Digital ravings of an analog girl

“Get a perm!” whispered the little Hispanic voice in my head.

I was suprised.  I thought your alter ego was supposed to be your polar opposite.  I imagined mine would be a pasty, skinny, uptight, English, insurance adjuster who would advise me to “Get a mutual fund!”*

A perm is something I would totally get!  In fact, I had done… in 1987.  Back then, I had the fluffiest, wildest collection of kinks, spirals and zig-zags on my head.  …And I was cool, beyond belief.  So when Mexi-Ritsa suggested I “Get a perm”, I listened. 

I started off by getting a ‘Get A Perm’ t-shirt.  Yes, it’s the wrong way round, but life is uncertain, you should eat dessert first.  (You know you want one of those t-shirts!  You can get one here.) 

Then the fateful day arrived.  It was last Friday, and I sandwiched getting a perm in between a morning of contract work, and my first date with the Ministry of Economic Development (I am dating the Government, you see).

Once the rollers were unfurled, my hair fell into cute wet red-blonde spirals.  It was like looking straight back at 1987 (+ 22 years and 22 kilos).  As I was short of time, I rushed out of the salon, my hair still wet, and headed to my date.  My date went well, and coffee extended to joining the crew for Friday night drinks.  They were a really friendly happy bunch who spent a good deal of time laughing and joking.  I was in my element. 

It was only when I headed to my car, that I caught sight of my reflection in a shop window.  I say my reflection – actually, I didn’t realise it was me – I thought it was Ronald McDonald… in drag.

Yes, my perm had bleached my hair to a bright orange, and the soft wet ringlets had dried into a frizzy white-girl afro.  It was not good. Not good at all.

Now I have a dilemma… I would like a contract with the MED, but I’m not sure I want to work at a place that would offer Ronald McDonald (in drag) work.  Sigh…

P.S. I have since dyed my hair back to dark brown… And, no, MED never called me back.

 P.P.S. If you’re from overseas, or are one of those Kiwi freaks who don’t own a television, you won’t understand my ‘get a perm’ reference.  All will be explained here.  

* I don’t actually know what a mutual fund is, therefore I have no idea whether I want one.

Bridget Riley’s Metamorphosis

A couple of weeks ago, I had an epiphany. 

I have a fantastic job, that pays well, with a great company, a team I like, fancy offices, substantial freedom to pursue what I think is relevant, budget to spend and the power to get what I want due to the company’s high profile. 

My epiphany was that I don’t enjoy my job.

I don’t know why I didn’t realise this before.  I have felt an undercurrent of dissatisfaction with my work for some time now, but I kept going, thinking it was just a phase.  So the realisation that I don’t like my fantastic job hit me like a bolt of lightening.  I was suprised… I’m a bit thick sometimes. 

So what did I do? 

I quit.  Yup.  Immediately.  In fact I barely made it through our Monday morning WIP before blurting it out to my boss and then my team.  Everyone was suprised, because … well… see paragraph 1.

So there’s been some introspection on my part lately (that’s why I’ve been quiet).  Why don’t I like my fantastic job?  Why this compulsion to be done with it quickly?  Why did I feel so fantastic as soon as I made the decision to leave?  Why am I enjoying my job so much now that the end is in sight?

I guess part of the answer is my long standing love affair with change.  I love changing jobs, moving house, moving countries, changing lovers (well… who doesn’t like a new lover, right?) 

The itch to change something, anything, usually starts with a change in my appearance.  My hairstyle changes more often that the guard at Buckingham Palace. If I change my hair colour or style, it usually means curtains for my job… or my boyfriend… or both.

I don’t have the answers.  I’m afraid all my forays into introspection lead to more questions.  I should just give introspection a miss, and accept that new stuff, and starting again makes me happy. 

And chocolate.  Chocolate makes me happy too.

It was via a tweet from @anne0208 that I ended up at a website promoting the book ‘Make Women Laugh’.  The author, one Martin Merrill proclaims:

“Finally Revealed! Closely Guarded Secrets
Of Attracting Beautiful Women By Making
Them Laugh… 100% Guaranteed!”

Wow! I thought.  100% guaranteed!  Excellent!  I myself had listed ‘being funny’ as tip #2 in 10 sure-fire tips for getting laid (one of the most read posts on this blog, but strangely, no comments…).  So I proceeded to read through the page, waiting to be amazed and amused.

I have to say, this is one of the least amusing promo pages I’ve ever visited.  It’s ironic that Martin Merrill is promoting a product that claims to work solely via the use of humour, using the most dour, trite testimonials ever. (Martin, the words ‘ironic’ and ‘humour’ are hyperlinked to their dictionary.com definitions for your benefit.)  

Making women laugh is a science.

Yup, the website claims making women laugh is a step-by-step, scientific process, that guarrantees the said woman will then date/sleep fall in love with you.  Clearly, none of the steps were applied here.

There are numerous named testimonials from satisfied readers promoted here – even one from a (alleged) stand up comedian!  Still, not able to raise even a titter between them.

If that doesn’t raise alarm bells for would-be purchasers, then surely the ‘Limited time offer’ of ordering this book for a mere US$47, you’ll get another 6 books, worth US$201.75 absolutely free! (of course, Mr Merrill’s adding is a bit off as he quotes the figure as ‘over $204.7’).

Reminds me of the dude at the Porsche dealership who ran a buy one, get one free campaign.  Now, that was funny! (even though it didn’t really happen).

On Wednesday I attended a couple of sessions at a Rural Marketing conference – not because I’m interested in marketing to rural folk, but because those sessions were about online marketing (at least that’s what it said in the brochure).

The sessions in question were to be given by a guy from the Met Service, who I think do a great job with some of their online products.  I was looking forward to an informative and interesting presentation…

Alas, it was not to be…  The conference organisers had spent most of the 2-day conference trying to break down the stereotype of the hay-chewing, gumboot-wearing, slightly dim farmer.  The dude from the Met Service had clearly not taken this on. 

He treated us to pearls of wisdom like :

• Advertise on the Met Service Rural site, because that gets the most traffic…
• …although actually, most farmers don’t know how to use the internet, so you should really spend your money in print or TV (this from a guy who was giving an online marketing talk!)
• …but if you insist on doing online marketing, just take your print ad and bang it up online… on the Met Service Rural site – because it gets the most traffic…
• Put a cow or other farm animal in your online marketing because that’s what will get the farmer’s attention… (at this stage I was looking down and thought I had mis-heard, so I looked up… and sure enough there it was on his powerpoint slide: ‘Picture of cow or other farm animal’
• Keep it simple (presumably because the farmer is a bit thick and can’t read long words…)
• …oh and advertise on the Met Service Rural website because it gets the most traffic…

Met Service dude then proceeded to show us an example of a successful banner they had put on their site (for just five grand!).  It was flouro yellow and flashed the lucky draw message so fast, I’m shocked no-one in the audience had an epileptic fit!

I was comped to this conference, but I assume that at least some of the people there had paid $1495 + GST to attend and listen to this condescending drivel.  Lucky for Met Service guy, the room was packed with marketers instead of farmers.  If there had been any farmers there I’m pretty sure they would have taken him out into the carpark and kicked his head in…

Poor show Brightstar!  Surely you have some responsibility for the calibre of the speakers at your conferences…

Not me...

Owwwww.  I hurt.  My shoulders hurt, my wrists hurt, the joints of my fingers hurt.  My sides hurt – but thank goodness, only when I breathe.  I have a wide blue bruise flourishing on the outside of my right thigh.

Was I beaten up this weekend?  Nope.  These injuries were sustained while pole dancing.  Yes, pole dancing.  The pole dancing was in aid of my friend Gillian’s impending nuptuals.  I guess dry-humping a pole is on a list of must-dos for the single girl.  Crossed off mine now.  Thank God!  Now I can get married!

Not Nearly Drunk Enough

I agreed to try pole dancing, under the inducement that it was ‘great exercise’ (see what I think of exercise here) and ‘fun’ (see what I think of fun below).  A large group of us rocked up to the studio about 6pm, not nearly drunk enough.  Only six of us then had the bottle to try out our stripper chops, including the hen, Gillian.  The other five were dressed for exercise.  I had chosen (unwisely and age-inappropriately) to dress for the pole.  So there I was in short shorts, fishnet tights and fuck-me boots.  It was not pretty.

The instuctor took her place at the front of the class.  She wasn’t exactly what I expected.  Rather portly, with the officious bossy manner of a Victorian schoolmarm – we’ll call her Miss Campbell after my high school headmistress.  “Right ladies!” she bossed “Remember to face your audience, make eye contact, try to seduce them.”  As my ‘audience’ consisted largely of middle aged ladies, I wondered whether I might not better seduce them with a box of Continental Roses and a glass of Sherry.

Miss Campbell then hooked her ample calf around her pole and swung around it a couple of times, coming to a stop in a demure crouch facing her audience.  We all followed suit, with varying levels of success, and ended up more or less crouching by our poles.  “OK, now place your hand on the inside of your knee and push your legs apart, then bring them back together quickly” Miss Campbell demonstrated, ending the manoever fluttering her eyelashes with her hand over her mouth in an ‘Ooops, I slipped’ gesture.  What bit was I exercising here I wondered?  Certainly not my good judgement or self respect.  As I said… not nearly drunk enough.

What followed was an hour of various methods of swinging around the pole interspersed with getting up off the floor with maximum fanny flashing to the audience.  We also learned how to pretend-hump the floor, ride the invisible man backward-cowboy-style (although I have a feeling some of us already knew that one), flick back our hair a-la the wet Flashdance and slap our own arses.

Everything you wanted to know but were afraid to ask

My pole dancing experience has left me with more questions than answers frankly, but here are the answers I do know, for anyone who wants to know, but is afraid to ask…: 

• Is pole dancing good exercise?  If you measure ‘good’ by how much pain you’re in a few days after the event, then yes, it is.
• Is it fun? Well, if you can avoid catching your reflection in the mirror, or in the eyes of your audience, then yeah, I suppose so.
• Will I be able to use these moves to seduce my husband, boyfriend, potential boyfriend, best friend’s husband?  Well, it depends; is he a neanderthal, sexist, internet porn-watching, wanker?  Ah, who am I kidding!?  Probably…  
• Do I need to prepare before I try it?  The ‘school’ will make you fill out an extensive form about your health and sign a waiver absolving them of any responsibility for your idiocy.  In terms of preparation… I have just one word for you.  Brazilian.
•  But wait… Isn’t pole dancing exploitative and demeaning?  Yeah, in the professional pole dancing arena those dufuses shoving $10 bills in the gyrating g-string of the pole dancer are exploited and demeaned.  In the girls-night-out scenario, it fits right in with the other exploitative and demeaning activities we undertake to farewell a girl’s freedom.

Yup, that’s all I’ve got to say about it.  If you have any questions, just ask.  I’ll be forthcoming as always.  If you want to see a video of me pole dancing click here.

Last week at a briefing, the Minister of Civil Defence, The Hon. John Carter, was heard speaking about the ‘Influential Pandemic’.  I’m not making this up – I couldn’t make something this good up! 

What I want to know, is how do I catch Influentia?  I don’t need a serious dose of it – just a mild case would do, so that I can get my pub quiz team to listen to me and convince my boss to change my title to ‘Grand Poobah of Everything’ (g-Poe for short).  Maybe I just need an Influentia vaccination shot?

But I am worried about possible side effects of Influentia.  Such as National Party membership, mispronounciation and an increase in general wankiness (that’s the adjective, not General Wankiness who heads up the Civil Defence Force ).

P.S. What the heck is Sarah Palin on? Do they put something in the water there in Wasilla?