wigglewhiz: (Default)

So, yesterday I was due to meet my counterpart in Dunedin. It's a two and a half hour drive to Dunedin. It has a one way system.

You remember the last time I tried to go to Dunedin.

This time I was going to be driving myself! Alone! To a part of Dunedin I had never been before! GUARANTEED FAIL!

 

AND IT WAS. )



In other news: I GOT MY FLIP! I'm in ur house, recordin stuff out mah nut. Prepare for Wigglewhiz School Of Nausea-Inducing Camerawork Video Journalism! WOOT WOOT!!1!
 


Bubbly

Feb. 9th, 2011 11:07 pm
wigglewhiz: (Default)

In the words of our favourite internet star of the moment (well... probably of 20 minutes ago, but since he's now featuring in TV advertising in New Zealand it's current for us) - WHAT DOES IT MEEEEEEEEEEEAN?!

 

COWORKERS DO NOT RESPECT MAH AUTHORITAY, THAT'S FUCKING WHAT! )



GAH.
 


 


wigglewhiz: (Default)
I am a Batman fan.

As in, pretty much all forms of Batman, except for George Clooney. I'm not big into Christian Bale (squicks me out and makes me think of Tom Cruise, for some reason), but those Batman versions were enjoyable enough. Michael Keaton, though, for ME personally, had just the right edge of "very nearly psychotic" that I think Batman needs to have.

Anyway! Saturday mornings here chez Whiz involve watching the cartoon series Batman: The Brave And The Bold from my big snuggly bed. It's not my FAVOURITE Batman cartoonification evar, but it's watchable. This morning, however? It set me a-ranting at an ungodly hour of a non-working weekend morning.

It was one of those goddamned CROSSOVER episodes. Batman somehow crosses paths with some other DC comics superhero, and lessons are learned and experiences shared and BLAH BLAH FUCKING BLAH. I'm watching for BATMAN. I don't care about bloody Superman or Spider-Man (who was always just too irritatingly ANGSTY and WHINY for my taste). Anyhoo, in this cross over, Batman and PLASTICMAN (gah) meet up with... UNCLE SAM AND THE FREEDOM FIGHTERS.

Gah.

Included in the Freedom Fighters?! DOLL MAN! THE HUMAN BOMB! PHANTOM LADY!

Dudes. AWESOME Superhero names. Can I be slightly sidetracked by how The Human Bomb is probably totally non-PC in our modern terrorist-laden times? I mean, I guess it's OK, because THIS Human Bomb fights FOR UNCLE SAM. Therefore it's good. It's stars-and-stripes-explodingly-all-over-your-screen good. ***W00t! Wave tiny American flags!***

But anyway, at this point I'm assuming (I like Batman, but I'm not up on EVERY ASPECT of the franchise) that this is rather an old series, and as such it's kind of awkwardly charming in it's anarchic non-pc ind of set up. Speaking of non-pc, did you check out Phantom Lady's AMAZING superpower?! You'll totally never guess - SHE TURNS INVISIBLE. I know, right?! AWESOMENESS!

What male comic book writer/reader DOESN'T want a hawt sexy mama who can just be vanished into thin air when she gets cranky/naggy/otherwise bored of? How many other goddamned invisible women are there in comics and sci-fi? Should we be receiving a message here, girls? Not so much seen and not heard - seen when we want to view your hawt short shorts, and then get me a sammich or vanish into thin air, kthnxbai. *eyeroll*.

Know of any Invisible MEN (aside from, you know, the obvious one) flisties? No? I can't think of any. Is that possibly because as a story it would be horrifically boring, because all said Invisible Man would do would be lurk around in ladies locker rooms working on developing one enormous Hulk arm? And thereby possibly causing a GLOBAL KLEENEX SHORTAGE, OMFG THINK OF THE CHILDRENNNNNN!?!

Huh.

Anyway, at the end of the episode, PlasticMan, who saves the day by discovering his patriotism (which, incidentally, we are encouraged to learn COMES FROM TEH HEART, rather than from learning dates and places and names. No, kids! GOD FORBID you should learn about significant events in your country's history lest you develop a political view OF YOUR OWN! Just sing Yankee Doodle Dandy! It doesn't even matter if you don't know the words. Uncle Sam will save the world for you if you JUST BELIEVE!!1!) - and he gets thanked by  someone very special, the Man In Charge Himself, the President of the USA get out here you goombah... BARACK FUCKING OBAMA.

WHUT?! This.. this is a NEW cartoon?! This blatantly flag-waving, completely undisguised propaganda machine? With Uncle Sam talking about fighting THE RED ALIEN MENACE?! Really?! Well, HOLY SHIT. We seem to have slipped back into 1940-something where we were teaching the kids to hate the Germans.

See the episode (illegally!) in three parts on YouTube - or just watch the last one for the Obama cameo right at the end.


wigglewhiz: (Default)

Have a squizz at this advertisement, which appears with IRRITATING regularity on my television.

REALLY?!

First off, I absolutely, just cannot fucking STAND the start of the song Shout. I cannot abide it. Poor old Lulu screeching "WEEE-EEEE-EEE-EEE-EEEEE-EEEEEEEEL" immediately has the effect of making my scalp retreat (which happens when I'm REALLY, REALLY ANGRY - I think it's some kind of evolutionary mechanism like when a cat flattens it's ears), sets my teeth on edge, and has me reaching for the remote to furiously jab the "mute" button or to change channels.

What IS it with goddamned feminine hygeine adverts where they have to be so fucking NOISY and VISIBLE? Did you think this symbolised "fun!", Marketing Team? Because what it really symbolises is "FUCKWITS". Or "INCANDESCENT RAGE". Or straightforward GET THIS SHIT OFF MY TELLY RIGHT NAOW.

I'm not sure these ever played outside the UK, but remember the Bodyform advert? Where the fucking rawk chick (FUN! You too can be a rawking rawk chick! Even when your uterine lining is sloughing off!) yelled WHOAAAAAAAAAH BODYFO-ORM! BODYFORMED FOR YOOOOOOOOU!!!? That advert used to drive both me and my mother absolutely INSANE. My mum would yell "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH, BAHDYFAHRM!" like an enraged muppet, which was quite entertaining in a "must lighten mood before we smash the fucking television" kind of way.

You know, Marketing Team, the thing is - we women kinda know about that whole menstruation thing. We know how it works. We know the kind of products we might buy. And while we might appreciate the dollars you're putting into making these product better for us, we kind of DON'T want you SCREAMING about them in our living rooms, 'kay? It's bad enough we have to put up with the PMS and the cramps and the INCOVENIENCE of the whole thing when it happens, but to have you SCREECHING your upbeat adverts  in our homes in what little non-PMS time we have, all "PERIODS! YAAAAAAAY! LOOK, WE MADE TAMPONS WITH LITTLE SHEETS ON LIKE LITTLE GHOSTS! FUN FUN FUUUUUNNNN!" makes us want to fucking rip our scalps off and firebomb your offices. This is perhaps not a successful marketing strategy, is what I'm saying. (Also, that if I need my tampons to have little wingy sheets on them to fill out some kind of VACUOUS CAVERN and catch resulting extraneous free-falling fluid, MAYBE I HAVE A WORSE PROBLEM THAN JUST MENSTRUATION.)

And seriously, Libra (back to the advert currently filling me with rage) - are you REALLY trying to tell me that your screamingly amazing new tampon developments are so great that I'll join the FLOCKS of women screaming with Boyband-worthy glee in the tampon aisle of my local supermarket? That I will DROP MY EGGS (and seriously, is there a hidden message there? Is that a euphemism or what?!), or clutch my long flowing hair and scream scream scream, or PASS OUT ALL CROSS-EYED WITH EUPHORIA?

Dudes. "Rounded tip". Well, HOLY SHIT. It's not like any other brands of tampons have been doing that for, like, EVER.

KNOTTED STRING. Oh dear god above, that is THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD OF! Revolutionary! What did we EVER do before this?! I WAS USING A SHOEHORN. *eyeroll*

Twist wrap! Well! That's maybe the ONLY vaguely innovative thing that you have here, Libra. It's marginally less annoying than the cigarette-wrapper-style pull tab. But it's HARDLY worth screaming and passing out over.

You DO make me want to shout, Libra. And what you make me want to shout is: "FUCK OFF!!1!"

wigglewhiz: (Default)

Thank you SO much to all my lovely flisties who commented yesterday and gave me luvs and supports. You made me cry, damn you all. (You know, in that way when you're RIGHT ON THE EDGE just managing to hold back the tears and then someone says something nice and you're all: "OH GOD, don't be NICE to me! *sob sob sob sob sob sob*"? Yeah. Like that.) 

I've gone into Holding Pattern mode at the moment. My mum told me off for having a "knee jerk" reaction and being all I AM GOING TO HAVE TO GO HOME, WOE IS ME, FAIL AND DOOM etc. I am... still kind of having that reaction, and am still a bit close to the teary precipice which suggests I am not entirely rational about things right now. Therefore, the best bet is probably to just sit still and do nothing, think nothing, plan nothing for a couple days - just try to get over it and pick myself up and BREATHE before making any rash decisions.

I usually pick myself up pretty quickly after job rejections (although there's always a moment of WOE IS ME because I am a certified Drama Queen), but this one... this one hurts more. This one definitely feels bigger and having it here so far from home is... scarier and MOAR SIGNIFICANT feeling. I've had a browse through the job vacancies (what little of them are to be had, rural backwater small town caveat blaaaaaaaaaaaaab), and that was kind of just another punch to the gut - my instant reaction to them was pretty bad, since the only available vacancy I can apply for is for some fucking awful looking admin assistant/receptionist a Company F, who have rejected me for a higher position no less than TWICE. I imagine the pay will be RUBBISH and the climbdown from applying for Positions Of AWESOMENESS back down to fucking Admin Monkery sticks in my craw.

And I KNOW that makes me a horrible, unrealistic snobby cow. My mother has already told me so and said I need to pull my finger out and WORK IN A SHOP if I need to. I didn't bother reminding her about the SHOE SHOP INTERVIEW that I also fucking failed, because I guess she needs her moment of lecturing me to feel like she's involved and being appropriately motherly in my moment of need halfway across teh wurld. Thanks, ma.

*sigh*

Anyay, Himself and I had a big heart-to-heart last night about our future plans, and I gret (past tense of greet, find definition here although you'll need to type the word in yourself ) and snottered and ranted and swore and flailed and just generally was a massive overdramatic pain in the arse. I threatened that going home would be the end of us (DUN DUN DUUUUUUN) as a couple because neither of us really WANTED to go home and therefore there would be angst and anger and HATE, and then Himself got really upset and I realised my being a wallowing self-flaggelating asshole was really helping neither of us, but TOO LATE because I'd already upset someone I love and had to deal with the GUILT of being a shitty person on top of everything.

*sigh*

So, Holding Pattern it is. A few days to just calm down, stop being a fucking over-reacting Drama Queen eejit and start to process things rationally. And then we'll decide what to do from here. Expect either stream-of-consciousness ramblings (apologies in advance) here as I try to sort myself out, or conspicuous silence as I avoid thinking about anything. Since, you know, avoidance TOTALLY works and is a valid and sane strategy. *eyeroll*

Big hugs and thanks again to everyone for your lovely comments yesterday! *sniff* (I was totally going to link here to a YouTube Ren &Stimpy episode featuring Haggis McHaggis saying "Don't make me cry! Ye canna..... make me cry!", but I can't find it. I HAVE found about a billionty Ren & Stimpy episodes though, so I guess that's Day One of my Holding Pattern Diary pretty much filled up!)


wigglewhiz: (RAAAAAAAH)

Dear Fuckwits Outside My Fucking House,

Look, I know you've decided in your infinite wisdom that the tree that used to live outside my house was a total inconvenience and that instead it might be nice to make a parking bay outside my window. I don't understand, but I know that's your plan.

I like that you gave me warning you were going to cut it down, you know, what with the RIGHT OUTSIDE MY BEDROOM WINDOW part, and the huge noise that would be made. However, I have to say it was kind of rude when you didn't actually stick to the dates on the warning letters - I WAS hoping that someone had seen sense to keep the pretty Eucalyptus trees up and down our street, that there had been some kind of Neighbourhood Curtain Twitchers meeting that was successful totally without my participation. (That kind of reinforced the thought that the neighbours think I'm a crazy lady and wouldn't invite me to their parties/bitch sessions/Important Neighbourhood Business, but that's OK since sense was acheived.)

Except it wasn't acheived, was it? Because randomly two weeks AFTER the period in your letter you turned up with your chainsaws! YOUR FUCKING BUZZY, BUZZY CHAINSAWS that reverberated through my entire house and set my teeth on edge and really, you might have wanted to put something in your letters along the lines of: "Dude, we're coming to cut down that tree outside your house and MAN the noise is going to FUCK YOU UP. Go stay with a friend or hit the beach or hide out in the park or something so you don't go batshit".

Also? The guy who didn't realise he left the petrol cap off the chainsaw and while he was turning the damn things over in his hands to work out why it wouldn't go BKRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ in that endearing fashion? And therefore spilt petrol in a hilarious fashion all over himself and the ground and my garden? I kind of wish he'd fucking caught fire.

So having managed to EVENTUALLY cut down the pretty tree outside my window some time ago, can I just ask what the fuck you're doing back outside my house? The noise sounds kind of like chainsaws again. Are you SERIOUSLY cutting the mutilated stump out of the ground with.. CHAINSAWS? Are you fucking crazy? And the grinding, grinding, mechanical noise that sounds like some kind of hardcore steampunk robot groans of pleasure, what IS that? Because it's AMAZINGLY permeating, it is SHAKING MY FUCKING FLOORBOARDS, and since the handyman FELL THROUGH THE FLOOR in the spare bedroom because of bore beetles eating the floorboards I'm finding it a bit disconcerting that my floor feels like some kind of giant mobile set to vibrate. It's also juuuuust on the right side of the very low pitch that Mythbusters reliably informs me drives elephants insane. While there are no elephants in the petting zoo thing beside my house, I would like to point out to you that in human terms I am quite big, so this is likely why you are driving me OUT OF MY FUCKING MIND.

Did you purposefully pick the day I finally decided to stop procratinating and get on with my interview preparation? Did you KNOW somehow? Are you in cahoots with Company E to fuck me over? DID ONE OF THE OTHER CANDIDATES PAY YOU TO DO THIS? Because it's really super effective and I reckon you could make money selling this technique to any governments that are engaged in trying to weed entranched dictators out of their bunkers - I would GLADLY listen to STEPS or even fucking BOYZONE or something at earbleedingly loud levels rather than endure any more of your gnawing, oscillating BKRZZZZZZZZZTing.

So in conclusion, whatever the fuck you're doing out there, it better be fucking worth the fact that I have ground my teeth down to tiny gritty stubs, and am having to wear earplugs IN MY OWN HOUSE, DURING THE FUCKING DAY, when I ALSO have to wear them at night because of the snoring of Himself. I only have little ears and the earplugs REALLY HURT after a while, not that you bastards care with your fucking massive teacup headphones on to protect yourselves, you bunch of worthless cuntos. I hope you're fucking happy.

Oh, and you better get your goddamned truck and your fucking road cones the hell away from my driveway before I decide to vacate the premises, because I will totally make sure I swerve and take out as many of you as possible totally by "accident". And I WILL be able to get away with it on the grounds of provocation - any jury in the land will believe me, with my crazy hair and my eye twiching and all.

Cheerfully telling you to SHUT THE FUCKING HELL UP,

Wiggle
xxx


wigglewhiz: (Default)

Contrary to what you might think, I never had this on my school report cards. Actually, all of my school report cards were nauseatingly glowing, because I *loved* my teachers and I was incredibly attentive and well-behaved at school because I loved it there and never wanted to go home.

After yesterday's frustrations, though (on a Friend Locky post! If you'd like to read it, comment here and I'll add you if it's not about you. Or pretend I never got your message if it IS about you. Heh heh heh.), in conjunction with being asked this pesky "conflict" question for my upcoming interview, has got me thinking. Am I a jerk?

Click if you can stand some self-indulgent introspective wankery! :op )

I'm not a jerk. And I'm going to stop double-checking myself and censoring myself *just in case* someone thinks I might be one.

wigglewhiz: (Default)
GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER!

We have a mouse. A MOUSE. AGAIN.

We had mice in our last place in Christchurch towards the end of our tenancy. It drove me INSANE. They seemed to be coming in through the laundry or bathroom, and hanging around in the kitchen (of course). They were in the pantry, eating our food. They were in our wardrobe, nibbling up the floor. They were IN OUR BEDROOM, BESIDE OUR BED, WHILE WE WERE IN IT SLEEPING, chewing up the wallpaper BESIDE OUR HEADS.

Fuck. Even thinking about it now freaks me out.

I love animals. Especially little fuzzly ones. But I DO NOT WANT them in my house. Eating my food. Pooping on my goddamned kitchen countertops. Last time, we baited traps (with Pineapple Lumps, the eventual successful bait solution), and I cried everytime the telltale SNAP! told us one had gone to mousey heaven with a chocolatey smile on it's face. (I know, for a BITCH I'm such a pathetic sap)

One night, I was going to the bathroom in the dark (you had to go through the kitchen to get to the bathroom), and as I opened the door I hear a trap MOVING across the floor. Dear god, there was a mouse trapped in the trap, NOT DEAD. Himself went to despatch the poor creature and put it out of it's misery, but it managed to escape by tearing it's own trapped little arm off.  I was fairly hysterical about it for quite some time - I know I don't want them in my house, and I was just *barely* OK with the thought of the SNAP! being a pretty speedy way for them to die, but DAYS LATER I would think of that sickening noise of the trap scraping across the floor and the pain that poor mouse must have been in and sob my stupid face off.

So. I am NOT going through that shit again. Tomorrow morning, the Letting Agent is getting called and they can send someone round to DO something about it. Which will probably mean doing nothing more than fucking leaving traps, which we could do ourselves, and leaving us to deal with the bodycount.

GAH.

This time, what's even worse is that we have a far more open plan house. There's a door to close off the bedroom from The Mousening, at least - but there are no doors between kitchen/dining/living areas. My paranoia about fires started by mousey chewing on TV cables IS NOT ASSUAGED BY THIS.

*sigh* We did kind of foresee this as being a potential problem, given that when we were moving in and WASHING THINGS because the previous tenants did a fucking pathetic half-assed job of tidying up, we found an ancient (possibly? I'm not shit hot on mouse forensics, call CSI: Tom & Jerry) dessicated mouse carcass behind a heavy piece of furniture. And there are mouse traps (convenient!) in the cupboard above the washing machine. But I really, really naively hoped that the massive globs of expanding foam around the pipes under the sink signified "We Used To Have A Mouse Problem But We Totally Kicked Their Tiny Asses" and we wouldn't need to deal with it. FAIL.

So that's the news for today. Tomorrow, being Friday, is meant to be the day I hear one way or another from Company V as to whether I've been successful in obtaining a job and giving myself a potential future moral dilemma. Hm. I shall keep you posted as and when I hear.


GODDAMMIT

Oct. 18th, 2010 10:52 am
wigglewhiz: (Default)
Weigh in results this week: GAINED 0.1 kg.

FUCK.

I know that's only 100g, but... FUCK.

I did 6 hours of total exercise this week. 6 hours. Which is nearly twice as much as last week. I haven't been able to point everything I've eaten, because we were in the "last week before pay week" death throes and I could only eat our old pantry stand-bys of WHITE PASTA and BREAD. But I didn't go batshit and I thought I'd managed to eat... well, sensibly enough. No fast food, no snacking, no massive portions.

Gutted, despondent, quite likely to cave in and have a bit of a snotter in self-pity. *sigh*

Will pull myself up by my bootstraps and just get back on with it in the fullness of time, but for today I'll just focus on the dreaded PROPERTY INSPECTION, OMG - which will probably be a disaster because of the mutilated bush thing outside that I haven't had time to remedy, and the overgrown grass which was meant to be mown today before inspection but can't be BECAUSE THERE'S ICE FALLING OUT OF THE SKY AGAIN.

FML.
wigglewhiz: (Default)
So! I got a letter yesterday from my landlord/Letting Agent people, telling me that they were going to come by at some point between 1pm and 5pm (don't you just HATE that?! Can't ANYONE make a goddamned appointment anymore, rather than leaving these MASSIVE windows where someone "might" come by, so if you don't mind putting yourself ON HOLD for all of an afternoon, that would be great, kthnx! Arses.) to do a Property Inspection.

Hm.

Now, I should say that this is only the third property I've ever rented in my life. The first was rented from the Local Authority back home in good old Blighty, who frankly really didn't give a shit what you did in their houses (short of being all ASBO and whatnot). You could paint and decorate, all the furniture was your own, all the council really wanted was for you to hand it back empty. And, preferrably, clean. Which I absolutely 100% did when I left it - although how they would have tracked me down to penalise me if I'd left it in a shocking state like you see in those awful Environmental Health Squad type programmes, I have no idea.

Anyway, I rented that place for 11 years. I accumulated a lot of stuff. I painted and decorated MANY times. I even tiled. (Like, MYSELF. TWICE. Without the help of a tradesman. I will never tile again if I have the money to pay someone else to do it. Urgh.). I was kind of sad to see it go, what with the length of time it'd been "mine" (I even though briefly of buying it. [side note: totally going for a parentheses record here. Lookit, parentheses INSIDE parentheses! Meta!]). But it was also just one of those occasions where it was "time", I'd been there long enough, I was absolutely ready to move on. So, no biggie. The "letting it go" part consisted of popping down the council office and giving notice that I was terminating my lease, signing to that effect on my old lease documentation from 11 years before (hello, young me! Look at your shitty handwriting and all the YOUTHFUL HOPE leeching out of it! SUCKER!), and then when I'd moved all my stuff out, popping down to the office with the keys. Nobody inspected anything or got JUDGY. There were no bad consequences of your lazy housekeeping or your terrible choice of paint schemes.

So myself and Himself then rented a little unit in Christchurch for 18 months. It was the first house we saw, and we snapped it up. And no, not because it was a dream home or anything. In fact, think a very small, very dated little apartment that your gran would have. Complete with old lady knick-knacks (nick-nacks?) and colour schemes and the type of sofas old people seem to like - the kind with strange wing things at the sides and with little doilies on the armrests so they stay good. It was sufficient for us, though - it was furnished and in our price range and available right away, when we were just newly arrived from the UK and had no fucking idea where anything was or what we were going to be doing with ourselves.

We rented direct from the owner, not through any letting agency nonsense. The landlady owned several of the surrounding units, and seemed really nice. In the eighteen months we lived there, we had... ooh... one problem, I think - the hot water heater packed in. We contacted our landlady and she sent a plumber and electrician right round and it was fixed next day. She was awesome. And when we left, she popped round to once-over the place, but really gave it the most sparing of glances and wished us well in our next leg of the adventure. (Incidentally, we nearly KILLED OURSELVES in the fortnight before leaving, washing curtains and bleaching things and trying to get mold off of surfaces [more on that later] and using caustic oven cleaners that BLISTERED MY SKIN and shit knows what else. We really needn't have bothered).

This place that we're currently renting in Invercargill is WAY more swish than the place in Christchurch. It's bigger, has more furniture of a much higher spec, and has more complicated (thought probably not really larger) gardens. Which WE need to take care of, which is kind of a pain in the arse given that the grounds maintenance in the last place was taken care of by the landlady. And gardening sucks. Anyway.

So! The Letting Agent is coming to inspect in two weeks. Which has me bizarrely nervous and just about jumping out of my skin. Because I'm LIVING here. And I'll BE here while they're looking around, which totally makes me feel like I'm going to be being JUDGED and there'll be notes taken about my housekeeping or something. We've been going nuts in the garden chopping back some of the overgrowth, and it looks a bit... well, brutal. Which I'm wondering if they'll JUDGE and be all arsey about it... or maybe even want to claim money from our deposit or something. At which point I will absolutely Lose. My. Fucking. SHIT, because we FOUND A GATE to the garden behind all that mahoosive bush (heh), AND reclaimed 5 FUCKING FEET of lawn space which we are going to re-seed ourselves, so GET FUCKED, JUDGEY McSNEER!

I've been thinking about repainting the "feature" wall in one of the spare bedrooms (the one that we've decided will be the official Fancy Guest Bedroom), because I fucking HATE the too-dark blue colour that's in there and because the wall is damaged and that kind of thing really BUGS ME. Do I have to ask permission to paint a fucking wall? Will they totally know I was thinking about just painting it anyway without asking and be all "We're ONTO YOU, you wreckless painting type. We heard about your lime green/cobalt blue/silver STAMPING paint job in your kitchen 9 years ago and we're fucking watching you.", and I'll be all "OMG, I was YOUNG! I was a STUDENT! I was too poor for real tiles and I honestly thought those colours would go together and that was 9 YEARS AGO, man! I've got the shitty colour schemes out of my system and all I wanted was a plain, soothing soft green, I swear!" But they'll put me on some kind of BANNED list at Mitre 10 (like B&Q, you UK people) anyway and I won't even be allowed to buy a paintbrush as if I'm some kind of fucking Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen decorating terrorist?!

I am NOT over-reacting. EVERYONE ALWAYS SAYS THAT, IT'S A CONSPIRACEEEEEEEEEE!

The thing that annoys me the absolute most about it? Mold. On the letter it said they're particularly going to be paying attention to "evidence of mold and dirt on windows and ceilings". Now, for you people who have no experience of New Zealand housing, allow me to introduce you to the most disappointing thing about it. MOLD. The houses are pretty. They're all different from each other. They have character. But FUCK, you'd think these people had never heard of insulation. Or double glazing. Because the houses are cold. And DAMP.

It's a huge problem and one that the government is trying to tackle with legislation and insulation grants and fuck knows what else. Which is absolutely fuck all use, of course, if you're a renter rather than an owner. The mold in the place in Christchurch DISGUSTED me, and I got fed up trying to fight it with bleach sprays and dehumidifiers and gawd knows what else. I thought when we came here, to a bigger place with more natural air movement (where I got that idea, I really don't know), it would be mold-free. It LOOKED mold-free when we inspected the place. As soon as we moved in and looked closer? FUCKING MOLD. We keep the windows cracked just open most of the time, and open open during the day to get fresh air and remove condensation. THERE IS STILL MOLD. And these people are going to come round and get all judgy about whether there's mold on the ceilings and windowsill like it's my fucking FAULT?! How about the money I'm paying you to rent a fucking moldy house, you bastards?! And the fact that I have bloody asthma and this is messing with my health?! DAMMIT!

So now, for some reason, I am armed with the bleach spray and am going to try to tackle as mch of the mold as possible so that I don't get JUDGED. Even though I should totally be judging THEM and demanding that they do something about the unhealthy conditions. Fuck, I am such a pushover.
wigglewhiz: (Default)


... it's the Devil's favourite time to get you, apparently. Idle hands and all that. Fortunately I'm an atheist, so I'm not particularly worried about Auld Nick roundhouse-kicking me in the face anytime soon.

Incidentally, I consider myself a "proper" atheist. Not one of these bonkers people who treat atheism as if it's some kind of weird religion (because holy shit, isn't that a bit of an oxymoron?!) and therefore thinks that everyone else is STUPID and WRONG and OMGless you believe in what?! <sneer sneer> Or one of those fucking IRRITATING sons of bitches who think that religion is something to be debated, particularly because they are a STUDIED ATHEIST and will enjoy quoting all of the academic studies/scientific facts (or, god forbid, Dan Brown) that prove that there IS NO GOD and your pathetic ideals are laughable. MWA HA HA HA! Gits.

No, I just personally don't believe there is a God. If you think there is - hey, that's totally fine with me! I have zero problem with that and wish you all the very best. It's not for me to say what YOU should believe in, and as long as you're not killing anybody just because they don't believe in your particular brand of God, or using your religion as a flimsy pretence for misogyny I am totally fine with being your buddy.

Oh, as long as all the while when I'm saying: "Hey, you believe in Jebuddallah! That's great for you!" you're able to do me the same courtesy and be OK with saying "Hey, you don't! Well, that's OK with me!". Don't take "atheist" to mean "blank slate, please insert doctrine here", because I'm afraid I'm not buying. Not looking either, but thanks.

Anyway! Back on track! To PROCRASTINATION! See, I'm so good at it I even had YOU off on some random tangent to nowhere. Mad skillz.

I'm currently procrastinating (I'm going to call it TAKING A BREAK, but you could also read: WORK AVOIDANCE) on that bane of my life - re-writing my goddamned, mother-effing piece of crap CV. (Or resume, for you fancy types. Just try to imagine a grav over that last e there, I can't work out how to do one. What am I, French?! Get out of here.) You know, you get to a point where you've worked so long and hard on your CV that you quietly believe that it can't POSSIBLY be any better.

It's amazing.

It's AWESOME.

It's a work of art. A thing of beauty. A JOY to behold.

In fact, it shows you SO MUCH at your absolute most frighteningly, awesomely bad-assedly talented that recruiters in possession of it will literally shit their pants while reading it - and then immediately drop Every. Other. Candidate, and call you to offer you the job without even the suggestion of an interview. It's THAT good.

...and then you wonder why it isn't getting you any interviews. (Maybe because they're too busy shitting or cleaning their pants) Because... what the hell else can you POSSIBLY do to the goddamned thing? You Google "CV writing tips" (you even Google "Resume writing tips" in case the fancy-pants pretend French people know something you don't.), and all of their advice is stuff that you put in place about a hundred drafts ago. You are not doing ANY of the completely fucking ridiculous things they advise you not to do - like inserting a gormless picture of yourself, using clip arts of rainbows or frilly borders or fucking Comic Sans. (Seriously, do people really do that?!) You're using ACTIVE! LANGUAGE! - MANAGE! ACHEIVED! DESIGNED! INITIATED!!!1! You're tailoring your CV to every single goddamned cursed application until you've lost all feeling in your fingers (and soul).

And yet? El Zilcho. You draw a complete blank as to what the bloody hell you're supposed to do now.

My friends, that's where I am. And I give you this: http://www.lifeclever.com/give-your-resume-a-face-lift/ It's a very handy little blog on CV's (by a would-be Frenchman, obviously), and it's this guidance that has me re-formatting my CV today. Because - and I'm a little ashamed to admit this - I was totally using Times New Roman. I KNOW! I had no idea it was so gauche! (Holy shit, that French thing is contagious. It's ON MEEEEE! ARGH! etc) And my CV looked pretty much EXACTLY like his "typical" exemplar. So boring. And so much like everyone else's, apparently. Perhaps my pants-shittingly awesome content is lost in the boring, boring drudgery of my just-like-a-bajillion-others formatting.

So, much as the hung bullets thing kind of weirds me out and makes my brain want to just sweep up those irritating little blobs outside the lines ruining the MARGIN OF WHITE PERFECTION, and as much as I loved TImes New Roman <strangled sob> ... I have changed my CV in line with this article. And then I'm going to tailor two versions to use to apply for two jobs that close this Friday. I'll let you know how I get on.

In the meantime though... I'm going to make myself a cup of tea. And then see what's on TV. And then think about making some dinner. And then think about other things I could think about to put off any more GODDAMNED CV WRITING BOLLOCKS!

<ahem> Cheerio, then.

PS - two posts in as many days. I WIN THE INTERWEBS.


wigglewhiz: (Default)

 Hey!

Hey, it's me! Been a while, huh? Forgotten what I look like? Christ, lucky you.

Yeah, so Things have been happening. And Stuff. And, very likely, Shenanigans. No wait, that sounds kind of lighthearted and fun. Shit. Let's go for Shit has been happening.

Canterbury, the district I lived in until very recently, had a massive earthquake. There was damage. It was VERY traumatic for the people of the city I used to live in, Christchurch. In fact, it IS still very traumatic because the aftershocks have STILL not relented and given the people an unbroken night's sleep since. Mercifully, there were no fatalities and very few injuries, so all's good in that regard. But the Council's response has been... interesting. They've done well in some areas, not so well in others, and for a while got very bulldozer-happy with some beautiful historic buildings. I was fairly sure tragedy was looming large and the beautiful Garden City would lose a huge chunk of it's graceful character and become, god forbid, yet another bland concrete wasteland.

Not so! The people of Christchurch and many of it's Councillors have shaken off the shock and realised that this is the time to protect the city's history. Common sense may yet prevail.

In other news, I am finally a FULLY LEGAL migrant! My visa was approved THIS MORNING, a mere THREE MONTHS after my application. Three months of not working, living on meagre savings, not knowing if I was going to be booted out of the country at a moment's notice. It's been.... stressful. Just, you know, a tad. What with the not having enough money to live on much less find $5000 for flights home. Hmm.

Anyway, now I have a work permit! I can totally work and feel like I have some USE in the world instead of being a hermit! I can put those Kleenex boxes away instead of using them for shoes! I can have a shower with purpose as if I have somewhere to go! Hurrah!

Oh, except for the fact that I'm getting NOWHERE with my job applications. Here's a quick run-down:

Applications: 5
Interviews: 2
Job Offers: 0

Now, I KNOW that's not many applications. Bearing in mind, these are tentative applications I was making for jobs I thought were too good to pass up, despite the whole technically-not-actually-legal-to-work-at-the-moment issue. So, I fully expect the number of applications will rise. I can only hope the number of interviews will also rise, and that someone (dear god, SOMEONE) will make me a job offer.

The last application I sent I had *such* a good feeling about. I worked on my CV and covering letter for THREE WEEKS, tweaking and refining and shining my very best light on everything. I felt the job was potentially a little bit of a stretch in as much as it paid a little more than my last job, but that my experience was relevant and sound (and in fact, pretty impressive in terms of the results I've been able to acheive in my last two roles). I was pretty sure that, even thought the job wasn't exactly "in the bag", I would at least be called to interview. (Which I don't seem to do all that well in, so that was my main worry).

Yeah, I was wrong. First, I didn't receive the promised acknowledgement of my application. So I waited a week, and then used that opportunity to contact the recruiter to confirm that my application had been received, since I was really KEEN and INTERESTED and that would surely score me some points, right? Hm. They apologised for me not receiving an acknowledgment, and told me I'd be hearing at the end of last week if I was being called to interview.

I was not contacted at the end of last week.

<sigh>

So now I'm waiting for the rejection letter. Even though you know you've been rejected, since you haven't heard within the timeframe and blah blah blah - you hold out some kind of completely irrational hope that they might just be running late! You could still totally get a call! Riiiiiiiight up until the day you get that rejection letter. It's Beaten Puppy Syndrome - you're bad to me but I'm desperate and I love you. Please kick me again!

Bastards.

But now I'm LEGAL! I can totally apply for ANY AND EVERY JOB ADVERTISED ANYWHERE! Eeeeeeexcept of course I'm currently living in the arse end of the world, in the smallest population I've *ever* lived in, and there's kind of not many jobs if I don't know one end of a cow/sheep from the other. Which I don't. (Well, I shouldn't sell myself short. One end is bitey and one end is smelly, and I'd really rather not to be too close to EITHER, thank you very much. Rules me out as a candidate, I should imagine.)

So! Once more unto the breach, dear friends - to scry over a burning hot laptop, to analyse and berate and second-guess oneself again, to pour all one's hopes and dreams into a piece of paper or email, and face heatbreak yet again. ON!

Meanwhile, I have the pleasure of having my brain drilled by the most awful noise I've heard in a long time (besides Himself snoring). The local authority, in it's wisdom, is chopping down an enormous Eucalyptus tree which sits RIGHT outside my house. You might imagine that this is some kind of bleeding heart concern for my house - what with dreaded leaves cluttering up guttering. Or oh god, ROOTS totally getting it on with my foundations and we're all paranoid about EARTHQUAKES now, so dear GOD cut that dangerous thing down! It could even fall right through the bedroom window in a storm or something!

No. It's so they can put a parking space in it's place. A parking space. Right outside my bedroom window. Now, let me be TOTALLY clear - this is not a parking space for me. Or Himself. We only have one car, and even if we had two we actually have two-car garaging (currently half occupied by exercise equipment, but we could totally move it to accommodate a second car), and an enclosed courtyard which could easily accommodate ANOTHER two cars.

The road outside is a main road. There's a school further down, which I believe has a car park. And there's free parking on the very wide side streets leading off the main street. So, naturally, there's a clear need for another car parking space RIGHT OUTSIDE MY BEDROOM WINDOW. 

Not only are they using a chainsaw (possibly the most irritating noise since nails on a chalkboard) to cut down every. Individual. Branch. One-at-a-time. They also, in the interests of... being tidy? Pissing me off? ...are running a mulcher. To turn the branches and tree into sawdust. Which is giving a lovely kind of reverberating, house-shaking, psychological warfare generally used against entrenched dictators bass counterpoint to the buzzy chainsaw. Yay!

Futhermore, last night while eating a bar of chocolate (as I do), a crown on my front tooth came out. Himself has been to pharmacies all over town this morning looking for one of those little temporary cement fixy kits, to no avail.

So I might be a totally fully legal alien and can leave the house with my head held high for once - but I'll look like a goddamned hillbilly.

AWESOME.


wigglewhiz: (Default)
  1. Not having any money
  2. Not having a job
  3. Having GAINED A FUCKING KILO despite a week of watching what I'm eating and exercising every day
So that's how today is shaping up.

wigglewhiz: (Default)


So! Doubtless you'll have seen the story of the "Too Hot To Handle" bank chick? And you may have noticed that the story has hit the papers again, now renewed and a little sharper due to the revelation that Ms Lorenzana has had - shock! horror! - PLASTIC SURGERY (dun dun DUUUUUUN!)? If not, where have you been? Go read and associate yourself with the story so that you may rant along with me:

http://www.stuff.co.nz/business/world/3865079/Too-hot-banker-claims-human-rights-violation

Now - I myself fully cop to having my reservations about Ms Lorenzana and her story, from day one. The photographs... they were so... Facebook-worthy. Posed, contrived, emphasising a very attractive woman's.... well, attractiveness. It smelled a bit like attention-seeking to me, and I wondered if Ms Lorenzana were attempting to launch herself a modelling career off the back of her employment "trauma".

I still have those reservations. I wonder where the new footage that I'm seeing (three times in this evening's new bulletins since tea-time) has come from. Her change of lawyer from one with some interesting sexual harrassment baggage of his own to one so closely associated with Scary Hardcore Feminism is an interesting strategy which is surely not just happy coincidence. The comments attributed to Ms Loranzana re: "Playboy models" (assuming of course that she DID make them and hasn't been taken out of context and blah blah blah) make me roll my goddamned eyeballs in horror over, you know, how far we women have come now that we have decided to sell our OWN bodies rather than have them sold for us! Yay! Go us! <makes empowermenty hand signals>

The revelations that the lady in question has had three breast augmentations (amongst other procedures, but there's evidently nothing news-worthily sexy in - blerg - tummy tucks) presents me with some interesting dilemmas of the Mental Gymnastics variety. On the one hand, my eyes rolled into the back of my head and there was nothin' but whites for a good few seconds when I read/heard/saw that particular factoid. Because, of course! I want big boobs! But I don't want people LOOKING AT ME LIKE A SEX OBJECT, OMG.

However! I have a few problems with writing off Ms Lorenzana's complaint based on that.

  1. She never actually claimed that she didn't WANT people looking at her. I guess from her modelly shots that she's quite comfortable with people looking at her. The sexual harrassment suit she's pressing isn't about the men LOOKING AT HER (whereas she had BOOB JOBS and therefore is a total HYPOCRITE, etc etc), it's about the fact that she was singled out for treatment that other workers were not subjected to because people were projecting sexual attitudes/behaviours on her. Let's not start suggesting she was "asking for it" because of the way she looks (and that she paid cash money to look that way), shall we? There's a slippery slope for ya right there.
  2. My mum had plastic surgery. Recently. It included - OMG - a BOOB JOB. No, not of the 32-DD proportions reportedly acheived by Mx Loranzana, but still - there's not a chance in hell my mother had her boob job so that people would harrass/project/sexualise her. Therefore I really need to stop myself making that assumption about Ms Lorenzana, no?
  3. So she had a boob job. From what I've seen (selective imagery, media manipulation notwithstanding, etc etc blabbity caveatness), Ms Lorenzana wasn't popping out of her shirts. She wasn't wearing micro minis and low-cut tops and god knows what else. She is a bloody good-looking woman, and she was dressed sexy. SEXY, not slutty. She would look very sexy in most of the clothes I prefer to wear. I choose to assume that this is what Ms Lorenzana means with her unfortunately worded "Playmate" comments - she looks good. Her body looks amazing in her clothing - where's the damn problem in that?
If she were wearing mini skirts, those frightening barely there tops that require boob tape rather than brassiere? I might think her employers would have a point in addressng her dress. As it stands, I don't think they have a leg to stand on...

...assuming, of course, that they're not 100% accurate in their assumption that Ms Lorenzana simply wasn't up to the task. Which is a completely different kettle of fish.
wigglewhiz: (Default)

Like probably every single individual in the world who 1. Owns a TV and 2. Has a few pounds to shed, I watch The Biggest Loser. (And no, I don't eat ice cream while watching it). Not, like, religiously or anything, but I catch it if it's on. I'm rather ambivalent about the effect of this programme on us chubby folks, and here's why:

It's Voyeuristic

How many people do you think watch in the hopes of seeing some fat people suffer and cry? And how many of us on the portly side of things are watching that suffering thinking: "Shee-it. I'm not putting myself through that!" Counter-productive, no?


It's Hypocritical

Oh come ON. "Hey fat people! Here's this challenge where you need to eat EVERYTHING under these random silver servers in the hope of finding a golden ticket! Munch until you barf!" Sorry, that's teaching them to eat better/value themselves? Also: voyeuristic, see above.


It's BULLSHIT

For me, as an unhappy person who's packed on 30kg in the last couple of years (and who knows EXACTLY what it's like to be sans those kilos and would like to be back there RIGHT NAOW), watching the super-condensed version of a condensed challenge where all these people train 4-6 hours a day with their personal trainers, have nutrition classes and have food provided without those irritating distractions of daily life? You bet your ass I'm jellus of their lickety-split conversions to hawtness.

Is this setting any kind of reasonable expectation? Are we conditioning ourselves to hand yet MORE money into the hands of those nasty little "LOSE WEIGHT INSTANTLY WITH BATSHIT EXTRACT AND FOOFOO BERRIES" ads cropping up all over the place? Because we can't lose weight being sensible and just eating less and exercising. Noooooo, 1-2lbs per week is slow! And boring! And FAIL! We have to be shedding 140lbs in three months to CHANGE YOUR WHOLE LIFE, OMFG.

Come on, people.

And that's aside from accusations of massive fluid loss to cheat the scales... (more on that below!)


It's Unsustainable

I am SO. THRILLED. for those people on The Biggest Loser. Seriously, when I see them at the end of the show and they look like completely different people and the happiness is shining out of their little faces? I am so happy for them. But I'm also damn suspicious of what the hell happens to them when they go home and suddenly don't have their personal trainers? When they need to go back to work at their dead-end job that caused them to stress/emotional eat in the first place? When they have to look after children or parents or partners or... all that other shit that we call Life. Can they POSSIBLY sustain that kind of loss?

So I turned to that ultimate fact-finder, so revered that kids are being taught how to use it like it was an academic subject itself (using iPads at Primary School, but that's a whole other rant for another day) - Google. And I found this: http://www.diet-blog.com/07/the_biggest_loser_where_are_they_now.php Read the comments, both for and agin - they're very interesting.


Personally, I've lost a lot of weight before - half of it through the sensible eating (Weightwatchers) kind of way, and the second half of it due to an unanticipated Heartbreak Diet. The second half was unreasonably speedy weight loss (not eating will do that to you), and yes, I gained it all back... that AND the sensible-eating loss. And yes, the regain was because I stuffed my face with all sorts of crap - I'm not going to give any excuses about water or god knows what else.

Losing weight is hard. Being overweight is hard. I don't believe ANYONE who is overweight is "happy" in themselves, and I don't think we need any more pressure to feel even more unhappy. What, if we're pushed and made more and more and MORE unhappy eventually we'll just HAVE to do something about our unsightly fat selves and therefore the pressure has done us some kind of favour? Suuuuure. That might work. While you're at it, pressure black people into lightening up, white people into tanning, skinny girls into eating a cheeseburger, short girls into wearing platforms, tall girls into cowering.... oh wait, we already do all those things too.

I'm filing shows like The Biggest Loser in with all the other horrifying voyeuristic reality shows: toxic pap that serves to amplify our shortcomings or puff up our sense of superiority. Both intents are ugly, and I'm washing my hands of the whole thing. Fuck you, TV! I'm giving up being force-fed (and also vowing to do something about what I am chosing to feed myself. BUT NOT BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME TO, DAMMIT!)

<flounce>
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