Come back, come back, don't walk away ... (things must be bad, I'm starting to quote Cure lyrics)

It's taken me three hours to get through a three page story for the next issue. I cannot concentrate. I have this giant hole in my life where my dog is supposed to be, only he's disappeared, the bastard. I'm not absorbing very much ("a story about what? Is my dog still lost? Then I don't care. Sack the Governor-General? Whatever, I've got to go looking for my dog. Have you seen him?") and the time is passing so slowly.

Come home, little bug, come home now. Come on, universe. Do me a favour and walk Lou back to me.

Learnt my first 'proper' editing/publishing term today: 'stet'. It is a code word to the printer that means, 'let the original stand'. I start my course on Friday so I expect I will learn more. My unit is a year-long one on editing: I wonder if I'll finally get to learn what the hell a conjugated verb is?

*sigh*.

Transcript of a conversation held late last night, twixt one soggy miserable dogless personage and patient partner of said soggy human

Me: *sob*. *so-oh-oh-ob* I just want him to come back. *sob*
Him: I know.
Me: *sob* it's just so unfa-air-air-air. *sob*
Him: I know.
Me: *sob* *gulp*
Him: I know.
Me: I never thought my dog would end up as one of those *sob* lost dog posters stuck up in some bus shelter.
Him: I know.
Me: I just want to *sob* *sniff-sniff-sniff-gulp-sniff* know that he's okay, or that he's not so I can move on.
Him: I know.
Me: What's the time limit on dog grieving before I can get another one?
Him:
Me: I mean, how long should I wait before I give up all hope of seeing my LoveBug ever again?
Him:
Me: I can't even sleep in *sob* my own bed because I ke-keep-keep-keep sitting up expecting him to be all curled up at the end there. *sob*
Him: Come here.

[tight and extended huggage prevails]

Me: *sob*
Him: I know.
Me: Will you help me put up more *sob* posters *sniffle-sob-sniffle* tomorrow?
Him: Yes. That's what I'm here for.
Me: Can we watch AbFab when we're done handing out flyers and stuff?
Him: Yes.
Me: Will you buy me more beer and play crap video games with me to keep me distracted?
Him: Yes.
Me: Okay.
Me: *sniff*
Him: Don't worry. He'll come back. Get some sleep.
Me: *sniff* okay.

Statistics revisited after 48 hours sans beast

Number of Louie finding helpers: on the up and sitting at 7.

Number of phone calls bearing any news of beast: still 0. *Sob*.

Number of sympathetic emails received offering cyberhugs, general support and assistance: 6. Thanks Tony, Dan and Scott! I know that only adds up to three but I also know the three other people don't read my blog so I won't mention them here.

Number of flyers handed out yesterday to Northcote's general populace, milk bars, vets and assorted noticeboards: 100.

Number of flyers that will go out today, widening my search somewhat: 200.

Today will be the day. Someone will ring me today and tell me they have found my beast, safe and well, and will want to know where to return him. Today is the day, folks. I can feel it in my bones.

Statistical details that paint stark picture of my world over the past three days

Number of emails received containing sympathy for a certain soggy, desperately unhappy dog owner who is still sans dog: 1. Thanks Shauny!

Number of phone calls received with specific I-have-found-your-dog type information: 0. *sob*.

Number of phone calls received with indirectly related dog conversations, usually involving sympathy for said dog owner and/or positive stories about various cousins/sisters/parents/friends/in-laws losing and then miraculously finding beasts: 3.

Number of hugs (including cyber) received in the past three days, since revelation of dog loss: 1. Thanks Shauny!

Any takers on the hugs thing? I could really use some more. Lots, lots more, in fact.

The silence around me is deafening.

Seeing photos of my dog is very upsetting

I have completed my Missing Dog flyer and it has upset me greatly to think of my little beast out there somewhere - possibly wet and cold or starving or injured or even dead - without me. *sniffle*. *sob*. Oh fuck, I'm crying again.

*gulp*.

*bigger gulp*.

No, it's okay. I just have to believe he'll come back.

If any one wants to check the flyer out, just email me and I can send you a copy of it for distribution. Obviously this would apply for Melbourne readers, rather than my new Brazilian, Canadian and American audiences!

At least work is distracting me from far more painful matters

Still no dog. But have been pleasantly surprised by kind-hearted and loving friends and strangers reaching out from all over the shop with offers of assistance and sympathy. Thanks guys, your help and support means more than you may ever know. *sniffle* Oh shit, I'm gonna cry again.

*sob*

My beast! COME HOME!

(Dear God, I know I don't believe in you, at least not in any kind of typical white, empiricist or mysoginistic sense, but if you do this one thing for me, bring me back my dog safe and well, I will .... umm, hang on. I will .... no, wait, got it. I will remember your son next Christmas.)

*gulp*.

I'm at work. Can't let the minions see my soft side, they may start exploiting it.

Why you should get insurance before your house burns down

Or, why you should go get your dog microchipped now, people, not next week like I thought I would

Or, a lesson in why I shouldn't have children, if I feel this bad about a dog

Or, why you should always have a cold slab of beer or at least two bottles of wine and a wrap of speed at home ... just in case

I am presently at home, sinking and drowning my utter sorrows re TheBeast by establishing just how many stubbies of Melbourne Bitter I can drink before I pathetically and drunkenly fall over. Hopefull it will result in a 24 hour coma at the end of which I will come to and see my beloved Love Bug by my side.

Oh shit, I'm gonna cry again. *sniff* *sob* *sniffle* *hackcoughhackeeeeeroooooooougggggggggharrrrrrrrrgggghh* *spit* *sniff* *sob*

*gulp*.

*bigger gulp*.

I'm okay. No, really. Well, 'til the end of this beer, anyway.

I figure by the time I get to five beers, I will stop crying because my emotions will have at least become vaguely anaesthetised. But I'm feeling so low. And torn - a big part of me doesn't want to be at home because of all the little things that trigger Memories Of The Beast; but at the same time if I'm not at home then I won't be here to take the call from whoever finds him. What to do, what to do.

*sigh*.

*even bigger, slightly choked sigh*.

(I nearly wrote slightly coked sigh there. If only. Hmmmm, class As. The answer to everything, or at least it seems that way when you decide they're very, very necessary to your mental health and general wellbeing.).

I don't even feel like I can sleep in my bed, because I'm so used to having The Beast curl up at the end of my bed and look at me with those damn cute moo-moo eyes of his, silently begging to be allowed to burrow under the doona. I think I'll just go and pass out on the couch with a beer in hand and watch crap television and play mindless video games (bless you, LovelyHousemate for bringing Sony Playstation into my world at a most appropriate moment). And wake up alone at about 3am, crusty as all fuck due to overdrinkage of alcoholic substances. Then drink some more. Then turn up to work reeking of alcohol and bad BO. They'll love that.

I went to the doctors this morning to try and establish how the FUCK I'm going to get rid of this disgusting cough and fluey type thing that I've had for about five weeks now. Damn quacks. Damn newly graduated quacks who don't know what the fuck they're doing ("Have you considered the idea that maybe you have hayfever?" "Yes, but I don't get hayfever for five weeks in a row. Now gimme something to make this bitch of a thing go away, would you?"). I burst into tears as soon as I got out of the surgery, not least of all because the receptionist got all narky about the fact I hadn't told himI was on a concession, which meant he had to redo a heap of paper work. I was crying so hard, got so hysterical, that damn quack really was the last straw; it got to the point where people were stopping me on the street and asking if I was okay.

(Just as an aside, why do people do that? I mean, I'm quite sure they mean well, but why would you ask someone who can't even speak they're crying so hysterically if they are okay? Hello? What do you think? No, I'm just practising a bit of method acting. It's cool. I can't see the road in front of me because I'm crying so hard, but I'm fine, really.).

It got to the point where I couldn't even contemplate getting on public transport I was so hysterical, and called LovelyHousemate to come get me, but was totally disorientated and didn't know what street I was on. More hysteria followed. Thank God for LovelyHousemate, who kindly rubbed my shoulder and drove me to work.

I have done all the things I can, now I can only wait for TheBeast's return (that little bastard. I'll kill him. I will. He's going to wag that crooked tail, and flash those big brown eyes at me and go, "Well? Where have you been?"). He's registered as being a lost dog at the three major animal shelters in Melbourne, and at all the local vets as being lost. I also emailed everyone I knew and told them to keep an eye out. I'm hoarse from yelling out his name, which probably isn't helping my cough any, but hey, if it means I get my dog back, I'll do it. I had to sort through a bunch of photos tonight - which set off many, many, very painful bouts of tears and utter despair - to try and pick out the best two I have of TheBeast to put on to a leaflet for distribution tomorrow. He's black, so I need to be selective in picking a photo that won't photocopy too darkly.

I can't believe my precious LoveBug has been reduced to a photocopied sheet on a bus shelter wall, flapping pathetically in the wind.

And just in case you were wondering, I'm offering a reward. True. Like I say, if it means getting my dog back, I'll do it.

Today I really needed a hug. I mean, I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally. Needed. A hug. And I felt really lonely and sad in acknowledging, that as the day has drawn to a close, that I didn't get one.

Sure, but will this bring my dog back?

See which Greek Goddess you are.

Missing personage

I really want to call you and talk to you and see you and whisper secret things to you; hug you and wrap my arms around your hips and even kiss you … but there is something holding me back, now, from making contact. Maybe it's that I can't bear the thought of having to steel myself to get to the phone, or being strong and avoiding it; depending on how I feel at the time.

Where are you? I miss you.

I want to believe what you tell me … but until you can prove what you say, I'm holding back on that trust. And I hate being that way.

Please don't let me down.

Riddle me this
And tempt me that
You should probably know
I won't be a doormat
Giggle me here
Tickle me round
Kiss me all over
I'm running aground

Today is a dark day

My beautiful, beautiful dog has gone missing. Please, if anyone happens across a friendly little black dog with long skinny legs and a green collar, in the Northcote or North Fitzroy areas, email me at the address up the top there.

I am oscillating wildly between a state of complete devastation and despair, and utter panic that I will have to live out my days sans Love Bug.

Go Kermie! I always knew you had a dark side!

Okay. Yeah. Sure thing.

Far more interesting news than Monday moaning:

Only 25 days to go! I'm getting excited about visiting some of my old haunts ... and getting down to the beach at least once. I miss Perth's beaches, not least of all because Melbourne doesn't really have any to speak of.

Why Mondays are always so-so

A) GOOD - executive meetings on weekends means there is always yummy food for the minions on Monday.
B) BAD - it's still Monday, after all. The weekend is five days away, man.
C) GOOD - deadlines are dead in the water and the latest editions of our esteemed publications are winging their way to the printers as we speak.
D) BAD - the rent is due and I'm broke. This means I will be bringing in toasted sandwiches for lunch all week and committing crimes against the Victorian public transport system every morning and afternoon.

In other, far more exciting news, I realised this morning that I start my uni course this week. And yes, I'm very excited. I'm doing a year-long editing unit, and am hoping to save enough moula (*ahem*. Yeah, right. HEY - can't blame a gal for dreamin'!) so I can continue my course next year full-time and maybe just hang around here part-time. I'm not much good with full-time jobs. At least with this one I have no illusions about how it's going to pan out.

Guilty as charged

It's HIRD. Not HURD.

There, I admit it. I knew I could've checked Essendon's website ... just too lazy!

A, B, C: accuracy, brevity, clarity

That's what they teach you when you are a cadet - make sure your information is correct, concise, and clear. If you are in doubt, check your facts. Recheck and recheck again, if necessary. Eliminate room for error, as far as you are able to do so.

Now, if that's what "they" taught me (and I am relatively new to the trade, having only worked as a journo for five years and an editor for about three weeks), I wonder, then what did they teach my Old School boss?

Let me explain.

I got an irate call from a certain famous football club's physiotherapist earlier in the week. An article - with which he was heavily involved - printed in the national newsletter contained a number of factual errors. He was very embarrassed and didn't understand how the errors had slipped through. It made the newsletter look very unprofessional.

I agreed. Not least of all because errors in MY publications make ME look like a completely illiterate twat.

I put my position in context for him: I was new, that newsletter had gone to print before I had arrived at the company, and I didn't know who had written it. Could he please put in writing, in point form, exactly what the errors were, and also clearly outline why he was feeling professionally embarrassed by the publication of this article.

While I had him on the phone, I asked him to give me some examples of the errors. The article mentioned the Essendon Football Club's captain, who, as we all well know, is James HURD. It quite definitely is not James HEARD. The Collingwood footballer (who was the focus of the article in question) was not commonly known to be Paul MERCURIO. Surely, the physio asked me, Paul Mercurio was a film actor? The footballer, however, had gone out of his way to put his weight behind this new project and how must it look if we didn't even get his name right?

Again, I agreed.

I talked to my Old School boss about the article today. I asked who wrote it.

She did.

This, from an alleged journo with 30-odd years experience, gained at places like the ABC, for God's sake. Of all the people to make whopper mistakes like those featured throughout this article, I certainly did not figure she would be one of them. I was wrong.

She confessed to the errors. Then tried to gloss over the fact that they were there: 'well, I don't follow football. How am I supposed to know the name of the Essendon FC captain?".

The answer is self-evident.

'Nuff said.

Why this is my first and only blog for today

A) I actually have work to do. My boss has looked at my four proof copy editions and lumped them back on my desk with red squiggly marks all over them. Of course, she doesn't have time to show me what they are, I'm just either supposed to know already or work it out for myself. That's coolios, you know, I dig a word puzzle or ten. Then I have to courier the finalised proofs over to the DTPs so they get to the printing house by this afternoon. My real life as an editor has begun.

B) "I'm sick of it all, sick of all the stupid things you don't say; what the hell are friends for anyway?"

C) I have a hangover due to large dinner party type thingie at Chateau Waterloo last night. I was veryveryvery busy oscillating wildly between skolling wine to drown my own personal sorrows and toasting close friends who were witness to my various performances of 'Crack Friend'. Or should that be 'Crack Fiend'.

Why today is better than yesterday part 2

These guys are coming. Oh yes. March 29, Prince of Wales. Be there or miss out on Gig Of The Year, people.

It's all over, people. Down your tools. Stop work. The world is coming to an end.

Kylie cussing over 'can't dance' claim

'Australian pop star Kylie Minogue says she was livid at a newspaper interview in which her stylist said she could not dance.

Englishman Will Baker, 28, who picks clothes, songs and choreographers for Minogue, told a British newspaper earlier this month that he had to compensate for her lack of dancing skills by finding clothes that highlighted her bottom.

But Minogue, who is up for a Brit award tomorrow night, says the story was "basically totally untrue". '

So what are you telling us, Kyles? That the story could be more complicated and there were elements of truth? Which bits? Do you wear open toe shoes with stockings, my girl?

Why today is going to be a better day than yesterday

A) It wouldn't be hard

B) I went to see this film last night. It's totally awesome and it should be compulsory viewing for every Horstralian.

C) I bought this book as a tribute to my greatly undervalued profession and as a mark of respect to a lateandgreat journalist of Andrew Ollie's calibre.

D) I also acquired a double CD of Otis Redding. Never a bad thing for your music collection, I tells ya.

E) At my favourite cafe this morning, the grumpy girl rememberd my order (strong latte to go, one sugar). Not only that, but they also had a freshly baked batch of their orgasmic Hungarian spiced sour plum cake. She gave me a big slice, too. They scatter these sour plums across the top of the cake and as it bakes, the plums sink down, forming these deliciously big sour, juicy craters ... jeez it's good.

F) This guy is suggesting a Melbourne bloggers meeting over the Easter weekend. Any takers? I'll be there, with proverbial bells on, just gimme time and place.

Okay so I've noticed a few hits on the ole blog recently ... like in the last ten minutes. Who is you? 'Fess up, already.

Hellooooo!

Hey, according to my stats I have a visitor to this site from Canada.

Cool! And welcome.

Why it's a curse being a woman with baaaaaad PMT

After spending most of last night curled up into a little ball of sweaty, teary angst-ridden utterly self-indulgent upset and miserable missjenjen-ness, I got up this morning convinced that it was going to be a good day.

Then I caught the wrong tram.

The woman that sat behind me chewed gum really loudly.

I tripped over my own feet in front of one of St. Kilda's most chez groovy cafes, rendering myself even less dignified than usual.

I got a super-runny nose and realised I didn't have any tissues.

Then I discovered Harry's gone.

It feels like I'm never going to stop crying.

I feel awful.

I need a hug.

Be gentle with me, folks. There's a lot of very sensitive jelly-jen-ness sitting just below all this bluster, you know.

Yes. I do.

Why I hate the Liberal Party in this country

You fucking awful, evil bastards. You fucking heartless pricks.

People put themselves through agony to come here (having lived in agonising and torturous circumstances in the land of their birth, no doubt, which is probably the reason they are trying to leave in the first place, like, HELLO) only to get caught up in this political muckraking and to get shoved into a makeshift jail for a couple of years before they get sent home again with no apologies from the Australian government to an almost certain death.

Looking at these pictures made me weep for these poor people. They deserve so much better than what they get from us. And we have so much to give them, and plenty of others, on so many levels. But lest we forget. We have an absolute CUNT for a prime minister.

That's really fucking empathetic of you, John. Real nice. You've really outdone yourself this time, wanker: "They threw their kids into the water! They're the evil ones, not me! True! Honest! They're so evil for doing that, they've got no chance of ever coming here, ever. They can just fuck off back to their own country and die a slow and torturous death there, instead."

HELLO?

YOU ARE FUCKING WITH THESE PEOPLE'S VERY LIVES, JOHN. HAVE YOU NO HEART?

Someone find me all the tight-arsed, right-wing LOSERS who voted for Johnnie Fuckface instead of The Almighty Kimbo, so I can hunt you down and torture YOU slowly underwater until you DIE a miserable, horrible death. Not before I "throw" your precious sprogs into the water.

Now someone get me a tissue. I hate people seeing me cry, especially when I'm at work, busy pretending to be all corporate and professional, like. Only pretending, mind.

Another reason why I'm so grumpy today: FUCK.

Oh.

And 'fess up, all you Mystery Visitors.

I don't bite, you know.

Not unless you ask me nice.

Why I don't like Mondays particularly

An urgent email received as soon as I walked in the door this morning: "We forgot you were on deadline. Can you please include this terribly vital information that cannot possibly wait until the April edition. Please. Go on. Be a sport. You're new, after all, which means you should really just be grateful for the opportunity to lay down and let us use you as a doormat."

Meanwhile, MY real deadline approaches. The discs for all the four March editions have to be at the printers by Thursday. Which means it's quite possible I'll need to do some work today, given that two of the reports I received on Friday were too short and too long, which means some juggling of space and egos must be done.

Diplomacy: my favourite topic at uni, especially when I (resplendent in Smiths T-Shirt, knee-high black Doc Martens and badly dyed hair) had to complete a group project with a nashie about why Australia should/should not have taken part in the Vietnam conflict (it wasn't a war: defined as such by world politico bodies and all-round good guys the Red Cross and the UN as "armed conflict". Yeah. Right.).

I've learned a lot since then.

I think.

Why I am not a stylish fashion guru

I wore my Thai fishing pants to work today, seeing as it was gonna be 38 degrees and all. That's fine.

Only these pants don't have normal fastenings on them. They have two simple ties, which, when brought round to the front of one's body, can be fashioned into a lovely bow and generally, and usually successfully, hold one's pants up.

You would think.

I realised half way back to my office - as I juggled a toasted sandwhich and juice (yes, all right, I was trying to be healthy … it doesn't happen often, hence the attention it gets when it does) that I could almost see my upper thigh.

Which indicated to my increasingly panic-stricken mind that my underpants were on view to all and sundry. The fabric of the damn pants had slipped out ever so sneakily from underneath my cleverly tied bow and was slipping to the ground as I walked. I was mortified to think that half of St. Kilda has now seen my underpants. The utility underpants. Not the glam ones (yes, I do own some).

How embarrassing.

Again I say to you: this is yet another reason I am not a fashion mogul, unlike St. Kilda's upwardly mobile occupiers. I'm not a pro or a junkie, either, just to put your mind at ease about any comparisons of my sweet self to St. Kilda's other less salubrious residents.

Do you have love to spare and a backyard (or even a front yard)? Please, go here and get thee some unconditional love on four legs. How could you possibly say no?

(The search for a sibling for LouieTheBeast continues).

Woof.

Why being an editor is so much damn fun, part 2

Because I get to edit all the classified ads for all four editions ... love those superscripted dates and missing apostrophes, I tells ya! I wonder if I will be able to claim my optometrist's fees and the cost of new lenses and frames on my next tax return? My eyes are killing me already.

(I will learn to love my work, I will learn to love my work ...)

Why being an editor is so much damn fun

Just fielded a call from an obnoxious reader, conversation as follows:

Her: Hello, I'm calling from Brisbane, and I'm wondering when we're going to get our February newsletters.

Me: You don't have them already?

Her: No. Do you know when they'll be arriving? Are they coming direct from the mailhouse, or are you sending them out from there?

Me: Well, I'll be honest with you, I don't know the answer to that question. I've only been here for two weeks and I'm still learning the ropes.

Her: Oh. They just lumped you in the editor's role, did they?

[ …]

[ …]

Lengthy silence ensues, as I recover from her appalling statement, the fact she had the utter gall to say it and muster my polite voice from the depths within.

Me (icily yet ever-so professionally): No, they've hired me from an outside source to edit these newsletters. The best person for you to speak to about the distribution is Willemina, the national publications manager.

Her: Well, put me through to her, please. I have an email number for her, but I want to talk to her directly.

Me (in my head): Email number? Jesus, you really are a ninny, aren't you? And you dare insinuate I come to this job with no knowledge or experience … farkenfarkenfarken.

Me (out loud, with some chagrin not revealed in my voice): Well, I would transfer you if I knew how to. I haven't quite got a handle on the phones yet. (I neglect to mention that I have a strong fear of basic technologies such as phones, photocopiers, faxes, videos or anything else that doesn't look or sound like a PC, so the chances of me *ever* learning to transfer calls or use the intercom will generally remain close to, if not at, nil.)

Her: Then transfer me back to reception.

Me (internally): Well, FUCK, woman, if I can't transfer you directly to Willemina, how the FUCK do you think I might go about transferring you back to reception, dammit?

Me (aloud): I think it might be best for me to give you Willemina's direct number and you can call her. (And you can pay for another interstate call, bitch-features. Heh.).

Why banks are sometimes amusing, although always worthy of our hatred:

Send your 15,000 customers a very *special* hotline for all your banking (or should that be bonking?) inquiries.

Why people who become parents should be forced to get a licence to do so

Can I just say you can call your kid anything you like, just as long as it doesn't fit under the Backyard Names category (just imagine some shrill, awfully fat or awfully thin woman with a cigarette hanging from her lip and badly dyed hair yelling these names rather nasally from the backdoor of her trailer and you'll get the idea pretty quick).

Some backyard names (please note - the more odd the spelling, the lower your level of intelligence) include the following: Taylah, Taelaa, Tyree, Ky, Kylie/Kylee/Kyree, Ty, Harmony/Harminnie, Melodee/Melydie, Bylyndah, Dylan (*please* do the world a favour and leave poor Bob alone, already), Craig, Warren, Darren, Derren, Jaxsyn (yes, I really have seen it spelt like that), Marley, Joshua/ Joshuah, Morgan /Morgyn/ Morginn, Madasun/Maddysun/Madisin, Harry, Bruce or Clint (what are people thinking, naming their child after what just about sounds like a piece of female genitalia? I mean, really).

Phew. I think I'll stop ranting now.

What's wrong with basics: Thomas, Lucas, Eliza. Even John, dammit. You can't go wrong there, really.

Note: I am writing this from Australia. People like to reinvent the wheel round these parts.

Okay, so I've been working on allocating stories to spaces in each of the four state-based March issues over the past two days which has kept me mildly occupied/amused. Not entirely, mind. A couple of the issues are extremely full, so have had to deflect disgruntled state-based indignants who insist their information be placed for the March issue. To which I have taken great pleasure in saying that NO. SORRY. There's just no room. You'll have to wait 'til April. Send it to me now so you are first in the April queue. And so I get an email in my inbox, that I can click on and look like I'm doing legitimate work.

Needless to say there are other editions at the 'spacey' end of the spectrum, at which I have thrown my needle-sharp eye over and gone EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK I was sure we had enough stories to go in here … ADVERTISING?! Can you sell some more space please? And hurry! (How quickly we forget the journalistic principles 'pon which we were trained).

And in other news, my desk has maintained its allure of hard work, with a gradual accumulation of crumbs, empty and molding coffee cups and coffee rings, red and black pens and assorted, randomly flung bits of paper. Thankfully, my desk has remained free of V-Day shite, not least of all because very few people know where I am during the day (seeing as we don't have a phone connected at Chateau Waterloo yet, having only moved there last weekend) and TheBitch has no money to buy into the evils of Hallmark anyway.

Hmph.

I cannot believe people walk past my office thinking that I spend all day actually doing work, rather than bludging off company resources in order to fulfill my strange blogging and associated internetty type fascinations. Oh well, stranger things have occurred, I suppose.

V-Day, 2002.

Yup. Whatever.

In the far more exciting category of news just to hand: this uplifiting/inspiring titbit: Scotland has banned fox hunting. Now *that's* my kind of Valentine's Day gift.

I'm seriously considering getting a lil brother or sister for LouieTheBeast. I'm going to the lost dog's home on Sunday to see what's available. No purebred beastie for me: I know which ones give and get good karma (in JenWorld, at least).

Saw the cutest little honey coloured fluff-ball yesterday as I waited impatiently for my tram. He was lost, of course, totally gorgeous and superfriendly and - of course - no one around knew who he belonged to. At least he was tagged, although for a sensitive soul such as myself that's not a great deal of consolation.

ALWAYS TAG YOUR DOGS, PEOPLE. THEY DO GET LOST, YOU KNOW.

And to top it all off, I have a damn coldsore on my lip (brown paperbag for my head, please). The day before Valentine's Day. Sheesh.

And *they* fined *him* for being arrogant!

Funny thing, boys. Sent mine, aka The Bitch, up the road to buy some beer the other evening. He came back with a very cold six pack and a bunch of flowers for me that he'd picked out of various neighbourhood gardens: aint love grand?

I'm quite sure anyone reading this would think that I spend a great deal of my precious time swanning about at art exhibitions and business lunches. Here's more proof: I'm off to lend moral support to my housemate, SuperAnge, who opens her first photography exhibition tonight at her gallery. Tomorrow night, off to The Bitch's gallery for another opening. It's also Valentine's Day. Not that I'm expecting that to make any difference.

Went to my first *proper* business lunch yesterday, with the desktop publishers who lay out and publish our work. Naturally I ordered according to price (we went to a little out of the way Italian place, up three flights of stairs and down an alley ... if you didn't know that it was there, you wouldn't even bother ... oh, how Melbourne) - picked the wine (Western Australian, of course) and laughed through my salmon and mushroom fettucine, breaking my longstanding rule of never eating pasta when out to impress (too much splatter potential). I wasn't paying, what did I care? The food was absolutely gorgeous, as were the DTPs, and I was immensely jealous of their office: they were all wearing trainers and jeans and had the acid jazz turned up on the in-built stereo system. I lucked out there - I get the solo silent office in conservative-ville one-and-a-half hours away from where I live.

I brought in my stereo today, or I was going to go BONKERS from the silence around here. I just cannot work without music. It just doesn't seem right. I shall funkify this office, dammit, and I'll drag all of these stuck-in-the-muds with me, whether they like it or not! I bought the new Groove Armada album last night: can I just say it rocked my socks off even more than the last one. Australian edition comes with a second CD featuring rarities and samples, get yours now, kiddies!

Today we are doing the final editing of stories and of course, now that people have realised the deadline has come and gone, we are getting news trickling in each hour. Bastards.

My initial fears of having too much space and not enough editorial have been allayed: in one edition we have only just managed to get 1 1/8 pages of news. Doesn't leave much room! This in turn will mean that I will need to work on an editorial content/advertising ratio that will enable us to get more space ... but that in turn means more pressure on me to find more information and more pressure from the advertising department who's philosophy is 'no income, no newsletter'.

Mags is dead. Always the good ones that go first, eh?

People talk too much.

A Common Conversation in Melbourne

DING.

(Move.)

DING DING.

(I said, MOVE.)

DING DING DING!

(Can't you hear properly? Move, already!)

DINGDINGDINGDINGDING!!!

(I'm a tram, asshole! Fucken move!)

Have spent the past hour looking over the digital and chemical proofs for the February editions. I've never seen either of these things before, and because it is so late in the printing process a mistake really must be quite huge to get corrected, as it is expensive to change the proof now. I found mistakes. Lots of them. Why don't people notice things like missing fullstops or apostrophes in the wrong place? How can people be so complacent? Anyway, despite the level of importance that I attach to missing apostrophes and the like, they were not deemed important enough to get corrected.

Thankfully my name is not attached to this shabby production ... yet. Next issue it will be, however. And I can assure you, the next issue will be far less shabby than this one.

I have also spent about an hour listening to my boss reminisce about The Good Old Days of printing and editing. Modern technology has destroyed all that, of course.

Another thing I have become quite good at: blaming other people when asked to account for my time and apparent lack of productivity. Thankfully, it appears a common occurrence for people to not send in their articles or news on time, so I am *relatively* off the hook.

I am looking forward to studying. Maybe this editing thing will make more sense then.

In other news today, I have booked my flight back to Perth for my 30th birthday celebrations in March.

Friday.

Thank God!!!

Today I must produce work I haven't done; it has remained undone for the duration of this week due to my extremely low levels of motivation concerning this job.

Never mind, I have more important issues at hand.

Dropped around to visit TheFella last night. Swaggered in through the front door, half cut (these things happen when you go and meet up with old friends straight after work). Got any beer? I asked, ever so politely. No. Well, you're pox then, aren't you? I replied, ever so gracefully.

At least I pick fellas who can see the funny side of my drunkenness. *ahem*

Okay so my first real editing task has come and gone this afternoon. After the advertising girl and I went out to get coffees (the outside world ... quel horrore!!) we sat down with all the layout sheets and tried to fit all the ads in. It's basically like a giant jigsaw puzzle, and anything of that nature is bound to intrigue me (how long for is another story altogether) so things went pretty well. As is always the case, ads take precedence over editorial, so we basically have to fit in our stories around the ads. As the PR manager said to me today, "no income, no newsletter, Jen". What an unfortunate state of affairs, given that out of a 16-page newsletter, there's room for about three good stories and a few crappy small ones.

Tomorrow we are going to allocate stories (which I haven't written yet) to the various state newsletters and work out what still needs to be done. We also get to double check the final digital proofs for the February editions. It will be my first real day working with my boss, in any kind of integrated sense.

Not too keen on that, right now.

Perhaps a good night's sleep is all I need.

My boss is from The Old School. At The Old School, one does not take a lunch break. One certainly does not go outside and take ten minutes to walk in the sun and grab a strong latte to go. One stays and works one's guts out until well past home time. One also takes work home and stays up all night completing it.

*I* am from The New School. At The New School, we take lunch breaks. We spend periods of time outside of office structures and turn our faces to the sun, as opposed to sitting like a stunned mullet in front of a computer with fluorescent lighting for nine or ten hours at a stretch. We eat. We go home at normal times, like 5.30pm, just like it says in the contract. We do other things at home, like talk to friends, paint, play sport, go to movies. You know, general 'life' kinda stuff. Nothing too radical, mind.

I AM ENTITLED TO GO OUTSIDE DURING WORK HOURS. I AM ENTITLED TO STOP WORKING AND EAT. I AM ENTITLED TO GO HOME WHEN IT'S HOME TIME.

And I'm not a leper or oddity for doing so, either.

So there.

I hate my job .... *groan* ... AGAIN. I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can stay here.

I note with some trepidation that the HQ Short Story Comp is on again. I suppose I shall try and draaaaag something together for it again this year. Last year's cynical take on New Age healing didn't win me the gong, so maybe this year's murder mystery could swing it my way. I've tried to find a link to the mag: it would appear they don't have a site unless you intend to subscribe, rather than read on-line. Oh well.

I want my publishing empire.

NOW.

So, today we are doing layouts for the March issue. This would be fine, apart from the fact that my boss has assumed that I've written all the stories that she gave to me as ideas two days ago. I haven't. Oh, joy, it's a fun morning ahead for me.

I try not to get stressed about work. But what am I doing here? Is this the time I'm s'posed to get all mature and responsible and commit to a job I'm not that impressed with, just because it combines really well with what I want to study and I might actually learn something valuable along the way?

Can I change my mind?

I want something easy.

No, I don't. Just easier than this.

OH. MY. GOD.

I am George Castanza.

My boss is old. She thinks she knows everything there is to know about editing, publishing and the world of journalism AND about how to deal with people. She probably does know most things about editing, publishing and the world of journalism, but dealing with people? Hmmm ... the jury's out on that one. The politics have begun already: as her protege I am expected to show her loyalty but in doing so become tarred by the same brush, so to speak.

Office politics shit me. To tears.