Not the usual thing one should disclose on a blog. But there it is. I've been having an affair. It's been going on for some time, about 8 months and it's serious.
I probably should disclose, now, that the affair is with my Iphone.
I am in love with my Iphone. I'm addicted to it and when I thought it had died on Sunday, I nearly lost my sh*t.
I spent my entire Sunday synching the Iphone with my computer, so that I could download a song from Itunes. Seemed like a relatively simple request - but turned out, not so much.
Eight hours, I sat by my Iphone's side, testing it, pushing it, wriggling it, googling cures, possible viruses etc.
When it finally came good, after I had worn through the floor with pacing, I felt was relieved. As I picked up my iphone and held it to my cheek, softly caressing the case I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
Ridiculous. Yes. Absolutely. Without a doubt. Can I stop myself from checking my phone, playing with my phone updating my phone? No.
Sometimes when I'm playing with my phone after my husband has walked out of the room, I feel like, when he walks back in, that I am busted. That I have been caught out, cheating on him with the Iphone. I am not entirely sure why. I am only emailing friends, texting friends and reading updates on Facebook. Honestly, not that riveting or pornographicaaly inappropriate for that matter. I just feel like I shouldn't be so attached to it. I was like this with my blackberry though and that was just for work. I kept checking it every time the red light flashed, I knew I had a message, that someone from work needed me. Of course it was never pressing, it was usually some unnecessary crap from some quick-to-sycophant person who would write emails on the weekend to show how dedicated they were at their job. At least now, I am addicted to a personal phone - and am enjoying connecting with friends again.
On the downside I can't seem to quite live without my Iphone. It has become a life source. I am in love. Without it, I will hyperventilate and perhaps have a panic attack.
Pass the brown. paper. bag, if that ever happens.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Character assasination: The deluded egomaniac
He was large. A big man dripping in Versace. Every which you looked he was bearing down on you or coming around a corner at you, his Versace belt glistening under the flourescent light.
He used to make me shiver as he strode towards me, doughnut in hand, sugar and jam around his mouth. I knew what I was in for. A session on his fabulousness, intelligence, wit, sex appeal, wealth, financial acumen and his overall superitority to me and everyone else in the office.
"My house is worth over a million dollars," he would say, humbly.
"I invested so well at such a young age and made over $600,000 in one of my many portfolios."
"You should have seen me when I was young, I'll bring you in a photo, I was irrestible to women," he would say, looking lasciviously, saliva dripping from his fat lips, at all the female team members' bouncing breasts.
He brought in his photo for us to ooh and aah over. I did. All the while looking at the skinnier, younger version of the obese monstrosity that sat across from me, thinking, "oh look, there's a fat man in there just waiting to get out."
We would go to client meetings together and I would sit shame-faced at some of the ridiculous things he would say, about himself, his wealth, his intelligence, his sex appeal and his sex life.
"My wife can hardly keep her hands off me," he said one day to a room filled with men, "As soon as I get in the house, she pounces, like a super flexible, aroused cat. I've had to buy her a vibrator as I just can't keep up," he guffawed.
I thought, for a second, I was in a men's only club, surrounded by cigar smoke and the smell of old, expensive Scotch. But when I looked around, the other men were just as horrified as I was.
How we walked out of there with a client relationship intact, I don't know.
It would go on. He'd meet people, his fat fingers gripping theirs, a moment of fear flickering in their eyes - will I get my hand back? He would bore them with his inane conversation about himself. Never pausing to ask a question about them or their reactions to his stories. The only responses he wanted were "wow, that's amazing, how amazing are you?" "I can't believe you're so young and so successful,".
Finally, when I left the company I listened to a 45 minute rant about his being poached by a company in Sydney who wanted to pay him $500,000 per year and he just wouldn't go.
"No, I wont move. What would I do with $500,00 a year? I am comfortable here. My wife likes it here. My family is here. They say I am the best in the industry. I am the best at every single function within a business. I can understand why they want me, but I just wont go, but they keep asking. What can I do?"
Puhlease, pass the brown. Paper. Bag.
He used to make me shiver as he strode towards me, doughnut in hand, sugar and jam around his mouth. I knew what I was in for. A session on his fabulousness, intelligence, wit, sex appeal, wealth, financial acumen and his overall superitority to me and everyone else in the office.
"My house is worth over a million dollars," he would say, humbly.
"I invested so well at such a young age and made over $600,000 in one of my many portfolios."
"You should have seen me when I was young, I'll bring you in a photo, I was irrestible to women," he would say, looking lasciviously, saliva dripping from his fat lips, at all the female team members' bouncing breasts.
He brought in his photo for us to ooh and aah over. I did. All the while looking at the skinnier, younger version of the obese monstrosity that sat across from me, thinking, "oh look, there's a fat man in there just waiting to get out."
We would go to client meetings together and I would sit shame-faced at some of the ridiculous things he would say, about himself, his wealth, his intelligence, his sex appeal and his sex life.
"My wife can hardly keep her hands off me," he said one day to a room filled with men, "As soon as I get in the house, she pounces, like a super flexible, aroused cat. I've had to buy her a vibrator as I just can't keep up," he guffawed.
I thought, for a second, I was in a men's only club, surrounded by cigar smoke and the smell of old, expensive Scotch. But when I looked around, the other men were just as horrified as I was.
How we walked out of there with a client relationship intact, I don't know.
It would go on. He'd meet people, his fat fingers gripping theirs, a moment of fear flickering in their eyes - will I get my hand back? He would bore them with his inane conversation about himself. Never pausing to ask a question about them or their reactions to his stories. The only responses he wanted were "wow, that's amazing, how amazing are you?" "I can't believe you're so young and so successful,".
Finally, when I left the company I listened to a 45 minute rant about his being poached by a company in Sydney who wanted to pay him $500,000 per year and he just wouldn't go.
"No, I wont move. What would I do with $500,00 a year? I am comfortable here. My wife likes it here. My family is here. They say I am the best in the industry. I am the best at every single function within a business. I can understand why they want me, but I just wont go, but they keep asking. What can I do?"
Puhlease, pass the brown. Paper. Bag.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Anxiety disorder
I start my new job next week. I am filled to the brim with anxiety. I can feel it churning in my stomach. I feel like a washing machine. The reason for such anxiety is that I am a total dullard at picking organisations that are right for me. I always go for the cool job, the jobs that sound exciting, fun, interesting, that will offer oodles of glamorgeousness. I am the typical female protagonist in any trashy chick lit novel. I've worked in film and most recently in media publishing and at all times in some sort of advertising capacity.
As those novels suggest, these "creative" environments are completely competitive, super bitchy and have unreasonable expectations of the work life balance, whereby there is no life in the quadratic equation. The only difference between my life and that of these protagonists is that the fabulous Creative Director is not trying to give me a make-over with designer outfits.
Anyway - I start my new job on Monday. I hope the people are nice. I hope I don't have no-worker co-workers - a term coined by my favourite blogger, or more evil pr*cks, or evil b*ches.
I have had my fair share. Early in my career (which has scarred me for years) I worked with the craziest manager ever, who cheated, lied, stole ideas and made them her own, forget important information and slept with the general manager to keep her role. She blamed her team for her mistakes and treated us like naughty children, not young professionals. I learnt nothing from my time with her except how not to be a manager.
I had another job where the directors paid themselves too much money and their staff too little then sneered at the team when they found out their clothes came from Kmart and Sussan.
In another role I was subjected to racism, bullying, backstabbing, working 24 hours a day - 7 days a week and finding that wasn't quite good enough only to be turned into a crying, paranoid, butt protecting mess.
So, when I say I'm anxious, I mean it. If I make another bad choice again I might give up on this corporate life and move to the country.
My husband says that I will encounter evil people everywhere, which is true, of course. But there had to be an environment where the nice, relatively normal people outweigh the crazy people. I have had two normal jobs and liked them very much. The people were excellent and I continue to be friends with many of these colleagues. I am hoping to replicate these experiences with this new gig on Monday.
Please let these people be capable of doing their jobs effectively, please let the management team know how to make a decision and have reasonable expectations and please let my direct colleagues have a sense of humour.
Please don't let me be asking too much.
As those novels suggest, these "creative" environments are completely competitive, super bitchy and have unreasonable expectations of the work life balance, whereby there is no life in the quadratic equation. The only difference between my life and that of these protagonists is that the fabulous Creative Director is not trying to give me a make-over with designer outfits.
Anyway - I start my new job on Monday. I hope the people are nice. I hope I don't have no-worker co-workers - a term coined by my favourite blogger, or more evil pr*cks, or evil b*ches.
I have had my fair share. Early in my career (which has scarred me for years) I worked with the craziest manager ever, who cheated, lied, stole ideas and made them her own, forget important information and slept with the general manager to keep her role. She blamed her team for her mistakes and treated us like naughty children, not young professionals. I learnt nothing from my time with her except how not to be a manager.
I had another job where the directors paid themselves too much money and their staff too little then sneered at the team when they found out their clothes came from Kmart and Sussan.
In another role I was subjected to racism, bullying, backstabbing, working 24 hours a day - 7 days a week and finding that wasn't quite good enough only to be turned into a crying, paranoid, butt protecting mess.
So, when I say I'm anxious, I mean it. If I make another bad choice again I might give up on this corporate life and move to the country.
My husband says that I will encounter evil people everywhere, which is true, of course. But there had to be an environment where the nice, relatively normal people outweigh the crazy people. I have had two normal jobs and liked them very much. The people were excellent and I continue to be friends with many of these colleagues. I am hoping to replicate these experiences with this new gig on Monday.
Please let these people be capable of doing their jobs effectively, please let the management team know how to make a decision and have reasonable expectations and please let my direct colleagues have a sense of humour.
Please don't let me be asking too much.
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