My DAHLINGS! How how?
Yes I know. I have been MIA for yonks now and I don't mean that nasty-mouthed rapper girl.Though I can be nasty mouthed too. I can't rap, though.
Admit it, you missed me and my digressing.
Aiyo I have so much to tell you... so much to pontificate on... so much to bitch about. Vhere to start, ja? Shall I just blabber at random? Yes, I think I will. Sorting out thoughts and news into different blogposts will take too much time and you know how often I blog.
1.
So I started a new job and all. Methinks it was high time a change happened (I don't think anyone should be surprised, going by the 'woe-is-me' references to my work in the past), but strangely this new shift was not propogated by me. You see dearies, the COO (Chief Operations Oxbrain) of the last office- a baby-faced snake whom I never really liked to begin with - pulled a fast one and made off with the agency network and the utterly fartly client who made up 80% of our business. There are lots of different versions of the story circulating in the ad industry, but those of us who worked in the place know just exactly how the conniving lowlife and his conniving arse-buddy the client manipulated things to suit their purpose. It was quite a trying time for most of us, but one we all saw coming. Wonderfully enough though, 95% of the staff refused to jump ship with him and basically left him hanging with only three groupies that he'd brought in. The rest of us found work elsewhere and moved on after a few tears and the office we worked in closed down. It wasn't all sad, though. Most of us have come to the realisation that things really worked out for the best, given that we're all pretty happy in our new jobs and we no longer have to service that awful, awful client anymore. I also hear that ex-COO was recently almost beaten up by the husband of a woman he'd been having a fling with. Muahahahaha. Karma at its best.
I was fortunate enough to be retained by the old group and transferred to a sister agency, along with a charismatic LD and a couple of other chums. So far, so good. Although I am no longer working in the creative division, the new stint is good fun and I am loving the energy and good vibes going around. It's quite a pleasant change to have actual HUMANS to work for and with. I've realized I've been decidedly happier with the world since I made the switch, so it must be a good thing. Tralala and all that for now. Wish me luck, sweethearts.
2.
I have, out of a the classic glutton-for-punishment-itch, also taken on two new side jobs. It has nothing to do with money and everything to do with the fact that I am in denial about my ageing energy levels. One afore-mentioned side job is actually a bit of a dream come true - I've been commissioned to host my very own travel show on TV! Cue fanfare and general cheers for life's little ups. It's a budget travel show where I get to traipse aimlessly around Sri Lanka and get my hands dirty off the beaten track. Very very exciting stuff. At the mo it's all in planning and production phase, but by God it's thrilling. To top things off I am presenting the show with a long-time buddy which makes it funner, if there be such a word. So far we've shot the pilot episode which was a bit of a sorry disaster but one for the memories nevertheless. I am hoping the actual episodes to come will be slightly more colourful. Once we are officially public about it I will let you all know which channel to watch and when. :D
Side job no.2 is my dibs on grandmotherhood- I have started... wait for it...(drumroll)...baking cakes. This is my small contribution to the health ministry's efforts in population control. It all started off with my very first cake of all time that I baked for my dad's b'day. On realizing it didn't look half bad (actually cake-like),I went and did that whole boastful, gloaty thing of posting up pictures on FB. That made things skyrocket to a whole new level and people started placing orders. Thinking I was cat's whiskers and quite pleased with the new-found skill, I took on the orders to finance what became a hobby of sorts and have now come to a point where I have to turn most of the orders down because I just can't handle the load. One of these days I promise you I will die of exhaustion, but for now I spend my nights and weekends raping my mother's oven. I even managed to attract a magazine review out of it. Martha Stewart will be proud, before she tastes my cakes and dies of food poisoning.
3.
My animal welfare activities are on a new high. I have taken advocacy to near-extremes and can be often seeing parading the streets or abusing social networks priviledges to save the planet. People have stopped talking to me as a result, like most ignorant and stupid humans are wont to do when they're informed that they are not the most important thing in the world. Happily enough, I don't care. I have even attempted to become vegetarian, much to my carnivore boyfriend's dismay. But he is being a good soul about it and even occasionally supports my lunacy by foregoing meat on dinner dates without my telling him to. Bless him. The new diet is working so far, though I have to admit to the odd slip-up here and there. 'Tis a difficult business, getting certain habits out of one's systems, but a meat-less meal certainly has the benefits of a drama-free conscience and I actually sleep easier now.
I am extremely supposrtive of the organised effort to ban ritual animal slaughter at the Munneswaram Temple in Chilaw. Google it if you're not aware of the stories. It is beyond me how fucked up some people can be when it comes to interpretations of religious dictates. Good on Mervyn Silva, as much of an idiot as he is, for creating enough of a public spectacle by barging in there and confiscating those poor animals lined up for merciless hacking up. Religious tolerance and respect is one thing, but choosing to turn your head and spout nonsense about 'to each his own' when there's a life at stake is another. What's fucked up is fucked up and intervention in such circumstances is ok in my books, as unpopular a view as that may be. I can deal with the PROPERLY carried out sacrifices at religious events, such at the Islamic haj rituals. I say 'proper' because according to the laws of Islam, the slaughter is supposed to be carried out with minimum harm or distress to the animal, whereby no trauma has been inflicted. The problem is that more often than not, these mandates are rarely followed due to sheer incompetency or disegard in the name of human convenience. I wish there were more control methods put in place at these rituals, where proper supervision ensures that, if you MUST please your God by killing something, then at least the animal is kept comfortable and knows/feels little to nothing. Munneswaram is a whole different story and I'm not sorry to say I have absolutly no regard for foolish buffoons who think they can invoke luck and prosperity by violently murdering a life in the most callous way imaginable. I pray for a day when I am empowered enough to mete out the same treatment to said violators. May they rot alive.
Now you know why people avoid me.
4.
I have added yet another child to my already festering brood- a puppy named Smurfette. She is overtly active, destructive and consistently happy, which stresses the cats out no end. Smurfette was left in a box at my doorstep by someone who obviously had a bigger heart than the monsters who usually drown or throw away baby animals. After a few weeks of unsuccessfully trying to re-home her, she ended up as a permanent installation and now drives everyone batty. Neighbours are witness to the number of my bras and panties that she insists on dragging out into the garden for exhibition and I am constantly smelling of puppy drool. This is the life.
5.
The good things in life still mingle with the not-so-great. but I am too happy today to get into all that. Maybe someday you'll find out.
And just like that my boredom threshold has been reached and I am lazy to write anymore. Sorry. I have a few more thoughts up my sleeve which I will share with you shortly, but for now I have a Facebook storm to start.
Watch this space.
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Monday, October 10, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
I Decided to Like Women
Let me give you pervs out there a second to wipe off the excited sweat before I proceed.
Calmed down? Ok.
As if my workload and commitments are not enough already, I went and got myself activated over a new obesession last weekend- Women.
Please stop grinning lecherously. I promise I will burst that bubble of yours very soon.
Whilst mulling over what dramatic onslaught to present to my long-suffering boyfriend with on that gloriously commercialized joke called Valentine's Day, it suddenly struck me that not every woman out there would be plotting and planning like I was, because not every woman out there had a boyfriend worthy of plotting about. Given that I anyway have a thing for ball busting, I'd been doing some recent reading on the issues of domestic violence in the country and was pretty horrified to learn that an estimated 60% of the country's females are victims of violence in their homes. I say 'estimated' because there is no national survey conducted yet to assess the real numbers. All they have to go by is the number of reports logged in to the police and charity organisations. So it's safe to say that the ACTUAL number is probably far higher.
60%. SIXTY percent. That's 3 out of every 5 women. Logically, that means it could very well be your own wife, mother,sister,daughter or aunt. Or more than just one of them.
You don't have to be female to be shocked by that statistic. You just have to be human.
What was worse still was finding out that in most cases of domestic violence, all that's done about it is diddly squat. Either the victim is too afraid of the consequences of speaking out or her family is too ashamed to air their dirty laundry. More often than not, reports to the police (those champions of justice and paragons of virtue who do fuck-all for the betterment of society) result in the cops asking the woman what she's done to piss hubby off, and then advice her to go home and sort it out. After that, nobody cares anymore and life goes on. It only creates a minor buzz when her body is found chopped to pieces in a village well, and that too only if anyone feels like they need to alert the media.
Apparently, the most the authorites have done towards punishing a perpetrator of domestic violence is fined him a pittance and 'tsk'ed at his naughtiness.
Needless to say, I was incensed. I may not have had acid thrown at me, but I know what a slap on my face from someone who claims to love me feels like. I know how it all starts with a few derogatory remarks and then propels into full-blown physical acts. I also know how no matter how many people advice a perpetrator or how many apologies he makes, he's going to go back to being the same sorry bastard he always was.
And now I'd found out that 3 out of 5 women in my country are going through the worst kind of hell imaginable at the hands of such insects. I wanted to go out there and crush every testicle in the land into a fine dust and then feed it to the fishes (I would, too, except I don't think the fish are interested). I have always thought of myself as not belonging to this pathetic race called humans, with their apathetic attitudes and selfish ways. I had to do something... anything. But what? If only I had some help in the matter.
And then it struck me. I would get help. I could put out the statistic to everyone I knew and gather up some like-minded souls, and then together we could possibly make a noise loud enough to get the lazy-ass retards in government to put some goddamn justice system into place.
Valentine's plans were speedily forgotten. The boyfriend would understand. I rocked to and fro like a maddened monkey trying to figure out how to get people interested until it hit me... of course... Valentine's Day! What better day on which to shock the public into realizing that, as they traipse about like blithering romantic fools buying roses and gifts, there are women out there who will receive bleeding noses and black eyes instead. Those were THEIR 'gifts of love' from their husbands. If enough people realized this, then maybe enough people would give a shit and speak up about it.
Highly excited about the fact that I coincidentally happened to work in an industry where it's all about communication to the world, I spoke to my superiors about my idea. Could we do some work on this and get it out to the world? Could we make people care? Could we make a difference in the status quo?
My boss thought we could. We gathered arms immediately and put together a cracking team to work out the nittygritties. We contacted an organisation that works in women's welfare and got them excited too. They came on board and gave us the support we needed to put the plan to work. We contacted venues that could host our message and danced in glee when they offered to do it for free. Then we rolled up our sleeves and tried to help women. I spent days and nights living, breathing, shitting and dreaming of any research I could get my hands on. Even though I had a few bumps on the road with certain people exploiting the cause to their advantage, others at office were nothing less than inspiring, with their positivity and kick-ass attitude. People like LD, who weren't involved at the beginning, jumped on board voluntarily and helped with whatever support and advice they could. That in itself was awesome.
Three days afterwards, on the morning of Valentine's Day, we launched. Displays went up in major malls in the city, showcasing the kind of 'gifts' 60% of Sri lankan women receive - knives, acid, iron chains, hammers, poles, etc. We handed out brochures on action that responsible civilians should take when witnessing domestic violence. We directed people to a facebook site that we'd set up with the objective of educating and inspiring more people to speak out against the issue. I stalked out some of the venues that day and nearly pee-ed with thrill when people starting taking notice of the displays and reading the brochures.
That was three days ago. Today, I've got over 300 followers on the FB page. And counting.
This morning, a friend's nephew called me. He wanted to tell me that his dad sometimes beats his mom and he always thought that was ok, because it's all he knew. After reading our brochure and educating himself on the FB page, last night during a particularly violent argument he'd called the police, his extended family, and then stood up to his dad. Although the police never came and his father wasn't taken away and punished, he had nevertheless backed off and for the first time had apologized to his mother. It was a start. The boy now wants to get more involved and be an endorser of the cause in his school.
I have to tell you.... hearing that felt... and still feels... fucking good.
Please do join the page and help us out. Follow 'His gift of love' on FB, or log on to www.facebook.com/hisgiftoflovethisvalentines
I don't have to be the only one bothered about this. You're a blogger... can YOU take it up too?
Calmed down? Ok.
As if my workload and commitments are not enough already, I went and got myself activated over a new obesession last weekend- Women.
Please stop grinning lecherously. I promise I will burst that bubble of yours very soon.
Whilst mulling over what dramatic onslaught to present to my long-suffering boyfriend with on that gloriously commercialized joke called Valentine's Day, it suddenly struck me that not every woman out there would be plotting and planning like I was, because not every woman out there had a boyfriend worthy of plotting about. Given that I anyway have a thing for ball busting, I'd been doing some recent reading on the issues of domestic violence in the country and was pretty horrified to learn that an estimated 60% of the country's females are victims of violence in their homes. I say 'estimated' because there is no national survey conducted yet to assess the real numbers. All they have to go by is the number of reports logged in to the police and charity organisations. So it's safe to say that the ACTUAL number is probably far higher.
60%. SIXTY percent. That's 3 out of every 5 women. Logically, that means it could very well be your own wife, mother,sister,daughter or aunt. Or more than just one of them.
You don't have to be female to be shocked by that statistic. You just have to be human.
What was worse still was finding out that in most cases of domestic violence, all that's done about it is diddly squat. Either the victim is too afraid of the consequences of speaking out or her family is too ashamed to air their dirty laundry. More often than not, reports to the police (those champions of justice and paragons of virtue who do fuck-all for the betterment of society) result in the cops asking the woman what she's done to piss hubby off, and then advice her to go home and sort it out. After that, nobody cares anymore and life goes on. It only creates a minor buzz when her body is found chopped to pieces in a village well, and that too only if anyone feels like they need to alert the media.
Apparently, the most the authorites have done towards punishing a perpetrator of domestic violence is fined him a pittance and 'tsk'ed at his naughtiness.
Needless to say, I was incensed. I may not have had acid thrown at me, but I know what a slap on my face from someone who claims to love me feels like. I know how it all starts with a few derogatory remarks and then propels into full-blown physical acts. I also know how no matter how many people advice a perpetrator or how many apologies he makes, he's going to go back to being the same sorry bastard he always was.
And now I'd found out that 3 out of 5 women in my country are going through the worst kind of hell imaginable at the hands of such insects. I wanted to go out there and crush every testicle in the land into a fine dust and then feed it to the fishes (I would, too, except I don't think the fish are interested). I have always thought of myself as not belonging to this pathetic race called humans, with their apathetic attitudes and selfish ways. I had to do something... anything. But what? If only I had some help in the matter.
And then it struck me. I would get help. I could put out the statistic to everyone I knew and gather up some like-minded souls, and then together we could possibly make a noise loud enough to get the lazy-ass retards in government to put some goddamn justice system into place.
Valentine's plans were speedily forgotten. The boyfriend would understand. I rocked to and fro like a maddened monkey trying to figure out how to get people interested until it hit me... of course... Valentine's Day! What better day on which to shock the public into realizing that, as they traipse about like blithering romantic fools buying roses and gifts, there are women out there who will receive bleeding noses and black eyes instead. Those were THEIR 'gifts of love' from their husbands. If enough people realized this, then maybe enough people would give a shit and speak up about it.
Highly excited about the fact that I coincidentally happened to work in an industry where it's all about communication to the world, I spoke to my superiors about my idea. Could we do some work on this and get it out to the world? Could we make people care? Could we make a difference in the status quo?
My boss thought we could. We gathered arms immediately and put together a cracking team to work out the nittygritties. We contacted an organisation that works in women's welfare and got them excited too. They came on board and gave us the support we needed to put the plan to work. We contacted venues that could host our message and danced in glee when they offered to do it for free. Then we rolled up our sleeves and tried to help women. I spent days and nights living, breathing, shitting and dreaming of any research I could get my hands on. Even though I had a few bumps on the road with certain people exploiting the cause to their advantage, others at office were nothing less than inspiring, with their positivity and kick-ass attitude. People like LD, who weren't involved at the beginning, jumped on board voluntarily and helped with whatever support and advice they could. That in itself was awesome.
Three days afterwards, on the morning of Valentine's Day, we launched. Displays went up in major malls in the city, showcasing the kind of 'gifts' 60% of Sri lankan women receive - knives, acid, iron chains, hammers, poles, etc. We handed out brochures on action that responsible civilians should take when witnessing domestic violence. We directed people to a facebook site that we'd set up with the objective of educating and inspiring more people to speak out against the issue. I stalked out some of the venues that day and nearly pee-ed with thrill when people starting taking notice of the displays and reading the brochures.
That was three days ago. Today, I've got over 300 followers on the FB page. And counting.
This morning, a friend's nephew called me. He wanted to tell me that his dad sometimes beats his mom and he always thought that was ok, because it's all he knew. After reading our brochure and educating himself on the FB page, last night during a particularly violent argument he'd called the police, his extended family, and then stood up to his dad. Although the police never came and his father wasn't taken away and punished, he had nevertheless backed off and for the first time had apologized to his mother. It was a start. The boy now wants to get more involved and be an endorser of the cause in his school.
I have to tell you.... hearing that felt... and still feels... fucking good.
Please do join the page and help us out. Follow 'His gift of love' on FB, or log on to www.facebook.com/hisgiftoflovethisvalentines
I don't have to be the only one bothered about this. You're a blogger... can YOU take it up too?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Daydreamin'
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.
Monday, December 6, 2010
An Ordinary Ramble
I'm wet.
I could have meant that in many ways, but alas, much to your dismay, I meant soaked by rain. Stop getting so excited.
This weather is a right royal moody bastard and there's no telling what it wants to do next. Do you suppose the Gods get a sadistic pleasure out of watching me get drenched to the bone on the one day I wear my brand new jeans and classy high heels to work? I don't even know why I did that...just felt sex and the city-ish this morning and decided on turning some heads. Well, ok... it didn't turn any heads... but my dog looked mildly interested, but only because he wanted to chew on the shoes.
Either way, there's nothing left to look at, thanks to the heavenly watering can.
So much has happened since I wrote last and yet life remains the same. The more time goes by, the more I'm starting to hate my job. Not the actual work or the industry... just the place I work for and the systems therein. Certain cretins in management, blondes in control of the workflow, political finger-pointing and mediocre attitudes have all accumulated to making it one bad deal for me, so much so that I've given up heaps of my normal life (including updating this blog regularly) just to manage the ridiculous state of affairs. Next year, I'm going to get out of here if nothing's changed for the better.
That's your cue to offer me a paying job - you who runs an animal welfare organization or an advertising firm. You who runs a bank are also welcome to offer me lots of money.
In the meantime, let me give you the quickfire low-down on life as I know it. Just in case you're interested.
I had another birthday. Yay. Not. Amongst all the lovely things he did for me, my long-suffering boyfriend gifted me a posh spa voucher for a full body ritual. Big mistake. I can now proudly say that I have farted in the face of a perplexed masseuse as she pressed my stomach. Beware, all ye other spas I may enter in future.
Hopped over to Singapore for a workshop/festival thingamy. I love Singapore. I could live at the zoo. My mother would agree with me.
I went to India on work. Except for the work bit, it wasn't too bad, considering it was the better part of Mumbai and there was much shopping and good eating to be done. Needless to say I managed to make my presence felt and nearly got thrown out of my hotel for wanting to shelter street dogs from Diwali fireworks.
I visited Malaysia on an all-too-short holiday. Quite the adventure. Especially the bit where the hotel fire alarm went off at 2 am and I ran down the fire exit amongst a sea of shrieking Chinese schoolgirls who were sharing my floor (they can be EXTREMELY loud), only to be informed that the hotel was fogging for mozzies. Apart from that, it was two tiring-but-exhilarating days of theme park rides, ice skating, shopping, eating and learning to master the monorail system.
I kidnapped 8 puppies from a plot of serpent-infested land I found them in. Five of them went to excellent homes. Three of them continue to give my cats headaches. Want one?
I lost a few. Pounds as well as brain cells. La la la. Come Christmas, it'll all be back.
I know, I know.... this post ain't funny or interesting. I can do better.
I could have meant that in many ways, but alas, much to your dismay, I meant soaked by rain. Stop getting so excited.
This weather is a right royal moody bastard and there's no telling what it wants to do next. Do you suppose the Gods get a sadistic pleasure out of watching me get drenched to the bone on the one day I wear my brand new jeans and classy high heels to work? I don't even know why I did that...just felt sex and the city-ish this morning and decided on turning some heads. Well, ok... it didn't turn any heads... but my dog looked mildly interested, but only because he wanted to chew on the shoes.
Either way, there's nothing left to look at, thanks to the heavenly watering can.
So much has happened since I wrote last and yet life remains the same. The more time goes by, the more I'm starting to hate my job. Not the actual work or the industry... just the place I work for and the systems therein. Certain cretins in management, blondes in control of the workflow, political finger-pointing and mediocre attitudes have all accumulated to making it one bad deal for me, so much so that I've given up heaps of my normal life (including updating this blog regularly) just to manage the ridiculous state of affairs. Next year, I'm going to get out of here if nothing's changed for the better.
That's your cue to offer me a paying job - you who runs an animal welfare organization or an advertising firm. You who runs a bank are also welcome to offer me lots of money.
In the meantime, let me give you the quickfire low-down on life as I know it. Just in case you're interested.
I had another birthday. Yay. Not. Amongst all the lovely things he did for me, my long-suffering boyfriend gifted me a posh spa voucher for a full body ritual. Big mistake. I can now proudly say that I have farted in the face of a perplexed masseuse as she pressed my stomach. Beware, all ye other spas I may enter in future.
Hopped over to Singapore for a workshop/festival thingamy. I love Singapore. I could live at the zoo. My mother would agree with me.
I went to India on work. Except for the work bit, it wasn't too bad, considering it was the better part of Mumbai and there was much shopping and good eating to be done. Needless to say I managed to make my presence felt and nearly got thrown out of my hotel for wanting to shelter street dogs from Diwali fireworks.
I visited Malaysia on an all-too-short holiday. Quite the adventure. Especially the bit where the hotel fire alarm went off at 2 am and I ran down the fire exit amongst a sea of shrieking Chinese schoolgirls who were sharing my floor (they can be EXTREMELY loud), only to be informed that the hotel was fogging for mozzies. Apart from that, it was two tiring-but-exhilarating days of theme park rides, ice skating, shopping, eating and learning to master the monorail system.
I kidnapped 8 puppies from a plot of serpent-infested land I found them in. Five of them went to excellent homes. Three of them continue to give my cats headaches. Want one?
I lost a few. Pounds as well as brain cells. La la la. Come Christmas, it'll all be back.
I know, I know.... this post ain't funny or interesting. I can do better.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Personae Dramatis
I'm wet.
I could have meant that in many ways, but alas, much to your dismay, I meant soaked by rain. Stop getting so excited.
This weather is a right royal moody bastard and there's no telling what it wants to do next. Do you suppose the Gods get a sadistic pleasure out of watching me get drenched to the bone on the one day I wear my brand new jeans and classy high heels to work? I don't even know why I did that...just felt sex and the city-ish this morning and decided on turning some heads. Well, ok... I didn't turn any heads... but my dog looked mildly interested. It doesn't matter that it was only because he wanted to chew on the shoes.
Either way, there's nothing left to look at anymore, thanks to God and the heavenly watering can.
Oh well... life is damp anyway, so I might as well appreciate the irony of it all. I'm this close to handing in my resignation at work. The only thing keeping me from doing it is that I have still to come up with a dramatic enough way of doing it. Letters of notice and meek discussions with the management is not my style, you see. If I'm leaving, then I must leave them trembling and afraid to hire anyone else. I did that once before. I kid you not.
My first job at a financial company (Yes, reader, this bimbo can number-crunch) ended a few months into the stint with me marching up to the departmental manager and loudly claiming 'I quit' for reasons unknown to anyone (least of all me) and then before he could say anything, walking around the place saying good bye to everyone before packing my belongings and some extra office stationary into a box and sweeping out in grand style. It's how they did it on Ally McBeal and the show was all I had as a point of reference. In hindsight perhaps I should have followed the normal process, considering that the Company later threatened to take me to courts if I didn't. I also had to return the stationery. To this day they haven't noticed that when it was handed back, there was a stapler missing. Muahahaha.
In my defense, how was I to KNOW that dramatic exits weren't normal? My life would be meaningless if not for the paranormal behaviour. If I didn't have an episode on a daily basis, I'd be dead of boredom by now.
Just the other day I managed to outdo myself with the mother of all embarrassing moments. All because of an ant.
It had gotten into my denims, you see. Something to do with the chocolate wrapper that'd been resting on my clothes rack. Anyway, the ant had managed to wiggle it's way in and be worn by me. On my way to office, it started to express its alarm. I've encountered these things before and sometimes I like to test my ability to bear pain and itchiness so I ignored the stingy bites on my inner thigh until I got into the office elevator. At that point it got to me, and figuring that the ancient contraption they call a lift usually takes a good 5 minutes to get up to my floor, I decided to shove my hand into the front of my jeans and take the little guy out.
If I had been male, that last sentence would have landed me in prison.
As luck would have it, my bracelet managed to snag itself into the inner lining of my pants, rendering my hand un-extractable. And because the universe and I have that special understanding going, the elevator stopped and the door started opening. I tugged and pulled with all my might, but to no avail.
I had never gone red over any of my situations before this one. What was even redder was the face of the man standing on the other side of the lift, taking in the vision of me standing in front of him with my hand down my pants, jiggling it up and down. He coughed nervously, wondering whether to step in or not. I, in my supreme ability to react at lightening speed, turned around slowly and faced the wall and continued trying to pull my hand out. We continued upwards.
Once we reached my floor, he turned and looked at me strangely and said "There are easier ways to keep your job, you know."
"Thanks", I muttered, as my boss stepped off the elevator in fits of laughter.
Why is why I have to be extra explosive with my resignation, you see.
I could have meant that in many ways, but alas, much to your dismay, I meant soaked by rain. Stop getting so excited.
This weather is a right royal moody bastard and there's no telling what it wants to do next. Do you suppose the Gods get a sadistic pleasure out of watching me get drenched to the bone on the one day I wear my brand new jeans and classy high heels to work? I don't even know why I did that...just felt sex and the city-ish this morning and decided on turning some heads. Well, ok... I didn't turn any heads... but my dog looked mildly interested. It doesn't matter that it was only because he wanted to chew on the shoes.
Either way, there's nothing left to look at anymore, thanks to God and the heavenly watering can.
Oh well... life is damp anyway, so I might as well appreciate the irony of it all. I'm this close to handing in my resignation at work. The only thing keeping me from doing it is that I have still to come up with a dramatic enough way of doing it. Letters of notice and meek discussions with the management is not my style, you see. If I'm leaving, then I must leave them trembling and afraid to hire anyone else. I did that once before. I kid you not.
My first job at a financial company (Yes, reader, this bimbo can number-crunch) ended a few months into the stint with me marching up to the departmental manager and loudly claiming 'I quit' for reasons unknown to anyone (least of all me) and then before he could say anything, walking around the place saying good bye to everyone before packing my belongings and some extra office stationary into a box and sweeping out in grand style. It's how they did it on Ally McBeal and the show was all I had as a point of reference. In hindsight perhaps I should have followed the normal process, considering that the Company later threatened to take me to courts if I didn't. I also had to return the stationery. To this day they haven't noticed that when it was handed back, there was a stapler missing. Muahahaha.
In my defense, how was I to KNOW that dramatic exits weren't normal? My life would be meaningless if not for the paranormal behaviour. If I didn't have an episode on a daily basis, I'd be dead of boredom by now.
Just the other day I managed to outdo myself with the mother of all embarrassing moments. All because of an ant.
It had gotten into my denims, you see. Something to do with the chocolate wrapper that'd been resting on my clothes rack. Anyway, the ant had managed to wiggle it's way in and be worn by me. On my way to office, it started to express its alarm. I've encountered these things before and sometimes I like to test my ability to bear pain and itchiness so I ignored the stingy bites on my inner thigh until I got into the office elevator. At that point it got to me, and figuring that the ancient contraption they call a lift usually takes a good 5 minutes to get up to my floor, I decided to shove my hand into the front of my jeans and take the little guy out.
If I had been male, that last sentence would have landed me in prison.
As luck would have it, my bracelet managed to snag itself into the inner lining of my pants, rendering my hand un-extractable. And because the universe and I have that special understanding going, the elevator stopped and the door started opening. I tugged and pulled with all my might, but to no avail.
I had never gone red over any of my situations before this one. What was even redder was the face of the man standing on the other side of the lift, taking in the vision of me standing in front of him with my hand down my pants, jiggling it up and down. He coughed nervously, wondering whether to step in or not. I, in my supreme ability to react at lightening speed, turned around slowly and faced the wall and continued trying to pull my hand out. We continued upwards.
Once we reached my floor, he turned and looked at me strangely and said "There are easier ways to keep your job, you know."
"Thanks", I muttered, as my boss stepped off the elevator in fits of laughter.
Why is why I have to be extra explosive with my resignation, you see.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
A Long One That Isn't My Boyfriend's Schlong.
With apologies to said boyfriend for mentioning his long schlong.
I’m back.
Really couldn’t be bothered with thinking up a more creative opening statement.
The days are quite literally a blur. Mostly because I broke my spectacles over three months ago and haven’t replaced them, but also because things seem to be passing by at a speed faster than peoples’ memory of Duminda Silva's negative public image. I am both supremely busy and supremely bored with life.
Gutterflower was right. It isn’t fun to blog when writing is your job. God knows I don’t want to WORK off-time too. But clearly you haven’t missed me as much as I’d like you to.
Anyhoo, let me give you a quick rundown of what moi has been getting moi’s itchy fingers into lately, a’ight?
That sounded vulgar, didn’t it?
To start with, back when I had less grey hairs on my head, almost four months ago, I was involved in putting together this year’s Chillies. Yes… that same ill-fated event that’s been given a good blog beating several times already. I had the luck (debatable) of being a part of the organizing committee by virtue of nomination. Given my inclination towards the theatrical, the rest of the committee decided that my chief (and only- because when it’s convenient, I can look like a bimbo who can’t do much else) responsibility would be to put together the entertainment for the event. I thought I was being very economical and smart when I suggested we ask a well-known theatre director to train people from within the industry to put on a musical act. The director thought HE was being smart in deciding to make that act a drag scene from ‘Cabaret’.
It is safe to say that when it comes to the ad industry, Liza Minnellis we are not.
It all went downhill from there.
Note to self and all at large: you will NOT, I repeat NOT, secure yourself any popular reputation amongst local men once you have harassed them to wear women’s' lingerie on a public stage. Let me elaborate with a prime example of what my phone conversations with random straight men went like:
(Ring ring)- which is actually a phone ringing and not a piece of schizophrenic jewellery…
Straight man : Hello?
Me : Hi. This is (dramaqueen). You don't know me, but I'm in the organising committee for the Chillies, and we have this performance that I'd think you'd be PERFECT for. (flirtatious voice to appeal to red-blooded male brain cell)
SM : (clearly flattered brain cell) oh? Wow... ok... what do you need me to do?
Me : Well, we need you to dance in drag. It's a musical number, you see, and the lingerie you’ll be wearing…
(Cue click of phone)
...
(Second set of ‘ring ring’)
SM : (Not flattered anymore) Yes?
Me : Sorry I think you got cut off. So like I was saying, it's a really cute drag number, and...
(Phone slams)
(Ring Ri..)
SM: WHAT? (braincell is now shouting)
Me : Er... are you interested?
At this point I am subjected to a lot of Greek. Or at least I think it's Greek because 13 years in a private girls’ school taught me nothing.
Of course, to be fair, I have to admit there was the odd (no pun intended) straight man with a slightly more open mind and sense of fun who DID surprisingly agreed to wear the skimpy outfit and heels and wiggle his bottom in front of a thousand people. There were also a handful of brave girls who volunteered (after some initial pleading on my part) to take on the role of the men in the act. I sat up for several evenings pasting sequins on bras and sewing black lace negligees and garters, much to my poor mother’s distress. She is now convinced that advertising is pure lechery. A few days were spent in shoe shops around the city, asking for high-heeled shoes in impossibly large sizes. My explanation to the questioning looks from shopkeepers was that they were for ‘tall foreign women’. ‘Drag queens’ would not have got me those shoes, except for on the head whilst being flung.
I won’t tell you how the show went. There are reviews in both English and Greek you can get someone else who was sober enough to witness it all that night.
Lah Land
The Chillies were followed by a trip to Singapore on a work assignment with a disgruntled co-worker who’d never been on a plane in his life. This meant a lot of nanny duty on my part, with much running after the bloke to stop him from going the wrong way at the airport.
I’ve been to good old ‘pore before, back when my hair was thicker. I didn’t have the slightest clue to how much things had changed since. The first night there, my workmate and I decided to grab a bite from a food court outside our hotel, because the food bills at 5-star hotel restaurants in Singapore make you puke out everything that’s eaten, rendering the whole experience a worthless one.
We asked the bellboy to recommend a good food court nearby that we could hop over to at that time of night (it was a bit late in the night given that our flight landed well past people’s bedtime). Perhaps we should have specified that we meant to eat and nothing but, because the guy gave us a suspicious snigger and pointed towards Orchard towers, a few blocks away from our hotel.
Oblivious to the meaning behind Singaporean sniggers, we skipped over to the Towers. The last time I’d visited Orchard Road, it was the place for the elite to stroll casually by on whilst determining which designer store to throw their money at next. This time around was a little different. There were quite a few questionably dressed girls draping themselves on walls of buildings and under streetlamps, wearing enough make-up to render said streetlamp redundant. I, being the dud that I am, put this down to the fact that Singaporeans must love to dress up at night and have bad stylists. Going into Orchard Towers, we found more and more of these disillusioned fashionistas gyrating to the loud thumping music blaring out of several nightclubs dotting the basement floor into which we had descended. Having manoeuvred the alarmingly seedy corridors, we found our food court and looked around, gulping nervously by now. One hour later we ran back to the hotel at lightning speed, not even surprised by now at the food looking very suspicious, tasting odd, or the fact that we got played out by the vendor. The next morning I found out that Orchard Towers is also famously known as the ‘Four Floors of Whores’.
I hope you’ve caught on by now that the bellboy didn’t get a tip from me.
The rest of the week was spent in between work sessions, slightly more respectable food joints and the zillion shops. One cannot go to ‘Pore and not shop, dahling! Ever the stingy Grinch, my firm favourite has been and will always be the infamous Mustafas. Hours upon hours of loading the cart in greedy haste like there’s no tomorrow. Designer was never my thing, anyway. The food was better than I remembered, especially the chillie crab at Jumbo’s!
There was that one other place that I’d have died if I didn’t get the chance to go back to, and that was the zoo. When you’re a nutter like me you’ll understand why the Singapore zoo is the god of all Asian zoos. I once even tried scoring a job there as an animal show presenter, but was sadly rejected. I think it had something to do with the height of professionalism I demonstrated by writing them a letter to the effect of ‘Hi. I love animals. Could I please have a job there?’.
What? I bet the animals would’ve said yes.
My work mate couldn’t really get his mind around to the fact that when I suggested visiting the zoo, I meant staying there and never going back to SL. He tried to drag me away from the zebras quite a few times once he’d realized my intentions. But I stood my ground and the poor man spent his entire day watching me cooing at the wary creatures like an escaped lunatic. The only beings appreciative of my attentions were the snakes, who’d thus far never received any cooing and thought it a delightful novelty.
I would have felt sorry for my colleague’s plight had he not taken sweet revenge on our last day. We’d decided to visit Chinatown and discussed the merits of splitting up, doing our thing and then meeting at the metro point at a given time. I kept my end of the bargain but he did not. It could have had something to do with the fact that he’d lost his way and didn’t speak fluent English or Mandarin, but I didn’t care. I spent a good three hours standing near the metro entrance, to the point that one particular Chinese man thought I was a hooker and asked me if I wanted to go away with him and show him what brown girls can do. He may have gotten my point when I hit him with a large wooden souvenir fan and called him a bastard, because he left speedily. Seething with rage, I decided to leave my workmate to his fate and went back to our lodgings, only to find him fast asleep there. I hit him with the fan too.
Since Singapore, nothing much else has happened that’s exciting enough to share. I did agree to be conscripted into another play that I’m currently suffering rehearsals for. It stars a few good friends, and that is about the only thing I’m motivated by, given that my work schedule makes everything else an inconvenience. The production is in itself quite a good concept and it’s bound to thrill a few people. We shall see.
Apart from the play, my latest bouts of angst are directed towards Nilanga Dela Bandara a.k.a the Diyawadana Nilame, Minister Gamini Lokuge and the Asgiriya chapter. If you’ve been following the recent outrage of the media and general public, then you’ll know why I want all of the above mentioned bastards dead, or at least hung by their clearly-lacking balls. I am devising way in which to make this happen as we speak.
If you are not savvy to the goings on, then Google their names and you’ll come across a hundred article reporting the demonic way in which they abducted two suckling tusker calves from their mothers in Pinnawela and ‘offered’ them to the temple. To this day the babies remain chained, injured and traumatized inside Dela Bandara’s garage, whilst the mother elephants lie injured and pining for their calves. True Buddhists, these pigs are… to heap portions of abuse onto animals and expect karma points out of it. It astounds me how greedy fat arses like this are actually put into positions of power by us, the people. We are clearly dumber than I thought we were.
And that, my little donkeys, is what has happened so far, with the exception of work, work and nothing but work that keeps me grimacing every time I think of sitting down at the PC, even if it IS for personal gain. I did have a few outstanding moments like that time I saw another workmate standing near the office elevator and slapped his ass in the jovial fashion I always do, only to have the man turn around and reveal himself to NOT be the workmate in question but an absolute stranger. I ditched the elevator ride for five flights of stairs, just to avoid dying of shame.
Like a coincidental bitch of an irony, someone in office just called for me. This means you need to wait to hear from me again.
Over and out.
I’m back.
Really couldn’t be bothered with thinking up a more creative opening statement.
The days are quite literally a blur. Mostly because I broke my spectacles over three months ago and haven’t replaced them, but also because things seem to be passing by at a speed faster than peoples’ memory of Duminda Silva's negative public image. I am both supremely busy and supremely bored with life.
Gutterflower was right. It isn’t fun to blog when writing is your job. God knows I don’t want to WORK off-time too. But clearly you haven’t missed me as much as I’d like you to.
Anyhoo, let me give you a quick rundown of what moi has been getting moi’s itchy fingers into lately, a’ight?
That sounded vulgar, didn’t it?
To start with, back when I had less grey hairs on my head, almost four months ago, I was involved in putting together this year’s Chillies. Yes… that same ill-fated event that’s been given a good blog beating several times already. I had the luck (debatable) of being a part of the organizing committee by virtue of nomination. Given my inclination towards the theatrical, the rest of the committee decided that my chief (and only- because when it’s convenient, I can look like a bimbo who can’t do much else) responsibility would be to put together the entertainment for the event. I thought I was being very economical and smart when I suggested we ask a well-known theatre director to train people from within the industry to put on a musical act. The director thought HE was being smart in deciding to make that act a drag scene from ‘Cabaret’.
It is safe to say that when it comes to the ad industry, Liza Minnellis we are not.
It all went downhill from there.
Note to self and all at large: you will NOT, I repeat NOT, secure yourself any popular reputation amongst local men once you have harassed them to wear women’s' lingerie on a public stage. Let me elaborate with a prime example of what my phone conversations with random straight men went like:
(Ring ring)- which is actually a phone ringing and not a piece of schizophrenic jewellery…
Straight man : Hello?
Me : Hi. This is (dramaqueen). You don't know me, but I'm in the organising committee for the Chillies, and we have this performance that I'd think you'd be PERFECT for. (flirtatious voice to appeal to red-blooded male brain cell)
SM : (clearly flattered brain cell) oh? Wow... ok... what do you need me to do?
Me : Well, we need you to dance in drag. It's a musical number, you see, and the lingerie you’ll be wearing…
(Cue click of phone)
...
(Second set of ‘ring ring’)
SM : (Not flattered anymore) Yes?
Me : Sorry I think you got cut off. So like I was saying, it's a really cute drag number, and...
(Phone slams)
(Ring Ri..)
SM: WHAT? (braincell is now shouting)
Me : Er... are you interested?
At this point I am subjected to a lot of Greek. Or at least I think it's Greek because 13 years in a private girls’ school taught me nothing.
Of course, to be fair, I have to admit there was the odd (no pun intended) straight man with a slightly more open mind and sense of fun who DID surprisingly agreed to wear the skimpy outfit and heels and wiggle his bottom in front of a thousand people. There were also a handful of brave girls who volunteered (after some initial pleading on my part) to take on the role of the men in the act. I sat up for several evenings pasting sequins on bras and sewing black lace negligees and garters, much to my poor mother’s distress. She is now convinced that advertising is pure lechery. A few days were spent in shoe shops around the city, asking for high-heeled shoes in impossibly large sizes. My explanation to the questioning looks from shopkeepers was that they were for ‘tall foreign women’. ‘Drag queens’ would not have got me those shoes, except for on the head whilst being flung.
I won’t tell you how the show went. There are reviews in both English and Greek you can get someone else who was sober enough to witness it all that night.
Lah Land
The Chillies were followed by a trip to Singapore on a work assignment with a disgruntled co-worker who’d never been on a plane in his life. This meant a lot of nanny duty on my part, with much running after the bloke to stop him from going the wrong way at the airport.
I’ve been to good old ‘pore before, back when my hair was thicker. I didn’t have the slightest clue to how much things had changed since. The first night there, my workmate and I decided to grab a bite from a food court outside our hotel, because the food bills at 5-star hotel restaurants in Singapore make you puke out everything that’s eaten, rendering the whole experience a worthless one.
We asked the bellboy to recommend a good food court nearby that we could hop over to at that time of night (it was a bit late in the night given that our flight landed well past people’s bedtime). Perhaps we should have specified that we meant to eat and nothing but, because the guy gave us a suspicious snigger and pointed towards Orchard towers, a few blocks away from our hotel.
Oblivious to the meaning behind Singaporean sniggers, we skipped over to the Towers. The last time I’d visited Orchard Road, it was the place for the elite to stroll casually by on whilst determining which designer store to throw their money at next. This time around was a little different. There were quite a few questionably dressed girls draping themselves on walls of buildings and under streetlamps, wearing enough make-up to render said streetlamp redundant. I, being the dud that I am, put this down to the fact that Singaporeans must love to dress up at night and have bad stylists. Going into Orchard Towers, we found more and more of these disillusioned fashionistas gyrating to the loud thumping music blaring out of several nightclubs dotting the basement floor into which we had descended. Having manoeuvred the alarmingly seedy corridors, we found our food court and looked around, gulping nervously by now. One hour later we ran back to the hotel at lightning speed, not even surprised by now at the food looking very suspicious, tasting odd, or the fact that we got played out by the vendor. The next morning I found out that Orchard Towers is also famously known as the ‘Four Floors of Whores’.
I hope you’ve caught on by now that the bellboy didn’t get a tip from me.
The rest of the week was spent in between work sessions, slightly more respectable food joints and the zillion shops. One cannot go to ‘Pore and not shop, dahling! Ever the stingy Grinch, my firm favourite has been and will always be the infamous Mustafas. Hours upon hours of loading the cart in greedy haste like there’s no tomorrow. Designer was never my thing, anyway. The food was better than I remembered, especially the chillie crab at Jumbo’s!
There was that one other place that I’d have died if I didn’t get the chance to go back to, and that was the zoo. When you’re a nutter like me you’ll understand why the Singapore zoo is the god of all Asian zoos. I once even tried scoring a job there as an animal show presenter, but was sadly rejected. I think it had something to do with the height of professionalism I demonstrated by writing them a letter to the effect of ‘Hi. I love animals. Could I please have a job there?’.
What? I bet the animals would’ve said yes.
My work mate couldn’t really get his mind around to the fact that when I suggested visiting the zoo, I meant staying there and never going back to SL. He tried to drag me away from the zebras quite a few times once he’d realized my intentions. But I stood my ground and the poor man spent his entire day watching me cooing at the wary creatures like an escaped lunatic. The only beings appreciative of my attentions were the snakes, who’d thus far never received any cooing and thought it a delightful novelty.
I would have felt sorry for my colleague’s plight had he not taken sweet revenge on our last day. We’d decided to visit Chinatown and discussed the merits of splitting up, doing our thing and then meeting at the metro point at a given time. I kept my end of the bargain but he did not. It could have had something to do with the fact that he’d lost his way and didn’t speak fluent English or Mandarin, but I didn’t care. I spent a good three hours standing near the metro entrance, to the point that one particular Chinese man thought I was a hooker and asked me if I wanted to go away with him and show him what brown girls can do. He may have gotten my point when I hit him with a large wooden souvenir fan and called him a bastard, because he left speedily. Seething with rage, I decided to leave my workmate to his fate and went back to our lodgings, only to find him fast asleep there. I hit him with the fan too.
Since Singapore, nothing much else has happened that’s exciting enough to share. I did agree to be conscripted into another play that I’m currently suffering rehearsals for. It stars a few good friends, and that is about the only thing I’m motivated by, given that my work schedule makes everything else an inconvenience. The production is in itself quite a good concept and it’s bound to thrill a few people. We shall see.
Apart from the play, my latest bouts of angst are directed towards Nilanga Dela Bandara a.k.a the Diyawadana Nilame, Minister Gamini Lokuge and the Asgiriya chapter. If you’ve been following the recent outrage of the media and general public, then you’ll know why I want all of the above mentioned bastards dead, or at least hung by their clearly-lacking balls. I am devising way in which to make this happen as we speak.
If you are not savvy to the goings on, then Google their names and you’ll come across a hundred article reporting the demonic way in which they abducted two suckling tusker calves from their mothers in Pinnawela and ‘offered’ them to the temple. To this day the babies remain chained, injured and traumatized inside Dela Bandara’s garage, whilst the mother elephants lie injured and pining for their calves. True Buddhists, these pigs are… to heap portions of abuse onto animals and expect karma points out of it. It astounds me how greedy fat arses like this are actually put into positions of power by us, the people. We are clearly dumber than I thought we were.
And that, my little donkeys, is what has happened so far, with the exception of work, work and nothing but work that keeps me grimacing every time I think of sitting down at the PC, even if it IS for personal gain. I did have a few outstanding moments like that time I saw another workmate standing near the office elevator and slapped his ass in the jovial fashion I always do, only to have the man turn around and reveal himself to NOT be the workmate in question but an absolute stranger. I ditched the elevator ride for five flights of stairs, just to avoid dying of shame.
Like a coincidental bitch of an irony, someone in office just called for me. This means you need to wait to hear from me again.
Over and out.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Hoo
I swear to you, I'm not dead.
Yet.
A longer post is on its way, I promise. I just need to find that little jewel called time. Between fighting the President on animal rights issues, my mother's suspicions, my client's brainwaves, my boss's sudden itches and all the voices in my head, I really haven't had the chance to talk to you.
Sorry. There's lot to tell.
Await.
Yet.
A longer post is on its way, I promise. I just need to find that little jewel called time. Between fighting the President on animal rights issues, my mother's suspicions, my client's brainwaves, my boss's sudden itches and all the voices in my head, I really haven't had the chance to talk to you.
Sorry. There's lot to tell.
Await.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Poses and Promotions
You know how you get that urge to smoke after having had some really good sex? I’ve never felt that. Interpret it any which way you like, but I was referring to the cigarette action. However, I am feeling a similar satisfaction much like the one felt after a good romp.
God, I can even confuse myself with the way I write.
Back to the story.
The second event that took place was to do with work. So I let the cat out of the bag in my last post about a little career upgrade that I’d been informed about by the powers that be. Last evening, the rest of the office was informed too. I guess that makes it official and I can safely blab out more details to those of you who aren’t yawning at my self-obsessed natter. Yet. I was appointed as a group head within our creative department, which means I now have the power to veto the opinions of any cat-haters. All hail me. They also say I now have the authority to call the shots, though this may come at the risk of getting shot at. Not everyone in the team is dancing the jig of joy at the announcement – I am, of course, a newbie in comparison to some of the other stalwarts and institutions, and sometimes taking direction from a loudmouthed woman can be an icky experience to say the least. I didn’t expect it to be hunky dory and I am fully geared for the onslaught of ‘how-she-got-the-job’ assumptions that are bound to scatter far and wide in the coming days. Nevertheless, it still feels good to have made a mark with my work and be recognized for it. Yes, Ms. Gaynor…. I will survive.
Besides the two most recent causes for joy, I had some rather good fun two days ago too. Remember how I mentioned my clients wanting me to model in their campaigns? Note how I assume you’re an avid fan of this blog to remember such things? Even if you don’t, now you do.
Thursday saw me posing and pouting at a full-day photo shoot for a spa catalogue, in which yours truly was the creature feature. If I ever thought modeling was a glamorous job, I don’t now. It is something akin to ranching, where you are the cattle and the photographer, agency, make-up artist and light boxes are four very mean cowboys. I was pulled, pushed, poked, prodded and pummeled in every direction humanly and bovinely possible, all in the name of a good shot. Along the way, a good many adventures took place, as is usually the way with the universe and I.
Make-up was the biggest adventure of all. I had been granted, by virtue of a stingy client, a make-up lady who was still learning to differentiate a powder from a glue. A mousy little thing, so fragile that I felt her pain every time she bravely wielded the weight of the blusher brush, wondering whether it was meant for my face or a wall. Had I been cruel enough to growl in her direction, she’d have had to undergo trauma counseling, she was that timid.
She had with her a platter of colours and creams of all sorts that she presented with pride. The instruction was to:
a) Cover my spots (because this was a glamourous brochure and not a connect-the-dots playbook)
b) Make me look simple and sublime.
Next came the colour. Out swished the brush and the electric blue shadow. Sweep, sweep, and I was instantly contesting for Drag Queen of the Year. I waited patiently till she turned away to load her evil brush and then hastily rubbed off as much as I could with my fingers. Should we apply some rouge, I asked her. Sure, she said, and gave me a
Why we spent so long attending to every strand of hair, I will never know… the second I sat on my perch in front of the camera they switched on two massive industrial fans directed at me and all that painstakingly tortured hair just exploded everywhere, including into my nose, mouth and eyes. “Wow! Yes! Hold that!” the photographer instructed as I beautifully choked on a particularly large bunch of hair socializing with my larynx. “Love it!” he shouted when more hair went up my nose and made me tear. “Give me sexy!’ he barked, whereby the poltergeist on my head dutifully throttled me. If the shots that resulted are not used for this brochure, I’m sure I can make a mint selling them to Amnesty International for their next campaign.
One hour and much hair later I was done with the ‘hair care’ shots. Next came ‘skin care’. “Lets do the splash images’ I heard someone calling. Splash? As in, water? What the devil did that entail? While I mused and panicked, Make-up Mouse doused me in a new coat of colours – oranges and greens this time- till I looked like a carrot. My apprehension mounted when I saw someone bringing me a bathrobe. “Wear this over your clothes”, she muttered conspiratorially, not daring to look at me lest she felt my emotion and ratted on their secret plans. My thoughts went insane when they brought out a large basin filled to the brim with water and placed it on a stand in font of me. By this time Mouse was grabbing fistfuls of my hair and clenching them tight to create curls. She being a good two feet shorter than I meant that every time she grabbed, I got whiplash.
The photographer appeared again. Lights were adjusted. One last blob of orange dust was showered onto my face for an extra splotchy effect. “All right DQ… throw water on yourself.”
WTF? What did he mean throw water on myself?? The basin, I was politely told, was for my use. I was to use my hands to splash water on my face. With my eyes closed. With that lovely smile I always get when I throw cold water on my face with my eyes closed and thereby aim so well that it actually goes up my nose. Could I also please open the neck of the bathrobe to make it look like my shoulders were bare? Smile, DQ… don’t wince or scowl at the water. It is your friend. No spluttering, please… the camera needs you and the water to remain still, please. That’s it… open your mouth bit in a happy declaration… no don’t gag on the water like that, it doesn’t make a good shot. Come on now… LOVE IT. Yes…yes…that’s it…splash!..splash more! More! More water….hold it there… what’s that? No swearing, please.
60 shots later, I was drenched from head to toe – clothes and all- and not looking pleased. Mouse pursed her lips disapprovingly at me for daring to let the water get the better of her skillful artistry and leave me looking like a deranged panda with a badly done fake tan. It was time for the ‘aromatherapy’ shots and she’d have to start all over again. My hair was wet, she reported. She’d have to blow dry. Dear God, help.
Because ever millimeter of cloth on me was as wet as sin, someone’s convenient shawl was taken and wrapped around me. They wanted the ‘Sigirya effect’, I was told. I wasn’t sure if they meant the paintings of the maidens or the actual rock, which was what I was looking like at that point. Once they’d bathed me in purples and pinks this time around, I was instructed to clutch onto a bunch of lotus flowers and smell them, smiling serenely and the enthralling scent that supposedly wafted my way. Here’s the thing… lotuses smell god-damn awful. Especially the ones with the little flying bugs in them. Within the hour I was a grandmaster of serenely smelling stinky flowers while insects flew up my nostrils.
That evening, I went back to office with my face caked up like a cheap prostitute’s and a wealth of experience that teaches me never to agree to modeling assignments that involve water or lotus flowers. Or a make-up artist who looks like a mouse.
I hope that damn spa makes a sale or two.
Friday, November 2, 2007
So Far, So Good
You know what... this new job thing ain't so bad after all...
That's not to say I'm not shivering in me boots anymore, coz I still have to prove that I'm worth my salt in this place. Since yesterday I've done practically nothing because everyone's too busy to attend to me and my ignorance just yet. I have been warned, though, that come next week, my work will load up with much speed.
I've kept myself quiet without irritating any of the new office mates just yet. We'll give it some time before they get to know me, neyda. I'm seated in my cubicle in the corner, watching the rest of the ad world buzzing by, and taking down mental notes on the whos and hows of the place, until such time that I have developed myself a satisfactory opinion of my decision to move here.
It's a far cry from my previous office, this one. Not professionally, of course - this is a much larger agency and everything's alot more professional and structured in that sense. But the people just aren't the same, and nor is the culture within which they work. Having thoroughly enjoyed myself in a real home-like atmosphere back at the old place, with such a down-to-earth, warm and unpretentious team that became my family, the new place is kinda alien to me. that's not to say that the people are bad... just different. Much more 'stylish', I would say... a little more interested in themselves than each other, and not so passionate about their work and company as my old team is. It's a younger, 'party hard' crowd (most of them), and everything is just a tad too superficial. But that's possibly me being very biased because of my loyalties to what I left behind.
What struck me as foreign was that yesterday was supposedly the company's first anniversary, and absolutely no one wanted to celebrate it in any way. The management held a meeting and formally announced that one successful year had passed, and that was it. Not a fly seemed too interested, and everyone just went back to their workspaces, to silently click away at their machines and occasionaly crack a really posh joke that I just didn't get. Back in the old place, we'd be hugging and kissing each other while finding more excuses to party about an anniversary...
Also, when new people joined the former office, we'd do everything possible to make that person feel welcome and enjoy him/herself. There'd be team activities, initiation rites to giggle at and sing songs galore. Here, people barely gave me a second glance. I wouldn't say hostile, but it's certainly a much stiffer environment than I'm used to.
Workwise I still have no idea. Most probably I will, when my training begins next week. Until then, I shall wait, and watch , until it's time for me to change things. Fingers crossed.
That's not to say I'm not shivering in me boots anymore, coz I still have to prove that I'm worth my salt in this place. Since yesterday I've done practically nothing because everyone's too busy to attend to me and my ignorance just yet. I have been warned, though, that come next week, my work will load up with much speed.
I've kept myself quiet without irritating any of the new office mates just yet. We'll give it some time before they get to know me, neyda. I'm seated in my cubicle in the corner, watching the rest of the ad world buzzing by, and taking down mental notes on the whos and hows of the place, until such time that I have developed myself a satisfactory opinion of my decision to move here.
It's a far cry from my previous office, this one. Not professionally, of course - this is a much larger agency and everything's alot more professional and structured in that sense. But the people just aren't the same, and nor is the culture within which they work. Having thoroughly enjoyed myself in a real home-like atmosphere back at the old place, with such a down-to-earth, warm and unpretentious team that became my family, the new place is kinda alien to me. that's not to say that the people are bad... just different. Much more 'stylish', I would say... a little more interested in themselves than each other, and not so passionate about their work and company as my old team is. It's a younger, 'party hard' crowd (most of them), and everything is just a tad too superficial. But that's possibly me being very biased because of my loyalties to what I left behind.
What struck me as foreign was that yesterday was supposedly the company's first anniversary, and absolutely no one wanted to celebrate it in any way. The management held a meeting and formally announced that one successful year had passed, and that was it. Not a fly seemed too interested, and everyone just went back to their workspaces, to silently click away at their machines and occasionaly crack a really posh joke that I just didn't get. Back in the old place, we'd be hugging and kissing each other while finding more excuses to party about an anniversary...
Also, when new people joined the former office, we'd do everything possible to make that person feel welcome and enjoy him/herself. There'd be team activities, initiation rites to giggle at and sing songs galore. Here, people barely gave me a second glance. I wouldn't say hostile, but it's certainly a much stiffer environment than I'm used to.
Workwise I still have no idea. Most probably I will, when my training begins next week. Until then, I shall wait, and watch , until it's time for me to change things. Fingers crossed.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Baby's First Day
AAAARGHH!! I'm starting to shit bricks now. Hey themissingsandwich, if you're reading this, I hear ya, babe. I'm going through exactly the same mental motions and it's freaking me out.
D day is here... I'm starting work at the new place tomorrow, and it's come around way too fast for comfort. I was just starting to settle down into my 'pre-new job' leave, and before you know it, it's time to start waking up early again.
A million... no.. zillion things have addled my mind today. (Well... just a few things, actually, but a zillion sounds much more dramatic and apt for an interesting read, don't you think?)
What if I hate it? What if they hate me? What if I screw up on my first day? What if I don't belong there? Will I be happy? Will leaving my previous job/life be worth it? Will I like being under someone's control? Can I manage to get through 6 months of probation? Did I make the right decision when taking this job? What if I made a mistake? What do I wear? What do I say? Will I get my period as a result of all this self-induced stress?
I can't stop feeling paranoid about this. It's been four years since I last started a new job... I'm out of my comfort zone here and am feeling far too vulnerable for my liking. What if I don't make a good first impression on these people? I don't know them... they might eat me alive. They weren't a very friendly looking bunch, the last time I saw them.
I took at least a good three hours deciding what to wear, and settled on a fairly smart pant-and-shirt combo. Not too creative and not overdressed either. I wouldn't want to look desperate to please (although I am, but they don't have to know that), so I'm keeping it simple.
Since this is kinda sorta a new journey in life that I'm starting tomorrow, I figured I'd also try the whole 'something old, something new' crap that brides do, for superstition's sake. A new pair of pants for luck, old earrings, a book for the 'something borrowed', and my mood to round off the 'something blue'. I'm also taking the comfort of friends along with me, to keep me psychologically secure throughout the day. A necklace from BF, a lilac (my favourite colour) shirt from my good galpal Dil, a bracelet from an office teammate and my mom's hairclip.
I don't want tomorrow to come.... wah... but I guess I have to face it. I'm gonna either make it, or break it with this new job, and I HATE not knowing which end result it's gonna be.
Gah. Argh.
Here goes nothing.
D day is here... I'm starting work at the new place tomorrow, and it's come around way too fast for comfort. I was just starting to settle down into my 'pre-new job' leave, and before you know it, it's time to start waking up early again.
A million... no.. zillion things have addled my mind today. (Well... just a few things, actually, but a zillion sounds much more dramatic and apt for an interesting read, don't you think?)
What if I hate it? What if they hate me? What if I screw up on my first day? What if I don't belong there? Will I be happy? Will leaving my previous job/life be worth it? Will I like being under someone's control? Can I manage to get through 6 months of probation? Did I make the right decision when taking this job? What if I made a mistake? What do I wear? What do I say? Will I get my period as a result of all this self-induced stress?
I can't stop feeling paranoid about this. It's been four years since I last started a new job... I'm out of my comfort zone here and am feeling far too vulnerable for my liking. What if I don't make a good first impression on these people? I don't know them... they might eat me alive. They weren't a very friendly looking bunch, the last time I saw them.
I took at least a good three hours deciding what to wear, and settled on a fairly smart pant-and-shirt combo. Not too creative and not overdressed either. I wouldn't want to look desperate to please (although I am, but they don't have to know that), so I'm keeping it simple.
Since this is kinda sorta a new journey in life that I'm starting tomorrow, I figured I'd also try the whole 'something old, something new' crap that brides do, for superstition's sake. A new pair of pants for luck, old earrings, a book for the 'something borrowed', and my mood to round off the 'something blue'. I'm also taking the comfort of friends along with me, to keep me psychologically secure throughout the day. A necklace from BF, a lilac (my favourite colour) shirt from my good galpal Dil, a bracelet from an office teammate and my mom's hairclip.
I don't want tomorrow to come.... wah... but I guess I have to face it. I'm gonna either make it, or break it with this new job, and I HATE not knowing which end result it's gonna be.
Gah. Argh.
Here goes nothing.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
missmanagement
Nope... that's not a typo on my title.... read on.
So it's over. Another chapter of my life closed today, when I bid farewell to the office I had practically lived in for the last four and a half years, and the small but wonderful group of people I came to love as my extended family. I've always prided myself on being a somewhat hard-hearted bitch who can move on quite easily from one phase to another without much icky nostalgia and sentiment, but maaan.... today......God, it was so friggin' tough to leave that room, and I, miss cool clown, so lost my bearings and broke down in tears. I wasn't the only one... everyone else took my cue and started bawling too, and it was a nice little puddle we created in that department today.
I know what you're thinking. "Get a life, woman... it's just an office. Not like you died or anything."
But you know... I think I did die a bit today. I gave up more than 'just an office'... I gave up part of me.
When I first started the company off, I was a clueless bit of fluff, struggling to figure out how to set up a business and figuring out what to do with it after that. Ever since then, it's been one long roller-coaster ride of trials and triumphs alike, and I not only molded the organisation, but also myself into the professional I am today. From sitting alone on the floor of a large room with a PC next to me (the only thing we could afford at the time), to a fully fledged (and fully equipped!) place full of highly dynamic people, this baby of mine grew up fast to become quite a worthy contender in it's industry. And I am DAMN proud to say I was a part of all that, and moreover, that I actually led the way.
Leading a team of people was something I knew nothing about. I didn't know what to do, or how to do it. But through the years of making mistakes, I worked out quite a successful formula of management techniques that helped us to achieve. Forget Kotler, Drucker or any other guru that the marketing notes adulate. This formula was bourne out of sheer ignorance of the so-called 'laws of leadership', and created through a long process of falling down until I learned to stand in my own individual style.
So, if there's anyone out there who's gotten the opportunity to manage an operation, but as a result of inexperience is deathly afraid like I was, here are my tried-and-true management mantras-
Alas, I am no longer managing the team... I'm moving on to try my hand at something new.
I feel sad and dreary, and yet, quite accomplished for all that I have learned from my experience here. I will miss my guys sorely... they made my job worthwhile. But whilst I am leaving behind a team of employees, I am taking with me a fantastic bunch of best friends.
Farewell, baby. Kiss.
So it's over. Another chapter of my life closed today, when I bid farewell to the office I had practically lived in for the last four and a half years, and the small but wonderful group of people I came to love as my extended family. I've always prided myself on being a somewhat hard-hearted bitch who can move on quite easily from one phase to another without much icky nostalgia and sentiment, but maaan.... today......God, it was so friggin' tough to leave that room, and I, miss cool clown, so lost my bearings and broke down in tears. I wasn't the only one... everyone else took my cue and started bawling too, and it was a nice little puddle we created in that department today.
I know what you're thinking. "Get a life, woman... it's just an office. Not like you died or anything."
But you know... I think I did die a bit today. I gave up more than 'just an office'... I gave up part of me.
When I first started the company off, I was a clueless bit of fluff, struggling to figure out how to set up a business and figuring out what to do with it after that. Ever since then, it's been one long roller-coaster ride of trials and triumphs alike, and I not only molded the organisation, but also myself into the professional I am today. From sitting alone on the floor of a large room with a PC next to me (the only thing we could afford at the time), to a fully fledged (and fully equipped!) place full of highly dynamic people, this baby of mine grew up fast to become quite a worthy contender in it's industry. And I am DAMN proud to say I was a part of all that, and moreover, that I actually led the way.
Leading a team of people was something I knew nothing about. I didn't know what to do, or how to do it. But through the years of making mistakes, I worked out quite a successful formula of management techniques that helped us to achieve. Forget Kotler, Drucker or any other guru that the marketing notes adulate. This formula was bourne out of sheer ignorance of the so-called 'laws of leadership', and created through a long process of falling down until I learned to stand in my own individual style.
So, if there's anyone out there who's gotten the opportunity to manage an operation, but as a result of inexperience is deathly afraid like I was, here are my tried-and-true management mantras-
- Those on your team are people first, and employees second. Once you figure that out and get off your management high-horse, you'll understand what makes each person tick, so that you will then figure out how to motivate each individual to work to his or her maximum potential.
- The simplest rewards can be the most rewarding. I never did have sufficient money in the company to hand out bonuses and increments like nobody's business. But that didn't mean that my employees weren't shown appreciation at every given opportunity. Personal letters, plenty of one-on-one chat time, ownership for our every success and occasional in-house funtime brought me a whole lot more productivity and loyalty than most other companies.
- They won't love it if you don't. Who on earth wants to deal with a morose manager on a daily basis? My team knew I adored every minute I spent at office, and I made sure they got my drift through example, when I said passion for your work is the key ingredient to success. Result? I inform them of far better employment prospects in other companies and I get glares and outright (and often loud) rejection in return.
- Trust them with your life. I don't have to spell this one out. My guys would've died for me, and I for them. It was this mutual understanding that helped us gel and develop brilliant teamwork.
- You're not GOD. Nothing's worse than a manager who thinks he/she is above everyone else, and gives out the message that he/she can do no wrong. It just makes things worse when you mess up in front of your team. I made no bones about the fact that I was human too, and that sometimes I didn't know what i was doing. The strangest thing is, when you're honest about your stupidity, people respect you that much more.
- Never stop learning. Never stop teaching. My company grew because we strived together to maintain a constant flow of knowledge. Anything we learned was passed around, and that ensured a well-rounded unit. Teaching people what you know makes you redundant in your job, which to me is a very good thing, because then, when you do leave, you're ensured that the company will survive and carry on.
Alas, I am no longer managing the team... I'm moving on to try my hand at something new.
I feel sad and dreary, and yet, quite accomplished for all that I have learned from my experience here. I will miss my guys sorely... they made my job worthwhile. But whilst I am leaving behind a team of employees, I am taking with me a fantastic bunch of best friends.
Farewell, baby. Kiss.
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