Tuesday, January 25, 2011


It was a hot, sunny Tuesday down Dickman's Road. A crow perched up in leafy shade squinted up at the scorching sun and decided against wasting precious energy crowing. Below, a furiously panting dog drooled noodles of saliva in the hopes that a kind soul would pass him some water, or at the very least a magnanimous cat would offer it's blood. The grass shriveled in the heat as gusts of hot wind blew dust in the face of parked cars that could fry eggs on their windscreens.

Behind the closed doors of a centrally air-conditioned production house, within the arctic womb of an editing room, Dramaqueen had yet another hissyfit with the poor editor who had been punished into helping her put together a mundane AV presentation for a particularly snivelling client she loathed with passion. The editor had no choice but to piss in his underwear because that wretch DQ wouldn't let him so much as think of requesting a bathroom break until she had finished her presentation, which would only be well past midnight. He squirmed in shame as the smell of festered urine filled the room. Her ladyship's one good nostril that had survived sinusitis picked up on the wafting reek and screwed up on it's own accord. Rolling her eyes at the man in disgust she sighed a melodramatic sigh and finally permitted the crimson-faced minion to hastily escape to the bathroom. To while away her time in his absence and to avoid criticizing his clear inaptitude at bladder control, the glorious one decided to blog.

Alright. So the editor didn't really piss in his pant, or may have done so without telling me, but you have to admit it was a good read and you enjoyed the mental image of a male reduced to humiliation. You sadist you.

I don't even know WHY I recently professed to have missed the editing table. It must have been a lack of excuses to leave the office desk, because as dreamy as the memories of AV's gone by are, I am rudely reminded of the actual process that I went through time and time again with each one. Putting together an AV to a client's satisfaction is like taking the outer film of your eyeball off with a safety pin. No that I've tried, but I'm guessing its similar. Especially for the editor working with me. This must be his umpteenth AV with me and it can't be easy to hear my voice approaching his room for yet another go at the experience. Poor man. I will bake him a cake.

Speaking of, I baked my first fondant cake recently in honour of my father's birthday. Don't bother responding with 'aww' and 'you're such a great daughter' like those dimwits who commented on my FB page when I put up the pictures of said cake. I am not. I did it more for me than for him. One of this year's resolutions was to learn a new craft, and google images of whimsical cakes and sugar craft caught my eye. I wanted to try it out, having already explored every other possible craft hobby. Dad's birthday provided me with the ideal opportunity and guinea pig. The bakey types who show off on YouTube made it look easy enough, modeling creative figurines out of sugar without batting an eyelid. I'm not one of them, so the entire enterprise took me a good six and a half hours of spine-aching work, with another two to clean up after myself. Whoever invented buttercream must die painfully at my hands or I won't be happy. The end result however, was not at all bad, if you like clumsy fondant cakes that look like something heavy sat on them. pieces didn't fall off and the little fondant man I'd made to resemble Dad actually looked like a man instead of the baby amoeba I expected it to turn out into. It left me quite pleased with myself like one of those new mothers who talks about their baby for the next sixteen years until it becomes a sulky ungrateful teenager whom she can't wait to disown. Hence the proud FB pictures that got me some positive response from people who I know are not the sort to be nice for the sake of it, along with an actual order for a birthday cake. That got me rather excited. I spent two days in front of the mirror, wearing an apron and wondering if I could be the next Nigella of the cake world. Whether it was to humor me or to give me something to focus my attention on other than himself, my boyfriend fed me with tantalizing thoughts of taking up the culinary world as a profession. By the third day I had named my future cafe and designed it, floor tiles and all.

Then came Monday and here I am, getting on a video editor's last nerve. He's complained to me about the injustice of last-minute AV's so many times now that I am wont to tune out and go back to my sugar modeling dreams. I am seeing myself singing happy Disney songs as the woodland creatures and I dust baking powder at each other's faces and squeal with glee. I am mentally going through my repertoire and visualizing a menu of delicious gobbleables that I could whip up and serve to the world. I am thinking of the delightful t-shirts I could be fabric painting and selling off to gullible souls. There are a million things I could have been doing with myself and yet I chose advertising because it made me happy to let the creative juices flow free, but lately those juices have been canned and set aside and the tin is rusting fast. I am instead finding peace and passion in new creative outlets, culinary and otherwise that give me a bigger sense of satisfaction than producing a 30 second commercial ultimately directed by a client. The workaholic in me has turned into a lazy bitching bum akin to a government clerk, waiting for the clock to strike 6 so I can whiz speedily to my craft supplies. it makes me wonder what the purpose of my existence is.

This begs the question... are my AV days behind me?

Well, the video editor is, anyway... back from a bathroom stint that was suspiciously too long. I shall flog him.

Oh well... back to the rat race.


Dee said...

Funny. and interesting. I guess we're always reinventing ourselves and our passions eh :)

Jack Point said...

Clock watching?

Tut tut. Sounds like you are losing steam DQ, must be old age, your best AV days must surely be behind you.