22 posts tagged “work”

So I quit my job today. And I found out that apparently Elton is earning a lot more than I thought. Or rather, I knew he was earning that amount, but I never fully grasped it until someone else pointed it out.

I didn't exactly go to work today with my letter all typed and my tu-lan-ness maxed out, ready for a dramatic hurling down of the envelope with a brazen declaration on my lips. I like the people enough that the two words would've been "I quit", rather than "fuck you", but it didn't matter, because it didn't work out that way anyway.

What did happen was a sit-down with my editors, meant more to prepare me for the upcoming appraisal meeting with the even bigger boss. And when they asked how I felt about working there, I figured that was about as good an opportunity as any to break the not-so-surprising news. The signs were all there. I'd already come very close to it a while back. I guess it just took me a while to come to terms with the fact that it just wasn't working out for me.

What do you do when you realise you're eyeball deep in shit with your mouth wide open? Do you try to get used to the situation or do you get out? Does it help when you look around and there are other people who you like in the exact same situation? I'm not saying that I was alone in my situation. Hell, I got the least of it, in a sense, since I was the newest member. But I look around for the more established members of the team and they've disappeared deep into the muck a long time ago. I just don't want that life. I envy them their passion, their sense of purpose, their commitment, and I know I lack all those things, and those qualities don't develop; they start off at a certain level and slowly wear away with each rewrite.

The truth is, working in the magazine industry is tough. It's a subjective business with erratic (read: long) hours and an unspoken deference to the wishes of our advertisers. It's especially tough in Singapore because the teams are tiny and each person has to do so much more in so short a time for so little money. One particular title has just two writers for the whole magazine. Two. Their overseas office wondered why these two writers seemed to come up with everything, and were shocked out of their minds when they found out what the situation was over here.

I didn't start off going into magazine writing because I knew it was all these things and I figured then that it wasn't for me. But I decided to try, with the hopes that I would have the passion to overcome all these shortcomings. Now, at least I know for a fact that these problems are deal breakers for me. If I am to give up my life for something, it has to at least make it worth the sacrifice. Glory and recognition and feeling like a big deal for working for a big title doesn't mean much to me. What I value is time away from work with the people I love and the freedom to do and write the things that I want to. If that means I can't hold down a job any more complicated than, say, a receptionist, so be it. Money doesn't have to be great, it never was that big of an issue for me, but time is.

I was leading a life that was sinking me into depression. I woke up at 7am, worked till 7 or 8pm regularly, went back home, had dinner, showered and slept by 11pm. Even with eight hours of sleep, I woke up groggy and disoriented with a permanent knot in my shoulders. By Friday night, I was dreading Monday mornings. Sleep was my solace as it made the time past faster, and I looked forward to an end of some kind to the weekly routine. A public holiday perhaps, or getting knocked down by a car. But this wasn't school, there are no holidays to look forward to. There are deadlines, like exams, and then more deadlines. And meetings, don't forget the meetings, all four of them per issue. I was starting to have entire days of catatonia, and it scared the hell out of me. For all that I didn't entirely enjoy my previous job, I never felt so bad because of it even towards the end.

So I tendered my resignation. My two-week notice was extended to a month, because they don't think they are able to find another person for the job. I can only hope that with a visible end in sight, it will be easier to bear.

The thing that got to me most was the time crunch. We had two weeks to work on this issue. Two weeks for me to finish nine articles. Why two weeks? Because it took a while to finalize what we would actually work on, and then there's time to be allocated for layouts and rewrites. Not edits, rewrites. I guess I should take comfort in the fact that I wasn't the only person who had to do them, except it's sort of like a Holocaust victim trying to cheer herself up because there were other people in the gas chamber with her. One of my colleagues told me she was spectacularly late for this issue because not a single one of her stories would be on time. And that it was normal to be late. It sounds a little like a sales job where the target is set high enough that you'll never hit it without some miracle.

So what's next? I have no clue. Again, I quit without a job offer. Again, I still have a comfortable cushion of savings to mooch off for a while. Apparently the in thing for ex-journalists is to go off to Turkey. Having been to Turkey, I doubt I'll find anything other than lecherous men and bad kebabs (how is it possible that the country they originated from serves such horrible ones?).

Again, it is a topic of great curiosity for some people. Some ask it out of concern, as a necessary follow up question. Some ask it with a touch of urgency, as though hoping to follow in my footsteps. Some ask it with a certain derision, as though what they really want to say is that I'm just some young stupid girl with no idea of how to plan for the future. Well, I guess I should be glad I have about (based on my current salary anyway) a year's pay socked away. I think that should buy me some time to think.

Someone I spoke to today mentioned The Life of Pi, apparently about a guy stuck on a boat in the ocean with a tiger. The story basically talks about people needing a challenge in their life to make their life worth living.

I think that way of looking at life is complete bull. Life is hard enough and short enough that purposely finding something to make your life difficult is like an ostrich sticking its head into the sand. This diversion will not change the fact that we all die and become worm food. If you found out you had a terminal disease and only had a month to live, would you still be doing exactly what you're doing? If the answer is no, perhaps you should start doing more of the things you would immerse yourself in for that last month.

So I lead a hedonistic life. I do the things that please me, fuck the consequences and what other people think. I know quitting after three months is going to draw a lot of derisive lunchtime conversation from my detractors about how they knew I couldn't hack it. So what? At least I have time to pursue what I want in life. Masochism was never something that turned me on.

If I led my life worrying about what other people might think, I suspect I'd be a much less happy person. The one time in my life I decided to stick something out for longer just so I wouldn't be seen as a weakling, it almost drove me mad. That would be about two weeks ago, actually. The fact that just deciding to quit allowed me to sleep like a baby, wake up without feeling exhausted and commute to work without dread was about a clear a sign as any that this was the right decision for me right now. Perhaps it's going to fuck up my CV. Perhaps it's going to fuck up my life. That's fine. Who knows how long I have here? I'd rather make sure I'm at least happy right now.

I have come to the conclusion that just because you like to eat at a restaurant doesn't mean you should go into the kitchen. I used to absolutely love reading magazines. It was my monthly treat to myself, walking out of Kinokuniya with a sack of mags, anticipating the quiet evenings in the comfort of my bed flipping through the glossy pages.

Now though, I look through them with a critical eye, breaking down the sections, the layout, how the articles are written and so forth. Whatever joy I used to have about them has been sucked away. On the bright side, that saves me a lot of money. Well, that, and the fact that if it's published by us, I get it free anyway. That, and it frees me up to read other things, like books.

One of the unfortunate side effects of being in the business is that you realise it is a business. As with any publication, we have to offer our advertisers a little something extra because they are the ones who pay us. Six dollars does not even cover the price of paper, ink and glue that makes up the magazine; we get our money from the ads you see in them. It's not so bad if your advertisers have things worth talking about, but when it's just plain shit, I find myself hard pressed to even come up with two sentences.

The thing that bothers me the most is the fact that non-advertisers get shunted aside. Violently. The harsh reality is that every inch of space in a magazine is precious publicity we can't just give away to someone who doesn't advertise, unless the product or service is that remarkably special. And face it, for my section, it takes a lot to stand out.

Being the newest of the new, I have the unenviable task of writing snippets, those short little write ups about what's new in the market. I also do other things, but that's my monthly bugbear. It feels like I'm trying to fit a watermelon through a donut hole. Every month, the sheer amount of new stuff, press releases, product launches and so on is unbelievable. I am about as neat and organised as it gets and even then my workspace looks like a beauty company just exploded all over it. So the cruel cruel fact is, the advertisers get featured, the ones that don't wait their turn. I do play favourites, pushing the ones I like higher up the list, but even then, they may not make it if there's no space.

Which is why I've decided to put the ones I love here. I don't see why I can't, since I've tried them personally, found them amazing, and can't write about them for work. Actually, I'm going to shift over to Blogger for that, because who knows, I might be able to make it bigger than just a hobby and Vox isn't the most customisable blog engine. I'll still write here about other things, but for all the beauty stuff, go over there.

At work, I am a little different from my usual self. I'm not as loud, not as outspoken, not as enthusiastic. I find that my normal level of enthusiasm doesn't seem as welcome, since they seem to enjoy affecting a cynical nonchalance towards all things. I do feel a little bit like Ugly Betty, sans braces and suspect fashion sense. I seem to get along almost everyone at work, but of course, I don't know what they Meebo their friends about me. Colleagues are like family; you can't really choose who they are, and you're stuck with them even if you can't stand them. Sometimes it works out well, sometimes you become really efficient at your work so you can get out ASAFP.

But as the Channel 8 scriptwriters will tell you, any family will have its evil elements. Kym had the misfortune to encounter one of them.

Now, before I go on, I must explain that Kym comes across to most women as a threat. She's beautiful, with generous assets and cat-like eyes that give her a (sorry girl, but it's true) slightly bitchy appearance. If you don't know her, you may think she's one of those bitchy women who steal boyfriends and husbands for sport. The truth is, she couldn't be further from that; she can't help being born looking like a bombshell.

To be honest, when I first met Kym, I didn't expect that we'd be friends, mainly because she was hanging out with this girl who I disliked on sight. Things took a change a couple of months into training (we met at our old job), and we started being friends. Looks aside, she is a very sweet person who couldn't steal a free brochure to save her life. The only worry you could possibly have about her around your guy is your guy hitting on her, not the other way round. She values friendship so much she still keeps around some really toxic friends who keep slyly putting her down and making her feel bad about herself. The only vice she has is the fact that she loves gossip, though she doesn't go around spreading malicious lies.

Which is why I found it absolutely baffling that one of her colleagues hates her guts enough to send evil messages about her to others. I find it even more baffling that she managed to send that message to Kym. That takes skill.

And I have no clue why she would dislike Kym that much. She's been nothing but nice to that girl, even helping her to photocopy their course notes and whatnot. Unfortunately, I don't know enough about the situation to comment further, but I am pretty riled up that some bitch out there is talking shit about my friend.

What I do know is that that girl is seriously insecure. Truly, it takes one heck of a childhood trauma to hate someone when they've offered you nothing but kindness and friendship. Having checked out her Facebook page, I'm even more convinced that Kym is just a convenient target for her to take her self-esteem issues out on.

Kym is, literally, attractive. When we go out together, I harbour no illusions that the guys are checking me out; my appeal sinks in a little later after I've had time to unleash my witty charm. I have a feeling that girl doesn't like playing second banana. If that doesn't make it irritating enough for her, Kym's just a naturally friendly person who gets along with most people, and from her looks, that girl seems incredibly uptight. There's even a really good one of her frowning, that'll fit perfectly next to the dictionary entry for PMS. Ah, the wonders of Facebook.

Normally I'd go on, but I'm trying to cut down on negativity. I get enough of it as it is.

I think that's probably why I started loving pink a while back. I can't remember exactly when it started, but I find that surrounding myself with pink things puts me in a happier mode. And people encountering my wall of pink usually react in two ways; they smile or they gawk. Either way, they sort of forget what they were pissed off about for a while.

And now I've added another new pink gadget. I traded in my stupid ass HTC Touch Diamond for my new LG KF350, otherwise known as the Ice Cream phone.

First, what was so stupid about the Diamond? Despite being such an "intelligent" phone that apparently allows you to do everything, it doesn't allow you to do some very basic things, which I've ranted at length before, so go read the archives. For that price tag, I shouldn't have to trawl the net for third party software to message groups of people at a time. It hung, constantly, it was quite buggy, it required more steps than an advanced tap dancing class to do basic things like call someone from your address book or to send a message. All that, for a supposed business phone. And, AND, they wasted valuable tab space on things like weather reports. Yes, because I live in Singapore, country of ever-changing seasons.

Technically, I downgraded getting the Ice Cream, but it fits so much better with my life and functions so well, it feels like an improvement. LG used to have retarded OS that was about as user friendly as an instant detonation grenade. But the Ice Cream's OS is a drastic improvement. It's like the bastard child of Sony Ericsson, Nokia and Samsung, taking the best of each. It's like Sony Ericsson in terms of the menu layout, Nokia in its SMS functions, and Samsung in its cutesy display and sounds. Everything is customisable, including the external LED light display, which you can design by picking out the dots under the settings.

It's not as high-powered in that it doesn't have 3G or WIFI, but I can't remember the last time I made a video call or linked up to a WIFI signal outside of my house. It has a 3mp camera, no flash, unfortunately, but that's what cameras are for. It has an expandable memory using micro SD cards, supports MP3 playback, has an FM radio and supports Java games, so you can download and put them on.

But what I really really like about it is the design. It's very much like those clamshells that Docomo produces, very slim with a nice big 2.2 inch screen inside and a keypad with big tactile keys that make messaging so much easier. I am vehemently against touchscreen phones; they make messaging hell. I got the one in pink, obviously, and it's this lovely pastel shade like strawberry ice cream. The inside is white, with silver trimmings, and the keypad lights up in pink.

And the reason why I started using PDA phones in the first place - to put in appointments with greater ease - is completely satisfied by the Ice Cream. Sony Ericsson has quite a lengthy page-by-page process for this (at least, the older phones did), but its so easy on the Ice Cream, I may just do away with the planner I bought. Or not.

I got it for $338 WITHOUT a contract at the Singtel retailer at Rivervale Mall. It's similarly affordable at other places, but I went there because they gave me a good trade in price for my Diamond. Heck, I even got money back.

See, pink does make people feel happier.

As a beauty writer, I can safely tell you that what ages a person the most is being the Prime Minister of Singapore.

I don't usually follow politics. Except for the Big Three, I wouldn't recognize most of the local politicians even if they shook my hand and kissed my hypothetical baby. But catching a glimpse of Mr Lee in the papers today made me wonder for a while if the art people screwed up and put in his father's picture instead. Until I recognized him amidst the white hair and wrinkles.

And he hasn't been on the job for THAT long. It's been a couple of years, but the 56-year-old looks at least 10 years older. In just four years, his hair, which had been lightly grey at the temples, is now nearly completely white. The wrinkles are more deep set, the skin more crepey. I'm tempted to send him a tub of Biotherm Force Supreme anti-aging face cream except they might mistake it for some kind of attack.

Poor guy. And Mr Goh who was there before him underwent the exact same I-just-got-my-life-sucked-out-of-me process as well, just after a few years in office. The elder Mr Lee was actually a pretty good looking guy during the Merdeka period, pretty forceful and intense looking with much less dramatic eyebags. There's just something about that job.

And it's ironic, because to the common man, they'd probably think the job isn't too much of a hassle, mainly because all we see is the PM going to some event, smiling for the cameras, giving speeches. We don't see the background work, what goes on in their daily lives. Besides, they've got so very many men in white working under them, how stressful could it be?

In a way, it's kinda like my job. Both of them. A trainer once commented that stewardesses are like swans, all graceful and beautiful, but paddling away furiously underwater. People think that journalists, especially those for more frivolous subjects, like politics and crime, must have such easy lives, going for press conferences, getting free stuff, living the glamourous glamourous (oh the flossy flossy) life. I must say, I have a knack for picking them.

What they don't see is the hours opening a vein at our computers, attempting to find the right words, the right tone, the right angle to tell a story. The vicious edits, the copious rewrites, the desperate attempt to get it all in before the deadline. And mind you, we're actually good at stringing a sentence together.

But the thing is, it's not just the writing, it's the sourcing for the information to write on, the hunt for the pictures to use (I swear, I should've just worked on my Indesign skills and gone to be an art person instead), and the random other stuff that I have to do before I can actually write that's time-consuming and demoralizing.

One of the random other stuff is attending press events. I have no problems if you drag my ass out for something that is productive and cannot be communicated over the phone otherwise. You do NOT call me out there, make me wait for an hour before you get the show on the road, then reveal just ONE lousy product, and attempt to beef it up with some tangential sideshows that have absolutely no bearing to the product. We get a transport allowance we hope to keep most of. We don't get paid that much to begin with. Unless you're going to chauffeur us over there, think very carefully, because if I get pissed off, do you honestly think I'd still write a glowing recommendation?

The other thing is that these events are like a series of house parties featuring the same people. The hosts differ, but the core guests are the same bunch of writers from the same bunch of magazines. It's tough starting out because these people have known each other for a long time. And they've established a culture of their own that is completely baffling to outsiders.

For one, they're always late to events. ALWAYS. Coming on time is a sign of n00bness. It's something the PR people anticipate, and I've actually caught them out a few times, still not completely ready yet, when I arrived on the dot. I'm not sure whether it's some power play to remind the PR folk that we are the Gatekeepers of Knowledge or whether it was just bad habit that became institutionalized, but those are the rules. So you can go on time, stand around and look foolish for half an hour or more, or you can just go late, and settle in just as the presentation starts.

For another, they develop a visual filter that prevents them from making eye contact with people they don't know, as though strangers have a tendency to place inconvenient, irrefusable, impolite requests on them as soon as they catch their gaze. I know you're surrounded by the people you know. But how is it possible that you can manage to ignore me when I'm standing less than five feet away, looking straight at you with a smile on my face?

And mind you, I'm not exactly easy to ignore.

I have no qualms going up to random strangers and introducing myself. I have moments of shyness, but I'm an exhibitionist at heart. But it's just frustrating when you have to behave like a pushy credit card salesperson and literally stick your hand in their face just to get them to look at you. Despite their pally demeanour and their wacky photos of themselves in the last page of their magazine, there's one title whose editorial team is quite severely stricken by this odd blindness. Then again, maybe that's why; being so overexposed must result in a lot of people coming up to them and blathering on and on, so maybe it's some kind of defense mechanism they have.

The result is that I feel left out. I wouldn't go so far as to say ostracisized, but definitely left out. I can pretend to be one of the air-kissing gang, but that's just not who I am. I like meeting people, but only if they're open to it. If a gentle tap on your shell doesn't get you to come out, I'm not going to push it - hey, there are people out there who'd love to meet me.

I find it a matter of manners and emotional intelligence; whenever I'm part of a larger group and there's someone new, I introduce myself to them, especially if the person that brought them there is a social retard and doesn't do the introductions first. And I'll talk to them, get them to talk about themselves a bit. It doesn't matter if you don't give a shit, just display some interest. They may sometimes turn out to be interesting. After that person feels like you know them a little, they're more relaxed, they feel like they've built some commonality with the group, they're less likely to feel left out.

And I'm an only child. Where did these people grow up? In isolated mountaintop villages? It's a party, goddamn it. Having private conversations in one corner with your close friends is exactly what these things are about.

I digress, massively.

The third thing about the culture is to constantly function under this overall aura of chaos, flitting from one event to another with a number of goodie bags in tow, endlessly bemoaning and comparing the extent of work and the ridiculous hours you're putting in at the office.

Work is busy. It's supposed to be busy, that's why it's called "work", and not, say, "striking the lottery". And it's hard to understand how it can be so busy when most periodicals are released on a monthly basis and the newspaper journalists have to come up with a paper every day. If you took most magazines, ripped off the ads, we'd have less content than a newspaper.

A large part of it is the multiple meetings that has to be held before a magazine is published. The brainstorm meeting, where your ideas get shot down, the follow up meeting to see whether after investigation any of the surviving ideas passed muster, then smaller meetings to nail down exactly what goes into subsections. Then there is the waiting for the companies to send us their stuff to write about. PR people, please note. The earlier you get them to us, the more likely it'll get in. There's no last minute red-light special. You aren't marketing a world war. We work on issues two months in advance, which means now, even before Christmas, we're talking about Valentine's Day.

To be honest, I'm not certain how to streamline the process any further. And since I can't offer a suggestion, I won't knock the system too much.

I was told a large part of the job is all about time management. What job isn't? It's simply a matter of treating writing as less of a creative process and more as a task you have to quickly finish. That, and managing PR folks and their fervent belief that getting you to their event will result in a definite accolade for their thingy.

But as drawbacks go, my job doesn't have too many of them. As compared to my old job, at least I'm here all the time. After a bad day, I can go find Elton and cuddle with him. I'm able to go for shindigs. I get days off on public holidays. The simple joys of regular work that you white-collared folk can't begin to appreciate until you've done shift work.

Considering the Great Wall of Text that is my blog, it's hard to imagine that I would be at a loss for words. But I am. And it's driving me nuts.

First week of the Dream Job wasn't too bad.After a brief orientation, I was thrown into the deep end. Write. Now. Except I wasn't too sure what I was supposed to write, and in what sort of a tone. And it doesn't help that the qualities I appreciate in material goods, them being Cheap and Good, are not so important here, where the target audience probably owns skin care that could pay for the monthly installment of a small car.

Still, I'm not complaining. Too much. If anything, I'm just frustrated at myself for staring blankly at my computer, writing and rewriting and junking it all away to start afresh. I'm just supposed to come up with four lousy pages and I'm having such difficulty coming up with the words. It's like extracting teeth with no Novocaine. Like taking a shit with no fiber intake. Like plucking your eyebrows for the first time.

(What? I'm working for the beauty section of a magazine now. I can't just keep talking about disgusting bodily functions. I'd go with "Like a Brazillian wax with a trainee beautician" but I've never actually gone for one, so I wouldn't know. I do remember Elton's screams when I plucked one single strand of hair from his eyelid. So scarred was he, his brows remain in manly, unkempt fashion.)

See, I can't write in this pseudo stream of consciousness way for work. There is some editing process here, but not much, really. I write almost exactly the way I talk under normal circumstances. Yes, I talk a lot.

It's not that I can't adapt to a different tone. It takes time. And an actual knowledge of what that tone is. I get comments that I need to cut down on fluff, then I flip to back issues for inspiration and I see stuff like, "Fortunately, bubble gum eye colours kept girls from looking like over-enthusiastic American Idol contestants". Uh huh. 

I don't have a problem with sentences like that, in fact, I think it injects some personality into the writing, makes it something you'd connect with better. It's also strangely easier to come up with, because your brain is in a happy place, making jokes and giggling, if a wrinkly blob of human tissue can giggle. It's when you start second guessing every other word you write, every phrase you come up with that you get stuck. Your brain basically goes, "Fine, fuck it. Fuck YOU." then goes off for a extended smoke break. And you're there, staring at your screen, wondering why you can't even write a page when you churn out shitloads of stuff usually.

Which is why after five days of typing and flipping through press releases and calling PR people to ask what the fuck was it that they wanted to say in their press releases, I'm here, still writing. It's different though. More relaxing. No need to send it on to get it sent back with vague comments about needing to change it. HOW, woman. HOW do you want me to change it. I'm so frustrated with not being able to write with my usual speed and ease that I can't even bring myself to make it a question.

I think a large part of my vexation stems from the fact that I just don't want to screw this up. And because I'm so worried I'll screw this up, my cocksure-ness about my mad skillz with teh English got drastically diminished. That really just does not help. I need to remind myself that my title is "writer". There are people whose titles are "editor". Let them look through and cut down. Just churn first.

The other thing that really got me demoralized is the fact that we use Macs. I am a PC person. I fucking hate Macs. Yes, you heard me, you hippie one button piece of plasticky shit, I fucking hate Macs. This so-called "intuitive" interface is NOT intuitive AT ALL. WHAT, pray tell, is wrong with the control and alternate keys? WHY do you have to add a fucking "Apple" key to the mix? I hate that I have to use the apple key; it makes me contort my hand in an uncomfortable manner. I hate that the mouse the ancient iMac I inherit has no scroll button. I hate that things don't run properly on Macs, like CDs and my thumb drive. I hate that I can't just right click. I hate that things are hidden in weird ass places. Why is it so difficult to see how big a file is? Why isn't there a "properties" option when I right click on it? Why does the keyboard suck so much?

It got me so pissed off, I brought my own mouse on day two after I discovered that the IT guys aren't big on changing the peripherals for you. I'm still stuck with this disgusting keyboard my predecessor managed to jaundice with god knows what by god know how, but I'm thinking I probably can't just stick any old keyboard in, since it wouldn't have an apple key.

But seriously, why Macs? It's not like we're in the art department. We use Microsoft Word most of the time, for crying out loud. Is it because its cheaper? It certainly isn't faster.

Other than that, work is good. The team is small, and they're all decent people. I think I notice a correlation between the busyness and maturity. The less busy work keeps you, the more likely you are to be bitchy, because the politics are the only thing that makes work interesting. It's a good thing our office is so inundated with stuff that people are just desperately trying to stay afloat. We don't have the time to come up with soap opera-esque storylines starring the people you know.

The thing about journalism of any kind that bothers me is the disorganization. One of the main qualities of what makes something news-worthy is timeliness, so you may have planned things out, but some asshole's going to come up with something new and you're going to have to write about that inconsiderate piece of shit, screwing all your timelines and plans. Every beauty magazine will have a section featuring new products or news about products (limited edition, charity whatchamacallit, new packaging, etc.), and writing this section is a pain in the ass, I can tell you that now.

Why? Because it's never ending. You'd think you got it wrapped up, then something else comes along and you have to shove it in. You're all ready to start working on another article, and a new pimple cream gets thrust in your face. Great. Fantastic. JUST what I needed.

And I hate clutter. I HATE clutter. And my work section is as neat as it gets, and I'm still bothered by it. We just get so much stuff and not enough storage place for it all. Walking through my editor's area is like traversing a cosmetic minefield. Everybody tries to be special with different packaging and different bags, and special press releases.

But really, I'd be so much happier if there was a nice fixed format so it's less time-consuming to organize things. Because seriously, we're obliged to go through everything anyway, so if your press release puts the important stuff out there straight up like a nympho on a first date, we're more likely to write about your product with less resentment. There's nothing worse than struggling through some shit release only to find out there's nothing new or exciting about it, like when the clothes come off and you realise it's ABNT (all bra no tits).

Speaking of clothes, the $300 I spent on my new work wardrobe is starting to do a Lehman. On the bright side, the clothes are still there. Everyone dresses quite casually, fashionably so, but jeans are ok. It helps, because now my work wardrobe has expanded dramatically.

It's kind of intimidating though, because the fashion team sits opposite me. The stylist is right next to me. If you think about it, these people are the final say in what is fashionable, for our magazine, at least. I witnessed them critiquing the jacket this girl had on, and I think she went to cry herself to sleep in a corner somewhere.

Although so far, I've hear good things. My cheap leather bag I got from some random push cart, my ten dollar rose-gold square faced watch, my knit cropped turtle-neck poncho all got good comments. I'm waiting for them to gasp in shock at some particularly unfashionable thing I might own.

But for all the stereotypes about fashion people, they're not snobby. There was no cliquish excluding-the-new-girl juvenile crap. And they don't go around dissing what people have on; that girl with the unfortunate jacket was a friend of the fashion editor, and it was more of a friendly joke than an order to take off the offending item and burn it.

Perhaps one of the reasons why I have problems writing for work is because I'm doing it while the sun's still up. I wonder if I can convince them to let me work from home. Hey, if I turn in my stuff by the deadline, that's what's important, right? You don't really give a damn if I do my writing at 3am in the morning.

Gotta go now. Testing this boob cream for work.

And apparently it works out!

In a fit of desperation and late-night heebie-jeebies, I yanked out copies of various magazines in my bookshelf (which I have a lot of) and sent off my CVs to the editors. That was about two weeks ago.

And they responded.

I went for two interviews yesterday, both for the magazine business. One really wasn't what I wanted to do. All I can say is that the job title was misleading.

The other is my dream job. No, seriously, my Dream Job. As in, when the HR lady called me on the phone to say, "I know you sent your CV to this magazine editor, but would you also be interested in writing for the Beauty section of this other magazine instead?" I leapt about a foot in the air and had to bite my tongue in case I went, "Shut UP! No WAY!" Damn you, American pop culture.

Because absofuckinglutely YES! Tears literally sprang to my eyes as my brain struggled to catch up with the enormity of the situation. After she hung up, I was vibrating like a guitar string, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

At the interview, I was so nervous my voice was shaking. I'll admit I played for the sympathy votes as well with my new bosses, telling them the sob story that is my life. It wasn't like I bust in there crying and begging them to hire me, but they did ask why the heck did I go work as a stewardess if I wanted to write. So I told them the truth. Performance anxiety.

For some weird ass reason, I kept thinking that the world of magazine writing is this extremely exclusive club that is impossible to get in just by sending your CV to the company. That may be the truth, I'm not sure (I do lead a pretty blessed life). But I was always scared that I'll send my CV off to them and it'll disappear in the silent monolithic organization's recycle bin. Writing is one thing I love to do, I care about, I take pride in, and the thought of being judged on it freaked me out, because I was afraid I'm just the queen of my little island and everybody else thinks I suck. I idolized the editorial staff too much to even consider the fact that me, a mere reader, could be among them.

It was really by the kindness of that lady, Penelope, that I even got that interview in the first place. Thank you Penelope. May the gods smile down upon you and your family. May the assholes get out of your way without you having to do anything. I was so touched by her simple act of kindness, I sent her flowers. Seriously, bouquet of sunflowers and gerberas in a watering can. She could have just hit delete, but she didn't. She took the time to read through my email, thought about it for a while, and sent it to HR, most likely saying something like, "Give this girl a call. She sounds desperate."

But her simple act saved me from going into a job that drove me to drink even before I actually started it (see post on me getting plastered at Boat Quay for details). It was kinda like that scene in Constantine where he dies and the Devil is trying to pull him to hell, but at the last minute, he gets inducted into heaven. I didn't have that much resentment in me as to raise a middle finger in slow-motion at my other job, but the relief and excitement was so profound, I literally could not keep the good news to myself.

And I realize I managed to miss out the important point after so many paragraphs.

I GOT THE JOB!!!! I GOT THE JOB!!!! I'M GOING TO BE A WRITER AT ONE OF THE BIGGEST WOMEN MAGAZINE TITLES!!!

And exhale.

In the interview, I was very open and truthful. I told them I was supposed to start work on Wednesday, I told them I also interviewed with their competitor, I told them this is my dream job and I haven't had the guts to go for it because I was afraid I couldn't get it, but I'd rather try and fail than have to regret having never given it a shot. I was myself, albeit a trembly version of myself that barely managed to keep a quaver out of my voice. In no uncertain terms, I told them I want the job and I want it bad, and if they wanted me, I will work my ass off.

Fortunately, they seemed to appreciate it. One of my new bosses said she liked my spunk. I told her that's good, because I have lots of it.

And now that the excitement has gone down a bit, here's the not so bright side. The pay is not high. It's decent, you won't starve, but it's about three quarters of what I used to earn shoveling shit at 40,000 feet. Yeah, they paid us that much. And according to my new bosses, it's not like Ugly Betty or The Devil Wears Prada. No swag. I had the same reaction.

(For you people who don't know what swag is, it's the wonderful free stuff you get as samples and end up keeping anyway.)

Working hours are technically Mondays to Fridays, regular office hours, but those are like lane markings in China; just suggestions. It may bother me, but I think maybe not, since I'll actually be writing about stuff I like. Makeup. Skin care. Hair products. Oh yeah.

The HR lady at the interview was pretty worried that since A) I had a "not very cerebral" job (really, those were her exact words) before this and B) I had no experience in this industry that I might not be able to do it, or drop out after a few months because I didn't like it. I told her about my zapping experience in the airlines and how I still stuck with it for two years. And that's when I didn't really like the job.

Thing is, people have a tendency to think that I can't commit. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I'm a Gemini. But the truth is, I can stick in there for a decent amount of time. I won't up and leave in a few months. A few years, maybe, but I'll at least give it a good run before I call it quits.

I'm just so fucking happy about this. It's like I finally woke up from a long uncomfortable sleep. It's like someone slathered me in AHAs and peeled off this dull thick wetsuit-like layer that had been encasing me all this time. I feel alive! Food tastes better, things seem brighter, the birds are singing, the clouds are fluffy. It's all good. It's alllllll goooooood.

Looking back, I'm not entirely certain why I had such a major hangup about applying. The majority of the things I've done led up to this. I was an Arts student in JC, I went to the one specific university for the one specific faculty that pretty much has a through train programme with our one major newspaper and magazine publisher. I even worked for that company once as an intern. I graduated with a second upper honours, which puts me above a lot of people in my year from my tiny faculty (we had about 100+ people in our year). I even speak French. I sort of have all the advantages possible for a middle class girl. Need to put that in, because if your dad owns the publisher, THAT is the ultimate advantage.

So yes, it was a lot of good luck and sheer chance, but I did put in the hard work as well. Impossible is nothing, so says Adidas. I say, possibilities have nothing on me. Maybe I should become a professional roulette player.

What I miss about my old job:

• Leaving all this behind every few days.
  
• Having my own room in a five-star hotel where I can rock star out and be a slob.
  
• Shopping in places that have my size (Australia).
  
• Shopping in places that charge ridiculously low prices (Hong Kong, Taiwan, Bangkok, mainly)
• Eating authentic Korean food where you order one dish and they fill the whole table with kimchi and other appetizers, FOR FREE (Seoul, and oddly enough, Auckland).
  
• Feeling less guilty about buying branded stuff because it's just that much cheaper (Coach in US, LV in Paris, Gucci, Prada, Miu Miu in Milan).
  
• Krispy Kremes.
  
• Going through kickass drugstores where there's just sooo many things to look at (Japan, Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong. I even feel happy going through Watson's in Singapore).
  
• Cold weather.
  
• How the hours are all broken up.
  
• Rimmel, the make up brand. (Australia, US, Europe).
  
• Primark in the UK.
  
• Roasted duck rice from The Gold Mine in London.
  
• Watching E! TV.
  
• Watching Cartoon Network. 
• Getting paid four times a month.
  
• Getting paid that much.
  

Things I don't miss:

• Flying off every few days.
  
• Missing out on shindigs.
  
• Having to cut my hair short.
  
• Having to put on blue eyeshadow and red lipstick AT THE SAME TIME.
  
• Having to wear that uniform (it's not the most comfortable thing).
  
• Working with morons.
  
• Working for morons.
  
• Doing the same shit every single time.
  
• Waking up in a strange room.
  
• Being away from Elton.
  
• Hours of trying to look busy.
  
• Cleaning toilets.
  
• Smelling stale farts.
  
• Pretending to be humble.
  
• Pretending to be stupid.
  
• Pretending to give a shit (sure, don't take your baby out of the bassinet. It's not my fault if you get mashed baby bits after the turbulence hits).
  
• Fixing Singapore Slings.
  
• Feeling lonely and not having Elton there. 
• Having to prepare for flights.
  
• Living out of a suitcase.
  

Everything I miss, I wouldn't go back for because I can still remember the dread of having to wake up at 4am to report for a flight. Or leaving on Fridays, realizing it's another weekend I can't spend with Elton. Transcience bothers me. As much as I can adapt, I still need some level of routine, some stability.

So no, I don't regret quitting.

Remember how I mentioned before that sometimes I get so very very blue all I can do is just hang on and pray for the worst to be over? Yesterday was one of those days. Sorry man, you probably came here thinking to have a quick laugh, but this ain't one of those posts. On the bright side, I've got more archives than is normal, so go entertain yourself elsewhere.

For those who give a shit, read on.

So. I signed my life away to some bank yesterday, then I walked away and never felt more desolate. Yeah. Desolate. I had dinner by myself, then was heading home, then thought for some reason that it'll be a smashing idea to get smashed. So I headed to Boat Quay, and proceeded to drown my unnamed sorrows in beer.

Fine, cider. I hate beer.

I was seated at The Penny Black, one of the few places that served Strongbow, which, as any serious drinker will tell you, is made by dropping a beer can in a barrel of apple juice. Then again, I am, as any of my friends will tell you, a fucking cheap date. It took exactly one hour and two pints of cider before I stumbled out of the place spinning like a top, burping like a champ and feeling this strange need to glue myself to a toilet bowl, though I'm not entirely certain which end I should attach. Learning point; get drunk on less gassy things. Like Midori 7-Up, greenish pee aside.

Which is probably good, in a way. Two pints cost me $28. Daylight bloody robbery, that is.

I'd say I started drunk dialing, except I was just drunk receiving. Before I could even start calling people to slur at them eloquently, my phone rang. Poor Elton, who was probably expecting me to be at home reading my contract over and over to see if I got a shit deal, was pretty much shocked into speeding down to haul my plastered ass home. While I waited by the river for him to arrive, my good friend called, having received my cry for help earlier that evening.

And so I sobbed by the stinky river (no really, it stinks. Drunk as I was, I could remember that much), railing about why I couldn't just be content with my life and why the hell was I feeling so sad when there's nothing bad at all about it, really, and watched people get flung around in a steel capsule on bungy cords across the water. There was a period of time for some reason I felt like flinging something into the river, but what little sanity reminded me that I had on the only pair of heels I owned that was comfortable and throwing them away probably wasn't a good idea.

The best part is, I wasn't alone, so I think there was a bunch of teenagers and a couple of couples who watched my entire monologue in utter silence.

I somehow managed to get into Elton's car and got home. I don't remember much of what happened, but according to him, I was a right mess. Completely, totally and utterly fucked up in the snot and tears combination with an occasional jag of sobbing as though my heart would break. Despite all that, I managed to somehow sleep off some of it in the ride home, pretended to be sober in front of my parents, and even showered before I crawled into bed.

If it ain't clear to you yet, this is pretty atypical behaviour for me. I don't usually drink, because I don't like the taste and I don't like what it does to me. The last time I voluntarily drank was when one of my uncles, whom I used to be very close to as a kid, passed away from cancer and I didn't even fucking know about it because our families became estranged. I showed up at the wake red-faced, numb, and desperate to pretend it was just a bad dream.

So yes, I'm fucking worried for myself. Normal people go for drinks to celebrate getting a new job. I went to drink by myself to...to be honest, I'm not even sure why exactly I did it.

It was sobering though. (Hah!) Sitting at the bar, nursing my giantic glass (hey, that pint glass is huge, k?), I realized I have no fucking clue about what I want. I can't even tell you something simple, like what I want to eat. I felt like a lump of animated flesh, with no tastes, no preferences, no goals, no desires. Like a Zen alcoholic meatball. Ok, I'm still relatively slim, so maybe a hotdog.

It was vaguely disturbing, because while I've never really had an overarching ambition or dream, I could still tell you in pretty certain terms at the very least what I feel like doing at any given moment in time.

Instead, I was as numb mentally as my cheeks, which I poked every few minutes to gauge how drunk I was, and I realized I had been that numb for quite some time now, but the daily minutiae of life managed to distract me from that. I was too busy putting on false lashes to focus on what was going on inside (yes, that is most likely why I suddenly developed an intense need to perfect my eye makeup before I leave the house).

And as much as I know that that isn't healthy, I can't argue against the fact that it's true. You can't take any of this with you. What, pray tell, is the fucking point of it all? Going to work, getting married, having kids, all that. Why? In the end, we die alone. We're not even sure what happens after that. Is it just this once? Do we get recycled? Do we stick around, checking in with our loved ones? Do we want to watch our loved ones move on after we pass on? Is there hell? Am I going to be given a running tally of all the sins I've committed and have to be tortured for each and every one of them? Will I go to heaven if I just repent and confess? Which religion got it right? What if I don't speak the language?

Yeah, fucking morbid, I know.

I guess the answer to that is, since the end is inevitable, at least make the journey enjoyable. That's why all these people around me keep telling me to follow my dreams and do something I'm passionate about, while they go back to slogging at their shit jobs and envying me for having the choice. I have as much choice as you people, and look how well you're doing. So inspiring.

I'm looking for my purpose. I need validation. I need to be needed. I want it to be something big, something inspiring that makes me feel special. But I've no bloody idea how to go about finding it. And I'm not ang moh so I can't quite like disappear off to Timbuktu and find epiphanies in elk milk and wizened old men spouting cryptic one-liners. And I'm attached so I can't quite fly off to Europe and get fucked into self-awareness by some Latin lover type (what? I'm just listing the usual routes people seem to take). And it's not like there are radioactive spiders wandering around my neck of the woods eager to impart great power of the mutated kind to me.

I thought getting a job would at least help relieve some of the aimlessness. I guess not.

It was a strange combination of factors. The morning of the signing, I woke up from a bad dream in which I failed an entrance exam for that company. And I remembered the dream so very clearly. It was set in one of the old classrooms in my secondary school, which now no longer exist. There were a bunch of other people there, and they were really quite incredibly dumb. Like the you have to speak slowly and use simple English kind because they can't quite catch up with you otherwise sort.

And this over-sharing over-friendly mother hen type lady comes in and starts announcing everybody's grades, saying the usual shit about how we shouldn't feel too sad if we didn't pass, although, and this was the kicker, the test was really easy. Somehow I see through the score sheet before she says it, and I notice that my name and score is in red. And she comes to me, waving those sheets with the numbered circles that you shade and saying that I failed because I didn't fill in my name and got a couple of questions wrong.

I know, I have weird dreams. One of my worst nightmares that literally made me wake in PJs damp with sweat was of Richard Simmons tickling me mercilessly and demanding, "Tell me a story that starts with E!" The scary part was that his face kept changing to that of a clown.

Anyway, for some reason, that dream followed me like...a bad dream for the rest of the day. Going into the signing, I was told I wasn't exempted from any of the exams, and they (the HR guy and this other balding jackass who was jumping ship from Merrill Lynch) started going on and on about how tough the exams were and asking me to start going for them because I might fail and if I did, I wouldn't get paid for the two weeks after training technically ends and on and on and on.

Ok, like, seriously, FUCK YOU UNDERSTAND?! Thanks sooooo fucking much for the vote of confidence. Just because I was once a stewardess does NOT mean I'm stupid. Yes, I know a lot of them truly are, but just like I have the impression that all HR people are self-important power-tripping pricks and relationship managers are just overpaid poodle walkers does not mean I assume that that is definitely the case for every single HR person and RM.

And seriously, I think that bank needs to reconsider its hiring people. I walked away from my interview with the branch manager hyped up, convinced I'd found a stable career, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I've got a place in the world. I walked away from my interview and that contract signing with the same HR guy thinking I'm just a useless bimbo who should have hung on to my cabin crew pass because I'm just doomed to have to pay my bond after getting fired for not being able to pass a single thing even after three tries.

(Small digression, I think the "fuck you understand" phrase is quite Singaporean. For most English people "fuck you" is emphatic enough, but we just have to push the point a little further with "UNDERSTAAAAND??!?!")

Then my friend calls me and tells me that the tests are tough and I should do what they suggest and go for them ahead of time. Unconvinced (I mean, I love her, but she failed her basic theory of driving test I can't remember how many times), I called my other friend who got me the interview to begin with, and he says he failed one of them once.

Great. Fanfuckingbloodytastic. I went shopping.

Except that even just walking past shops that sold office-style clothes made me feel like puking. I went to drown my sorrows in Tom Yam noodles. That worked well for a while, then things crept back up, so I went to get drunk.

I guess the reason why I feel the way I do is because I think I'm copping out. That, and I think the universe is throwing me some pretty obvious hints that pushing mortgages and investments isn't what I'm here for. WELL THEN, WHAT THE FUCK AM I HERE FOR?!

Everyone, and I mean, EVERYONE I've spoken to about looking for work keeps telling me I should go into the magazine business because I'm pretty good at writing. Do you seriously think I don't want to? I've sent off CVs, but the fact remains that without someone on the inside, my carefully crafted one-page summary of my life is no more than those flyers you get in the mail, languishing in the trash bin of HR person's email account. And the people on the inside I've managed to get a hold of are so fucking busy they can't be bothered to give me the time of the day.

So until I manage to find my raison d'être, I've decided that it's time to at least get some help before I start throwing my shoes in the river. Or myself, for that matter.

It's not that I don't know what's going on in my head. I'm painfully self-aware. It's just that I don't buy my own bullshit. It might help for an objective third party to validate it.

That is the name of this horrendously childish and racist game that apparently Chinese kids play, but I was completely unaware of for some reason. My childhood games were more along the lines of "catching", because in the typical Singaporean manner, it was only sensible to name the game after the action one had to do to play it. I'm not entirely certain why we couldn't just call it tag like the ang moh kids.

Then again, I was puzzled for ages by the "twist" thing, until I figured out through a friend's blog it was probably a bastardized version of "peace", complete with the two fingers, which we mispronounced into "twiss", then "twist", and made it our own by sporting crossed fingers to ward off the "catcher".

But for the uninitiated, Bayi Simi Sek works by spotting a Sikh guy and pinching your less perceptive friends and making them guess what colour his turban is and you only let go when they get it right. According to Elton, they have a Sikh guy in the office who's quite a fashion plate and he turned up in a polka dotted one one day. One of the receptionists sported an insane bruise for the next week or so.

Yes, it's horribly racist. But it's also a testament to how rare Sikh guys with the full wrap are. If we played Tudung Simi Sek we'd never get anything done.

Speaking of colours, I had an "enlightening" conversation with someone who told me she got people to paint to express their emotions. It wasn't anything new, really, the fact that different cultures saw colours in different ways, and how colours can have different meanings for people.

But it did give me inspiration for this post, so let's hear it for small talk.

Let's talk about the colour red. Red is the colour of the tape I am having to deal with and the colour I am seeing thanks to said tape. As I mentioned, I managed to get a job offer. Any semblance of relief and gratitude evaporated when I realized they wanted me to fill in forms. Many many fucking forms, all asking the same thing, but in different formats so I can't quite copy and paste. The corporate soul-sucking little bastards.

In desperation, I called my friend who got into the same company before I did and asked her how she dealt with it. Apparently she too lost her patience with that nonsense and just, in her words, "anyhow anyhow fill in lah". I mean, honestly, how the heck am I able to give you a nice flat figure of what my pay used to be when it ranged by hundreds of dollars? If I happened to do a number of long flights or good medium hauls (i.e. Japan or Australia), then pay's good. If I had a number of turnarounds or shit long haul flights (i.e. Dubai-Istanbul), then too bad. It's still good, but just not as much.

So I followed her shining example and just gave a random figure based on agaration. Screw you, bureaucracy.

Grey is the colour of my mood. I had a total of two interviews with that company before they offered me the job. The first one was fantastic; I left highly optimistic, thinking I've found a nice solid career I can work in for the next decade or so. The second one left me entirely depressed and wishing I could go be someone's mistress.

After talking with Elton, I decided to dismiss most of the doom and gloom as their method of discouraging the half-hearted and just go with it, since opportunities weren't exactly practicing a B&E chez moi.

Except that Elton somehow got it into his head that I need to pursue a writing career and started setting up meetings for me with magazine editors.

Now, it is unbelievably sweet of him to do so. The only problem is, I'm feeling this incredible inertia towards the whole thing. I'm not even sure why. If he did it a month ago, when I was still thinking of the whole thing, I probably would have jumped at it. Or at least displayed a little more enthusiasm.

But at this point in time, it's like I've already put my reservations aside and am standing on the edge, ready to dive into the shark pool and he asks if I want to go see the dolphin show instead. Part of me is more than willing to start running for the dolphin show. But part of me thinks that I've finally managed to grow a pair of balls from nowhere and am now ready to man up and do something that I've never done and had never dared to do before.

I recognise the wisdom in his words. This is not a job I will be happy at. I should be able to tolerate it, but I'm not sure it'll bring me any joy. It is not something that makes use of my talents, and I should try to get paid for what I'm good at. Since the mistress thing is out and I'm not quite Mediacorp material, I guess that leaves writing.

With luck, I might be able to find a job in the magazine business before I actually have to start work in November. And now that I've actually had a proper thought about why the heck I feel so blah about trying something else, I realize that it's the old fear coming back again; I don't dare to try because I'm afraid I'd fail. And because it's something that I actually want to do, I'm even more afraid I wouldn't get it.

Yeah, I agree, it makes as much sense as standing in the rain so I'll get sick and be able to force my loved ones to bring me to Swensen's (YES, THAT AD IS FUCKING STUPID). Or like refusing to let my boyfriend drink teh peng because Allswell drinks are better for him and he'd better do it because I love him (THAT AD IS FUCKING STUPID TOO). And in order to avoid being labelled FUCKING STUPID by some other blogger out there, I decided to take the plunge and go watch the dolphin show.

(I just love confusing you with my many metaphors.)

And because I'm the single most efficient person I know, I sent out my CV to two companies, tapped on a friend for the email of another person I know (but was never close to), and hopefully will get to meet with a bunch of magazine people to hear about what life is like as a writer. I know you're ragging on me about the two companies part. Buddy, I'm in Singapore. There are only two companies.

Ok, I exaggerate, but the actual number isn't that much bigger.

Here's hoping you'll see my writing in a whole new different format.

Elton and I had a very interesting talk last night after the lights went out. It had something to do with the fact that I'd read that stupid book Sugarbabe by Holly Hill and watched episodes of that Korean drama My Man's Woman. All in all, it led to a strange need to draw some lines in the sand and make it clear to the love of my life exactly where I stood with regards to the possibility of him cheating on me.

If you think about it, it does seem ludicrous that from age 24 onwards, I expect him to be completely monogamous to me and his right hand. We've been together for five years already, so that's saying something, but expecting him never ever to think about another woman that way seems like I'm setting the standards a little too high. And when standards get set that high, bad things happen, like priests raping little boys.

And so, I conceded the fact that while it is well and good if he can forever more just turn to me and only me and maybe on occasion his right hand for all his needs, he may fall off the wagon at some point in time. But if he does, there are conditions.

#1 It must be just sex. Preferably with a complete stranger and definitely NO friends. No talking, no sharing thoughts, no long emo sessions about how their respective partners aren't good enough. Just wham bam thank you ma'am and come straight home to me. And definitely no exchanging numbers, emails or adding on Facebook as friends. Just sex.

#2 Use protection. There will be no bareback riding of any kind where disease or children might result.

#3 Be discreet. Better not to tell me, better that no one knows. You don't have to rub in the fact that I'm not good enough. And if my friends find out and make my life hell, I will make your life hell.

Thing is, it may sound incredibly open-minded or liberal, but the truth is, way too many tai tais out there with their rich husbands are silently practising these three laws. Unless your husband is a sex god, it's likely that after so many years of marriage, you can't be arsed to put out anymore, so it's not so bad to get a third party contractor to take care of those needs. It's only important that that third party contractor doesn't push for anything more. Know your place, slut.

And so while I do hope that Elton will never have to practice these laws, I'm going to be a realist and put them out there. At least he'll know that if he does marry me and I should ever decide to close shop below, he's not doomed to a lifetime of monkey spanking.

I truly am a pessimist in the optimist-who-got-fucked-over sense. I still hold this very small hope deep deep down that things will turn out for the better, but I always just plan for the worst. I think that's why my bag is always so stuffed full of things. I think it's safer this way, because if things do turn out well, then I can relax, but if things go bad, I'm prepared and ready to handle them.

But there is a big difference in being realistic and preparing for the worst and over-thinking things. That difference is action. If all you do is lament what bad things might occur, then two things are clear. One, you're just whining, and two, no amount of advice is going to help you, because you're not listening.

In my unemployment, I've done my fair share of whining, but I recognize it for what it is. I just wanted the attention and the reassurance from others that it's ok, that things are going to turn out fine. And things are turning out fine. The one serious job search I've gone for resulted in a job offer (yay!), and I'll be starting work next month.

That is, if I decide to sign on the dotted line. Out of nowhere, I was asked to go for a lunch with this other company. I wonder vaguely if it'll lead to employment of some kind.

It's great that I managed to stumble onto a job. Especially in this economic climate, I am incredibly lucky, and I thank whatever kindly entity looking out for me. Even better, instead of starting straight after that little part-time gig I had last week, I now have a month to go build up my wardrobe and enjoy my slackerdom a little more.

But the thing is, I didn't just up and quit and expect to get a job straight after. I saved up enough to make sure I could survive without employment for a while. It's great that I didn't have to break my piggy bank for the last few cents before my next pay check comes in, but things got delayed, I had enough to live on and enough time to get my ass into gear.

In any case, I'm just fucking relieved I at least got a job offer.

For some reason, my Vox compose page is quite wonky. I'm not sure whether it's my connection being sucky (because my anti-virus can't seem to connect to the update client as well) or because *gasp* my computer has a virus. In any case, unless something dramatic happens, I'll just trust in the scans telling me all is well. Maybe some passive aggressive reader got annoyed with me and hacked my computer. Hmm. I say passive because this is not exactly in your face, just enough to annoy.

So today I met up with a guy who might be able to get me a job. Unfortunately, I'm not sure I want the job. I'm intelligent enough to do it, and I could fake it for a while that I actually am good at the job, but it's going to be another dead end. I can sense it. It'll be fun for a couple of years, then I'll be back to this point. Perhaps richer, but still lost.

Which was why I took Elton's advice. I told him over dinner that it was strangely easier for me to pursue the stuff I wasn't that interested in, mainly because if I fucked it up, it was no big deal. Whereas if I had to seriously audition for something that I wanted and failed at it, it's just such a horrifying thought that I end up not even starting the search.

He chewed on his noodles for a while, then said, "Look, you don't want to be 55 and look back and think, I could have been this. Just do one thing a day that pushes you towards what you want. At the worst, you'll just be rejected. But at least you tried."

It's not something I hadn't thought of before, but I needed someone to sell it to me. I can act, I am good at it. I'm no model, I'm not gorgeous, I'm not even particularly photogenic. But I can act, and they need people for bit parts. So if nothing else, I can do that.

And so, I'm trying. I managed to get an audition for a role. I think it's a small role, and the pay's going to suck (Denis' words, not mine. And yes, that is how you spell his name), but I feel so much more excited about this than the thought of going corporate.

But I don't want to jinx it, so more details about this at a later date.

I know I'll be upset if I don't get the gig. But at least I tried. Then I can retire and tell my grandkids, "Your grandma could've been the spokesperson for the iPatpat or whatever weird massage machine Osim came up with, but her cheeks were too fat. Sorry Marianne, it looks like you're not destined to be a star either, especially with that silly name your mom gave you."

That's the thing about being the spokesperson for the Just Enough, But No More people. You keep having random people telling you you're pretty, usually aunties or suitors or well-meaning friends. So you go through life thinking you are pretty. Then random "talent scouts" stop you along Orchard Road, ask you to go for an audition at their company and tell you you have what it takes to be a star. Or at least, an extra in a TV show, and all you need to do is to fork out $350 for a set of makeup or a portfolio. Uh huh.

People, if it's not a reknown agency, forget it. If you're not 1.75 metres and above, forget it. If they ask you to pay money, threaten to report them to the police for fraud and walk out of there. Kate Moss, Cindy Crawford and all those models did NOT have to pay their agency for any sort of portfolio or other nonsense. Why? Because their agencies were legit. These fuckers trolling Orchard Road for naive little girls who think they're pretty are just after one thing; your money. If they manage to actually give you some gig, hooray for the both of you. But the fact is, that's not how they make their money.

I should know, I was young and foolish once.

Once you've come face to face with actual models, you will never be as dumb as to think you can be one of them. They are literally at a different level, what with that extra foot in height. I once made the stupid mistake of asking the then unknown model Akemi Katsuki if I could take a picture with her while she was doing this Panasonic photo shoot and I was hanging around being interny. That photo has been deleted, because it brought home the truth a bit too painfully. I still have photos of her at the shoot, the very behind the scenes sort.

So yes, unless you're freakishly tall (no, seriously, 1.75m and up), super thin (if you can't wear Levi's size 25, don't even bother) with strong facial features and big eyes (or, if you're Chinese, just strong facial features), ignore the persistent person telling you he/she needs people with your "talent". Or just go along and see if they ask you to pay them money.

I've come to realize the unpleasant fact that a lot of jobs and such are not found in the Classifieds. It's really all about who you know. It's a bit of a problem when you don't know many people. It's a fact that when companies are looking for people to fill a post, they look internally, then they ask their staff to recommend people for the job. If nothing comes up, and that's highly unlikely, then they start looking exterally.

So what's the moral of the story? Don't bother studying so much in school. Just make sure you make friends.