Am I gorgeous? Or am I gorgeous?

By popular request *beams* you can now go here and take a look at Bertie-Boop himself. If you run your cursor over the smaller pictures on the left, a larger image will come up on the right.

Mmmm, eye-candy

Normally I don't post links. Well, not all that often. But this is quite the prettiest site I've seen in a long time. How cool are these fabrics and buttons?

I got the power

For some reason, I have been paying particular attention to how TV stations market themselves and conduct their brand-recognition campaigns. And I’ve got to say that Channel 10 beats the other commercial channels by a long shot.As far as TV advertising goes – certainly in terms of singing one’s own praises – Channel 10 is whipping the asses of 9 and 7.

The in-house ads feature funky young stars such as Samuel Johnson and Deborah Mailman; the designs and colour schemes have veered away from the more traditional in-house advertising which uses glossy colours and flashy graphics, to using colour sparingly (less is more, sweetie, less is more).

The ads come in varying lengths: 30-second, 20-second, and even five second grabs (the ones where a Channel 10 celeb comes up to the camera and ‘pushes’ the yellow or blue button). The blue and yellow dots are further used in program ads, where a white screen flashes up, and the evening’s programs are shown with their times in a yellow or blue dot. Nice integration.

Obviously the Channel 10 campaign is targeting a younger, early-20s-30s audience than traditional commercial stalwarts such as 7 or 9, but audience ratings (excluding Celeb BB) show a rise in recent months that correlates to the reinforcement of this brand image and recognition of it.

Channel 7 has recently tried to jump the young and funky bandwagon by producing an over-glossy, flashy ad featuring (mostly) Home and Away stars getting ready for their next episode, complete with dance/techno soundtrack and lots of winking. Sorry guys, Channel 10 got in first, and I’m not buying your cheap and obviously hurried imitation.

Having said that, I do give Channel 7 some kudos for their Manchester Commonwealth Games ads. Bass-heavy soundtrack ("I got the POWER"), gritty glimpses of power athletes hard at work doing Australia proud by winning shitloads of medals, plus it comes in varying lengths of time to fit varying programming holes. They get points for using athletes other than Ian Thorpe and Cathy Freeman – while these two super stars of Aussie sport do feature, other, lesser known (so much so I can’t for the life of me think of a single name at the moment) athletes from less popular 'sideline' sports such as weightlifting, hammer throw and diving are finally getting more exposure from mainstream television than they have done in the past.

What do you think?

Jen's on deadline: a vignette for my readers

[get up from desk, shut door to office. Use speaker phone to ring designer with a mountain of corrections].

Okay, ready to go?

Right.

Edition 6, page 1. Got it?

Okay, par 1, line 2. Delete the comma there. No, the first comma. Okay, delete the second one too.

Par 6, second last line, change the ampersand to a-n-d. I hate ampersands. Hate ‘em.

Is there any spill left? What? Two lines? Okay, merge the last two bullets together and delete ‘procurement of’. Does that buy you enough space? Good.

Okay, page 3.

[silence]

Same edition.

Right. Line 7, column 1, par 3. Lose that abbreviation. And the acronym while you’re at it. That quarter page ad has been moved to a left hand page – give it to page 19, and take the editorial from 19 up to page 7. Should fit.

[boss knocks at door]

Yes Gwen?

I’ve got her on the phone right now.

No, I can’t email that stuff to you. I’m on the phone to the designer. I’m right in the middle of something.

I don’t care if you needed it 10 minutes ago, this copy was s’posed to go to the printers yesterday. We’re behind schedule, so I’m busy. I’ll talk to you later about the September issues. Blame the boss for us being late. He only filed his report with me this morning, and it was due last Thursday.

[turns back on boss, releases steam from ears]

Are you there? Right, as you were. Have you got that pic yet? Dammit. Fuckity-fuckity-fuckity. I’ll courier it over to you this afternoon. Well, it may take you three hours to scan it, but our scanner doesn’t work at all, so you get the job.

Now – what?

You have to go? Why? We’ve just got started.

You have to make a phone call? Okay, call me back.

[two minutes later the phone rings]

Hi, you ready? Good.

Issue 7, page 5. Swap the ads over with the two half page verticals on page 4. Straight swap. How can there be a gap? The ads are all the same size, surely?

I have to go to the toilet. I’ll ring you back.

~ you know the crazy thing? I love being this busy!

Love in all its shambolic glory

Two weeks ago

Me: [slurring] I love you.

Him: I know.

Me: How come you never tell me you love me? I love you.

Him: You know I do.

Me: [starting to cry] So say it. It’s not that hard.

Him: I love you jenjen.

Me: I mean, if you can’t tell me you love me, what hope have we got? Maybe we should break up.

Him: I love you jenjen.

Me: It’s just that I’ve been here before and I don’t – what? What did you just say?

Him: I love you jenjen.

Me: Really? [sniff]

Him: Truly. Forever.

Me: [sniff] Honest?

Him: Yup.

Me: You know I want to have babies and stuff.

Him: Yup. Me too.

Me: [wailing] Bu-bu-bu-but you said you didn’t want to live with me. That you loved liv-liv-living in your stinky boy house too much.

Him: are you kidding? I’d move in with you in a second.

Me: [sobbing] You said you wouldn’t mo-mo-mo-move in with me because of the cable contract at your place.

Him: [hooting with laughter] We can get cable at OUR house!

Me: You really love me?

Him: I really love you. You know this means that you have to come up to Cairns and meet my mum now.

Me: Okay.

Him: You don’t care that I don’t have a job?

Me: No. You’ll get one eventually anyway.

Him: You don’t care that my hair’s green?

Me: *I* used to have green hair. Why would I care about what colour your hair is?

Him: I think we need to dye it again. It’s all patchy and faded.

Me: We can do that on the weekend.

Him: Okay.

Last Saturday

Him: [slurring] I love you.

Me: [playing up] No, I love you, mate, and it’s not the booze talking.

Him: No, no, I rooly, rooly love you.

Me: I love you too.

Him: Really?

Me: Truly.

Him: No, but I *really* love you. No, don’t squirm away from me. C'mere. Kiss me.

Me: You’re so drunk.

Him: No, no, I’m not. I love you.

Me: How much do you love me?

Him: [slurring] I love all your big bits and all your little bits and all the bits in between. You have to meet my mother now.

Me: I know. You keep telling me that. We’ll go at Christmas time.

Him: Really? Can we take Bertie with us?

Me: Yup.

Him: I love you so much. Can you buy me a drink?

Me: I’m hungry.

You wanna read some good quality porn?

Do you, punk? Huh? Then you in the wrong place, sunshine.

For true stories as told by a porn store clerk, however, click this. Via Kaymc.

But I miss her

My poor mummy. Her dog died suddenly a week ago and my mum is most upset. Every day she dreads coming home after work because the dog isn’t there any more. She turns around to call her, and she’s not there. Every day she promises to herself, right, no more tears, life goes on. But she’s still grieving. Sound like someone else we know?

My mum and I have never been emotionally too close. We have a very tempestuous relationship: it’s intense, but not in a particularly good way. So it’s interesting that the death of a pet has brought us together. For the first time, as my mother sobbed to me on the phone about how much she missed Mitzi, and how silly she felt still crying about a dog (“but I miss her”), I felt as though we finally had something emotional in common, something that we could share. For the first time, I was able to say, “I know exactly how you feel” and mean it. Because I do. Nothing hurts like losing a treasured four-legged pal.

I’m on the waiting list for a West Highland white terrier puppy. I’ve decided to buy her a dog that is about as different to Mitzi as you can get. Despite the fact that it’s going to put me about $850 out of pocket (I could buy a bloody car with that kind of money), I know from experience that the best way to get on with things is to get another beastie. And if I’ve paid for it, and said nothing, just send her to the breeders in about eight weeks time, she will get a great surprise. And she won’t be able to say no.

And in other news, Kathryn over at cutlunchtrip is organising Fray Day in Melbourne this year. If you have a story or six worth telling, or would like to get involved, go visit her site via the link on the right.

International Blog Meetup Day = excellent idea

In a way I’m glad Ericmonkey was sick last night and couldn’t come to the blog meetup. It meant that I was pushed to make the date on my own and be brave and show. Which I did!

And how ace are Melbourne bloggers? Yeah, like, totally! Pixelkitty.net has all the photos from the night, including several containing my beaming face. I think I got particularly happy at the point where the pub started playing Paperback Writer over their stereo system. How cool was that? I revelled in my new-found nerd-dom. Geek-dom. Whatever.

It was fun! And we all agreed that next meetup we won’t be doing any Starbucks. Cocktail bars only, thanks. Tequila and Cosmopolitans, ahoy!

Just in case ...

Just so's me and ericmonkey don't get confused with the rest of the masses on Collins Street tonight, just so's we can be recognised, I thought I would let you all know that

a) ericmonkey has green hair
b) I have purple specs and a burgundy neck fluffy on

Blogmeet here we come!

Bathtimes of the ill and toxic

Brrrrr, I'm freezing, I'm going to run a bath.

Geez, it's hot in here. Have you got the heating on?

Okay, it's running. Hot water. Steam. Good. Nice long soak.

[dips toe and retracts in pain]

Owwwww! That's way too hot. More cold.

Aaaahhh, that's good. A little bit more hot.

A bit more cold. Just a splash.

No. That won't do. It's too cold now.

Waddaya mean there's no more hot water?

How can it *all* be in the bath?

So now my bath is cold. Great. I'll get out again, shall I?

Try again when the tank has heated sufficiently.

Good. Fine.

Back to bed for me, then.

I have the lurgy. It's not pleasant.

And can I just say ...

It's 'among' and 'while'. Not 'amongst' or 'whilst'. Gah!

Food, glorious, hot, salty, greasy food

Oh my GOD I’m hungover today. Beers on Brunny street last night *seemed* a great idea, but today? That’s another pint of Tetley’s altogether.

I can only eat one thing with a hangover this gargantuan. Burger King. Awful, I know, but the Junior Wopper (heavy cheese, extra hot, minus pickle) with a side of onion rings is the only way to go.

I brought some microwave popcorn the other day, and today thought I’d try it out before lunch. So I swung off to the kitchen, shoved the bag in the nuko-machine, and waited for the pops to begin.

Within 60 seconds of my arrival in the kitchen, the news had spread around the entire office that I was making and then eating popcorn. People were deliberately walking past my office just to see if it really was true. Quel horrore! Am I radical, or what? I think I’ve shaken my tight-laced colleagues to their very core. Imagine eating popcorn at work! Before noon, as well! Dear oh dear, I daren’t think what might happen if they find out I don’t shave my legs. *gasp* The sky would fall in, I expect.

Naturally, when I returned to the office with a swag brightly advertising the joys of BK to all and sundry, that caused comment too. Didn’t she just eat? Where does she put it all (thighs and tummy, girls, thighs and tummy)? How can she afford to eat out every day? Burger King? It’s a bit early for lunch, isn’t it?

Food, glorious food. It’s a maker and a breaker.

Chust luff heem

I visit my bottle shop regularly. Not that regularly, mind you, but often enough to get to know the old Polish couple behind the counter, and their Kelpie-cross, Steetch.

They're leaving soon, packing up after 30-odd years in the business to go retire somewhere and not lump kegs of beer and cartons of red wine all over the shop. Go to bed at normal times. Revel in the absence of drunken louts and psychos.

I took Bertie in a few months ago, to meet Steetch, and they became firm friends. The old woman, who's name I still do not know, fell in love with Bertie instantly. Now every time I go into the bottle-oh, she wants to know where he is, how he's doing, is he being naughty.

Bertie is all a bit non-plussed about her affections, but hey - he's not one to knock back some lovin (who is?).

I went in to collect my six-pack of Melbourne Bitter last Thursday, BB toddling along beside me. Naturally, Steetch pushed the swinging door that separates Behind The Counter from In Front of the Counter, so he could come hang with BB. I reckon Steetch gets pretty bored just hanging out with two old people who are glued to the telly and counting down the days until they retire. They did their little dance around each other, tails a-waggin, both whining away in their little doggie conversation.

She came up to the counter and after exchanging cursory niceties with me, proceeded to drag Bertie up on to the bench and gush love all over him. She's *so* into him. What do you feed him, she asked, has he been good? Does he bark much? (Fresh chicken wings, pigs ears, Pal, mince and rice and peas; sometimes; sometimes, I replied).

After I managed to complete the transaction, she grabbed Bertie's head between her two hands, and said, "I luff you. Yes. I do. You're so byootifool. Yes. Yes. You are. Bye-bye, gorchuss."

She returned to her very comfortable seat at the other end of the room, picking up the remote control as she sat. As I walked to the door, I turned to say goodbye, BB in tow, she raised her hand in salutation, and said, "Chust luff heem. Luff heem, won't choo?"

I faithfully swore I would, and stepped out into the cold, windy night.

Life continues apace

I'm still here. Recovering. Doing better. Still enjoying my hotel-quality sheets, might I say. I am thinking that p'raps I'll go back and get more, but I also want an iBook and a bloody domain. I'm over blogger and ads and stuff.

I walked part of the way to work today. I figured that if I start changing bits of my routine, then I may not get so bogged down in things. So I've been walking to Clifton Hill each morning to catch my bus up St. Kilda way to hang out with junkies, prostitutes and yuppies all day long. Odd combination, yes, but surprisingly, it all seems to fit together. I love living in Melbourne. I feel much more free here than I ever did in Perth.

The walks have been great. I had forgotten how much more you can appreciate about your immediate surrounds when you walk somewhere (or nowhere in particular, which ever takes your fancy). Today I found a little unassuming coffee house that sells the best takeaway coffee I've found yet. This place is on a major road, but from the front you would never guess that it's a little cafe. It just looks like the front of a factory. I'd never seen it before.

Plus it's cold in the mornings, so I get this nice rush of warmth to my fingers and toes once I've been walking for about five minutes, but my nose and ears stay chilly, and my breath fogs up my glasses. I love blowing that 'smoke'.

There are naked trees everywhere.

I can't seem to raise the creative spark to write anything more creative at the minute. I'll be back. When I've more to say.

These are a few ...

I had a great night's sleep last night. Not least of all because on Saturday I splurged on some white, Egyptian 100 per cent cotton sheets and a shot silk (purple and blue) quilt cover. I got in between those crisp white beauties and thought I had been magically transported into a five-star hotel.

100 per cent cotton sheets: 100 per cent worth it.

I'll never scrimp on manchester or bedding again.

Reasonings

I've not been well. I thought I could manage without sanity pills, and thought I could cope, but - I confess - I've not been coping well at all. I finally filled my last repeat prescription today, and let me tell you - there would be blood on the streets tonight if I hadn't.

Since I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression over two years ago, I have been on and off the anti-depressant roller coaster, and that in itself is depressing. Some work better than others, some make me tired, others make me not eat for days on end, others mean I get little sleep. And you need to give them a few weeks to kick in properly before the psych will reassess your dosage and/or your medication. And the thought that I am in some way a slave to an American pharmaceutical giant does not impress me.

I thought I could cope, but I was on a very nasty downward spiral this weekend, and thankfully I've caught it in time, this time.

I hate being sick. I really hate it. I have to live with this. It's debilitating, yes. It can be stressful as well, for example, having a tough week at work before or after a heavy counselling session. But I know that I am making the right choice in pushing on with this. I choose not to sit and do nothing, because I know I don't like it, and doing nothing makes it worse. And yet there are still days where I simply cannot get out of bed. It's just too hard. It becomes a self-defeating - and self-deflating - exercise.

I thought I could cope. I thought I'd learned enough. And then I missed a regular counselling session. I cannot do this on my own, just yet. Not yet.

People say, "Oh, just get out and go for a walk. You'll feel heaps better", or "You'll get over it. Chin up." and I try to tell them how desperately that I wish it were that simple. Exercise helps, and I try to incorporate exercise into my day (get off a tram stop earlier to and from work). But it goes deeper than that. I am not feeling sorry for myself, not at all. I am surrounded by blessings - beastie, partner, loving friends, job, home, bloggage, family, culture, etc etc. And yet I cannot shake this deep and very painful black sadness that sits inside my chest. I can only just stem my paranoia, but not stop it altogether.

But I want things to be better than this level of better. I get very tired trying to fight this thing off all the time, keeping it at bay.

I can't afford to get sick-sick.

To ring ze counsellor tomorrow: there. A small goal. I have his number. All I have to do is pick up the phone and call. It's not insurmountable.

Housekeepage

We've found the house and get this - the real estate agent rang *us* to see if we were still interested. We're in.

I have had a hair cut.

The bastard has given me a mullet/mohawk cut. I'm washing it out.

And as for Momo, she's freakin out. Over there. In the links column. Go on. Go visit.

A few items of note

Ericmonkey has bought me some fucking beautiful furniture - classy, groovy old 60s side tables and glasses and plates and stuff. His generosity knows no bounds, and will be duly acknowledged post haste.

Bertie-Boop is in at work with me today. My boss suggested it as a way to make me feel better, what with all this editorial committee hoo-ha that's been going on lately.

The final episode of Kath & Kim is on tonight (ABC, 9pm) and it's the wedding episode. I'm hanging out to see Kim as the hornbag bridesmaid, Kath in her 'Bo-Peep style' wedding outfit, and Kel in his grey tux with 'dusk rose' style waistcoat and matching cumberbund.

It's fucking cold. And windy.

I have a busy weekend planned. Footy tomorrow night, and I shall no doubt torture myself by watching my hapless Tigers go down to blasted Carlton. Saturday I'm having a girlie sleepover thing happening in Richmond. And on Sunday, I'm off to see Circus Oz.

Plus, We of Chateau Waterloo are on the move. SuperAnge put in an application on an apparently 'fully grouse' property in Northcote today. It's big (good) with a bungalow out the back. I've seen the outside and I'm impressed so far. SuperAnge and I look for the same thing in houses, so I trust her judgement on this. The market is good at the moment, if you are looking to rent. Summer is a nightmare, so we are trying to get going now, while the going is good.

Rob is in pain. Go pay your sympathies.

OH! OH! OH! OOOOHHHHHH!

Ew, ew, ew, and eeeeewwwwwww, for good effect.

Mental note: be in shower or other non-listening space when loud housemate has loud sex in the mornings before attending work.

And another thing

The BossBoss mentioned that a rather fiery letter to the editor (which, might I add, was approved and re-approved three times by the BossBoss’s Boss) was printed in the July newsletter, and had subsequently caused an absolute uproar among the readership concerned.

BossBoss then used this as one reason why the committee is needed – to oversee, approve and water down letters to the editor and opinion pieces, to avoid political backlash.

Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I worked in a country where the press was ‘free’ (relatively speaking, anyway)? What’s wrong with an article or opinion piece sparking debate? Is that not a valuable part of living in a country where speaking your mind is actively encouraged?

Letters to the editor and opinion pieces, in my definition of editorial policy, are edited *only* for space and clarity. I may remove a sentence if the writer has written the same thing in a previous paragraph, and I certainly correct spelling (that’s organiSation, thanks) and remove errant apostrophes here and there. But that’s it. It’s not for me to change the meaning of writer’s letter. Rather, an important part of my job is to make it read as well as it can. That's a part of the art of editing. Yes, it's an art. And yes, it's fucking hard work, too.

So what are the newsletters for, if not to spark debate and new ideas among the profession? Are they a mere vehicle for some people’s agendas in the organisation? I’m afraid I think the answer is yes, and I don’t know if I want to be a part of this, not least of all because my part in this editorial committee process is immediately devalued by its very existence, and reduces down to Editorial Minion, at the beck and call of others Who Know Better.

And if the publications are getting censored by this editorial committee, which the readership knows nothing about, mind you (I think they have every right to know, myself), then what kind of a place am I working in? What place do I keep in this farcical, red-tape laden piece of bureaucracy? What do I stand for? Can I stand by and thus implicitly approve this dictatorial information processing?

Where’s my drink?

Once again, my job has just got that little bit harder

I’ve been in a shang-hai-blitz-kreig meeting sprung upon myself and my boss by the BossBoss.

We gets told that a newsletter editorial committee has been established to discuss the placement of stories, and whether stories are pulled or kept in, and various other newsletter issues. I will be required to attend two meetings a month, at which I will need to present a story listing for each newsletter, rationale behind each story’s placement and page layouts including the placement of advertising.

Where was I when all these moves were afoot?

I have lost even more control over my babies.

Have you seen my cup of vod- er, coffee?

Having to attend to this new editorial committee means I will have to justify *every* *fucking* editorial decision I make, to everyone from the CEO down to branch presidents. Do I have time to do this? Explain why some stories get placed towards the back, others towards the front, and some not at all because they’re submitted too late and/or they’re so crap I can’t even read them? Try to explain why no, all the ads can't get put together in the two middle pages (*snicker* ... AS IF)?

Quite clearly, the answer to that is yes, I will. And of course I have time to do this.

Where’s my drink?

Blog meeting

Hey folks - on this very topic: I ticked the box for us to meet at Starbucks on Collins. I hate Starbucks, but I didn't really think the other places were very appropriate. I guess we can start there and tally-ho elsewhere. More info on the meet up is here.

Why barking dogs can start wars

Bertie-Boop made a new friend recently – Rufus, he of loud deep barks from t’other side of our fence. Rufus (who, along with his nameless companion, get *very* bored in their backyard) found an easy way to connect with Bertie – by digging a hole under the fence. So he dug on his side, and Bertie dug on his side. It could only be fate that the two tunnels should meet.

They did.

Rufus would religiously maneuvre his generous head and one shoulder and paw underneath the fence and chat to BB in the morning. And again at lunch time. Then they’d have a little afternoon soire, and a brief chat before bed time. BB would meander over to the meeting point each morning after his ablutions and generously hump Rufus’ head, then dig around Rufus’ head some, to make the hole bigger. Occasionally he would pop next door for a visit, concerned The Nameless One was missing out on the action.

Initially I was concerned for BB’s safety, as Rufus is an extraordinarily big dog, judging by the size of his noggin. But they love each other. They’re pals. Plus the barking from Rufus’ side had stopped since the tunnels met, so I couldn’t complain.

Ericmonkey and I went next door to talk to the neighbours about the hole, how we might make it bigger, or even have joint puppy visits every so often. Hey - it's all about communing with your fellow beings on the street and getting the beasties to join in too (now, don't take that the wrong way). The neighbours were never home when we went over, so in the end we gave up.

Two days later, a pile of bricks was stacked on the other side of the fence, closing over the hole. Nothing was said. The barking has returned.

I am going home today to remove said bricks, because I am tired of my mornings starting like this:

Open bedroom window.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!

Swear violently while looking for bazooka.

Adjourn to kitchen.

Light stove. Put coffee pot on gas ring.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!

Mutter under breath about neighbours respecting each others’ space.

Open bathroom door.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOOF-WOOF-WOOOOOOF-BARK!

Sit on toilet. Consider moving house.

Return to kitchen. Turn off gas ring. Pour coffee.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!

Open back door for Bertie-Boop.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOOF-WOOF-WOOOOOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOOF-WOOF-WOOOOOOF-BARK!

Thump down back stairs with kitchen rubbish. Add to green silo bin.

BARK! WOOF! WOOOOOOOF-WOOF-BARK!
BARK! WOOOF-WOOF-WOOOOOOF-BARK!

A word of advice: WALK YOUR DOGS YOU LAZY NEXT-DOOR BUMS! Getting a second dog does not alleviate the boredom and bad barking habits of the original dog, it merely equals two bored dogs that don't get exercised. Ever. I've never seen those dogs. Not ever.

P'raps I shall pop in and suggest that I have Rufus and The Nameless One over for an afternoon of doggie partying, or *gasp* even a walk to the park with BB and myself.

Poor things. As much as I hate Rufus barking at every move I make, and The Nameless One joining in, I feel so sorry for them being stuck in that back yard all the time.