Scrapbooking With Words

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Wed, 23 May 2007 00:51:02 +0100

My blog has moved. Please visit: www.scrapbookingwithwords.com
Or email scrapbookingwithwords@googlemail.com

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You can't tie a blogwhore down.

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 02:07:25 +0000

I've finally settled on a WordPress blog. Not as customisable as blogger, but it has great web stats and is much easier to structure. The benefits over a Vox account are again, the web stats, plus the ability to allow external readers to comment (Wordpress has an excellent anti-spam feature to prevent verbal diahorrea being plastered all over the place in the form of "viagra4-u-now!!!" comments) That's always been a huge downside for me with Vox - I left behind all my friends who don't have Vox accounts. If open commenting opens up with Vox, I'll think about moving back home. ;)

You will find me here: Scrapbooking With Words

I plan on reading the blogs I'm signed up to here - and I haven't decided whether I'll cross post or not (Wordpress has no auto-cross posting feature for Vox). Vox's major attraction was it's gorgeous themes, the ability to cross post and the more 'personal' nature of the blogs and bloggers.. However, I'm sold on the open commenting of Wordpress. I'm also sold on the rss/atom/email feeds. And I'm officially moving out (until Vox does something else to impress me - then the blogwhore will move again, probably!)

I still plan on reading my neighbourhood posts, and may cross post entries to Vox (that sounds like hard work.. Maybe not, eh?)

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Blog whore..

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Thu, 01 Feb 2007 02:48:34 +0000

Aside from flaunting myself on Vox - I'll be cross-posting to blogger - http://scrapbookingwithwords.blogspot.com/

Why? I felt like a change. ;)

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Interactively defying authority..

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Thu, 01 Feb 2007 02:44:24 +0000

I stood at the front of the board room, projector pen in hand: "Does anyone have any questions?"

A sea of blank faces greeted me. Apparently, the entire team already knew everything there was to know about using email marketing.

"Ok... Lets take a break, and meet back in five mi..."

Before I could finish, everyone stood up and left.

I stared at the endless pages of my Power Point presentation. I'd been up all night preparing for this training session. The Managing Director of this particular company was having a bit of a love affair with Power Point. His favourite phrase was "Lets present that on the projector!@#" Ugh.

In light of the fact that I hadn't managed to consume enough liquid crack (coffee..) that morning, and that my letter of resignation was already written. I just wasn't in the mood for pretending I gave a toss about e-marketing, or anything else for that matter.. I didn't. And I knew full well that my presentation was boring these poor people to death. This wasn't me - this wasn't how I did things.. No one wants to listen to someone talk for hours - people need to engage.

After our break (during which time I managed to chain smoke myself back into reality), I decided that I had two options. I could lose all credibility and self-respect by delivering this appauling Power Point presentation that the MD had requested and my boss had authorised. Or, I could take matters into my own hands and risk getting a mouthful from the MD and/or my boss.

I'd already written my letter of resignation, and I was determined to walk away knowing that I'd achieved something. So, I put the presentation to one side and announced that we were going to do something a bit more 'interactive'.

With everyone sat back at their desks, with steaming cups of coffee and notepads - I stood up and talked everyone through the new software. All of a sudden the bored sea of middle-aged faces disappeared as the paired-up staff went through the basics of the system. I flitted between pairs, answering questions and guiding people who were stuck.

I'd always wanted to be a nursery school teacher, as I thought it would be the most rewarding age to teach. What could be more satisfying than teaching a child how to write his or her first word?

I'm not sure it was more satisfying than my dream-job. But as I walked out of the office at six thirty this evening - despite hating my boss - I had a smile on my face. I have to be honest - I was in my element doing that training session today. I knew I'd taken a risk by scrapping the well-planned presenation and letting ten IT-shy middle aged marketers loose with new software. But as soon as I started the presentation, I knew it wouldn't work. You can't explain some things, you have to show people. Once they've done it for themselves, it all suddenly makes sense.

It wasn't the fact that everyone understood the basics that had made me smile. It was quite simply that instead of spending the afternoon pretending to listen to me - everyone seemed to have learnt something and had a bit of fun.

I'm probably going to be told off by my boss tomorrow. We don't 'do' flair - we do traditional and professional. I train, I support, I explain. I'm not paid to be creative - I'm paid to be helpful and patient. To explain things simply in a straight forward manner. But that doesn't always work. Just because people are 'adults' it's usually assumed that a 'seminar' is the best approach to training. Why not let people loose and take the old-school Do-and-Learn approach sometimes?

I'm intelligent enough to know when something's wrong and when something's right. And when our client shook my hand tonight, thanking me for an 'innovative' session - I knew I'd done the right thing.

I still haven't made my mind up about that letter of resignation - but I've made up my mind about something.. If I do leave, it wont be my loss, and I realise that now.

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Sisterly Love..

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Thu, 01 Feb 2007 00:48:29 +0000

My sister and I have never got on. Our dysfunctional love-hate relationship began when I was about six, and she stopped being a new 'doll' to play with, as she grew into the hair-pulling toddler-age.

She's family, she's my baby sister - and I'll stand behind her, I'll fight her fights for her and I'll rip the balls off any man who tries to mess her around. I love her. But I don't exactly like her. And the feeling is absolutely mutual.

Chalk and cheese doesn't even begin to describe us. My pot-smoking, loud-mouthed tart of a little sister speaks to my parents in ways that I would never even contemplate. Her 'punk/emo' dress sense and dodgy blonde highlights make me cringe, and her boyfriends are, without fail, intolerable.

She dropped out of college a few weeks before her final exams, and began (after a year of doing absolutely fuck-all) a job working in a dead-end admin job. Night after night she would (and still does) come home and relay how 'stressful' her job was. She'd then march down to the pub, come home wasted - and be at least an hour late for work every morning. How she manages to keep that job, I will never know.. But recently, I've seen a change.

Her tiny plaid mini-skirts, complete with multiple chains and skull keyrings, have been occasionally exchanged for clothing that would be viewed as 'acceptable' for work (i.e. clothing that doesn't scream 'prostitution'). She's very slowly realising that her boyfriend is a waste of space - and while she loves him, that doesn't excuse the fact that he's an arsehole.

My baby sister seems to be (gradually) growing up. About time too..

Since the other-half has been away, I have admittedly become reasonably boring. A year ago, you'd have found me crawling home from clubs at 6am, or dancing on tables with my clan of close male friends. I had a reputation for being a 'party girl'. Opening nights for clubs and bars were attended without fail, and I could drink most people under the table.

And now? My best friend is suddenly my mother. I've taken up scrapbooking and I can't remember the last time I went to a decent bar. I swapped my slutty knee boots and mini skirts for knee-length office attire (with slutty-knee-boots underneath, for good measure). Somewhere along the line, I got old. I got mundane

The final kick in the teeth, was a comment my sister made to my mother - which was kindly relayed to me:
"Don't you think she should make some friends or something? I mean, she hangs out with you. That's not normal."

I moved cities under a year ago - and left my friends behind. I know people here, but I don't really have any desire to spend my free time with them. I work hard during the week - I don't have time for a social life. Weekends, I want to relax (and admittedly, cram a bit of work in where I can). I've swapped cosy nights on the sofa with the other-half, for cosy nights on the sofa with my mum. Why?

I'm lonely. It's not that I've swapped the party-girl lifestyle for something second-rate. I love coming home from work, cooking dinner for the other-half and I - sharing a bath and curling up to watch crap tv all evening. After spending years sharing each other with our group of friends - we finally have a place of our own, a bit of privacy - and a lot of quality time. But with him away travelling and my social circle in another city - I'm flying solo.

Quite honestly, I'd much rather spend the weekend with my mum and multiple bottles of good red wine - than spend it in dodgy pubs with people who don't really interest me. My mum really is my best friend. We laugh at the same things, we get drunk after two glasses of wine - and we gossip about the old-times and the people we both know. I never really read anything into that. Since I moved, all my time has been spent with the other half, or with my family. That's why I moved. After years of being away from the people I loved the most - it was time to come 'home' and spend time with the people who really mattered - my family.

However, I'm not going to pretend that my sister's comment didn't hit me like a smack in the face. Is it really 'not normal' to want to spend time with my mother instead of whoring it up in bad nightclubs with 'acquaintances'? The way I spend my free time has changed. After a week at work - I'm quite simply too knackered to want to do anything but relax and have some 'me' time.

After my mother told me of the 'not normal' comment that my sister made. I had a brief "oh God, my little sister thinks I'm really boring..." moment. I concluded that I might be boring, but I wasn't bored. With the other-half away - I needed company that wasn't false. I needed my best friend. My mum.

You can imagine my horror last night - when my sister called me and mumbled, "So uh, what are you doing on Saturday night?" My sister, who spends her saturday nights with her boyfriend and group of friends, drinking vodka, smoking pot and 'swaying' to noise that quite simply does not pass as music - wanted to know what I was doing Saturday night.

My answer - "Nothing..." - was met with, "Didn't think so. Do you want to like, uh.. Hang out or something?"

I almost dropped the phone. Despite being totally alone in my living room - I raised an eyebrow and replied, "Hang out? What, me and you?"

My sister told me that she was at a 'loose end' this Saturday. Her boyfriend was away, her friends were all busy - and she wondered if I would like to 'watch some movies and uh, like, drink some... wine?"

She doesn't drink wine. She drinks vodka. Or alcopops (usually with vodka chasers). She doesn't watch movies - she watches MTV, and she is never under any circumstances at a 'loose end' on a Saturday night.

I was tempted to tell her that I was busy - that I didn't really want to spend a Saturday night sat on my sofa in silence with her.. But I was brought up with manners - and replied, "Sure, that sounds good."

As I hung up the phone, I realised what had just happened. I was no longer looking out for my baby sister - my baby sister, despise disliking me even more than I did her - was looking out for me. I had been given the pity vote. My reward? Saturday night with Wednesday Adams' twin.

I've spent most of today replaying our short conversation, over and over. I'm filled with a sense of loyalty and love, suprised that she would even notice that I'm lonely and at a constant 'loose end' without the other-half or the company of my usual group of friends. On the other hand, I am utterly mortified that my little sister would take pity on my social life - to the point where she would actually feel that she needs to spend time with me. Utterly. Mortified.

Sure, we love each other. But quite honestly, we can't stand each other. More to the point, she can't stand movies or wine. Rather than tell her to shove her pity vote up her backside - I'm so touched that she'd actually care - that I'm going to spend Saturday night pretending that my other-best-friend, is my little sister.

Her reaction to my cautious reply was laced with false excitement, "Great. I'll bring my toothbrush.."

So not only will we be spending Saturday night in each other's company - we'll be having a sleepover. I can't find the words to express how utterly over joyed I am. Really. Heh.

God, I hope she brings pot.

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Final straw?

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Mon, 29 Jan 2007 14:29:06 +0000

As I crammed the remenants of a 'feel-better' giant vanilla slice into my mouth in my lunchbreak, I mentally planned out my letter of resignation.

Dear Boss.

You're a third rate wanker who deserves absolutely no respect and a great big smack in the face..

Shove your job up your backside.

Yours Sincerely,

Arcadia

I sucked the icing off my fingers and audibly sighed as I watched a stream of emails pour into my Outlook inbox.

I turned off the monitor, walked out onto the street and had a well deserved smoke. I leaned against against the cold brickwork, wind whipping my newly-straightened hair across my face, and four inch heels pinching my toes. Not one inch of me wanted to go back into that office. I like my job. But I despise my boss.. I mean, really, despise him.. Stomach-turning, teeth-sucking sort of hated. Posh little twat who went to business school and clearly did fuck all except shag dirty little tarts. He's everything I hate. He has worked for nothing, he doesn't know the value of anything. Including respect.

I wandered back to my desk, fully aware of what I wanted.

The printer sat on my desk whirred away, busy expelling a freshly printed letter. Which began:

Dear Management,

As my contract requires, I hereby provide notice of my resignation.

It didn't say "Dear boss, you're a wanker.." But it laid out all my feelings, in a professional and concise manner.

It's not admitting defeat - it's taking action. And I haven't decided whether I'll hand the letter in or not.. But I do feel much better for writing it.

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Please wipe your feet on the mat..

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Fri, 26 Jan 2007 18:08:39 +0000

After a horrendous day at work (to rephrase, "Dear boss, I think you're a fuckrag.") - I drove home in a slight rage. I even bleeped my horn at an elderly lady who was driving 30mph in a 40 zone (well for fuck's sake - some of us have to get home to our wine).

And then, as I flipped the radio over to Radio 1 (on offchance, because I hate Radio 1) - Greenday's Basket Case was playing.

I was reminded of being fifteen, kissing my (then)boyfriend in his parent's garage - and swearing that I would never change. I thought I would always have black dyed hair, wear hoodies with inappropriate words on. That I would always have boyfriends who treated me like dirt, and worst of all - that I would never be good enough for anyone 'better'.

I have changed. Back then, even at fifteen - I was a doormat. It wasn't that I was naieve, or 'too young to know better'. I was quite simply a doormat.

And now?

Well, today I told my boss that his lack of flexibility and poor attitude was about to lose him a member off staff that clients have referred to as "an asset to the company." I reduced an account manager to a gibbering mess, after verbally beating the crap out of him for using the phrase "Can I speak to the real person in charge of IT?" - and subsequently saying "Oh sorry, you can hardly blame me for thinking you're a receptionist! I've never seen an IT girl who wears blouses* - I just assume all geeky girls are lesbians!"

*(For the record my blouse was a chocolate brown sheer shirt, with tiny white polka dots, rouching at the back, a ribbon tie at the front and cute little mushroom buttons. It is not a fucking blouse. It is a beautiful shirt, and I love it dearly. ...Plus, my tits look great in it.)

Am I a bitch? Yes, actually. But only when it's deserved. And quite frankly, I like who I am now. At fifteen (give or take a few years), I did many things simply because I wanted to be liked, to fit in. I had a large group of friends, and sucession of boyfriends - and I was close to no one. Now, I have a partner who (mostly, bearing in mind that he is, afterall, a man!) understands me. I have very few friends, but the ones I do have are real friends. I have cut ties with the sucession of (ex)boyfriends that I was clinging to. Best of all, I genuinely don't care what anyone thinks. I behave politely, and I respect other people's feelings - I'm not reckless, but I speak my mind and I stand up for what I believe in.. Myself.

I'm fully aware that my boss thinks I'm mouthy and outspoken. But I am not disrespectful - I speak the truth and that's what he disliked. He picked the wrong girl to try and manipulate, and very slowly - he's starting to realise that he may just have met his match.

You see - he might be a stubborn control freak. But I spent a lot of years as a doormat. And hell hath no fury like a woman who's been walked all over.

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Dirty Little Secrets.. [1]

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 17:00:28 +0000

I've always been partial to great big, Bridget-Jones style knickers.. The ones that are huge, comfy - horrendous.

Wind sail, anyone?

Ok, they're not pretty.. But they're practical. Ish.. They are guilty of giving you a great big VPL, which makes your bottom look as though it should have it's own postcode.. They are guilty of screaming, quite obviously, "I am not going to have sex with you tonight, because I have big pants on!". But, I think my big knickers are quite cute.. Suprisingly, so does the other-half.

The other-half's first meeting with my beloved big knickers, was when I moved house..

Most things had managed to slip out of the woodwork, over the years we'd been together.. He'd heard my horrendous guffawing laughter, he'd witnessed fits of giggles that land me in tears, with hiccups .. He had tolerated my irrational love-affair with shoes that I can't walk in or afford, and the countless sets of 'pretty' underwear that I bought for no obvious reason at all. But he hadn't seen the big pants.

Granted, I had, and still have, a slight habit of buying pretty underwear when I don't really need it. But for all the pretty knickers in the world, I wouldn't give up my granny-pants.

As I emptied my enormous collection of pretty (and not-so-pretty) undies into a cardboard box - I shoved the huge pants to the bottom. I was secretly hoping that we could be together for the rest of our lives - but that, somehow, he'd still be unaware of my dirty little secret (well, clean big secret, actually!).. A tragic love affair with horrendous knickers..

As he hauled the boxes into the back of my car, he noted the rather large box marked 'undies'. Winking, he laughed, "Better be careful with these, eh?" I smiled back at him, quitely amused that he was unaware that nestling in the bottom of the box, lay ten pairs of huge knickers, that once white - were now a murky gray.. (In-amongst other horrible knickers - but that set of ten, in all honesty, really were the worst..).

(I know I should have thrown them out. But, they were comfy. And quite frankly - sometimes it's nice to slob out in your big pants and know full well that you look awful!)

Unfortunately, there were not ten pairs of huge knickers in that box. There were nine. The tenth lay on my bedroom floor - waiting to be discovered.

He did discover those knickers. He laughed, and waved them in the air like a great big grey flag..

That night, I came out of the shower to find my big knickers waiting for me..
More importantly, I found my other-half, waiting for me to put them on.

Sexy, see?

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Postcards from heaven..

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Wed, 17 Jan 2007 23:57:17 +0000

Over two weeks ago, you told me you'd sent a postcard..

I came home from work today, and there it was. Crumpled, carelessly pushed through the letterbox.. Over two weeks after you posted it.

As I flattened out the creases, I realised how very far away you are..

When you wrote that card, you were sad and homesick. You hid it well in your writing, but your voice on the phone gave you away when I spoke to you. I'm not used to hearing you cry - and I despaired - powerless, when I heard your voice shake.

Now, that time seems forever-ago. You're settled, you're happy. You have friends. You're making a difference.

And for the first time - I doubt that you'll come home the same person. This is what you were meant to do. Travel, see the world, make things better - and send postcards to those who choose to stay at home.

"I miss you. I can't wait to come home."

For better, or for worse - whether you come home the same person or not.. I can't wait for you to come home, either..

Postcard

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Re-design..

nobody@vox.com(Arcadia) — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 21:50:47 +0000

Finally! Vox released a 'personalised' way to display blogs.. The fact that I had to use existing templates for my blog design/layout, was always my pet hate with Vox.

Now I can design my own banners (and hopefully entire templates, eventually!), I'm much happier!

What did we do without Vox?

....Oh right, Livejournal. ;-)

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