January 13, 2006

Still read me?

Do you still check this site? Or have you come here by searching for hookah pipes, which seems to be 99% of the traffic I'm getting?

The new blog is up and running. Sort of.

Girl. Blog. Etc.

Let me know if it's working for you.

Ta, darl.

December 04, 2005

There's mysterious brown stuff on my hands.

And I don't know where it came from. And it doesn't bloody wash off. What the hell.

A few things of note:
  • I didn't go to the Christmas party. I'm sorry to disappoint you, because I know you wanted drunken stories involving sticking my tongue down my boss's throat. But I can't please everyone, and the sudden realisation that a Cocktail Party would probably require nice clothes, and that everything I own smells like mothballs, and that Thai fisherman pants and a Bonds singlet are not suitable, and that the cost of purchasing a LBD (Little Black Dress, of course - or is that too 1996?), heels, and a LBB (Little Black Bag, darling), would probably stick a minus sign in front of my account balance, well, it just changed my mind about the whole thing, but I'll be sure to get the gossip from the very gossipy gay man I catch the bus with every day.

And... breathe.

  • My heels are scabby, and have burst blisters on them, and they hurt lots.
  • ExBF is moving to Melbourne. And I have nothing to say on the matter.
  • Have I mentioned the mysterious brown stuff? It's like dye, and it's come from nowhere, and I'm freaking out.
  • I live on a diet of Subway, noodles, and curry.
  • Yesterday I bought four more singlets, to go with my singlet collection. In fact, I so often wear a singlet and jeans, that every time BeFri sees the following picture/footage of Michelle Leslie, she says, "It's you, it's you!" Because even though I look nothing like her, and don't have a Very Thin supermodel's body, the hair and clothes are absolutely spot on.

And then I say, "oh yeah, Bali jails are such a pain in the arse. I'm not popping eccies there ever again," and it's all very funny.

  • I'm sorry if I owe you an e-mail. I've having trouble with that right now.
  • When I woke up this morning, before I'd noticed the brown stuff, I rubbed my eyes and therefore rubbed brown stuff in my eyes, and it hurt.
  • I am damn good at boring insurance crap. Go on - ask me about your policy.
  • All of a sudden, I'm remembering how quickly weekends pass.
  • I walked out of my training room and into the foyer, directly into somebody I used to work with. I refrained from screaming, "what the hell are you doing in my new building?" and managed to be polite and cordial.
  • Mm. Cordial.
  • I'm not able to update as much as I'd like.

And this is where I make a Very Important Speech. Ahem. I'm not a once-a-week blogger. It makes me feel guilty, and I don't appreciate being guilt-tripped by my own blog. Screw you, blog. And I don't have my own computer, and I don't have a computer at work (yet), and my personal time is really limited right now, and I'm just trying to get my life sorted out, and what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to give the blog a break for a little while.

And it seems like the perfect opportunity for me to refurbish, and Style It Up a little bit, because it looks the same as it always has, and it has an outdated blurb under the title and in my profile, and numerous other things that piss me off.

I'm not sure how long it'll take for me to feel reasonably normal again, but I'm guessing at a month, and what I am TRYING to say is that if you would like me to send you an e-mail when I get back on track (because I may decide on a different blog altogether), then send me one now.

An e-mail, that is. To officewench at gmail.com.

And in one fell swoop, the guilt is GONE.

Pity about this brown stuff, though.

November 30, 2005

My feet are covered in blisters.

And there's storms every night.

A new group of people, and I once again find myself in a position where nobody understands my sense of humour, or my sarcasm, or anything else, for that matter.

As an 'icebreaker', we listed a few things about ourselves. Hobbies, ambitions, etc. I can't pick a movie or book that I like above all others, so I just picked a couple I enjoyed and read them out, which drew a total blank from the rest of the group.

They all seemed to murmur in agreement when somebody said 'The Da Vinci Code,' though.

Our trainer told us to ask unambiguous, easy-to-understand questions to customers, with no big or difficult words.

"Like 'unambiguous'?" I asked, and everyone looked at me.

We drew up a chart, and had a lot of space to fill. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd like to draw some pictures," I said.

And everyone looked at me.

Note to self: Be More Normal.

November 29, 2005

Oh, and by the way.

I had another one of those dreams the other night. About Raymond.

From Everybody Loves Raymond. Can you see why this is so embarrassing for me?

Seriously. Where does my mind get this shit?

My most sincere apologies.

You see, I'm sort of off the air, but not voluntarily. I'm re-learning how to be an office-based wench with an insurance company, and they keep me locked in a small room with no computers and feed me a diet of bread, water, and policies.

And then I get home and collapse in a heap. Or, in the case of today, manage five minutes of internet time and then collapse in a heap.

So bear with me, pretty please. And I'll send you presents.

November 25, 2005

Warning: Too Much Info.

Sexual deprivation. I'm discovering that there's pros and cons to this situation. For example, I don't have to worry about unplanned pregnancy, and I don't have to put up with anyone sharing my bed and nicking the sheets, or snoring. Or pissing me off in general.

As for cons, besides the obvious ones, I have recently discovered what is perhaps the worst one of all.

Semi-erotic dreams featuring people I DO NOT find attractive. Weird, freaky, vivid ones that wake me up and make me yell, "NO! What are you doing?! He has crap hair, and a weird face, and he's really annoying! Don't do that! Go away!"

Like the one last night. Which I can't tell you about, because I'm extremely ashamed to admit who featured.

BeFri, I'll tell you when you get home.

November 23, 2005

My shit day.

Amongst other things, I'd bought two two-litre bottles of Coke. The cashier put them in a bag, handed it to me and said, "Be careful - that's heavy."

I smiled, took the bag and walked out of the shop. Three steps later, the bag snapped clean in half, sending one bottle in one direction, and the other in another. I stopped one with my foot and a lady picked up the other bottle, handed it to me and said, "Be careful when you open it!"

I placed the bottles in one of my other bags, which looked pretty strong, and made my way to the bus stop. I arrived, I began to sit down, and a great big hole tore in the bag, sending the contents spilling all over the floor.

Oh, joyous day.

I had two bags remaining, both of them already filled to overflowing. Squishing my newly-purchased work bag and two books I'd just bought, I wedged the Coke in on top of them, so I had one Extremely Heavy bag, and one Flimsy Piece of Shit bag.

After the bus ride, I waited to cross the road. I made it to the traffic island in the centre. And then I waited again. And I waited. And I waited. And my fingers fell off from Coke + Coke + Bag + Book + Book + Other Stuff pain. And I waited. And then I thought there was a clear bit, but a car pulled out, so I waited.

Then I swore, and waited.

And fifteen minutes later, I crossed the damn road, with white, dead fingers and dripping with humidity-induced sweat.

Other stuff happened.

My head hurt.

It was a shit, shit day.

November 22, 2005

The phone rings.

Her: Hello, T! It's H. from Your New Job!
Me: Oh, hi, how are you? [WHERE'S MY CONTRACT?]
Her: Good! Everything I say ends in an exclamation mark!

Ok, so she didn't really say that.

Her: Good! I'd like to invite you to the Christmas party!
Me: Um.
Her: Oh, I know you haven't started working here yet!
Me: Oh. Good.
Her: It's a cocktail party! And all the drinks and nibbles are free!

Oh. Uh oh. UH OH.

I accepted, after learning that I'll have worked at the company for five days before the party, so I should hopefully know somebody there, at least a little bit. I'm sure it'll provide a fantastic opportunity for me to mingle with my new co-workers, and schmooze my superiors, and get ROTTEN DRUNK ON FREE BOOZE.

Oh, free booze. How evil thou art. For I see you in your various forms and tell myself that to get the most of the night I need to drink you and drink you and DRINK YOU and DRINNNNNNNNNNNNNNK youuuu and why ish everything shpinninnnggggg?

And perhaps I'm jumping to conclusions here, but getting royally shitfaced in front of new bosses and co-workers is probably Not. Very. Clever.

Oh, well. What the hell, eh?