Friday, March 21, 2008

Bad Girl

I did this quiz I got from here. I am bad. Very bad. But life is short:

Greed:Very High

Gluttony:Very High






Take the Seven Deadly Sins Quiz

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

The Darth Side

This can sum everything so far, although I will get around to writing bits and annoying pieces, bitchisms mainly.

Darth Vader is Ian, who decided to bitch about my project. He has found some other ideas, and decided to have me add them to the project. I think he's pissed because his attempt at making a pass at me after a drinky poo sales pitch (that went into the evening) failed. Yuck

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Lazy Arse

I haven't been faithful to this blog. I have been bogged down with a project over two months, and the IT idiot has installed a program to detect Internet page histories. I've been petrified about it, but I have also been distracted by Ian and his control-freak nature.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Mid-Week Humps

I read about telemarketing. It's like seeing it from the other side and interesting. I like the "get rid of a telemarketer" strategy here (It's R rated). The only telemarketing I see is the type at work. I don't hang in the call centre part because the noise drives me crazy, and telemarketing is annoying but it's part of my job (to distribute scripts and monitor campaigns), and it is one of those things: damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Ian decided to be nice to me today, and invite me to meet a friend of his who works for Canon - an IT person. Wow right there? I don't know what it is about IT people but those in business shirts wear odd ties. This one had a tie with a multi-coloured mouse.

Reasons why I'm up so late?

1. Going through a stupid presentation.
2. Reading paperwork for this presentation.
3. Why? Because Ian didn't feel up to doing it (hence my lunch invitation).

Conclusion: bastard.

ps: I feel sick when the receptionists drool over him. I think they're turned on more by his company credit card (Gold AMEX) than anything else.
I don't know what it is, but girls are having more orgasms over designer handbags.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Another day another dollar

This year has been so stupid.

My resolution failed. I still enjoy the puff, or I did, but it’s become more of a stress outlet than an Audrey Hepburn Breakfast at Tiffany’s thing.

I took a long break over the month of December, and I didn’t go anywhere. I did the average things, hang at Bondi, and waste a ton of money eating lunch, having coffee and shopping, and weeks later I returned to work to find that the group marketing manager hired a new member, someone he knows. Now this isn’t strange. This happens in spite of EEO practices being posted on all company Intranet sites.

I thought I’d be the person groomed to be a marketing executive in a year, after working as an assistant for close to two but it was:

“Didi, meet the new marketing executive, Ian.”

I knew it to be bad because Ian was giving me the up and down once over. The same look that guys give girls in pubs and clubs or the is she fuckable inspection. He made me sick, him in his new suit and number two haircut. He even wore a leather cuff on his left hand. I don’t know what that means, but I do know that Ian knows my bosses daughter.

Weeks later, it’s January, and I have Ian oversee everything, even stuff that never needed approval. He calls my extension, asks me to enter his office, to ask me stupid things - wasting my time. He has access to marketing figures. He’s the first to receive them, and he fucking asks me to interpret them when it’s his job. He is supposed to do marketing meeting presentations, but so far has made me do his work for him, and the thing is if something doesn’t happen for him to resign, I’ll be forced to work under him until I find something else. It’s catch 22. I study two days a week and I am supposed to learn on the job. Ian is an idiot, knows nothing, and I fear that I’ll learn nothing in the space of three years, or until I finish my course, and be at a disadvantage. If I leave the company, I fear I am going to be under qualified, even in my lowly position, to be accepted anywhere else.

I fucking hate Ian.

Monday, November 19, 2007

One month gone and three dates

The road hasn’t been smooth. I have succumbed and joined the ciggie lepers in my high stress moments.
I considered ringing the advice line one day, and changed my mind because it felt silly. None of my friends called the advice line to stop smoking, and not only this, I do wonder if the people on the other side are ex smokers or if they are smoker Nazis.
I had three dates: with smokers.

It didn’t help my will power one little bit.

Their names are Jason, Tim and Ben. I'll elaborate a little later.

Friday, October 19, 2007


I knew this would happen. It was all right for the first few days, then the weekend popped up and it culminated in a drinking spree. We won an account, and it saw us trot off to the local. I stepped in two mounds of shit.
The first mound of shit involved a little too much alcohol. This resulted in flirting with interstate account manager; heat dripped from his fucking lapels! Armond (it's what I prefer to call him on this blogger thing) has lived here for five years, and has a chocolate smooth accent. He whispered in my ear; let's go somewhere else Didi.
Try to quit smoking with a French man breathing against your ear...

We strolled to the Mariott, his temporary abode, and I'll keep it short but I bounced up and down on his bed, telling him to buy me one. "ah, mon cherie," he laughed, and it may be cliche, but it got me going, so much, that I practically fell into his limbs. Our mouths were more intrepid than Al Gore, traversing every microclimate; tongue, taste buds, and his fingers ensured that my core temperature would rise; global bodily warming.

So we did it. We fucked, and in my stupor or weakness, I relented. I don't know. Maybe I liked the way he lit two cigarettes in his mouth, offering me one with a James Dean cocked eyebrow.

"This is a mini break," he said.
There was more?

and there was. More, so much more. My head did spin with the first drag, and his hands wandered down south, and pressed the right button, and that can be a rarity.

Thursday, October 4, 2007


I almost caved in. Okay, I did cave in, but only one.

In the few days I have stuck these patches on me, I have digested plenty calories.

Work birthday party:

“Come on Didi, have another!” (Krispy Kreme donut)
“Go on! Try the chocolate.”

Everything is starting to taste different. Normal. Nicer.

I have also retired to bed earlier, not to think about the ordeal that can grip me like it does in the few intervals throughout the day.

“Why didn’t you call me back, Didi?”
“I was busy.”
“Do you want to see Hairspray?”
“Um. I’m trying to quit smoking and I’m focusing on that.”

He wasn’t that exciting, and he’s a smoker. Is it wrong to distance myself from that?

It’s all about finding things to do. Substituting the cigarettes with other things. Things that I need to make time for. Example: the gym. My schedule is currently over-the-top, but since I have been on these sticky patches, I have been waking up earlier each day. There is hope.

It is not enough the food being a battle……

There is a positive in all this. I am hopeful in this first step to eradicate toxic nicotine. The other thing: I think I have over-masturbated with my Rabbit.

Is there such a thing?

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Baby Steps

“My anxiety acts like aerobics, so I get the exercise.”

I was watching Woody Allen in Scoop and he explains his ability to metabolize the bread in front of him in one scene where Scarlet Johansson’s character explains that she’d gain twenty pounds if she ate that much bread.

I felt anxious. I opened the packet of nicotine patches and looked at them. I sat down, and I looked at them. Kept on looking at them. It was the huge step for me. Stupid really. I thought of weekends out with the girls. I thought of the mornings at the café. Childish, considering all the television campaigns and graphic images of the hazards: life or death, mainly death.

I ripped open the packet, read the instructions and stuck the patch on my arm.

A baby step.

I just hope I don't develop a new addition, along the lines to a Tori Amos song, "She's addicted to Nicotine patches."

Friday, September 28, 2007

Things: A Sorta Meltdown

I’m beginning this page as a form of therapy? Silly I suppose. I have read that it helps to write down each experience, feeling and moment as it happens, especially if a personal crisis looms and change is a necessity.

Standard crisis:

Single, thirties and single.

I had a moment of temporary bliss, the kind of bliss that attaches itself to a new person or the chance of that person being a possible anything (I’ve never liked to assume things) but damn, it could have been. Bits in the new person’s life differed from mine. We had met twice before the third time, and the third time he remarked on the cigarette smell. It was as if this markedly changed his stance.

Midweek, I received news of my non-promotion, something I’d hoped would happen after putting in hours, expanded my knowledge and a younger candidate was moved – higher. She is 22, and the opposite of me. I feel 38, at 28, or felt like a bovine member of the frumpy herd. Not to say that 38 is frump city. She struts, tosses her glossy straight hair and is ecstatic about her promotion. I have three years more experience.

I could shift or evaporate the few extra pounds.

I could update my wardrobe a little, and the elimination of the pounds would mean an altogether different wardrobe; shorter skirts and tighter or fitted tops.

The moment of collision where change howls into your ear is probably up there with the most important life moments. It’s a bell that requests attention and I didn’t want to listen to it. I didn’t but I felt like I couldn’t mute the sound of thought that took hold. It was like rushing into shattered moments.

“It’s a shame, for such a pretty face.”

I decided to make changes. Changes to habits, physique and (what I hope, as a result of the former) my overall self.

I don’t want to be something that I’m not, an unrealistic figurine, but I do have things that I need to change:

Quit smoking.

Exercise more.

Find the me beneath the superfluous lead-like layers that I have made over the years.