boss is not sold.

‘Client Liaison? Superannuation Consultant? Adviser? Planner?’

‘She’s more like a guide,’ the boss says, ‘guiding clients through the retirement maze’.

‘Tour guide, then?’ I snort.

I quickly arrange my face into a mask of seriousness when she shoots me a look that needs antibacterial Ajax.

‘Just kidding. Retirement planner? Retirement specialist?’ (Sounds like a geriatrician.)

‘Yes, yes. But more like, you know, someone who puts together all the right options for you. Like an interior designer...’

‘But for retirement?’ I try not to smirk. I really do.

‘But for retirement!’ She does that mini double clap thing to emphasize that I’m on the right track.

‘Retirement Designer, then? Retirement Architect, perhaps? Futures Facilitator? Futures Artist!’ (Bullshit artist? Oh, that would be me.)

‘Senior Tomorrow Engineer? Chief Horizon Strategist?’

I am astonished that she hasn’t picked up the tiniest ounce of sarcasm which is just about pooling on the desk in front of me. But I can practically see the thought bubble over her head as she envisages how these titles would appear on a business card.

She sighs and her brow does that little furrow thing. ‘I don’t think we’re quite there, but give it some thought and get back to me.’

Sure. And while I’m at it, I’ll put together a proposal to change my job title to Almighty Bullshit Goddess.

Image: Pixomar

08 July 2010

7 reasons to get organised


We all know how to get organised – my mother started telling me to put things back where I found them when I was a toddler. Today everyone from my boss to Howard’s Storage World is on my case. I know I have to use a calendar, de-clutter, make lists...

But what are the benefits of being organised?

What’s in it for you?


1. Focus on what you want
Disorganisation dilutes direction. Rather than worrying about where your library books have got to or when the power bill needs to be paid, you can focus on your goals. Whether that’s cleaning the barbecue or world domination, you’ll be able to point your energy at what’s important.

2. Be more productive
You can get more done in less time if you’re organised. Group like tasks to save time. If you have three errands to run in the city, do them all at once to save three separate trips.

3. Time is precious
Plan your day/week/month in advance. You’ll know if you have time to meet your mate for a drink and you’ll know when you’re free to help your mum clean out the garage. You’ll also know which tasks are most important and how much you can afford to spend on each.

4. Work more efficiently
You’ll get your work done in a fraction of the time it normally takes if you have the reports/passwords/files/phone numbers you need at your fingertips and not under your lunch wrappers/gym clothes/library books (oh, there they are!).

5. Less stress
Make that mad morning panic to find your drink bottle/can opener/other shoe a thing of the past and ditch the sick feeling you get when you realise you’ve forgotten a date/parking fine/key ingredient. When you’re organised, your energy isn’t sapped by minutiae – you have more bounce and bubble.

6. Image is everything
Some people have an aura of cool. Become one of those people.

7. Flexibility and creativity
Being organised gives you a safety net so you can climb higher, swing wider and push all the boundaries.

Ultimately, the benefit of being organised is more ‘me time’ and less time spiking my blood pressure while frantically riffling through the bathroom cabinet/bottom drawer/storeroom.

Organisation is the best chill pill. Take one.

(And don't forget to return your library books.)

Image: healingdream

07 July 2010

'All Giggle, Blush, half Pertness, and half Pout.’


– Lord Byron



The web is full of urban legends about embarrassment, like the woman who uses holiday glitter spray instead of feminine hygiene spray before a trip to the gynecologist…

But there’s plenty of fodder closer to home.

My boss told a lovely story at a women’s lunch about returning a pair of jeans she had bought and having her knickers fall out on the counter.

At the time, I couldn’t come up with a story. The only ones I could think of had a cringe factor too high (like being drunk and embarrassing – pick a time) or were simply not funny (telling an amusing tidbit as my own, only to realise I was relaying it to the originator of said tidbit).

On reflection, it was pretty embarrassing the time my (then) partner and I had friends around and we all decided to hit the town. We put on coats and scarves and headed out the door and up the driveway, only to remember we had week old twins in the nursery.

Winding up in the middle of the Moomba parade in a rusted out Datsun 180B was also pretty spectacular in the embarrassment stakes.

And then there was fondlilng the wrong guy’s butt in Allans music. (Mind you, I don’t think he was upset.)

There have been other moments – a dropped motorcycle is always embarrassing, as is a skirt too short or top too revealing. Turning up at the wrong time or on the wrong day can be right up there. And toilet disasters are high on the list. Not to mention the ‘tried and trues’ (or at least ‘tried and only moderately embellisheds’) my family dredges up at the slightest provocation.

When you’re 14, everything is embarrassing: parents, uncool food in your lunch, parents, a bad fringe day, carrying a fold up table across the road, being in town during school time, parents, shopping in a store where you bought something you’re wearing, asking a stranger for help and anything to do with underwear.

I know. These things, and many others, trigger hissing, shouts, stamps and blushes from the teen of the house.

I have some sympathy.

I can remember my mother taking me shopping when I was a teen at a discount store called Venture. It was okay to be seen outside the store, okay to be seen in the store (if ‘they’ could see you, ‘they’ were in there, too) but those fraught seconds as she led me from the concourse through the doorway were pure hell. What if someone from school saw me? What if they thought I wanted to venture in to Venture? What if they found out my mum actually bought some of my clothes there? I would surely die.

My teen’s embarrassment has one advantage. If I need some solo shopping time, I just claim to be buying myself some underwear and she runs a mile.

There’s a little conundrum attached to this, however.

If we’re buying bras for the teen, I have to carry them around the store and in to the change rooms, pretending that they’re mine because it would be embarrassing if someone thought they were hers (because no other teenage girl on the planet wears bras, obviously).

On the other hand, carrying bras that really are mine is so embarrassing, she can’t even come to the store.

Mind you, I can do without her input. The one time she was with me, she told me, ‘You don’t need to get matching sets – it’s not like anyone ever sees them.’

In her eyes, I guess forty’s the same as dead. You can’t imagine the temptation to really ramp up her embarrassment factor with a correction!

Or maybe you can.

Image: Suat Eman

06 July 2010

10 guilty pleasures


1. Chucking a sickie

This is topical because I’m home today (but I’m actually sick which doesn’t count ‘cause it’s no fun).

I’m talking a mental health day or a doona day with a great book and some yummy eats, no kids, no spouse – just me and the couch.

2. Pampering

A hot bath in the middle of winter with a mud mask, exfoliating body scrub and a hair treatment. Once upon a time, I could read a book while I was soaking but I need my glasses these days and they fog up. So, just some iTunes, rose or lavender scented candles and my thoughts.

Similarly, a trip to the beauty parlour, hairdresser or masseuse is lavish and relaxing. Its positive emotional effects last for days.

3. Spuds

Oven baked potatoes, smashed with margarine, salt and pepper. Blissful comfort food!

Cheese and chocolate also feature highly on the foody pleasures list. As does any meal I don’t have to cook.

4. Trashy reads

Paperbacks with negative nutritional value – Mills and Boon Blazes, Lee Child novels, Harlan Coben novels – or glossy rags – Marie Claire, Women’s Health or Madison.

5. Grog

A G&T on a summer evening; a glass of sparkling on a Friday night; an expensive NZ sav blanc any time - the sun's always over the yardarm somewhere.

6. Lingerie

Pretty things – red polka dots, pink flowers, black lace, white satin… With the right smalls and a dab of luscious perfume, I feel decadent even in old jeans.

7. Shopping

Buying clothes, accessories or makeup. Even grocery shopping can be fun if I’m buying gorgeous fresh produce for a special meal.

8. Sleeping

Taking a nap in the middle of the day or sleeping in til ten in the morning, just because I can.

9. Riding

A summer motorcycle fang when I should be doing other things – good company, a clear blue sky, no wind, a bit of heat in the sun, some curves and corners in the road and no particular destination. Heaven!

(Sailing comes a close second.)

10. Catching up

Taking a break for coffee with Lin or Chris; grabbing a drink with Rosey or Adam; having lunch with mum or Kate; or, best of all, drinking endless cups of tea at Evi's kitchen table.

Image: Carlos Porto

05 July 2010

Food for thought


I’ve been in my workplace just long enough to scrape in two monthly morning teas. At each event, someone drew three names out of a hat. Those drawn were charged to supply the next morning tea. It’s a bit like the reaping in The Huger Games, really. And, guess what...

Lucky, lucky me.

I get to work with Steve (who says he’s attended one morning tea in the last 12 months) and Paula who calls me Jacinta (not my name) and whose role eludes me.

I have to figure out what to take.

Scary.

These things are always political… Somehow, you have to be impressive without looking like you’re showing off (this puts the giant chocolate gateau off limits).

Fatso pregnancy cookies are also out – I already flashed them round my team in a fit of friend‑making during my first fortnight. And Florentines are gone – the boss has staked her claim in this department and there’ll be no toe‑treading from me.

Meringues are out (women don’t like white powder on their boobs). Party pies and sausage rolls go like hotcakes but even if I make them from scratch (the rolls and pies, not the hotcakes), people might mistake them for the pre-fab variety and then my credibility will be down the toilet.

I’m told slices rock but I haven’t really been a slice girl since making chocolate crunch from the indispensible Central Cookery Book in the late 70s. Someone suggested soup but, really, who has soup for morning tea?

Then there’s the calorific versus diet‑friendly debate – the fruit and sushi platter versus profiteroles and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.

So, how about the humble scone? Bill brought scones last week (his grandfather made them). I'd never tasted a scone that contained coconut before. They were somewhat on the arid side. Jarrod said they were all right with jam on them. They weren't. I suspect it might look a smidge like one-upmanship if I caused a Devonshire tea to materialise. (Though, why one would even bother to demonstrate scone superiority in that circumstance, I don’t know.)

That’s another thing: this morning tea exercise is much easier for blokes. They seem to be able to get away with buying a pack of TimTams/party pies/donuts or having their mother/wife/grandfather cook for them. If they do actually venture into circles culinary, it doesn’t matter that a three-year-old could better their charred pikelets/lame corn relish dip/stale fairy bread because people are just impressed that they gave food preparation a go. Bravo! Little clap for the big man.

On a serious note, I have a handicap (I'm not averse to dredging up childhood deprivation). My mum wasn’t born in Australia, so I didn’t even discover the joys of staples like chocolate ripple cake and jelly slice - let alone prepare them - until well into my thirties. (When we were kids, she thought sending us along to girl guides with French stick slices smeared with John West tuna paste was classy.)

Luckily, I’m also a bloody good cook.

So, as for this wretched morning tea - at this point, I’m fairly committed to taking along my divine (if I do say so myself) spinach pie that looks healthy but only tastes so good because there’s half a kilo of extra tasty in it. Maybe I could balance it out with my sister’s low fat fudge that looks and tastes sinful but won’t trash any diets.

And when I inevitably run over budget, will I pay for the extra ingredients from my own wallet? You bet I will. (God, my ego’s expensive.)

Image: Simon Howden

04 July 2010

It's the thought that counts, right?


I spent $16 in Angus & Robertson on Thursday. What did I get for my money? Two birthday cards. They were nice birthday cards – tasteful, thick, glossy cello-wrapped items with bling glued artfully on the fronts. But nevertheless, they were just birthday cards.

“That’s not a card, that’s a present,” Jarrod said when I returned to the office, muttering about highway robbery.

He’s right – or he would have been, a few years back.

Time was, I could get away with a box of Roses or a bottle of 4711, get change from a tenner and still leave Mum/Dad/Oma smiling (okay, probably not 4711 for Dad). But even taking in to account inflation, this sort of gift would look cheap these days. And I’d rather give no present at all than proffer something below par.

Part of the shift is that I earn more than I did when I was a dish pig or bar girlie, so I should be able to afford a better calibre gift, right? This theory works right up to where I factor in that I also have more bills – the big scary kind that only a house and a teenager can generate.

I’m starting to figure that an $8 card and the gifts that goes with it every time someone near and dear has a birthday, all adds up – and don’t even get me started on Christmas. Throw in a few good friends and I’m practically bankrupt. The whole gift shemozzle’s creating a pile more debt to add to the mortgage and the orthodontics. And for what? To look affluent and generous. Or, more specifically, to not look tight.

Worth it?

Nope.

Who even looks at the card itself? Isn’t it the message inside that people hang out for? Especially mums, dads and omas. Maybe I can tee up the teen with some Aquadhere and sequins – about time she earned her keep.

My mum goes wild for home‑baked olive bread and Dad can’t resist homemade chocolate fudge. Oma? I'm sure she’s still partial to a box of Roses, even though she knows the cool factor is nada or worse.

Think of the brownie points I’d get for effort and I could put the resulting grand into my home loan or pay off the last of the braces.

Brilliant!

Now that that’s decided, when am I going to find time to bake?

*Sigh*