Housework

In the space of a week, I have been outwitted by my washing machine and outsmarted by the buttons on my comforter cover.

The Washing Machine

After being tasked by Pat to get the washing machine going before I left for work, I dutifully put the washing powder and softener into the machine and hit start.

It didn’t start.

Thinking that perhaps this was because the cover wasn’t closed tightly, I tried to open and re-close it.

It wouldn’t open.

So I tried again. And again. And again. To no avail.

While catching my breath, I quickly came up with an alternative course of action, which was to try to yank the thing off violently with both hands while yelling profound curses.

This worked. Because the cover came open without any resistance. It also had the unfortunate effect of sending me spilling onto the kitchen floor like a floundering frog.

Not being one to give up, I gave up. And marched into the bedroom to inform Pat that the machine was being uncooperative and that I needed to leave for work immediately or I would set fire to the damn thing.

Pat found this very funny. And when I returned from work, she explained to me that most washing machines automatically lock up for 30 seconds after the start button is hit. Right…

The Comforter Cover

I have never been one for buttons. The last time I tried to put on a button-up shirt, all I did was frown for 20 minutes. Put me in button fly jeans and other men at the urinal will shuffle warily away from the guy who’s just standing there fingering his crotch.

Clearly, putting the comforter cover back on, with its concealed buttons, would be a challenge and I focused all my intellectual abilities keenly on the task ahead. Despite my cavernous head, it was useless.

By the time Pat had finished her side, I was still glaring at the first button of mine. There was just no conceivable way to insert the button into the slit and keep it concealed at the same time. I pointed this out to Pat who told me to work on it while she packed up the rest of the house, warmed up dinner and watched a bit of TV.

There is a happy ending to this story because I did indeed get the button in and concealed after just half an hour. Now for the blasted washing machine.

Fickle

For the first time in months, I’m sitting at my desk and not hyperventilating. It’s odd. Like I’m forgetting to do something. I’ve checked the Calendar on Outlook a dozen times since the morning and no, everything’s accounted for.

No fires to fight, no last minute scripts to write, no stupid people to explain processes to. I feel lost.

This must be the eye of the storm. The worst is yet to come. There will be blood.

That’s all that’s going through my mind.

We were talking over lunch about how working here is better than working in a traditional ad agency. The hours are definitely more appealing (we leave at 6.30 sharp). But everything else isn’t. Most days, I feel more like I’m working in a fire department than in an office.

After all, it’s a volume-based business we’re in now. The point being to sell as much media as possible, and if we’re going to have to throw in a few free ads, why the hell not?

My ten months here have done nothing for my portfolio. I’m pretty sure that’s not going to change, especially when we spend half our time coordinating radio productions, and the other half explaining to people why they’re stupid.

Oh sure, it’s great when you punch in the numbers, file the bag and close the job. But it’s more relief than satisfaction. Something closer to “I’ve survived” rather than “I’ve achieved”.

So, for the first time in a long time, I’m sitting here wondering what I really want. I left agency life because I was sick of it, and now, here I am thinking of embracing it once again.

Fickle-minded as usual.

Sweet mother of God, you’re married?!

I don’t see why people should be so shocked. It’s like I’ve just admitted to having a penchant for baby ponies. One friend exclaimed that suddenly, I’d “grown up” and that I would be doing “grown up things” from now on. Except that I’ve been doing, ahem, “grown up things” for a while now. Just look at my porn folder.

Of course, the biggest loser in all this is Pat who, as reward for enduring me the past 7 years, gets to endure me for the next 70. As (somewhat scant) compensation, I promise to hunt down all cockroaches, scrub the toilet every fortnight and to never EVER leave my bag on the bed.

Slightly corny, this

Someone: “You know this guy (insert name of fling), he… er… doesn’t make any sound when he, you know, comes.”
Me: “Wow. He’s like Jesus then.”
Someone: “Huh?”
Me: “You know, he comes like a thief in the night.” (Guffaws)
Someone: *dies*

Misleading Winning Eleven Conversation

Adrian: “Should go in further.”
Dave (defensively): “But you’re coming already!”

P.S.: Winning Eleven is a football game on the Playstation.

What’s this?

I have just returned from my first run since the half-marathon in December. And despite puffing a little too loudly and generally maintaining the pace of a snail, that was dead, I feel oddly fulfilled. Clearly, something is wrong with me. Fulfilment isn’t an emotion I am prone to feeling even in the best of times. Maybe it’s because I made some discoveries along the way. Such as the fact that my shoes, having not been touched in four months, now stink so much that I imagine they would force even God to pinch his nose. Of course, this is nonsense. God doesn’t exist which means that there isn’t a divine nose to hold in the first place.

More importantly, somewhere into the second kilometre, I stumbled upon the notion that I really should start blogging again. You might have noticed that, other than the two facetious non-posts in January, the entries stopped in September. Amidst the passing addictions to Scrabulous, then Noggin’, then Prolific on Facebook, there was something else keeping me from boring the unfortunate readers of this blog.

It’s hard to explain but I go through periods in my life where I feel overwhelmed by cynicism and the meaninglessness of it all. (To religionists: no, this doesn’t mean I need to go to church or start kneeling at regular intervals in the direction of Mecca). This is generally followed by a lackadaisical attitude to life and a tendency to shun people. To everyone who might have suffered from my entirely manly mood swings, too bad for you.

But anyway, over the past few weeks, I have begun to see the light again. Writing for The Living Room has helped a lot though you wouldn’t know it from the way I moan endlessly about research and deadlines. It’s something which I find much more rewarding than writing ads. And besides, if nothing else, it’s helping me build up a portfolio of written work which I hope will get me into an editorial career sooner rather than later. I wonder if Playeur pays well.

There are, of course, other motivations for pulling myself out of this rut but I shan’t go into them here. There’s no point in boring all of you even more.

Google must die

So I’m signing up for another Gmail account.
So the username I want isn’t available.
So an alternative name is suggested.

This does not help, Google!
The last thing I want is an orifice filled with missives.

Friends don’t matter. Scrabulous does.

I am deeply ashamed to say that I am now on Facebook. However, unless you are deeply interested in playing Scrabulous with me, then I suggest you keep your friendship to yourself.

As I write, John has just “played GAYS for 24 points.” Still, no amount of KY will save him!

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On Facebook

Over the past month, thirteen people have asked me to go on Facebook. Some were close or close-ish friends. Some were acquaintances. And one was my sister who wanted me to give her a donkey or something like that.

Of course, as you might have guessed, my answers were all variations of “No”. Such as “hmmm… no.” or “pleah… no.” or, if I was feeling particularly courteous, “let me see… no.”

Am I being anti-social? Well, yes I am. But only because being sociable, at least online, has become utterly pointless.

Typically with social networking sites, you fill in your profile, sometimes add a photo or two and then spend the rest of your time fending off the advances of someone called “Lesboboi81″. Is that fun? Really?

And then there’s the problem of association. I remember when I first got a Friendster account, I lived in constant fear that an ex-classmate who had ingeniously named himself “Raven” would find me. The conventions of courtesy would require that I add him as a friend and that would have shattered my social standing completely. After all, what would having a Raven on my list say about me? I’d have been better off announcing to the world that I’d contracted genital herpes from a Viet transvestite named… uhh… Lesboboi81.

The thing about social networking sites is that it’s all about novelty. Whenever a fresh site springs up, millions flock over, typing in nonsensically long lists of favourite movies, music and books, tracking down and pulling in friends from the previous hottest site, checking out the usually pointless new widgets ad nauseam.

And this is exactly what’s happening with Facebook.

New devotees proclaim that Facebook-ing is the coolest thing ever and that only people who still listen to The Carpenters shun it. However, press them a little more and they’ll be forced to admit that it’s really not much different from Friendster or MySpace or Orkut. Or a really neat phone book.

When you think about it, this social networking craze is just a matter of what sort of container you’re putting your collection of friends in till the next big thing comes along. Then the frenzy will just play itself out again.

And really, what’s the point of that?