This was my dream last night..
It's my wedding day. I'm about to go downstairs to the reception and I'm in a bedroom checking my makeup in a compact mirror. At this point in my dream, I'm having loud and preoccupying thoughts about how my lips and cheeks look like they've been raped by the 80's. I then resign myself to the fact that I am looking hideous and go downstairs to the reception, very aware that I am, indeed, Barack Obama's daughter. Sadly, daddy isn't downstairs, nor is my husband. There are, however, rows upon rows of table tennis tables for all the guests, none of whom I seem to know. At this point in my dream, my brain decides to reveal to me that they're all from country Australia. I decide to take five and look outside. They're children playing ring-a-rosy quite sweetly and for some reason they're dressed like various story characters. One is Snow White, another is Sherlock Holmes. Disturbingly, they have children's bodies and adult faces.
Flash forward. I'm now dead. For some reason, someone has decided to bury me in my bridesmaid dress from cousin Rebecca's wedding. However, being dead hasn't stopped me from being able to walk past my body with Luke, which is for some reason, on display Lenin style. Luke comments happily on what a realistic job they've done on me. Too bad dead me has turned into a clothes shop mannequin - one of the ones that have no distinguishable features and are all white and angular. I do, however, take a moment to think about how this means I now have GREAT cheekbones.
Flash forward. I'm working on the Governor of California's new electoral campaign. No, sadly not Arnie's, as I distinctly remember asking this in my dream - it was just some other guy. My dream ended on putting EVERYTHING to do with the campaign (including staplers and post-it notes) in a glass trophy case.
I don't even know what to do with this.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
You know it's not a great day when you step in human poo
There's something to be said about work toilets. Yeah, they're grimy, that's a given. Up until today, the girls of ground floor north had to put up with toilets that didn't flush and smelt like piss. The afore mentioned problems were easy enough to deal with. Ok, not ideal, but if you walked into the toilet and the seat was down, you knew it was a no go zone.
Today was different.
I walked into the toilet, turned around, went to hover (it's germy and I have good thigh muscles) and then looked down to see a brown smear on the ground. While I'm still hoping it was dirt (afterall, it did rain today), an email went around a couple of us, that included the words 'BEWARE, HUMAN SHIT, ON FLOOR, GROSS'.
Why do I have to deal with this? It's not a Tuesday problem. In fact, it's not even a Friday problem. It's a aim problem with people who should be toilet trained. I can't even work out how this happened.
I'm in a delicate state, and while writing this post, I've realised I've forgotten to tell some very important people of this matter. But then again, this is not the first time this has happened. Back in 2003, I was doing some extremely important outlet mall shopping in the US when I needed to go to the toilet mid way through deciding whether to purchase some denim knee high boots. Yes, you read correctly; denim, knee high - it was 2003 after all. Actually, you're right, there's no excuse. I went to the toilet which ended up being a ten minute walk into the middle of the car park. It was a tiny, lonesome cubicle which, let's just say, served as target practice for both numbered varieties.
Let's hope tomorrow is a better day.
Today was different.
I walked into the toilet, turned around, went to hover (it's germy and I have good thigh muscles) and then looked down to see a brown smear on the ground. While I'm still hoping it was dirt (afterall, it did rain today), an email went around a couple of us, that included the words 'BEWARE, HUMAN SHIT, ON FLOOR, GROSS'.
Why do I have to deal with this? It's not a Tuesday problem. In fact, it's not even a Friday problem. It's a aim problem with people who should be toilet trained. I can't even work out how this happened.
I'm in a delicate state, and while writing this post, I've realised I've forgotten to tell some very important people of this matter. But then again, this is not the first time this has happened. Back in 2003, I was doing some extremely important outlet mall shopping in the US when I needed to go to the toilet mid way through deciding whether to purchase some denim knee high boots. Yes, you read correctly; denim, knee high - it was 2003 after all. Actually, you're right, there's no excuse. I went to the toilet which ended up being a ten minute walk into the middle of the car park. It was a tiny, lonesome cubicle which, let's just say, served as target practice for both numbered varieties.
Let's hope tomorrow is a better day.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Lately
Last week, my life was about to change. I actually just deleted two paragraphs of pure work related ranting. I decided against it because a furious finger vomit was not what I originally had in mind for this post. Rather, I wanted my words to be about fullness, satisfaction and happiness. So here it is.
Last week, my life was about to change. There was a chance I was going to lose my job. The prospect of this made me feel both excited and slightly pukey. Thankfully, I still have it. As much as the place sometimes infuriates me and makes me want to stab myself in the eye, when I leave, I want it to be on my terms. Perhaps in the form of a sign painted in glitter and emoticons dotted around. Or maybe a happy dance, I haven't decided yet.
With the prospect of at least another couple of months of guaranteed pay, I'm feeling a strong urge to buy shit I don't need. The other day, to celebrate keeping a job I hate, I bought a t-shirt with two girls punching each other in the face. It was either that, or one saying 'We Both Love Soup'. In fact, I might still buy that one because honestly, it just tickles me.
On the weekend, one of my worst fears came true. Twice; I was pulled up to assist at a magic show. The first was a lot more traumatic than the second. It was in front of a packed room in the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Now, if you don't already know, I am rather slow witted. In fact, if I even think of remotely witty come back, it will be about three days later and probably on the toilet. This is why on stage audience participation scares me. The trick I assisted with (and by 'assisted' I mean thinking of a card not being sawed in half) was over pretty quickly and luckily, I didn't have to speak too much. However, my other worst fear came to life: the funny man's kiss on the cheek. Now, I've been to a lot of audience participation shows. I know what happens when they get a female up from the audience and the dude asks for a kiss on the cheek. It's the good old slide of the cheek so it's planted on her lips. I was so not going to fall for that shit. In fact, I was determined. So determined. After shaking my head furiously mouthing 'no way', I caved. I decided I was going to have to kiss him, but in the farthest place from his lips. I was ninja ready for any type of sudden head movement as I went in for my peck. The trouble was, his head and cheek stayed put. I kissed the magician on his bloody ear. It wasn't even a proper kiss either. I had an ulcer on the inside of my bottom my lip, so my lips refused to pout together for any kind of normal end product. The kiss ended up being a weird brush against his ear cartilage.
Smooth.
Last week, my life was about to change. There was a chance I was going to lose my job. The prospect of this made me feel both excited and slightly pukey. Thankfully, I still have it. As much as the place sometimes infuriates me and makes me want to stab myself in the eye, when I leave, I want it to be on my terms. Perhaps in the form of a sign painted in glitter and emoticons dotted around. Or maybe a happy dance, I haven't decided yet.
With the prospect of at least another couple of months of guaranteed pay, I'm feeling a strong urge to buy shit I don't need. The other day, to celebrate keeping a job I hate, I bought a t-shirt with two girls punching each other in the face. It was either that, or one saying 'We Both Love Soup'. In fact, I might still buy that one because honestly, it just tickles me.
On the weekend, one of my worst fears came true. Twice; I was pulled up to assist at a magic show. The first was a lot more traumatic than the second. It was in front of a packed room in the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Now, if you don't already know, I am rather slow witted. In fact, if I even think of remotely witty come back, it will be about three days later and probably on the toilet. This is why on stage audience participation scares me. The trick I assisted with (and by 'assisted' I mean thinking of a card not being sawed in half) was over pretty quickly and luckily, I didn't have to speak too much. However, my other worst fear came to life: the funny man's kiss on the cheek. Now, I've been to a lot of audience participation shows. I know what happens when they get a female up from the audience and the dude asks for a kiss on the cheek. It's the good old slide of the cheek so it's planted on her lips. I was so not going to fall for that shit. In fact, I was determined. So determined. After shaking my head furiously mouthing 'no way', I caved. I decided I was going to have to kiss him, but in the farthest place from his lips. I was ninja ready for any type of sudden head movement as I went in for my peck. The trouble was, his head and cheek stayed put. I kissed the magician on his bloody ear. It wasn't even a proper kiss either. I had an ulcer on the inside of my bottom my lip, so my lips refused to pout together for any kind of normal end product. The kiss ended up being a weird brush against his ear cartilage.
Smooth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
