I am on holiday this week and enjoying it.
I was badly in need of it. The late nights and stupidly early rises had taken their toll. I never realise how stressed and run down I am until my body does something to spell it out for me. Sometimes it makes me vomit, sometimes it throws my cycle off kilter (sometimes it does both those things at the same time, which is really scary and even more stressful), sometimes it gives me an eczema-type thing on my knuckles, but this time it gave me red blotches up my neck and behind my ears. Strange but true.
At work I was furiously trying to get everything tied up before I went off on holiday. This included contract/cost negotiations with one agency and two agencies who moan about the slightest change of plan. Honestly. When I invite agencies to pitch for me in future, one of the things I'm going to be looking for is someone who is as cool under pressure as I am. Yes, I may be a blotchy-necked stress-head, but no one would know it from speaking to me.
The social side of things was frantic too, though considerably more enjoyable. Mog and I had dinner and cocktails at the Dome last Wednesday and I tried to convince her to start wearing an orthopaedic shoe. I toyed with the idea of leaving my car on George Street and having a few more, but I'd have had to get up ridiculously early to move it so I was sensible and resisted.
On Thursday night, I met up with Cat, Cabey and Alan from work for the pub quiz. When I arrived, Cat pointed out that the rest of the people looked quite geeky and clever and the only hope for us was that I flashed them. I told her that she was sorely underestimating my pub quiz skills. Alas, I never got a chance to wow them as the quiz never happened. We made up for it by making our way through some chili nachos and a significant amount of alcohol. We tried to come up with a team name for future, but struggled. Cat suggested we choose one word which is always in our team name and then the rest of it changes every week. Alan suggested we use the word 'bint'. So I suggested we replace a word from a famous movie title with the word 'bint' every week. We tested it out on some James Bond films to see how it would work (Dr Bint, Bintfinger, On Her Bint's Secret Service, The Bint with the Golden Gun (or The Man with the Golden Bint), The Bint who Loved Me and Bintpussy).
Friday night was Anne and David's leaving night. I managed to get there before eight o'clock. I spent most of the night talking to Angela and Susie whilst fondling the lining of a guy called Harvard's jacket, which was hanging on the back of the sofa we were sitting on. Sometime after midnight on Easter Road I was amazed that, as merry as she was, Anne was still able to dismiss a guy with a very cool one-liner. Impressive. I told her this and she said 'yeah. I like how your way of handling it was just to edge yourself away from the situation and leave me to deal with it.'
It's true, I am rubbish in these situations. I normally get stuck for ages trying to politely tell someone to get lost. Drunk people scare me though and being smart in these situations reminds me of growing up in Fife and saying the wrong thing to a girl who accused me of flirting with her boyfriend at Jackie-O's. I pointed out to her that her boyfriend didn't have any teeth so he wasn't really what I considered to be 'a catch' and surely she must be mistaken. She told me that she was going to 'rip the fiss aff' me, which translates as 'rip your face off'. I spent the rest of the night in fear for both myself and my Jaegar mini-dress.
Since then I've come to rely on my friends to help me out of awkward situations. Sinead is classic with her no-nonsense approach. In San Francisco I got stopped by two guys asking where I was from and what I was up to and whether I'd like to go for a drink. Sinead had kept walking, turned around, shook her head, walked back to us and said: "Lis, do you have any intention of having sex with these guys?" The three of us were totally shocked. "No, of course not ..." "Well come on then."
On Saturday I woke up when I heard someone leaving a message on my answer machine. I looked up at the clock. 2:22pm. I don't think I've ever slept in that late in my life. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself and slightly anxious that I might be ill. Anyway, it made for a very weird day. By the time I'd showered and got dressed and had breakfast, it was about four o'clock. I had just enough time to run down to the framers to collect my pictures. I hurried round Sainsbury's and bumped into a guy from work.
I hate bumping into people from work in the supermarket. It's always awkward and it's always when you're buying tampons. (And now that I know I buy more than the average woman, it makes me feel even more weird. When Sinead and I did a communal toiletries shop for our RTW trip, Sinead asked if I was planning on having a hemorrhage.) So anyway, he said: "Hi Lisa." And I said "Hi" back. That's all you really need to say isn't it? But because he probably felt awkward, he clearly felt he had to say something else. So he said: "Doing your weekly shop?" What, in the supermarket? I mean, what are you supposed to say to that?
Well, you could help him out - even if it means lying - by saying "yes". At which point he would probably look at my basket (if he hadn't already) and see that it contained only tampons. Then he would probably say "bye" and I'd say "bye". So our full interaction would have consisted of:
Him: Hi Lisa
Me: Hi
Him: Doing your weekly shop?
Me: Yes.
Him: (On scan of basket he sees tampons) Bye
Me: Bye
How pointless and shit is that? Why didn't he just leave it at "Hi"?
Now in these situations, my head is always running a bit further ahead and I'd have known that the 'yes' answer would lead to a pointless and shit conversation and he'd get out to the car park and start banging his head off the steering wheel repeating "Doing your weekly shop?" like it was the 'watermelon' line from Dirty Dancing. So I wanted it to be less awkward somehow.
The thing is, when I feel awkward I respond by talking far too much and telling people way more than they want or need to know. For example, when I was last at the doctors having a smear test, the doctor said "you have excellent muscle control", which freaked me right out. I mean, like it's not embarrassing enough for the patient, they now feel they have to add commentary. I manically said it was probably on account of my pilates classes and proceeded to tell her absolutely everything there is to know about pilates. I must have gone on about it for almost 20 minutes.
Meanwhile back at the supermarket check-out, instead of saying 'yes', I decided to launch into a big explanation that went a bit like this: "No. No, I just popped in to get a few bits and pieces. Well, you know, like tampons (now throwing them over my shoulder onto the conveyor belt). I get my shopping delivered cause, you know, it's better for the environment and I'm quite busy, and the delivery guy is a hottie. I mean he's really young, but he's quite hot. But he's not that young because he drives the van so he has to be at least 17. Ha ha ha."
So then I went out to the car park and banged my head off the steering wheel.
Showing posts with label examples of stupidity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label examples of stupidity. Show all posts
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Friday, July 04, 2008
When beauty regimens go bad
Two months ago this guy came round to mine. Don't get too excited, I did know him - we'd been out a few times (a decent number of times). Let's call him Dave. I did. It's not his name and he did get quite annoyed, but names have never been my strong point.
Anyway, we had a lovely evening. He cooked. We skipped dessert. We headed through to the bedroom (insert 80s synth and saxophone music here). We were standing by the bed, I was facing 'Dave'. I reached down behind me and pulled back the duvet. My bedspread is red (this isn't just girly detail by the way, it's an important factor). Suddenly, Dave stopped kissing me. I noticed his expression had changed.
"What is it?" I asked.
He moved his head forward to indicate in the direction of the bed. "Eh, what's that?"
I froze. Even though I knew there was nothing weird or dodgy in my bed, I was reluctant to turn around. Eventually I did and I was totally shocked by what I saw.
There were numerous 'white patches' on my red fitted sheet. 'Oh my God, what the hell is that' I silently floundered. "Erm ... eh ... it's not what it looks like," I finally managed.
"Well, that is what it looks like."
"Well, it's not. It's definitely not. I mean I haven't. And if I had, I would have washed the sheets."
"Well, what is it then?"
My mind ticked over furiously. I couldn't think what it might be. C'mon, c'mon, what is it. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally clicked into place.
"Aha," I ventured victoriously. I turned back to face Dave with a proud smile. "It's heel cream!" I remembered that I'd been putting it on my heels every night. You're supposed to put socks on after you've applied it, but I loathe wearing socks in bed so I'd opted to dangle my feet over the edge until it had been absorbed. Obviously, I hadn't waited long enough and some of it had been absorbed by my sheets.
"Heel cream? What the fuck is heel cream?"
"It's cream, for putting on your heels so they're all silky and smooth in the summer."
Dave didn't look convinced.
"Look! I'll show you." I pulled open the top drawer on my bedside table and pulled out the heel cream. "See?" I said rattling the box.
He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at my open drawer. I looked down.
Next to the heel cream were three boxes of condoms.
"There was a three for two offer on at Boots," I offered sheepishly.
He burst out laughing and we lay down on the bed.
"I'm definitely not going to have to pay you after this am I?"
We ended up laughing ourselves to sleep.
Anyway, we had a lovely evening. He cooked. We skipped dessert. We headed through to the bedroom (insert 80s synth and saxophone music here). We were standing by the bed, I was facing 'Dave'. I reached down behind me and pulled back the duvet. My bedspread is red (this isn't just girly detail by the way, it's an important factor). Suddenly, Dave stopped kissing me. I noticed his expression had changed.
"What is it?" I asked.
He moved his head forward to indicate in the direction of the bed. "Eh, what's that?"
I froze. Even though I knew there was nothing weird or dodgy in my bed, I was reluctant to turn around. Eventually I did and I was totally shocked by what I saw.
There were numerous 'white patches' on my red fitted sheet. 'Oh my God, what the hell is that' I silently floundered. "Erm ... eh ... it's not what it looks like," I finally managed.
"Well, that is what it looks like."
"Well, it's not. It's definitely not. I mean I haven't. And if I had, I would have washed the sheets."
"Well, what is it then?"
My mind ticked over furiously. I couldn't think what it might be. C'mon, c'mon, what is it. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally clicked into place.
"Aha," I ventured victoriously. I turned back to face Dave with a proud smile. "It's heel cream!" I remembered that I'd been putting it on my heels every night. You're supposed to put socks on after you've applied it, but I loathe wearing socks in bed so I'd opted to dangle my feet over the edge until it had been absorbed. Obviously, I hadn't waited long enough and some of it had been absorbed by my sheets.
"Heel cream? What the fuck is heel cream?"
"It's cream, for putting on your heels so they're all silky and smooth in the summer."
Dave didn't look convinced.
"Look! I'll show you." I pulled open the top drawer on my bedside table and pulled out the heel cream. "See?" I said rattling the box.
He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at my open drawer. I looked down.
Next to the heel cream were three boxes of condoms.
"There was a three for two offer on at Boots," I offered sheepishly.
He burst out laughing and we lay down on the bed.
"I'm definitely not going to have to pay you after this am I?"
We ended up laughing ourselves to sleep.
Monday, June 23, 2008
On trying to be a good citizen
Today at work, I gave blood. I'd been put on a 12 month ban following my Cambodia trip, so it was good to finally do it again. It was my ninth donation and, apparently, I get a badge the next time I donate. I'm trying to put that across and sound like a good citizen, but it's not really that impressive, as if I'd stuck to my three times a year promise I should have donated around 30 times by now. Hmmm.
As always, the form you have to fill in causes me no shortage of dilemma. One of the questions is 'Have you ever had sex with a man who has ever had sex with another man?' I mean, how are you supposed to know that? Occasionally I flirt with the idea of telling them about that one guy. The one whom I wouldn't be surprised to hear is actually gay. But I don't know for certain and it might just cause more hassle than it's worth - like the time my mum let slip my grandma was dead when she was trying to cash in my grandma's astronomically high BT shares. Bummer.
The other question that causes me problems is the one that asks 'Have you ever had sex for money?'
Now technically, the answer to that is of course 'no', but I have done it out of pity. Once. And I know a few people who have done it for jewellery. Oh, and one person who did it for a sports car. So what's the big difference? Why don't they just ask 'Are you, or have you ever been, a prostitute?', rather than making people who aren't prostitutes feel bad about themselves when all they're trying to do is be a good citizen.
Obviously the reason I would feel bad about myself is because I know that 'pity' is not a positive reason for having sex with someone. However, I also feel bad because at least the prostitutes had the good sense to get paid for something they didn't really want to do. So here's a new slogan for the Blood Donation Service ...
... Feel cheap and stupid:Give blood.
As always, the form you have to fill in causes me no shortage of dilemma. One of the questions is 'Have you ever had sex with a man who has ever had sex with another man?' I mean, how are you supposed to know that? Occasionally I flirt with the idea of telling them about that one guy. The one whom I wouldn't be surprised to hear is actually gay. But I don't know for certain and it might just cause more hassle than it's worth - like the time my mum let slip my grandma was dead when she was trying to cash in my grandma's astronomically high BT shares. Bummer.
The other question that causes me problems is the one that asks 'Have you ever had sex for money?'
Now technically, the answer to that is of course 'no', but I have done it out of pity. Once. And I know a few people who have done it for jewellery. Oh, and one person who did it for a sports car. So what's the big difference? Why don't they just ask 'Are you, or have you ever been, a prostitute?', rather than making people who aren't prostitutes feel bad about themselves when all they're trying to do is be a good citizen.
Obviously the reason I would feel bad about myself is because I know that 'pity' is not a positive reason for having sex with someone. However, I also feel bad because at least the prostitutes had the good sense to get paid for something they didn't really want to do. So here's a new slogan for the Blood Donation Service ...
... Feel cheap and stupid:Give blood.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
What's in the box?
The financial review continued last week, and I got a bit over-ambitious (which is by no means a rare thing for me). Having found a suitable extra-job (thankfully, it does not involve Scorpio Leisure), I piled on the hours and totalled it all up until it looked like I could pay off my mortgage in five years. However, I decided that I did want to live after all and scaled back considerably.
After having faced the prospect of being mortgage-free at the tender age of thirty (two), I now felt slightly depressed that I'd never be able to pull it off. I needed something to lift my spirits again - quickly. So I decided to buy a tortoise. How very retro.
A tortoise would be the perfect addition to my flat. I mulled it over. (I'm sure it would be quite independent and be happy doing its own thing, no hair means less fluff on my carpet, it could eat all the fruit and veg I never get round to (a live recycling machine if you will), it would casually wander through to join me as I sit writing, I'd come home from work and it'd be wandering around, it wouldn't make any noise. It would be very much like my wooden giraffe but somewhat more mobile - perfect.)
I discovered I could buy one online for a discounted price of £99. And free delivery - even better. I'd have to get it delivered to work (as I wouldn't want it being punted about the Royal Mail depot) but I quite liked the thought of everyone asking: "What's in the box?" And my response: "A tortoise." Whereupon I would indeed reveal a tortoise.
My mum was distinctly unimpressed. "You're not getting a tortoise," she said with an exasperated sigh. "I'm an adult, with my own property, you can't tell me I'm not getting one." "You're not getting a tortoise." "But I think it'd be really cool." "Why don't you wait until you have a big house, with a big garden." "When I have a big house with a big garden I'll get a horse. The whole point of the tortoise is its lack of need for space." "Well, we'll see - maybe Santa will bring you one." "Stop implying that you have any influence on this decision." It never ceases to amaze me how quickly I can regress to my four-year old self in certain conversations with my mum. A hideous image of me dressed up like Bette Davis in 'Whatever happened to Baby Jane?' flashed into my mind, and I made a mental note not to discuss my wackier notions with my parents.
I was explaining all this to some friends on Thursday night. I don't think any of them were really getting it. Sinead looked at me like she'd heard about as much as she could take and said: "I don't think you're in a fit state to have a pet ... hearing you talk about it being like a wooden thing that moves about."
"Don't worry," I said, "I'm not actually getting one. I found out that you need to buy a special tortoise table, a UV lamp and lots of 'natural' obstacles to place around your house in order to exercise the thing. That's a bit more complicated and messy than I'd originally thought. And also, I realised that it'd have to excrete all the leftover veg I fed it, so - again - more messy than I thought."
Hopefully though, my two jobs and my round-the-world trip will occupy me enough to keep me from ever actually buying livestock over the Internet.
After having faced the prospect of being mortgage-free at the tender age of thirty (two), I now felt slightly depressed that I'd never be able to pull it off. I needed something to lift my spirits again - quickly. So I decided to buy a tortoise. How very retro.
A tortoise would be the perfect addition to my flat. I mulled it over. (I'm sure it would be quite independent and be happy doing its own thing, no hair means less fluff on my carpet, it could eat all the fruit and veg I never get round to (a live recycling machine if you will), it would casually wander through to join me as I sit writing, I'd come home from work and it'd be wandering around, it wouldn't make any noise. It would be very much like my wooden giraffe but somewhat more mobile - perfect.)
I discovered I could buy one online for a discounted price of £99. And free delivery - even better. I'd have to get it delivered to work (as I wouldn't want it being punted about the Royal Mail depot) but I quite liked the thought of everyone asking: "What's in the box?" And my response: "A tortoise." Whereupon I would indeed reveal a tortoise.
My mum was distinctly unimpressed. "You're not getting a tortoise," she said with an exasperated sigh. "I'm an adult, with my own property, you can't tell me I'm not getting one." "You're not getting a tortoise." "But I think it'd be really cool." "Why don't you wait until you have a big house, with a big garden." "When I have a big house with a big garden I'll get a horse. The whole point of the tortoise is its lack of need for space." "Well, we'll see - maybe Santa will bring you one." "Stop implying that you have any influence on this decision." It never ceases to amaze me how quickly I can regress to my four-year old self in certain conversations with my mum. A hideous image of me dressed up like Bette Davis in 'Whatever happened to Baby Jane?' flashed into my mind, and I made a mental note not to discuss my wackier notions with my parents.
I was explaining all this to some friends on Thursday night. I don't think any of them were really getting it. Sinead looked at me like she'd heard about as much as she could take and said: "I don't think you're in a fit state to have a pet ... hearing you talk about it being like a wooden thing that moves about."
"Don't worry," I said, "I'm not actually getting one. I found out that you need to buy a special tortoise table, a UV lamp and lots of 'natural' obstacles to place around your house in order to exercise the thing. That's a bit more complicated and messy than I'd originally thought. And also, I realised that it'd have to excrete all the leftover veg I fed it, so - again - more messy than I thought."
Hopefully though, my two jobs and my round-the-world trip will occupy me enough to keep me from ever actually buying livestock over the Internet.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree
My Christmas tree has arrived. And it is spectacular. For the last few years, I've bought a real tree, but this time I've gone artificial. There are two reasons for this: First, the unavoidable pine shreddage that happens when trying to evict the real tree from my flat was something I didn't want to go through again; and, more importantly, real trees just aren't perfect enough. I like all the lights and decorations to hang exactly where I want them to and real trees just don't play ball.
I scoured the internet for the perfection I was seeking. Unsurprisingly perhaps, I found it at www.christmastreeland.com. The 'Fraser Fir' - "New to Christmas Tree Land for 2006, the Fraser fir is a truly stunning tree with a traditional Christmas tree shape. It's sure to bring the 'wow' factor into any home." I had to have it, but at £102.00 plus delivery - I wanted it for less. Xmas Direct came to the rescue with the same tree at £89.00 plus delivery. Nice.
Five minutes later and I'd ordered my tree for delivery on Saturday. Everything was going swimmingly. Chatting to my mum later on, I proudly told her of my purchase. "Yeah, it's 6.5 feet and 57" in diameter," I explained.
"57" in diameter? Lisa, that's pretty enormous. Are you sure that won't be too big?"
I got out my tape measure and realised that the tree I'd ordered was going to consume about half of my sitting room. Fuck. That would give the 'wow' factor alright. "wow! I can't believe you were dumb enough to order a tree too big for your house." "wow! I'm being suffocated by your enormous tree."
Back onto Xmas Direct. Yes, yes, yes! They had a slimline version for those with 'space issues'. 6ft, 39" diameter, £25 cheaper. I called and asked them to swap my Fraser Fir for a Fraser Fir Slimline. Done.
The tree arrived yesterday at 0930. And I'm very pleased. I suspect I will be even more pleased when my lights and decorations are all hanging perfectly, and my feet are free of jaggy pine needles as the new year begins.
I scoured the internet for the perfection I was seeking. Unsurprisingly perhaps, I found it at www.christmastreeland.com. The 'Fraser Fir' - "New to Christmas Tree Land for 2006, the Fraser fir is a truly stunning tree with a traditional Christmas tree shape. It's sure to bring the 'wow' factor into any home." I had to have it, but at £102.00 plus delivery - I wanted it for less. Xmas Direct came to the rescue with the same tree at £89.00 plus delivery. Nice.
Five minutes later and I'd ordered my tree for delivery on Saturday. Everything was going swimmingly. Chatting to my mum later on, I proudly told her of my purchase. "Yeah, it's 6.5 feet and 57" in diameter," I explained.
"57" in diameter? Lisa, that's pretty enormous. Are you sure that won't be too big?"
I got out my tape measure and realised that the tree I'd ordered was going to consume about half of my sitting room. Fuck. That would give the 'wow' factor alright. "wow! I can't believe you were dumb enough to order a tree too big for your house." "wow! I'm being suffocated by your enormous tree."
Back onto Xmas Direct. Yes, yes, yes! They had a slimline version for those with 'space issues'. 6ft, 39" diameter, £25 cheaper. I called and asked them to swap my Fraser Fir for a Fraser Fir Slimline. Done.
The tree arrived yesterday at 0930. And I'm very pleased. I suspect I will be even more pleased when my lights and decorations are all hanging perfectly, and my feet are free of jaggy pine needles as the new year begins.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
The art of ... choosing a toothbrush.
I'm pretty sure you're supposed to buy a new toothbrush every three months - at least that's what the manufacturers and their lap dogs the British Dental Association tell us. Although, I think I can stretch a few more months out of my toothbrushes as, despite the fact that I brush my teeth about four times a day, they remain pretty much in pristine condition. Some people's toothbrushes seem hell bent on giving us their own special interpretation of the parting of the Red Sea; the bristles lying almost flat out in anticipation of Charlton Heston's crossing. But not mine.
Anyway, buying a new toothbrush had been on my list of 'Things I need more urgently than a Mulberry handbag' for a few months now. It was number 632, I think. Having been somewhat sidetracked in my endeavors thus far, i.e. kept forgetting, didn't visit supermarket for three weeks as had enough tins of baked beans to survive, etc, etc, I eventually got round to it this weekend. Whilst ambling round Sainsburys I remembered and made a sudden 90 degree turn into the dental hygiene aisle. The other shoppers were not impressed and looked like they were fighting the temptation to commit a bit of trolley rage.
Arriving in front of the toothbrushes, the first thing I noticed was that there were millions of them. I'm not kidding. They took up almost half of the entire aisle. Trying to remain calm (muchness scares me), I began to scan my options. I could go by brand; Sainsburys, Oral B, Reach, Colgate, Aquafresh, Sensodyne, and probably Nestle too if I read the small print and followed the audit trail; or by price: 99p to £6.99. £6.99? £6.99? For a toothbrush? £6.99 for a toothbrush?; or by features 'n' functions; plaque control, whitening, gum stimulation, tongue scrubbing, tooth-picking, pulsating; or by colour, firmness or good old lucky dip.
When did it all get so massive? I felt like shouting out 'I just want a toothbrush. Why are you making this decision so hard and time consuming for me?' I think it was the first time I'd ever wished I lived in a Communist country. But saying these words out loud would render me a total fraud because I don't just want a toothbrush. The souless marketeers have me right where they need me. When faced with all this choice, of course I don't just want a toothbrush. I want a life-enhancing, oral hygiene product. And I want it to be firm. And I want it in pink, but not that pink, no no, I want it in that pink. Yes, that's right. Thank you.
In the end it came down to a choice between two almost identical brushes. Each had thickened rubber gum massaging bristles (in pink) on the outside. Three different types (and with different purposes) of bristle in the inside as well as a 'whitening circle' of bristles at the head of the brush. Each also offered a built-in tongue cleaner. The only difference was in the price. The Oral B option was £6.99 and the Reach one was £4.50. This is the kind of decision I like.
'Lisa, you can have this item for £6.99 or you can have the same item for £2.49 less.'
Duh, even I in my brainwashed consumerist state can work this one out.
I felt rather pleased with myself, and life in general, as I walked home with my Reach toothbrush nestling inside my shopping bag. Then I experienced mild anger as I reminded myself that I'd just spent £4.50 on a fucking toothbrush. Four pounds fucking fifty? On a toothbrush? Then I brushed my teeth, for like 12 minutes, and my new toothbrush was really, really good.
And after all, I always squeeze an extra couple of months out of my toothbrushes anyway, so I'm the real winner right?
Right? ... Hello? ... You guys? ... Right?
Anyway, buying a new toothbrush had been on my list of 'Things I need more urgently than a Mulberry handbag' for a few months now. It was number 632, I think. Having been somewhat sidetracked in my endeavors thus far, i.e. kept forgetting, didn't visit supermarket for three weeks as had enough tins of baked beans to survive, etc, etc, I eventually got round to it this weekend. Whilst ambling round Sainsburys I remembered and made a sudden 90 degree turn into the dental hygiene aisle. The other shoppers were not impressed and looked like they were fighting the temptation to commit a bit of trolley rage.
Arriving in front of the toothbrushes, the first thing I noticed was that there were millions of them. I'm not kidding. They took up almost half of the entire aisle. Trying to remain calm (muchness scares me), I began to scan my options. I could go by brand; Sainsburys, Oral B, Reach, Colgate, Aquafresh, Sensodyne, and probably Nestle too if I read the small print and followed the audit trail; or by price: 99p to £6.99. £6.99? £6.99? For a toothbrush? £6.99 for a toothbrush?; or by features 'n' functions; plaque control, whitening, gum stimulation, tongue scrubbing, tooth-picking, pulsating; or by colour, firmness or good old lucky dip.
When did it all get so massive? I felt like shouting out 'I just want a toothbrush. Why are you making this decision so hard and time consuming for me?' I think it was the first time I'd ever wished I lived in a Communist country. But saying these words out loud would render me a total fraud because I don't just want a toothbrush. The souless marketeers have me right where they need me. When faced with all this choice, of course I don't just want a toothbrush. I want a life-enhancing, oral hygiene product. And I want it to be firm. And I want it in pink, but not that pink, no no, I want it in that pink. Yes, that's right. Thank you.
In the end it came down to a choice between two almost identical brushes. Each had thickened rubber gum massaging bristles (in pink) on the outside. Three different types (and with different purposes) of bristle in the inside as well as a 'whitening circle' of bristles at the head of the brush. Each also offered a built-in tongue cleaner. The only difference was in the price. The Oral B option was £6.99 and the Reach one was £4.50. This is the kind of decision I like.
'Lisa, you can have this item for £6.99 or you can have the same item for £2.49 less.'
Duh, even I in my brainwashed consumerist state can work this one out.
I felt rather pleased with myself, and life in general, as I walked home with my Reach toothbrush nestling inside my shopping bag. Then I experienced mild anger as I reminded myself that I'd just spent £4.50 on a fucking toothbrush. Four pounds fucking fifty? On a toothbrush? Then I brushed my teeth, for like 12 minutes, and my new toothbrush was really, really good.
And after all, I always squeeze an extra couple of months out of my toothbrushes anyway, so I'm the real winner right?
Right? ... Hello? ... You guys? ... Right?
Monday, February 13, 2006
And so I face the final curtain
Today was the last Monday morning I will ever spend in my current place of work. Deep joy people, deep joy. My boss is on holiday this week so I'd anticipated a rather laissez-faire approach to the duties of the day. Alas, I was foiled by two clients requesting greased-lightning quick turnarounds, and 10 call-centre shackeled Indians who wanted to talk about my phone bill. I was sooooo not in the mood to discuss anything telephonic (although the Indians may well have made more English-sounding words and, therefore, more sense than my current phone provider). You see, I had to get serious with those bastards at Telewest last week after they unexpectedly disconnected my phone and internet service. I used the words "ridiculous", "ludicrous", "unbelievable", "unacceptable" and, finally, "OK, I'll pay you". Bastards!
Last Friday afternoon descended into a right Royal farce when I found I couldn't get the songs from Oliver! out of my head. I ended up rewriting most of the lyrics to (loosely) fit a musical based around the people in my office. My crowning glory saw 'Food, Glorious Food' become 'Food, Perilous Food' in a nod to my psycho colleague who doesn't eat anything. On Friday evening I painted my nails a beautiful colour known as 'Hi Lily Hi Lo'. Discussing this any further would be about as interesting as watching paint dry, so I'll spare you.
Saturday morning's reading revealed that I was onto something with the whole 'why have babies thing'. According to the Economist, research suggests that, after decades of low fertility, a quarter of young German men and a fifth of young women say they have no intention of having children and think that this is fine. When Eurobarometer repeated its poll about ideal family size in 2001, support for the two-child model had fallen everywhere. Parts of Europe, then, may be entering a new demographic trap. People restrict family size from choice. But social, economic and cultural factors then cause this natural fertility decline to overshoot. This changes expectations, to which people respond by having even fewer children." I feel distinctly less 'freak-like' (if a little more German) now.
I picked Sinead up from the station on Saturday night and drove to Tapas Ole for some delicious nosh. We got stuck in about the vino tinto and elected to leave the car at the bottom of the hill and (pub) crawl our way back up. Sinead told me about the new project she's about to start working on. Allegedly, travelling people (pronounced theev-in-gyp-pose) are complaining that local authorities do not provide enough services for them. Sinead said her initial investigations have revealed that travelling people do not pay any council tax, so she's not going to get her knickers in a twist over their complaints. They also refuse to deal with anyone wearing a suit or anyone who is a woman. Women wearing suits are a definite no-no. As little is known about the travelling culture, Sinead may well have to infiltrate a band of travellers to get the real story. How terribly covert and exciting.
The evening was full of trademark no-nonsense advice, hilarious stories from the Kingdom and further afield, business banter and fiery political chat. After drinks in Smithy's, Mezz and the Outhouse, we bumped into Alex and his mate Simon and headed for some drinks in The Street. Alex was in the mood for some dancing (and, quite possibly, a fine young filly for the evening) at Ego or Mood. Apparently, Mood had one of those 'traffic-light' nights going on and the consensus was that I, sporting a brilliant green top, should steer well clear, unless I wanted barrel-loads of unsavoury attention. So pretty much a typical night at a club then ladies.
On Sunday morning I woke up with a disturbing need for drawing pins and bluetack. I decided the best thing to do would be to drive out to WH Smith at Fort Kinnaird (sometimes I disturb myself and think it best to remove myself from acceptable society). Once there, I decided to treat myself to the Hollywood-edition of Vanity Fair; to read whilst enjoying a hot chocolate and a muffin at Costa. I was flicking through the Appointments section of the Scotland on Sunday when I noticed a former employer was advertising in the hope of securing "two stars for five-star organisation". The article ended with the words: "not so much stars then, as supernovae." Honestly, you could smell the cheese a mile-off. I laughed until I cried (in the way that people who crave drawing pins and bluetack are wont to do).
Having worked for this organisation for two years, the idea of two burnouts existing within a black hole seemed so very fitting.
Last Friday afternoon descended into a right Royal farce when I found I couldn't get the songs from Oliver! out of my head. I ended up rewriting most of the lyrics to (loosely) fit a musical based around the people in my office. My crowning glory saw 'Food, Glorious Food' become 'Food, Perilous Food' in a nod to my psycho colleague who doesn't eat anything. On Friday evening I painted my nails a beautiful colour known as 'Hi Lily Hi Lo'. Discussing this any further would be about as interesting as watching paint dry, so I'll spare you.
Saturday morning's reading revealed that I was onto something with the whole 'why have babies thing'. According to the Economist, research suggests that, after decades of low fertility, a quarter of young German men and a fifth of young women say they have no intention of having children and think that this is fine. When Eurobarometer repeated its poll about ideal family size in 2001, support for the two-child model had fallen everywhere. Parts of Europe, then, may be entering a new demographic trap. People restrict family size from choice. But social, economic and cultural factors then cause this natural fertility decline to overshoot. This changes expectations, to which people respond by having even fewer children." I feel distinctly less 'freak-like' (if a little more German) now.
I picked Sinead up from the station on Saturday night and drove to Tapas Ole for some delicious nosh. We got stuck in about the vino tinto and elected to leave the car at the bottom of the hill and (pub) crawl our way back up. Sinead told me about the new project she's about to start working on. Allegedly, travelling people (pronounced theev-in-gyp-pose) are complaining that local authorities do not provide enough services for them. Sinead said her initial investigations have revealed that travelling people do not pay any council tax, so she's not going to get her knickers in a twist over their complaints. They also refuse to deal with anyone wearing a suit or anyone who is a woman. Women wearing suits are a definite no-no. As little is known about the travelling culture, Sinead may well have to infiltrate a band of travellers to get the real story. How terribly covert and exciting.
The evening was full of trademark no-nonsense advice, hilarious stories from the Kingdom and further afield, business banter and fiery political chat. After drinks in Smithy's, Mezz and the Outhouse, we bumped into Alex and his mate Simon and headed for some drinks in The Street. Alex was in the mood for some dancing (and, quite possibly, a fine young filly for the evening) at Ego or Mood. Apparently, Mood had one of those 'traffic-light' nights going on and the consensus was that I, sporting a brilliant green top, should steer well clear, unless I wanted barrel-loads of unsavoury attention. So pretty much a typical night at a club then ladies.
On Sunday morning I woke up with a disturbing need for drawing pins and bluetack. I decided the best thing to do would be to drive out to WH Smith at Fort Kinnaird (sometimes I disturb myself and think it best to remove myself from acceptable society). Once there, I decided to treat myself to the Hollywood-edition of Vanity Fair; to read whilst enjoying a hot chocolate and a muffin at Costa. I was flicking through the Appointments section of the Scotland on Sunday when I noticed a former employer was advertising in the hope of securing "two stars for five-star organisation". The article ended with the words: "not so much stars then, as supernovae." Honestly, you could smell the cheese a mile-off. I laughed until I cried (in the way that people who crave drawing pins and bluetack are wont to do).
Having worked for this organisation for two years, the idea of two burnouts existing within a black hole seemed so very fitting.
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