It's no way to make a livin'

Oh the things I have seen... I haven't posted a blog as I have been recovering from the massive shock my system recieived from being bent over and screwed up the jaxie by The Company. This was obviously followed by an extended bout of binge drinking (by extended I mean from Thursday to Sunday) and subsequent frenzied CV sending.

Let me break it down for you.

On Wednesday The Company decided that it was the right time of year for a bit of ass raping and called us in to talk salary. Basically we've been fighting a losing battle for the past six months regarding a promise they made us and now refuse to make good on. So, to cut a long and depressing story short, they tried to finagle us out of even more money and effectively bring our earnings down to roughly that of a street urchin. Snot and trane ensued and they backed off a tad - only to tell us how ungracious we were. Clearly they were expecting us to grovel Igor style and lisp out, "yeth mathter, thank you mathter".

Luckily we had a company function that night so my two very pissed off colleagues and I decided to drink our salary's worth in company-sponsored liquor. We soon realised that this was only equal to two glasses of wine and decided to revert back to the old favourite of drinking our body weight...Cue the shots of Sambuca. After imbibing a satisfactory amount of covert shooters we proceeded to bitch and complain at the tops of our voices about how badly we'd been bent over by The Company (don't worry, everyone left after the MD closed the bar due to our excessive disply of alcoholism). We carried on drinking, even though they had the cheek to make us pay and ended the evening with a gleeful bout of traffic cone abduction. I know, how old AM I?

So moving on to Friday night...I skipped work as an act of protest (who am I kidding, I'm a total coward - it was just dumb luck that the directors were all away on a spiffy spa weekend cos they can) and just arbed around doing as little as possible. Then met up with the same two colleagues who inspired the drunken excess the night before and got down to some serious drinking at My Grill My Bar. Oh dear. Oh dearie dearie me. Thus began an evening of cheek pinching (of both the ass and face variety) to rival all that has come before. You see, when I'm drunk I get a bit touchy feely and woe betide any man who may not aprove of my hands on approach as he will only incur my drunken wrath (this is usually characterised by giggling and trying to put on puppy dog eyes but only managing to look loose). We voted that My Grill My Bar had become a total dogshow when Graeme Smith overheard us talking and made some unsuspecting comment and C turned around and called him a poes.

We high tailed it to Manhattan and cut up a rug on the dance floor (while still managing to pinch some seriously hot asses) and made a few enemies through our irreverant behaviour:
Me: "she's a Maneater lalalalala"
C: this guy next to me looks like Wentworth Miller...
Me: I know, I just grabbed his ass
C: Is that why he's moving away?

If you were one of these people, I apologise profusely - I really am usually such a nice girl...

So this week is dedicated to job hunting and lying low in case of sudden dismissal...like a midget at a urinal, I'm going to have to keep on my toes.

Weekend Lover

Don’t you just love it when people enquire about your weekend activities on a Monday morning and as you’re about to launch into the riveting adventure tale that they ASKED you for, they cut you off and proceed to tell you, in minute detail, what they did from Friday to Sunday, often with asides to explain their level of involvement with all the characters implicated in their boring little yawn-fest of a weekend. Why do you hate me? Why? Did I do something to you and are you now exacting your revenge in some subtle psychological way?

Anyhoo. How was your weekend? Well MINE was fantastic…

One thing I must get off my chest though, we were out on Saturday night having birthday drinks with a mate of mine and there was a girl at a table behind us with a voice that puts nails and chalkboards to shame. The girl sounded like Dee Dee (from Dexter’s Lab) on helium…like Minnie Mouse on speed…I could go on. The thing was she was also LOUD. Patrons at tables all around us were turning around to see who’d made the obvious faux pas of switching the bar’s plasma screens from Fashion TV to Cartoon Network all of a sudden. How does she have friends, I wonder…? I mean they MUST know; they must feel the incredulous stares of bemused spectators boring into them everywhere they go. I bet she’s the one they plan to cut out of the circle. You know how there’s always that friend that you avoid seeing, but are forced to because someone takes pity on them and invites them out. That’s her. I’m telling you. And the saddest thing is that she really thought she was the life of the party, with her bouffant hairdo and her pikachu impression (I’m serious – she was doing impressions). Ugh.

Otherwise, nothing much to report. New Fella and I had some great conversations about life, music, memories and capitalism. He’s just wonderful. But I’m not going to turn into an enormous pile of marshmallow-ey goo and gush about him ad nauseum because that’s just unattractive. I had to sneak into my flat this morning (after sleeping over at New Fella’s place the entire weekend) in an attempt to avoid the disapproving looks of my flatmate, Commander Clean. Commander Clean is a neat and tidy little fascist. He borders on having O.C.D. and hovers around me whenever I wash dishes, trying not to twitch and holding himself back from giving me tips on whether or not wiping anti-clockwise is indeed the most effective method of cleansing cereal bowls. He also takes all the space in the fridge and freezer and recently (and this is truly the gravest transgression) he either helped himself to or threw out my left-over chocolate mallow mousse that I had so lovingly prepared for dessert when I was actually AT my flat (which is pretty infrequently). Supercilious little toad wart.

So here goes for another week. Woo.

Her name was Lola...

My ex is dating a stripper. Like a real one. A lady of the evening who takes her clothes off and shoves her noombies in the faces of paying clients. Now, there are two tangents that I could possibly take this on:

1. The piteous self-loathing this inevitably causes me as I face the stark realisation that I will never have a stripper body, no matter how many trendy new eating disorders I adopt; and from this the gag-inducing understanding that stripper fit body = great sex for the ex. I think I just died a little inside.

2. The hilarity that ensued when he told me. I mean, come on, even by his own admission, dating a stripper is like driving a Vespa: fun until your friends find out. When she texted him to ask why he was running late for their lunch date, it was humanly impossible to avoid the obvious “tell her to keep her panties on” line.

Yes, I think we’ll stick with number 2 (that doesn’t sound right…).
It’s probably a good idea to explain that my ex also happens to be my best friend. Cue derisive jeering and condescending head pats while you look at me with pity and lament my obvious naivety. Honestly, I don’t have the will or the inclination (or your interest, I’m sure) to explain it so I won’t.

So back to humiliating him on a public platform; the obvious problems with dating a stripper are the tedious working hours – she apparently only has Sundays off. Because that’s when the good patrons of the stripping community are at church. Obviously. So the frolicking and chandelier swinging can only be conducted once a week as she actually lives in the strip-club owned ‘stripper house’ where no men are allowed. I envisage a Playboy Mansion style home where giggly, busty blondes cavort in fountains of champagne and hobbies include rubbing suntan oil all over each other and nipple-tweak tag.

Hmm, maybe I’ve been watching too much late-night e-tv…