I hate the old marketing ploy where advertisers use the “Only R999.95” trick. It concerns me to be part of a society where so many people cannot figure out that it’s a thousand smackeroos. You have to love it though! Why? Because for some obscure reason it actually works!
But my latest irritation is not regarding the pricing, but rather about the packaging on certain products. In this Twiggy age (which has been lasting waaaaaay too long for my decidedly reubenesque derrière) it has become a marketing focus to now point out to prospective buyers the fat content of various food products. I’m all for that, actually. I, for one, should be more careful about the amount of excess fat I stick in my gob. So tell me that your product has only 2% fat, that’s great. I feel adequately informed when I buy and consume (several packages of) your product.
For example, whilst in JHB a while back, I wanted to add some milk to my coffee. The carton exclaimed that it was more that 96% fat free. Honestly, what does that mean to the consumer? How can something be 96% fat free? It’s like saying that you’re 96% pregnant. And which 4% in the carton should I avoid if I were on a diet?
And I reiterate: You have to love it though!
Why?
Because there’s an entire sub-culture of my fellow country-folk stealing my oxygen, is why!
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The writing's on the wall
I have always appreciated raw talent. I remember being about 4 and staring at some protégé or another who could play the piano or violin or maybe sing a song beautifully or even calculate a math problem in a flash. This fascination for raw talent has stuck with me through the years and I still appreciate many forms of various arts.
Not least of these art forms is graffiti. I love graffiti. Mind you, let me rephrase that so that you understand me correctly: I love REAL graffiti. Not the stuff I am left to purvey every morning when doing my usual drive in. What is that anyway? You find a can of spray paint in the garage and you happen to pass a wall and you stand there for a while thinking to yourself: “Hmm, what shall my statement be for today?” I can’t help wondering what kind of moron you need to be to come up with “fuck”. Like it’s never been done before! Ooh, I am rebel, hear me roar! Not even an artistic “fck” or “fcuk” in a specific and recognisable style of graffiti, but just “fuck” in the scrawl of a 5-year old, which is seemingly the norm for these supposed “gangsters” of dull repute. It’s you giving this art form the bad publicity, so sod off and get some training, you git!
And then I avert my eyes from this random and thoughtless art crime to the grey canvas (a.k.a. the wall separating the incoming from the outgoing traffic on the N2) and I get to thinking: Why not actually allow real aspiring artists to paint this fugly wall (which is taking 4 years from my life to build)? Give each artist a section and give the lot of them a running theme to work around. Nothing wrong with making a global statement, getting talented kids off the streets and decorating a rather dreary world all in one go. Why not nurture talent rather than condemn it outright?
And since we, as a race, are so easily bored and need instant gratification in a rat-race world (okay, so maybe I am talking about ME), archive the art-works, paint the canvas white again and pick a new theme next year.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder … so give me something to behold.
Not least of these art forms is graffiti. I love graffiti. Mind you, let me rephrase that so that you understand me correctly: I love REAL graffiti. Not the stuff I am left to purvey every morning when doing my usual drive in. What is that anyway? You find a can of spray paint in the garage and you happen to pass a wall and you stand there for a while thinking to yourself: “Hmm, what shall my statement be for today?” I can’t help wondering what kind of moron you need to be to come up with “fuck”. Like it’s never been done before! Ooh, I am rebel, hear me roar! Not even an artistic “fck” or “fcuk” in a specific and recognisable style of graffiti, but just “fuck” in the scrawl of a 5-year old, which is seemingly the norm for these supposed “gangsters” of dull repute. It’s you giving this art form the bad publicity, so sod off and get some training, you git!
And then I avert my eyes from this random and thoughtless art crime to the grey canvas (a.k.a. the wall separating the incoming from the outgoing traffic on the N2) and I get to thinking: Why not actually allow real aspiring artists to paint this fugly wall (which is taking 4 years from my life to build)? Give each artist a section and give the lot of them a running theme to work around. Nothing wrong with making a global statement, getting talented kids off the streets and decorating a rather dreary world all in one go. Why not nurture talent rather than condemn it outright?
And since we, as a race, are so easily bored and need instant gratification in a rat-race world (okay, so maybe I am talking about ME), archive the art-works, paint the canvas white again and pick a new theme next year.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder … so give me something to behold.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Just breathe
So yesterday I went down Simon's Town way to do what I thought would be my qualifying dive for the 1* CMAS Scuba diving course.
First dive, shore entry, and I have to do my favourite: mask removal. Happiness! NOT! So what do I do? I snap my mask attempting to replace it. I maintain my brittle composure and figure that, if anybody can handle this then McGuyver (aka Tony, my dive buddy), surely he could get it back together ... just stay calm Jo ... just breathe!
But no, the mask is really totally bust ... I clearly do things well. Not even my own mask, mind you! So that means the dive is over for Mc and me! Jeez, why should he pay for my dumb-ass antics! Lucky for me there are assistants to the instructors who realise that shit happens ... all the time! The Spanish bubble blower has an extra mask in her pocket ... I so owe her ... and the dive shall go on. Happy days.
Then comes the qualifying dive and this is a boat dive, promising to get us as deep as 17 meters or so, no pressure! OMG. Fear really does not become me. There is a quiet that takes over when you have a boat-full of newbies who have no idea what to expect from this dive. All too sudden comes the countdown and there you are … ready to descend into open waters. What a rush.
We descend and finally get to the wreck we were to explore. But no, first comes more torture. Mask removal again (surprisingly, rather “blah” due to the morning’s antics!) and then some buddy breathing. No problem. But it seemed that those two breaths that dive buddy 2 for the day needs to take from MY regulator proves too much … so, guess who cracks under the pressure? Nooooooo! No bloody buddy breathing is going to keep me from this stupid 1*! I need that *! Just breathe Jo, just breathe!
So we start again and no problem, so why all the fuss? Just another moment, I guess. Other than that there was a little misunderstanding on the ascent. My instructor, at the decompression stop motions to go up. The misunderstanding is that he apparently meant about 1 meter up (what with all the people around) and I thought he meant all the way up (I just don’t see the difference in the sign language yet). Ugh, when will I learn? Anyway, it seems I was forgiven … eventually!
So have I qualified or not, you may be asking? I don’t know … it’s bumming me out. I don’t mind doing another boat dive to prove that I want it.
Hell, I’d do it just for the rush anyway, so bring it on!
Apparently I’ve learnt how to breathe!
First dive, shore entry, and I have to do my favourite: mask removal. Happiness! NOT! So what do I do? I snap my mask attempting to replace it. I maintain my brittle composure and figure that, if anybody can handle this then McGuyver (aka Tony, my dive buddy), surely he could get it back together ... just stay calm Jo ... just breathe!
But no, the mask is really totally bust ... I clearly do things well. Not even my own mask, mind you! So that means the dive is over for Mc and me! Jeez, why should he pay for my dumb-ass antics! Lucky for me there are assistants to the instructors who realise that shit happens ... all the time! The Spanish bubble blower has an extra mask in her pocket ... I so owe her ... and the dive shall go on. Happy days.
Then comes the qualifying dive and this is a boat dive, promising to get us as deep as 17 meters or so, no pressure! OMG. Fear really does not become me. There is a quiet that takes over when you have a boat-full of newbies who have no idea what to expect from this dive. All too sudden comes the countdown and there you are … ready to descend into open waters. What a rush.
We descend and finally get to the wreck we were to explore. But no, first comes more torture. Mask removal again (surprisingly, rather “blah” due to the morning’s antics!) and then some buddy breathing. No problem. But it seemed that those two breaths that dive buddy 2 for the day needs to take from MY regulator proves too much … so, guess who cracks under the pressure? Nooooooo! No bloody buddy breathing is going to keep me from this stupid 1*! I need that *! Just breathe Jo, just breathe!
So we start again and no problem, so why all the fuss? Just another moment, I guess. Other than that there was a little misunderstanding on the ascent. My instructor, at the decompression stop motions to go up. The misunderstanding is that he apparently meant about 1 meter up (what with all the people around) and I thought he meant all the way up (I just don’t see the difference in the sign language yet). Ugh, when will I learn? Anyway, it seems I was forgiven … eventually!
So have I qualified or not, you may be asking? I don’t know … it’s bumming me out. I don’t mind doing another boat dive to prove that I want it.
Hell, I’d do it just for the rush anyway, so bring it on!
Apparently I’ve learnt how to breathe!
Friday, September 12, 2008
On the road again
Some days I am just so Africa'ed out! I am all for job creation and everything, because that would ultimately mean that the likelihood of being mugged will decline drastically, right?
But exactly how many people does it take to hold up a bright flag to indicate road works ahead? For at least the last three years now there has been road works on the N2 incoming into Cape Town CBD. Lucky me, this is my daily route. And every morning the three leading flaggerators have invariably cautioned me regarding road works ahead. Consistently this has ended up simply indicating: "Watch out, you're likely to see a single construction worker's crack up ahead ... yes, only one, because the rest of the 20-man strong construction team is just standing around him giving advice on how to do whatever he is doing today. So be sure to slow down so as not to miss it."
I realise that we have not yet fully embraced the electronic age here, but surely you could have a flashing light or, hold onto your seat, a digital message board or something which would probably attract more attention.
On the upside, it does make for full equal opportunity capabilities in the construction industry, since many flag bearers are women. So, a little “Ole” for that!
Maybe I'm just bitching because I am sick and tired of the bloody road works which is taking forever!
But mostly I can't help thinking that it is easy to fling obscenities at complete strangers who are merely trying to feed their family by doing an honest day's work and doing so from the comfort of my own car! But sometimes I do!
So go on ... I dare you ... call me NICE again!
But exactly how many people does it take to hold up a bright flag to indicate road works ahead? For at least the last three years now there has been road works on the N2 incoming into Cape Town CBD. Lucky me, this is my daily route. And every morning the three leading flaggerators have invariably cautioned me regarding road works ahead. Consistently this has ended up simply indicating: "Watch out, you're likely to see a single construction worker's crack up ahead ... yes, only one, because the rest of the 20-man strong construction team is just standing around him giving advice on how to do whatever he is doing today. So be sure to slow down so as not to miss it."
I realise that we have not yet fully embraced the electronic age here, but surely you could have a flashing light or, hold onto your seat, a digital message board or something which would probably attract more attention.
On the upside, it does make for full equal opportunity capabilities in the construction industry, since many flag bearers are women. So, a little “Ole” for that!
Maybe I'm just bitching because I am sick and tired of the bloody road works which is taking forever!
But mostly I can't help thinking that it is easy to fling obscenities at complete strangers who are merely trying to feed their family by doing an honest day's work and doing so from the comfort of my own car! But sometimes I do!
So go on ... I dare you ... call me NICE again!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
I read less than I would like to, but I do read some. Among the many things I have read was one of those silly emails directed specifically at girls, which invariably make us feign some dust in the eye or something along those lines, in spite of how hard-arsed we pretend to be. This particular one was some advice from a mother to her daughter.
"Yackity-yack-yack. Never lose touch with your girlfriends just because you've met Mr. Right, because you will ALWAYS need them. Dribble, dribble, drat." Forgive me, I've forgotten the start and the end, but the bit inbetween was important to me.
Well, I have some friends. I have some really good friends such as this mother described. I have my 5 school buddies, whom I meet with every 3 to 4 months. We do lead very different lives now, but it's always fascinating how we all get it back together after a long interval. It's like nothing's the same and yet nothing has changed, every time we meet.
Then I have a trio thing with my two leading ladies at the office too and these rendezvousses (what is the plural of rendezvous anyhow?) are more regular, since we simply see each other more often. We snuck out of the office again at just about 18:00 (terrible, innit?) this evening for a bowl of rice or noodle at what is fast becoming our little sanctuary. Hell, we're hipper than anybody around us would ever (need to) know and that's good enough for us. Can't say it is helping my reputation of being a complete diesel dyke, but I've started agreeing with my manager (who has become intent on calling me a lesbian due to the attention I get from my girlses) rather than fighting it. It totally freaks him out, so it's a win-win!
And so we girls befriend many a "sista from another mista" throughout our lifetimes. The ones who really crack you up with every word they utter and yet just get you without you even needing to say a thing. And if it is simply a girl-thing, I really pity you poor blokes. It's bloody marvellous, this sisterhood, so I'm signing up for life myself.
Call me what you like ... I've got my back covered!
"Yackity-yack-yack. Never lose touch with your girlfriends just because you've met Mr. Right, because you will ALWAYS need them. Dribble, dribble, drat." Forgive me, I've forgotten the start and the end, but the bit inbetween was important to me.
Well, I have some friends. I have some really good friends such as this mother described. I have my 5 school buddies, whom I meet with every 3 to 4 months. We do lead very different lives now, but it's always fascinating how we all get it back together after a long interval. It's like nothing's the same and yet nothing has changed, every time we meet.
Then I have a trio thing with my two leading ladies at the office too and these rendezvousses (what is the plural of rendezvous anyhow?) are more regular, since we simply see each other more often. We snuck out of the office again at just about 18:00 (terrible, innit?) this evening for a bowl of rice or noodle at what is fast becoming our little sanctuary. Hell, we're hipper than anybody around us would ever (need to) know and that's good enough for us. Can't say it is helping my reputation of being a complete diesel dyke, but I've started agreeing with my manager (who has become intent on calling me a lesbian due to the attention I get from my girlses) rather than fighting it. It totally freaks him out, so it's a win-win!
And so we girls befriend many a "sista from another mista" throughout our lifetimes. The ones who really crack you up with every word they utter and yet just get you without you even needing to say a thing. And if it is simply a girl-thing, I really pity you poor blokes. It's bloody marvellous, this sisterhood, so I'm signing up for life myself.
Call me what you like ... I've got my back covered!
Monday, September 8, 2008
Now is the winter of our discontent
... and I sure as hell wish somebody would make it glorious summer again. Jeez, even a sort-of-a kind-of-a summer will do for now!
I never thought I'd be one to ever say this since I have always preferred winter. But there you go: people apparently do change! I put it down to my need to dive.
Since taking up the extreme (soooo not descriptive of me!) sport of scuba diving and after a scary, not to mention embarrassing, stint of "I can't do this and why the hell am I even trying", I find myself totally addicted.
After really rather hating the pool sessions, I really loved the first shore dives we did. Mind you, the dives were regarded as below average by the instructors of my club, FBUC, but my ignorance of any better begs me to differ. And now this bad weather is just preventing me from doing my qualifying dives and I'm miffed!
Guess that's why Patience is a virgin ...
I never thought I'd be one to ever say this since I have always preferred winter. But there you go: people apparently do change! I put it down to my need to dive.
Since taking up the extreme (soooo not descriptive of me!) sport of scuba diving and after a scary, not to mention embarrassing, stint of "I can't do this and why the hell am I even trying", I find myself totally addicted.
After really rather hating the pool sessions, I really loved the first shore dives we did. Mind you, the dives were regarded as below average by the instructors of my club, FBUC, but my ignorance of any better begs me to differ. And now this bad weather is just preventing me from doing my qualifying dives and I'm miffed!
Guess that's why Patience is a virgin ...
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Cousin vs. Scuzzin
Felt like a right "eejit" this morning. I called at my cousin's place to see if we could pop in, since I get on really well with his wife. My conversation with her is not worth mentioning here until I ask:
"Hey, what should I bring along!"
"Nothing really." says she.
"Maybe some cola or something?" I offer, just because I am persistently annoying about these things.
"Nah," she says "there's still plenty left from last night."
"Oh, okay. We'll see you soon then!" And we say our goodbyes.
Then I think over her pre-greeting statement while sipping the last of my morning coffee and it finally hits me ... "plenty left from last night" ... we forgot my cousin's birthday bash! In fact, we completely forgot his birthday! As the realisation hit home, I felt the need to rehearse the intro to "4 weddings and a funeral" for a bit!
We had a seriously lazy day yesterday. Late breakfast, short trudge around the mall, spoil the niece in the games arcade and take her out to dinner to what she believes to be a five-star restaurant (Spur) and off to bed soon after. Just a regular weekend, right? I thought so anyhow.
Turns out we completely blow for not pitching at a party we replied to over a week ago! I could blame it on having a lot on my mind what with having to go to JHB for most of the week or even on feeling a little run down with the cold, etc. But the truth is simply that we forgot about the party. My entire family (and, trust me, we fill a banquet hall on our own) was there and none of them thought to check in with me either. They just assumed I was tired after the scuba dive, which might have been a FABULOUS excuse ... if it actually happened!
Anyhows, beg-beg, grovel-grovel. But it seems we were forgiven before we even apologised.
G&M, when you finally get connected to the internet and happen upon my blog: You are really of the nicest people we know. That's why we hang out with you ...
... we're hoping some of it rubs off eventually!
"Hey, what should I bring along!"
"Nothing really." says she.
"Maybe some cola or something?" I offer, just because I am persistently annoying about these things.
"Nah," she says "there's still plenty left from last night."
"Oh, okay. We'll see you soon then!" And we say our goodbyes.
Then I think over her pre-greeting statement while sipping the last of my morning coffee and it finally hits me ... "plenty left from last night" ... we forgot my cousin's birthday bash! In fact, we completely forgot his birthday! As the realisation hit home, I felt the need to rehearse the intro to "4 weddings and a funeral" for a bit!
We had a seriously lazy day yesterday. Late breakfast, short trudge around the mall, spoil the niece in the games arcade and take her out to dinner to what she believes to be a five-star restaurant (Spur) and off to bed soon after. Just a regular weekend, right? I thought so anyhow.
Turns out we completely blow for not pitching at a party we replied to over a week ago! I could blame it on having a lot on my mind what with having to go to JHB for most of the week or even on feeling a little run down with the cold, etc. But the truth is simply that we forgot about the party. My entire family (and, trust me, we fill a banquet hall on our own) was there and none of them thought to check in with me either. They just assumed I was tired after the scuba dive, which might have been a FABULOUS excuse ... if it actually happened!
Anyhows, beg-beg, grovel-grovel. But it seems we were forgiven before we even apologised.
G&M, when you finally get connected to the internet and happen upon my blog: You are really of the nicest people we know. That's why we hang out with you ...
... we're hoping some of it rubs off eventually!
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Take me to your dealer!
The dull throbbing in my wrist is just a gentle reminder of the pain that consumed me this morning. Short version: I got me some drugs ... I got me some GOOD drugs, man!
I am totally zonked out on some kind of pain killer/anti-inflammatory combination. No wonder they told me not to have it before having a meal! Here I am, typing away with a hand I could not brush my hair with this morning.
Which reminds me: I've discovered a couple of things today:
1) My left hand is useless ... plain useless!
2) I am unable to dress with only my left hand and need assistance with various clasps and suchlike. Super for the self-esteem.
3) One hand cannot tie long hair into a ponytail ... and neither can two perfectly good hands attached to a 40-something male, it would seem!
4) Non-prescription drugs, for all the bad publicity it gets, are undeniably useful.
So maybe, once my daze wears off, I'll even bother to read what the contra-indications are of this drug. Just wish they would translate the pamphlet into "English for idiots" too.
But for now at least, I feel gooooood!
I am totally zonked out on some kind of pain killer/anti-inflammatory combination. No wonder they told me not to have it before having a meal! Here I am, typing away with a hand I could not brush my hair with this morning.
Which reminds me: I've discovered a couple of things today:
1) My left hand is useless ... plain useless!
2) I am unable to dress with only my left hand and need assistance with various clasps and suchlike. Super for the self-esteem.
3) One hand cannot tie long hair into a ponytail ... and neither can two perfectly good hands attached to a 40-something male, it would seem!
4) Non-prescription drugs, for all the bad publicity it gets, are undeniably useful.
So maybe, once my daze wears off, I'll even bother to read what the contra-indications are of this drug. Just wish they would translate the pamphlet into "English for idiots" too.
But for now at least, I feel gooooood!
Friday, September 5, 2008
Rub-a-dub-dub, two girls in a tub!
The scene is set: a tub filled with hot water and frothy bubbles, add two girls of similar outlook on life and what are you bound to get? Well, some serious bonding time and loads of laughter, of course!
Enough of that nonsense. So, I'm back from the mine-dump known to some as Gangster's Paradise. And good bloody riddance too (says the Gautengalengers). Not only did I have to suffer the general surroundings, an attack on all my senses what with a horror of a cold, but I also went and did something to my (previously injured) hand and am biting my lip with the pain as I type. Jeez, I am seriously starting to crank up here.
But I'm home ... and my favourite bundle of energy is visiting. Hence the fun and games in the tub. Aaw, bless. Only 7 years old, but we are already like Thelma and Louise. It's important to surround yourself with people who make you laugh. Who cares if your age divided by theirs is a cool prime number (not telling). What matters is that she had fun, I had fun ... and that we have no intention of even wiping the bathroom floor, so there!
So I say to her: "Let's play a game."
"Yeah," she says, "let's play Fear Factor!"
WTF, right? She's 7 bloody years old! Isn't there an age restriction on that show?
"Okaaaaay, but I am not eating any cockroaches!" I state my case quite categorically.
"Eew! Or any gross eye-balls!" she quickly adds, pulling her face suitably in disgust.
Well! Time to quickly switch to a safe game of "I spy".
I've read somewhere that "We don't stop playing because we get old, we get old because we stop playing!"
Cheers to that! And cheers to good, old, gut-wrenching, hysterical fun.
Enough of that nonsense. So, I'm back from the mine-dump known to some as Gangster's Paradise. And good bloody riddance too (says the Gautengalengers). Not only did I have to suffer the general surroundings, an attack on all my senses what with a horror of a cold, but I also went and did something to my (previously injured) hand and am biting my lip with the pain as I type. Jeez, I am seriously starting to crank up here.
But I'm home ... and my favourite bundle of energy is visiting. Hence the fun and games in the tub. Aaw, bless. Only 7 years old, but we are already like Thelma and Louise. It's important to surround yourself with people who make you laugh. Who cares if your age divided by theirs is a cool prime number (not telling). What matters is that she had fun, I had fun ... and that we have no intention of even wiping the bathroom floor, so there!
So I say to her: "Let's play a game."
"Yeah," she says, "let's play Fear Factor!"
WTF, right? She's 7 bloody years old! Isn't there an age restriction on that show?
"Okaaaaay, but I am not eating any cockroaches!" I state my case quite categorically.
"Eew! Or any gross eye-balls!" she quickly adds, pulling her face suitably in disgust.
Well! Time to quickly switch to a safe game of "I spy".
I've read somewhere that "We don't stop playing because we get old, we get old because we stop playing!"
Cheers to that! And cheers to good, old, gut-wrenching, hysterical fun.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Join my "Cure the common cold" campaign
Why is it that everybody is looking for so many cures to so many rare illnesses, but nobody has bothered to find a cure for the common cold?
Is there already a cure, but pharmaceutical companies do not want to divulge the secret and thereby kill their highest revenue generator - non-prescription drugs to alleviate the symptons of cold and flu?
Over the years (and I've had some) I have come to realise something about the common cold: You can take a load of said non-prescription drugs and wait two weeks for your cold to clear, or you could just do nothing and wait 14 days!
And why is it that soooooo many Souf Efricans call their colds flu? A big fat excuse to stay off work, I'd say. And next time I get a cold, er, I mean the flu, I am going to do the same.
Forget the campaign ... I surrender!
Atchoooo!
Is there already a cure, but pharmaceutical companies do not want to divulge the secret and thereby kill their highest revenue generator - non-prescription drugs to alleviate the symptons of cold and flu?
Over the years (and I've had some) I have come to realise something about the common cold: You can take a load of said non-prescription drugs and wait two weeks for your cold to clear, or you could just do nothing and wait 14 days!
And why is it that soooooo many Souf Efricans call their colds flu? A big fat excuse to stay off work, I'd say. And next time I get a cold, er, I mean the flu, I am going to do the same.
Forget the campaign ... I surrender!
Atchoooo!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Just wipe your mouth ... you still have some BS stuck there!
If I were ever to meet the SOB who invented "the meeting", I refuse to take responsibility for my actions. No need to even ask if it is worth going to jail for. I would willingly become Natalie's ho for 20 to life, just for the privilege of permanently erasing the smile off that man's dial.
And yes, of course it was a man who invented this formal waste of time together with the torture chamber we lovingly refer to as the boardroom. In fact, we are probably talking about the same moron who has men worldwide donning a noose every morning and calling it formal work attire.
Case in point, the weekly project update/scheduling type of meeting: "So, lets see what we scheduled last week, what we did and/or did not do, why we did and/or did not do it and how we can do it and/or not do it again this week or even next”. Just the shuffling of what was important last week with what was clearly over-scheduled for this week is mind-numbing. We didn't get it remotely right last week, so what makes us think it's gonna work this week?
To be totally honest, I have been privy to these type of meetings for a good while now (STFU!) and in various different capacities. I have yet to see it work, even 80% of the time for 80% of the people being scheduled. I'm not saying you shouldn't plan what you ought to be working on from day to day. Just that a schedule tends to be as constant as the colour of a chameleon walking slowly over a smartie box. And it is really hard work for the poor sucker who gets to maintain it.
And then come the softer, people skills. Management want this and the business dictates that and we should all work together toward the greater good of humanity ... Rrrrrrrrrip. No wait, just a larger bottom line for the shareholders will suffice, thank you very much. Not to mention that we should all feel a sense of self-satisfaction from learning new skills and broadening our own understanding of the the business at large.
But then comes my favourite part ... talk of renumeration and/or incentives. Now, suffice it to say that I enjoy these discussions about as much as listening to what my uncle was doing about the strange rash he developed under his left armpit. Mind you, mum will still insists on telling the story. Same with incentive management ... you know about it and it's punted to you with more enthusiasm than is experienced in kindergarten around story-time. But somewhere along the line the message is lost in translation ... mostly at the part where you have to work your butt off and sell your soul to the devil (again) to achieve said incentive. Just a rough guess though, you tell me!
On the upside, these meetings make me feel like a kid again! Pinky swear!
They really make me want to cry like a two-year old!
And yes, of course it was a man who invented this formal waste of time together with the torture chamber we lovingly refer to as the boardroom. In fact, we are probably talking about the same moron who has men worldwide donning a noose every morning and calling it formal work attire.
Case in point, the weekly project update/scheduling type of meeting: "So, lets see what we scheduled last week, what we did and/or did not do, why we did and/or did not do it and how we can do it and/or not do it again this week or even next”. Just the shuffling of what was important last week with what was clearly over-scheduled for this week is mind-numbing. We didn't get it remotely right last week, so what makes us think it's gonna work this week?
To be totally honest, I have been privy to these type of meetings for a good while now (STFU!) and in various different capacities. I have yet to see it work, even 80% of the time for 80% of the people being scheduled. I'm not saying you shouldn't plan what you ought to be working on from day to day. Just that a schedule tends to be as constant as the colour of a chameleon walking slowly over a smartie box. And it is really hard work for the poor sucker who gets to maintain it.
And then come the softer, people skills. Management want this and the business dictates that and we should all work together toward the greater good of humanity ... Rrrrrrrrrip. No wait, just a larger bottom line for the shareholders will suffice, thank you very much. Not to mention that we should all feel a sense of self-satisfaction from learning new skills and broadening our own understanding of the the business at large.
But then comes my favourite part ... talk of renumeration and/or incentives. Now, suffice it to say that I enjoy these discussions about as much as listening to what my uncle was doing about the strange rash he developed under his left armpit. Mind you, mum will still insists on telling the story. Same with incentive management ... you know about it and it's punted to you with more enthusiasm than is experienced in kindergarten around story-time. But somewhere along the line the message is lost in translation ... mostly at the part where you have to work your butt off and sell your soul to the devil (again) to achieve said incentive. Just a rough guess though, you tell me!
On the upside, these meetings make me feel like a kid again! Pinky swear!
They really make me want to cry like a two-year old!
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Cheating at solitaire
I've never understood why people would bother to play solitaire if they were going to make up their own rules. I mean, rather play a game of "I-really-am-too-dumb-to-get-it-right-so-I-am-going-to-make-it-easy-enough-for-a-2-year-old-on-a-sugar-rush" if you are too afraid of failing.
Honestly, what's the worst that could happen? The game will play out before the cards do. Big bloody deal. I am of the opinion that the one win after several failed attempts is worth infinitely more than winning at the mock version every time.
So why is it that we cannot even be honest with ourselves? Everybody wants to be that guy/gal (let's be politically correct here) who loves a challenge, but how many of us really are? Will the real Chuck Norris please stand up!
I am not excluded from this fate worse than playing the triangle in the school band and would never profess to be. Braver on paper than in reality, I am. And even then I am not being totally honest to you or myself. So many things I would love to be or do (Or is it people I want to be or do? Sorry, couldn't resist). But when the cards are on the table I find myself folding, again and again.
And why the hell do we torture ourselves like this, I have to wonder. Why do we care so much what other people think? Most importantly ... who the fuck's even looking anyhow?
That's the secret, you see. We're all here on this planet with the same intention really, so sorry if you were intent on being unique. Who doesn't want to, at the end of the journey, scream out: "Yeeeeeehah!"? So why are we so afraid to do whatever it is we really want to do and possibly even have the time of our lives?
Still reading? What? You think I have the answers? I'm just another freak talking to an electronic page here!
All I know is that, if some other punk is out there living my dream, so can I!
Honestly, what's the worst that could happen? The game will play out before the cards do. Big bloody deal. I am of the opinion that the one win after several failed attempts is worth infinitely more than winning at the mock version every time.
So why is it that we cannot even be honest with ourselves? Everybody wants to be that guy/gal (let's be politically correct here) who loves a challenge, but how many of us really are? Will the real Chuck Norris please stand up!
I am not excluded from this fate worse than playing the triangle in the school band and would never profess to be. Braver on paper than in reality, I am. And even then I am not being totally honest to you or myself. So many things I would love to be or do (Or is it people I want to be or do? Sorry, couldn't resist). But when the cards are on the table I find myself folding, again and again.
And why the hell do we torture ourselves like this, I have to wonder. Why do we care so much what other people think? Most importantly ... who the fuck's even looking anyhow?
That's the secret, you see. We're all here on this planet with the same intention really, so sorry if you were intent on being unique. Who doesn't want to, at the end of the journey, scream out: "Yeeeeeehah!"? So why are we so afraid to do whatever it is we really want to do and possibly even have the time of our lives?
Still reading? What? You think I have the answers? I'm just another freak talking to an electronic page here!
All I know is that, if some other punk is out there living my dream, so can I!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Pimp my ride
So I'm driving in to work and what do you know: another funky piece of German engineering ahead of me. Ugh! I seriously hate these cars! Sadly, the suburb I hail from is notorious for the older models in retro colours with matching wheel-caps to boot. I've picked a burial spot for the lot, but alas, I have been unsuccessful in procuring sponsorship for my "Save the planet from the really butt-ugly box merc" campaign. So please understand my distress at being stuck in traffic behind this guy for any length of time, let alone the half an hour I was blessed with this morning.
I digress ... So checking out this "older" dude (hmmm … I’m becoming unsurprisingly cautious in my use of this word of late), I have to restrain a raucous outburst at his ridiculous attempt to hide the fact that he IS older than he would prefer to be behind silver sunnies that are way too tight. Think along the lines of John Travolta in Grease and you'll get the picture. The business suit jacket is neatly hung up on a hanger behind his seat and you just know this guy has probably never gorged on a Big Mac or other suitable meals such as spare ribs in this car. Everything about this guy screams anal ...
Nevertheless, he is sitting chatting away on his mobile (as you do in a lawless society such as the one I was born into) and suddenly carelessly flicks his cigarette butt from his window. And this is the point at which I lose my sense of humour with this particular a-hole! It is only by the sheer lack of attention seeking genes that I refrain from honking my Korean horn at the bastard and show him my prowess of international sign language.
Just proves again that you just cannot buy class!
I digress ... So checking out this "older" dude (hmmm … I’m becoming unsurprisingly cautious in my use of this word of late), I have to restrain a raucous outburst at his ridiculous attempt to hide the fact that he IS older than he would prefer to be behind silver sunnies that are way too tight. Think along the lines of John Travolta in Grease and you'll get the picture. The business suit jacket is neatly hung up on a hanger behind his seat and you just know this guy has probably never gorged on a Big Mac or other suitable meals such as spare ribs in this car. Everything about this guy screams anal ...
Nevertheless, he is sitting chatting away on his mobile (as you do in a lawless society such as the one I was born into) and suddenly carelessly flicks his cigarette butt from his window. And this is the point at which I lose my sense of humour with this particular a-hole! It is only by the sheer lack of attention seeking genes that I refrain from honking my Korean horn at the bastard and show him my prowess of international sign language.
Just proves again that you just cannot buy class!
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