31 jan
No wonder work causes crankiness
A death metal band is rehearsing in my skull, someone’s rubbed sand into my eyeballs, the stable infrastructure between my shoulder blades has turned to dough and my arse cheeks have spread like The Blob on a horror growth spurt. I could only be back at the office job.
Even with ergonomic furniture, stretching exercises and putting the e-mail program into an enforced coma and talking to the other humans, sitting on a chair and staring at a screen is hideously bad for the human body (until the kinks re-establish themselves and muscular pain becomes so habitual that you forget you were two inches taller at Christmas). I tried to jog last night to exercise neglected muscle groups but it was more like Quasimodo being dragged head-first through a paddock of thistles. Brain exercise was next but a draft blog entry that needed a simple edit looked like ancient scriptures written by a person who might have been me but whose brain wasn’t vacuumed along with the office carpet.
There are many perennial reasons to get narky at co-workers who, like family, you don’t often get to choose. The coffee mug bandit who denies stealing your cup even if your name is stencilled on it, the stuffed toy collector with a Disney-sized cache of fluffy dust collectors around the desk, the [insert sport here] obsessive who won’t shut the hell up on Monday mornings even when you fake your own concussion and the charmers who are sweet as fairy floss to your face and sinking the knife in the second you turn to the water cooler. Here are some new favourites.
The Petty Thief
The male/female ratio at work is tipped heavily to the side of Team Testosterone but it hasn’t stopped someone stealing tampons from my locker. A friend in need is a friend indeed but pilfering the last of my stash and leaving me in the lurch is rather nasty. I set a trap and left samples packed in fluoro lime and orange wrappers that would scare even the most desperate of feminine hygiene product thieves, but they were gone within a week. I hope she got some loving over the holiday break and doesn’t need a free supply for the next nine months because I’ve found a better hiding place.
Let’s Hope They Don’t Work in Foodservice on Weekends
Every office has the person who leaves an expired carton of milk in the back of the fridge to see how many innocents they can fell when the door is opened. We also had the chappy who would bring pre-cooked steak to work for his lunch and nuke it for five minutes on the microwave turntable without a cover. Lentil-munchers like me would stand and admire the artistry of the congealed animal fat patterns on the door glass. The person who leaves melted cheese on the sandwich press must have mistaken it for a fondue bowl as the puddle of separated yellow gunge gets more interesting every day.
Those Born in a Tent
The women’s toilet has a door so occupants can sit in peace and walkers-by don’t get nasty surprises. Some new employees haven’t grasped the concept of privacy and leave the door banging open while others are trying to attend nature’s call. Defecating in public is not just a social aberration, it’s damn near impossible to concentrate on the task.
Two screw-in hooks, a high-tensile octopus strap and problem solved. The door will close itself now. Thank you for keeping your limbs out of the way.
Managers who Invent Rules that Don’t Apply in Normal Society
A colleague filled me in on her workplace’s standard operating procedures when we were on a course. Her new supervisor issued a lengthy e-mail about appropriate conduct, including a ban on chewing crushed ice at an audible level. I got in trouble from the course instructor for interrupting the class with my laughter and shouting, “Get out, are you serious? Who munches crushed ice in your office? No one – of course! Where’d she get that freaky phobia?! And she also threw out your personal belongings when you were away? F@%k off!”
People who Don’t Give a Rat’s Arse, Literally
My government department breeds a super-race of people who live double lives. Functional, tidy and helpful at home yet slovenly, messy and completely useless at work. They get paid for the latter. The newest Einstein clone didn’t like a smell in the office and called for an electrician to check the wall cavities. He also wanted the carpets steam cleaned as a back-up. A less apathetic soul followed his nose and found the source of the smell behind the photocopier. A dead rat was decomposing after eating the live wiring (it also explained why the copier was broken) and the smell disappeared after removal. Who’d a thunk it?
At least the toilet paper is free and plentiful.
Crank-o-meter: cantankerous
29 jan
Bill Clinton has been busy talking up his wife’s chances to run for US presidency, but it seems “love” and “a lack of sleep” have made him wear his crankypants a bit too tightly.
In an interview with CBS, Hillary defended claims that her husband’s outspoken opinions on the campaign were “out of control,” saying:
“Maybe he got a little carried away. You know, that comes with a hard-fought election.”
“He loves me just like, you know, husbands and wives get out there and work on each others’ behalf,” she said.
“It also comes with sleep deprivation which, you know, I think is marking all of us, our families, our supporters.”
Hillary’s weak excuses smack of a modern-day interpretation of Stand by Your Man. She played that tune regularly during her husband’s terms as president to deserve nothing but his constructive support from him but a lack of kip is making his responsibility difficult.
Bill must’ve been hellishly sleep-deprived during the media’s ferocious intrusions into his presidential extracurricular activities, but he managed to ensure his family’s public appearances were scripted and unified. I don’t think Hillary did the cause of women any good by putting up and shutting up, but she had the grace to support her husband, regardless of how much she wanted to choke him with crumpled wads of Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress.
Hillary isn’t doing herself, feminism or American voters any favours by defending Bill with such insincere codswallop. Three-quarters of Americans experience sleeping problems a few nights a week or more and they are the people whose votes she’ll be counting on. They might be tired but we can only hope they’re not dumb and tired.
Crank-o-meter: depressed
27 jan
Flying the flag for Australia
I don’t go out of my way to encounter people who wave flags and items of apparel from their cars. Come September in Melbourne I avoid leaving the house for fear of being whacked in the face with a rogue football team scarf attached to some clown’s car aerial. Or flag flying from the window. I think a waving footy jersey hitting at speed would bring down a yummy mummy and her Hummer-inspired twin stroller down Chapel Street. Hanging body parts out of car windows is illegal and I’d like the police to enforce similar laws regarding Crimes Against Automobile Fashion.
Yesterday was the beginning of the Australia Day long weekend and I had a pearler down at the shops. Everything I touched was half price, available in my size and not soiled with some careless person’s orangey make-up smears. I’m a bit socially awkward at times and put my foot through a shopping bag, almost making me go arse over turkey down an escalator, but it was worthwhile to save the last pair of size eight strappy heels.
My day got even better. I saw a car with flags on its sides – it’s not football season so it must have been Queen Elizabeth visiting my area, and picking up some bargains at Super Cheap Auto to boot!
I hunted around the fluffy dice and “100% bitch” sticker aisles but there was no sign of Her Majesty. Come out, come out wherever you are – I won’t elbow you to get the last Playboy car seat covers out of your hands.
Where did she go?
I walked outside, where the weather had changed into some weird tropical place where it rains (and I almost got hit by the fastest and wonkiest lightning I’ve ever seen, but it’s all in the name of getting photos). Then I realised I had been hoodwinked by a herd of out-of-season car flag flyers from interstate. The bastards. They were probably hunted out of New South Wales for their over-the-top parochialism and came to spread their evil brand of devotion down south.
Nominate someone worthy for an Australia Day award, invite a new citizen over for a lamington, harangue a politician to say a proper “sorry” to Aboriginal people, whoosh the huntsman spiders from your gumboots, hell, grab some crayons and paper and design a new flag, but do not fly silly little plastic flags from your car!
Crank-o-meter: aghast
25 Jan
Whooooah ho, living on a cliché
Bon Jovi’s back — yeahhhhhh. The leather pants are back — yeahhhhhhh. Jon’s over-gelled cock-rock hair is gone — yeahhhhhhhh.
But Richie Sambora’s insistence that playing gigs is like having sex is back in the news – why?
To quote Richie in the band’s 2007 tour of Canada:
“It’s kind of like sex, if you have it with yourself too often it’s not that good. But if you have it with 20,000 people in a different city every night, it’s pretty good. That’s what it really comes down to and we get a chance to go out and do that and it’s really the audience that gives us the energy and makes it a special time for us.”
Upon first reading I thought he was gigging at stadium-sized orgies in his free time. Then again, most of us have destroyed the rules of grammar in public so he’s forgiven.
However, Richie can’t stop. The guitarist discussed his view in a recent interview and confirmed the claim almost word for word. Same mangled metaphor and bizarre connotation but his desire for 20,000 people escalated to 20,000 to 30,000 people. Hungry man.
Michael Flatley insisted on sex after a performance but never compared river dancing with horizontal tango dancing. There’s no record of trombone players, cellists or a humble woodwind section comparing their music with acts of rampant nudity. Is it just rock guitarists?
Richie, most people are capable of having sex but few very have had the opportunity to play a guitar in front of adoring crowds. Make the most of both. Sex and rocking out both make you feel good but a guitar isn’t a woman and Heather Locklear and Denise Richards weren’t Fender Stratocasters. Don’t mix ‘em up.
Crank-o-meter: confuzzled
23 jan
New year, new cheer, thinking of being stuck in an office on a nice summer’s day and checking the employment pages for greener pastures. There are a lot of roadworks underway in my locale and the free-wheeling, king-of-the-road life of a roadside worker is holding great appeal. Working outdoors, team environment, being in control of motorists, deciding between shorts and workboots or shorts and workboots every day — it’s got the lot! Even memories of Warwick Capper’s time in traffic management haven’t dulled the glow of life in a roadside crew.
I was helping with some gardening work today and nature called after a couple of hours. The dull “there’s a watermelon in my bladder” feeling prompted the question: where do tradies and roadside workers go to the toilet if customers’ houses are unoccupied, public toilets are miles away, urinating in public is illegal and there are no portaloos within a reasonable sprint? What if workers have a case of shy bladder syndrome and can’t relieve themselves, or the previous day’s lunch of lukewarm dim sims and potato cakes needs to exit at a rapid rate? Holding a ‘stop’ sign and looking good in a high-visibility vest is losing its gloss if basic bodily functions can’t be met.
Being a traffic stopper never seemed like less fun.
Crank-o-meter: just another fantasy shattered
21 Jan
Tell us what you want, what you really, really want
I was engrossed in a book while my car was having tyres fitted at the local tyre and suspension service. The peace was broken when a young couple bounded into the office, breaking the background hum of tools and compressors with the infectious aura of the stressed.
The female of the pair bent over the counter, almost grabbing the nearest employee by his collar while exclaiming that she needed a tyre repaired or replaced. The staff member took a deep breath and asked when she’d like the work done. His friendly but knowing gaze meant he already had a mental wager placed on the answer.
“Now,” she said, with a look that indicated the full waiting room meant nothing in her universe.
I nearly launched across a pile of promotional radials to tell her that ‘now’ was the time after she asked the other customers if she could take priority rather than assuming her needs were automatically top of the pile.
The man behind the counter acknowledged her anxiety and said it could be done in 20 minutes when the next job was finished. The woman’s partner managed to wedge a word in to say their car had broken down and they had lugged the flat tyre from the vehicle’s resting place further down the road.
“Oh,” we collectively breathed, secretly grateful it wasn’t us wondering if local vigilantes were currently removing the other three wheels off our unattended cars. That changes everything — of course they can go next! Understanding smiles of pity all around.
I was initially cranky at the woman’s rudeness and lack of consideration for others or (more to the point) me. One day we’ll all be in the same situation: whether it’s a flat tyre, a toothache that can’t wait another minute or demanding the first doctor’s appointment of the day and arriving late because of traffic. It happens, but it’s a lot easier to deal with when people communicate the ‘why’ and not just the ‘what.’
Last time I was at the doctor’s a red-faced woman entered the reception area asking if there were any free appointments that afternoon. The receptionist advised in the negative and the woman nodded, turned to walk to the door and fell in a heap on the floor. It turned out she had Type A influenza, a sick husband at home, children in the car and she was too ill to drive herself to a hospital. Of course the doctors will see her and patients will tolerate waiting longer but in her haze of pain she didn’t add the ‘why’ she was asking for an appointment.
Everyone gets agitated and sometimes forgets the preliminaries, but the sick woman’s situation could have led to tragedy if she had passed out during the drive to the hospital. It’s not up to service providers to ask 20 questions or second-guess why we’re being pushy pains in the arse. Try, “I need this” and add, “Because of that” and see how co-operative people become because they understand the gravity of a situation (but try queue jumping in a less serious setting such as the bakery and I’ll shove a cob loaf down your throat so quickly you’ll be begging for the front of the Heimlich manoeuvre queue).
Crank-o-meter: frustrated
19 jan
Can the planet support flavoured yoghurt?
I was in a supermarket yesterday and, while cooling my overloaded brain in front of one of the refrigerated yoghurt cabinets, pondered how much electricity keeps a modern-day supermarket running.
A phone call to the local supermarket didn’t yield results (“Just wondering how much your power bill was last quarter. By the way, does your chain subscribe to green power? Why is it like a casino with no skylights or windows?”) so the abacus performed some calculations about cubic metres, kilowatt hours, average electricity costs and how often the fridge doors are opened. After a couple of hours, the best guess I came up with was ‘a lot.’ How much electricity is consumed and carbon dioxide emitted into the atmosphere to satisfy our urges for endless variety?
The Australian Government conducted a study with Coles Supermarkets in 2004 to examine electricity consumption and identify areas for improvement. Some of the numbers were staggering. Australian supermarkets consumed more than 7,000 gigajoules of electricity each year, costing about $200 million and producing nearly three million tonnes of green house gases. Refrigeration accounted for more than half of electricity consumption which makes the amount of yoghurt varieties on show a tad sickening, especially if the energy required to manufacture, store and transport cold goods before arrival at the point of sale is considered.
Of course, refrigeration is necessary to maintain freshness and minimise the risk to public health. However, the study indicated that simple measures could make a significant difference such as removing false ceilings and installing skylights, adding wall and ceiling insulation and airlocks around doors, replacing open chilled cabinets with closed (mum told us to shut the fridge door for a reason) and using energy-efficient lighting. Coles says it has an ongoing energy reduction program but we as consumers can play a more active role instead of bitching on evil corporations all day.
Supermarkets operate on tight profit margins and only sell what we buy. Think about saying no to the luxury-branded dairy dessert and buy some plain yoghurt, add chopped fruit and a squeeze of honey if you’re so inclined and keep it simple. It’ll help your waistline, wallet and the ozone layer. Removing a take-home pack of Go-Gurt won’t make much of a difference but what if we can start by eliminating one refrigerated cabinet from every supermarket on Earth?
Crank-o-meter: furious
17 jan
Go and stick(er) your fruit somewhere else
I’m cranky today because I went to the supermarket. The end.
I dislike most food shopping for many reasons that will be covered in the future (today’s planned agro-fest was about electricity waste in supermarkets but the thesis needs hacking to blog size or you’ll die of boredom and then I’ll have no friends).
Those little stickers on apples have been cause for vexation for a long time, but bend me over and call me chappie someone’s put them on bananas as well – bananas, I tell you! Did half the world get a compulsory frontal lobotomy when I was in the shower this morning? There are no more than three kinds at my local markets: big yellow ones, big yellow ones with red wax tips and little yellow ones with red wax tips*.
Having thought about it, I can almost live with stickers on apples because I know my Granny Smiths, I can tell the Delicious varieties with the little bumps on their bases and I’d give my crumbling kingdom for a Cameo apple right now, but the new cross-breed varieties seem a bit the same. Uniform shape, size, bit of red colouring here, bit of green colouring there, firmer than Victoria Beckham’s tits and taste OK but nothing to get all giddy about. How about we make stickers useful and put Braille on them so blind and visually-impaired people can identify fruit more easily?
I could almost be convinced that new and seasonal product lines have stickers to aid recognition, such as the multitude of mango varieties being dumped in southern Australia from our northern growers. I ate four different kinds last week (and they all tasted good so maybe stickers are still superfluous to mango-gutses like me). And I was almost converted when I saw the single species of kiwi fruit on sale with an ‘UNO’ sticker that warned of a foreign invader … number one in Italy, it seems, as all the fruit was imported.
It’s time for this crankypants to spend more time tending the fruit trees and shopping at farmers’ markets instead of stressing at the over-lit land of shiny, happy, under-ripe, over-stickered produce.
Crank-o-meter: cranky but defacing bananas is surprisingly good therapy
*Cavendish and Lady Finger bananas comprise almost all of Australia’s eating bananas. The wax tip on some bananas is a grower’s branding gimmick and, according to the web site, “to accommodate some customers’ specific requirements, Pacific Coast Eco Bananas can also be purchased with blue and green tips.” Why? All I want on my porridge is a sustainably-farmed banana that’s not going to taste like a bag of flour because it’s been in cold storage since 1895.
15 jan
Navigating the piles of bullshit dropped by the recruitment industry
The second week of January brings recruiters out of their sleepy hollows for a new season of natural born billing. I was on a tram last week and there they were, easily identified in the urban jungle by their habits of travelling in pairs with wind-proof smiles on their faces and never leaving the elevator without a black document compendium in hand. They often don polished shoes and shirts with French cuffs so it’s not all bad news on the presentation front.
When I was a recruiter I never tired of the “Oh” accompanied by a raised eyebrow and politely-disguised grimace when asked my profession. The more assertive of my acquaintances let me know for the thousandth time that my choice of job was positioned on the morality scale somewhere between a used car salesperson and Dr Nick from The Simpsons. Way to make a girl feel good.
I was a helpful recruiter from a candidate’s perspective because I took phone calls (always a good start in a service industry), returned messages when callers left their phone numbers, gave honest feedback and personally signed those trite rejection letters to unsuccessful applicants. The first executive recruitment firm I worked for introduced electronic signatures on “no” letters so the recruiter didn’t have to see – let alone sign – them. I refused to store my signature because I thought if someone had gone to the effort of applying for a job, the least I could do was slap some ink on the sorry correspondence. I also did outrageous things like help people improve their resumes, invite them for informal career chats even if I didn’t have suitable jobs on the books and, heaven forbid, didn’t guilt-trip the vulnerable to attend interviews for jobs they didn’t want.
That’s all great and ethical and doesn’t it make you feel warm and fuzzy inside and want to bear hug a recruiter next time you’re called for an interview? It didn’t make me a top revenue earner but I exceeded my target each month by enough to keep the directors off my case at the dreaded Monday “what’s in your pipeline?” meetings. I thought the grass was greener elsewhere until I went to an interview with a well-known agency in the IT contracting world. The department manager gave me the once-over to make sure I had a speaking voice and dialling finger, showed me the Yellow Pages and said I should use the aforementioned tools to get my clients. I left with the realisation that I had clients, I had candidates, I had some truly great workmates and I had better drag my arse back there and start appreciating it.
If it weren’t for the puffery, bullshit and greed I’d be recruiting today. There’s genuine pleasure in meeting motivated people and learning about what drives them. Even better was the buzz when a client called to make a job offer to a candidate and I knew the person would be excited to accept (and turn up to start the job on the appointed day). Unfortunately, that’s only about 10 per cent of the job. The other 90 per cent – such as the day a colleague’s advertising copy was shouted down in front of all with “I want the sizzle, not the sausage! Do you hear me? The sizzle! The f@%king sizzle!” – is sure to be discussed another time.
The coming of the new year and new opportunities brings a whole new river of bullshit that needs to be navigated, or honest, sincere job-changers risk drowning in a sea of verbal diarrhoea. Let’s have a look at some of the crap from last weekend’s ‘we’re ready to flog your resume around town now’ pages.
“[Body shop’s name] is offering an amazing opportunity for passionate, savvy people who can think strategically, act tactically and inspire fellowship amongst peers. Our innovative culture and visionary leadership creates an ideal atmosphere for success …”
That’s the opening paragraph of an international firm’s call for new recruiters. My bullshit detector goes off when it asks why this place is so visionary but needs to spend thousands of dollars on a front-of-paper ad to fill seats. They could round up a few business developers to ‘tap’ competitors located elsewhere in the paper. Or spend a stack of money on advertising that they’re accomplished at bullshit bingo. They chose the latter. It’s a common and effective advertising tactic to promote your brand in conjunction with a hiring campaign, but it’s money lost down the piss trough when it’s wasted in this way.
“An experienced senior executive and people manager, you have gained your operational management experience in a complex and sophisticated corporate environment and have the knowledge of government processes. Your business acumen, strategic development and high level negotiation skills will enable you to work collaboratively with the executive team in ensuring optimal effectiveness of the organisation.”
This bunch of clusters should get together with the previous advertiser for a game of Grand Master Who Wants to Win a Million Bullshit Bingo Dollars. Bugger me dead. All that can be determined from the ad is that it’s a management role, you have to deal with government without bursting a boiler and don’t push in front of board members in the canteen line. Some mention of the industry sector, what the person will be doing and expected results would be helpful, but ads are sometimes this vague for a reason. They elicit more clarification phone calls so the recruiter can tell the client that the ad generated a lot of interest. Most clients are too polite to ask, “What kind of interest?”
“Leading the development and implementation of strategic OD projects and initiatives will mean the proactive identification of people management needs and the implementation of solutions … Essentials include excellent conceptualisation of broad processes into achieving people goals.”
This assembly of weasel words was generated by a company without the intervention of a recruiting firm. It’s good for candidates because if you’re skilled in organisational development by setting clear strategies and easy-to-understand direction, you can look elsewhere for your next career move instead of being bogged in this mire of confusion, sorry, I meant conceptualisation.
“You will be resilient and be able to stay calm under pressure, you have the ability to work collaboratively with co-workers sharing information, your keyboard skills will be sound and it will not be a problem for you to adhere to rosters.”
The ad was placed by an agency and this paragraph seems to have been transcribed straight from the client’s last session of group therapy. (I swear I did not create it myself.) Interpreted to a reader’s perspective it says: “My working day will be spent dealing with crankpots, my co-workers will keep me in the dark and backstab me at every opportunity, I need to input information into the computer unlike my in-fighting colleagues and it would be nice if I show up to carry the load of my workmates who went to the beach today.” Maybe the company should improve its web-based customer contact system because it won’t be attracting many candidates after approving this ad copy.
It’s not all bad news on the advertising front. This extract from an ad for a national sales manager is low on clichés (I’m not a fan of ‘champion’ and ‘passion’ but that’s subjective), it’s clear how the successful person works, presents and communicates and the recruiter has given plenty of hints about the questions that will be asked during phone screening to determine if it’s worthwhile applying.
“With a consumer durables background, you understand the distributor channel and how to maximise growth as well as add value to this sector. You are a natural sales/business development champion with proven team leadership skills and a consultative approach that sees you deal in facts. Driven, yet approachable, your success has been based on a passion to do things well.”
Recruiters, check out some of Airservices Australia’s examples on how to write clear and appealing recruitment ads. And clients, read the drafts you’re sent and make sure every word fights for its space on the page. You are paying for your candidate base to be bored to death – make it stop.
Crank-o-meter: rather shitty
13 jan
A larger-than-I’d-like-to-admit part of my brain seems to be devoted to life’s unanswerable questions such as why sex toys – particularly those aimed at women – are named after animals. Plenty of women enjoy wild animal sex, I’m sure, but not sex with wild animals. Like butterflies. And teddy bears. And what were the Fun Factory marketing gurus thinking when they created the Dinky Digger vibrator? To grasp desperately for a sexual connotation, moles like to burrow in dark places but this version is orange, has a cheery expression on its face and is holding a small flower. Cute orange moles. Sex. Cute orange moles. Sex. No, it’s not working.
Bestiality is quite rightly illegal in most parts of the world (except Denmark, Finland and some American states such as New Hampshire according to the web) so there’s no dark, subconscious reason for wanting to sex yourself up with an Ultra Dancing Dolphin or Elite Snuggly Teddy Strap-on Butterfly.
Maybe the umpteen ways to buzz yourself to pleasure come down to Plato and his view of the ‘wandering uterus.’ He thought the uterus was an independent animal that wilfully wandered the woman’s body and caused disease. When it arrived at the brain, the naughty, orgasm-inducing womb animal created feminine hysterics. The philosopher got it wrong medically, but nearly every man on earth will applaud him for not having his skull cracked by a frustrated woman who hasn’t been visited by the womb animal for a long time.
Apart from the beavers, rabbits, snow bunnies, pink leopards, dolphins and penguins racked up at the local emporium of masturbation, female pleasure has also turned new age. Fancy a Stargazer Female Stimulator? I want stars to explode from my body, not gaze at the damn things. How about the Impulse Lighted Mystic Jewel? Sounds like a candles and romance version of a light sabre. Or an Ultra Lighted Double Dong Arouser? Just put it down and walk away.
There were some signs of imagination along the Great Wall of Vibrators and Dongy Things. Power Buddies (shaped like animals but not badly named), the Crystal Ice Rough Rider (now they’re thinking), the 10 Function Thumper (yeah baby!) and the Impulse Penis Power Vibe (the teddy bear or the penis power vibe – Humphrey B Bear will lose this battle hands down).
If toy makers insist on flogging their wares with animal names, can they give some thought to using more Australian native animals? I had a koala but it seems to have fallen out of its buzzing tree and is now a soup stirrer, so what about a platypus? Its bill can snap the clitoris and foot spurs can tear the arteries of the inner thighs for those who like a bit of pain. The bilby vibe would be small, cute, fit into a handbag for travelling and its pointy nose could work a treat on sensitive areas. The emu can peck, peck, peck you to shivering heaven and the box jellyfish will make an excellent waterproof toy. Only the truly kinky would buy a hairy-nosed wombat dildo but there has to be a market for an echidna vibe with bendy silicone spikes.
If you want to see images of the products mentioned, search ‘em yourself.
Crank-o-meter: a bit cranky
11 jan
A greater challenge than saying a graceful goodbye is creating an elegant first sentence. That’s a good cue for me to stop and get on with today’s virgin-breaking entry.
I’m not cranky right now. I thought installing the blog software using scary-sounding platforms like cpanels and MySQLs and screens and screens of instructions would create a brain explosion and I’d have to stop installation to clean the mess off the walls. What’s a FileZilla anyway? An over-sized green monster that destroys files while barnstorming large cities?
Of course, I hit the download and install buttons 10 minutes before bedtime to tempt the cranky gods out of their cages. But the good people involved with Wordpress beat away the Lords of Techno-Destruction with big virtual sticks and the software installed. First time. Even though I had no idea what I was doing. The instructions were clear, the administration menu was easy to use and I got to bed on time with my frown turned upside-down. Thank you, Wordpress. I might uninstall and do it all again tomorrow so I can have another early night.
I promise to get narky next time because there’s plenty pissing me off.
Crank-o-meter: not bad at all