The Making of A Legend: Gone With the Wind

One of the great things about being unemployed is that you can sit back and watch TV shows you wouldn't be able to watch if you were at work. (I can't watch TV much at night as my Dad dominates the telly with his endless reruns of Law and Order.)

Today I saw a show I'd taped, The Making of a Legend: Gone With the Wind. I'm an official Gone With the Wind junkie (see the link on this site to the GWTW Forever site).

I have the DVD of the feature film, I just hadn't realised how much had gone into making it.

I knew, of course, that GWTW was the only book Margaret Mitchell wrote. Scarlett was initially called Pansy, and the book was not initially written for publication. Then a publisher read it and was interested, but didn't like the name Pansy, so Margaret Mitchell agreed to change it to Scarlett.

And then David O. Selznick secured the rights for $50,000 to produce GWTW.

I watched the show as they showed the search for Scarlett. It seemed they had an easier time deciding on Rhett Butler - the public demanded they choose Clark Gable. The only problem was that Gable was with MGM and Selznick wanted to do the project alone. It wasn't for ages and after lots of money and negotiations that he made a deal with MGM - they would let him 'use' Gable, and they'd also lend some money to fund the project, so long as they got half the profits of GWTW for the next 7 years.

Then it turned out that Gable didn't particularly like the deal, as he didn't want to play Rhett, so they 'sweetened' the deal for him by giving him ... $50,000 so he could pay off his wife and get rid of her and a weekend off so he could marry his new girlfriend (an interest payoff!)

Anyhow, I watched a lot of the auditions with the different Scarletts and Ashleys. After seeing what Vivien Leigh and Leslie Howard can do - especially Vivien Leigh - watching the different screen tests is like watching a series of Australian Idol auditions, you just feel how wrong they are and you want a nasty judge to pop up and give them a gong and tell them they're absolute crap.

It was amazing to see how much work went into creating - or destroying - some of those sets. They decided one way to make a set was to burn down an old set and then rebuild. An idea they had was to burn down the old set and then film it as the burning of Atlanta. At the time they hadn't got Leigh and Gable working yet so a stunt double is what you see when you see the horse and carriage driving through burning Atlanta at the time. And they really did just burn down a whole set, film it, and then rebuild a set.

Then some sets were only partially built - for instance some of the big houses were built without roofs - it was less expensive - then an art director comes in later and "draws in" different style roofs later to make the different places.

And the scene in Atlanta with the soldiers all lying wounded ... well while they called in many extras to lie there as wounded men, but they didn't have enough so they put in some dummies as well and instructed extras how they could pull a string on the dummy so the dummy could move a little so it looked alive. (Apparently Margaret Mitchell's husband said when he saw that scene that if they'd had that many soldiers, they would have won the war!) I know, I know, I guess they cheated too because those extras, they only pretended to be wounded. Many of them weren't really shot or anything at all. They only pretended to be shot. And int he scene where Dr Meade is supposed to amputate the leg - I think he doesn't amputate it at all. It's all faked!

So much work went into the recreation, it was amazing, especially when you consider there was not the advantage of the special effects that we have today.

I watched in amazement as every detail of dress was attended to ... the only thing I think I could compare it to was watching This is It when I watched the perfectionism that went in to making the Michael Jackson tour show. How many people actually put the time and effort and research into their shows any more. It's immense and it's amazing.

By the way I still love Scarlett's green barbecue dress - it must be her most famous - but now I've really taken a fancy to that little light blue jacket and white dress she wears to the store when she's caught with Ashley.

You can rely on me

I may have mentioned before that I'm really utterly failing on this Get a Job thing. And in our society, success is so often tied up in being employed and having lots of money. If there was an award for the most Successful at Being a Failure, I would apply.

What has irked me so often is this thing about being overqualified to do work thing. Employers don't really try to find out anything about you, they make assumptions like if you are overqualified for a job you won't be very dedicated as you'll be very ambitious.

Well, let's just see. I have three tertiary qualifications and I haven't got much experience except in junior administration, do I look like the ambitious type? Please, these idiots really don't think very hard do they?

What I would like to say right now is that I would be a very reliable worker in almost any job, even low level, so long as people weren't totally beating me up every day, just because I HATE INTERVIEWS AND RECRUITERS. I can't stand them. I resent this whole process I am going through every damn day I do it.

I wouldn't try leaping to another job very fast because it would mean having to do ANOTHER STUPID INTERVIEW.

You'd have to be paying me a darn lot to make me take that jump quickly. A small pay rise or a new desk would not cut it. I would probably still sit there screwing tin lids on Cheesybite containers unless I got 300% payrise or something because I hate interviewing so much. It really is annoying the crap outta me!

There! You can rely on me, more than those not-so-bitter trainees who would jump for an extra $100 and a larger cookie jar in the shared kitchen.

See, everyone, I don't have a life

I read an article in this weekend's Sydney Morning Herald called See everyone, I do have a life by Hilda Qiroga.

It was about the clutter and little trinkets and photos and things that people put on their desks at work - you know, plants, toys, photos. probably you have an assortment of stuff, whatever you choose.

Ms Qiroga went at length to discuss obvious favourites, such as pictures of loved ones and people posing with celebs or on holiday, and said looking at desk adornments said a lot about a person. "You will discover who they love, what they love, hobbies, political leanings, hopes and aspirations". Then she started to theorise why people do this - do they want to show off that they actually have a life to other colleagues? Or does it make them feel warm and fuzzy just to be near the things you love? And as she pointed out, whichever it is, it's standard practice to have stuff on your desk and you are meant to comment.

On the other hand there are people who choose not to decorate, and Ms Qiroga's tone seemed not to be nearly as 'nice' towards these! While they could be those who just are there to work, and she does theorise that perhaps these people work harder because they aren't distracted and only work - well, it didn't seem like this was something you should admire in them, from the way the article was written, but more like, who is this freak? But then, they aren't the norm, so I guess they would be a freak. She suggested that perhaps they live to work, perhaps they have no time to put up anything, or they have no life outside work. or maybe they are so smug they have no need to display 'annoying snaps' to people in the office. "So smug and self-confident are they, so private and mysterious, they have no need to reassure you that, yes I have a life".

(This leaves out those who might have a work policy against happy snaps. I don't know about any office that has a work policy which says you HAVE to have a goofy pic of yourself on the wall but that could be interesting.)

Anyhow, what type are you?

Personally, I'm one of the no-mess types, one of the freaks, but Ms Qiroga hasn't quite nailed my motivations. Yes, I prefer the lack of mess on the desk because it does get a bit in the way. Also I don't feel the need to show everyone pics of myself. I look terrible in photos anyhow, I don't travel and I don't have celebrities I've met. In fact I can't think of one interesting picture I have of me. I don't even like my graduation pictures. And I just think it's plain stupid to put your passport photo on the wall, it's like having a mug shot there.

One of the things that I don't like about pics and trinkets is a) people do start commenting on them and b) they start touching them. I have trinkets on my desk at home. I'm not too fond of the idea of bringing in something made of glass and somebody says "Hey this looks interesting" and picks it up and then whoops, they've dropped it and now you have shards all over your desk to clean up, and I'll bet you they don't pay for it either. And the fact that they start commenting on them isn't a huge plus to me because hey - see the post on jobs below - I took the personality test and I am a SIT IN THE HOLE AND DON'T DISTURB ME type.

My motivation is I'm an antisocial freak moreso than a smug and self-confident freak.

Other reasons I have never been eager to bring in stuff to work is:

a) paranoia that the cleaner would steal anything valuable
b) If you put all this stuff on your desk at work what it really means is you have to remove it all when you get sacked or resign which with me, is a good chance it will be within a few weeks. I keep it at home, I have had my own bedroom for years and it's less hassle. When I resigned from the last job it was a relief that I had very little to organise to move.
When my brother was made redundant from his last job they wouldn't even let him return to his job for security reasons so they cleaned his desk for him and returned by mail all what they considered to be 'personal belongings' - that is, stuffed them in an old cardboard box and got an Aussie Post Courier to dump them outside our house when noone was home. This included valuables like an iPhone. I find this pretty irresponsible and wouldn't want complete strangers doing that for me - just say they missed something nice or crapped it up?

antisocial, paranoid, and not very good at staying employed freak.

Anyhow, what that really says to me is "don't take anything to work and leave it there that you actually like". And then I think if I don't like it, why do I want it on my desk at all?

Then I end up with nothing, except a novel to read during lunch which I take home with me each day so I can keep reading it on the train and bus home.

Life Outside Work

By the way I guess I don't really try to convince anyone that I have a life outside work but I would say this is a lack of imagination rather than smugness. I tend to say "errrrh nothing really" when anyone says what have I been doing on the weekend. What do others do that's exceiting on weekends that's worth saying, does "Yes I had a most exciting weekend, I woke up on Saturday, read the paper, moved my bowels, searched the fridge for leftovers, searched every channel for something to eat, picked at the fridge again, had a shower, tried the fridge yet again, tried the papers again, played Solitaire for several hours ...." well you get the picture. that tends to be what some of my most exciting bummy weekends might end up sounding like.

Perhaps I should have some made up stories - you know those 'lies for the general good of everyone' tucked up my sleeve.

"Oh everyone, I had a smashing weekend! I had my first ride in a rocket ship, I discovered a new species on Venus, I'm naming it after my mother who inspired me to become an astronaut, on the way back we almost ran out of fuel but I was rescued by a very handsome creature from another galaxy who time-hopped into our Solar System and is actually several million years ahead of us time, and when I got back to Earth I decided to splurge on a facial, get a tattoo and start a new cult!"

I'd better have a few of those. The next one can be something about how I took over a small country and learned how to communicate with hamsters using nose-wiggles. Or something.

The silence is frustrating me

I don’t mind sitting in a car, or in a room, when the other person doesn’t talk or doesn’t make conversation. Some people find this unnerving or awkward but often, especially with someone you know well, it can be quite comfortable and pleasant. My mother feels the need to fill every silence with words. I don’t.

But what is really frustrating the heck out of me is the lack of output from the computer. Computers should have to give output. Even if that output is “Sorry, I have nothing to say on this topic.” It should be a rule. Otherwise, how do you know whether they’re sitting in quiet philosophical contemplation or whether you should return them for a warranty, or use the Maria-method (a good swift kick)?

I’m starting a computer course now, part-time, which is two subjects, Principles of Programming and Database Systems. The second is far better, maybe because we haven’t got any assignments to do from it yet. The first one is very annoying. I try to write commands in the system. Some are really easy and that is fun, like when you type in a command to see the date and it prints out today’s date. On the other hand I already know what today’s date is. But it would be very helpful if I had sudden amnesia and my computer date in the corner of my screen went haywire but I did remember the command prompt for the date. And of course it makes me feel smart, like I can do something right. So I tested that about seventy times before doing anything else, just for my ego.

Then we got our assignment, had to be done in less than two weeks, gosh almighty I spent several days trying to decipher the assignment.

I have four programs to write for an entirety of ten marks. That seems a bit stupid to me, it’s my first time writing a program and I can hardly do anything besides write “date” in a command prompt. And I am going to have to get my head around writing programs, and if I do only one it will be for a lousy 2.5 marks!

They are all mathematical puzzles where you have to find solutions, that is you have to get the computer to find solutions. So I start to write one of the programs and I am barely writing the first bit when I decide to check it to see if it is ok (like running a spell check only on a program) and it spits out at me 34 errors!

I didn’t know I had written 34 things.

It’s a real shame because I thought it had looked very cute.

After a while I thought I was getting the hang of things so I decided to see if any results could be found for the first part of the first puzzle. Only the first part, thank you.

Nothing. Blank. Caput.

Now, I think this is unfair. I don’t know if the computer is saying “there are no answers” or “you wrote this all wrong” or “I am having a deep thinking session about this interesting, nay, amazing dilemma you put before me” or “Gimme some time while I make myself a cocoa” or “Sod off, I hate this puzzle, I’m going to sulk”.

Computers should have to explain what their silence means. It should be a rule.

Because I sat there glaring at the blank screen, but then I found out, that nobody can out-stare like a computer can. They really win in the out-staring match. I gave up. I ended up sulking and making myself a big glass of Ribena.

This is so uncool.

Mr Monk and the Cringeworthy Australian

I've been watching the first season of Monk. I know I'm years late. Yes, Yes.

Still, it's a fun show, I like the OCD Monk and the pushy Sharona and it's an amusing watch, some shows are better than others and some of the set-ups better than others. by far.

Anyhow, if you are an Australian, maybe you will either want to skip or laugh your way through or cry your way through the episode "Mr Monk and the Earthquake".

This is a lovely show where Monk investigates a woman who has used an Earthquake as the perfect opportunity to do her rich husband in. Sharona has fallen for an Aussie journalist, and she and Benji are staying with her sister Gail. The best scenes have to be when Sharona and Gail are arguing, and when they play charades.

Now I don't know what it is about Aussie characters on TV, but why do they always sound so awful. This Aussie journalist turned up and chatted to Sharona and I thought, I don't know where he comes from, but he has the weirdest accent. Later he is revealed as an Australian, complete with accent. I don't know, but I've lived in Australia my whole life and I don't know anyone who sounds like that. They sound more like Adrian Monk than this guy.

What's more, they don't get up in the morning and describe their lifestyle as "hard yakka". Oh God, oh no.

The perceptive Adrian Monk was on to this guy in an instant, saying there was something wrong about him. No he didn't pick his terrible accent and try-hard idiom as his clues, though they would have been the giveaway for me.

He picked the fact that the guy said he had been nominated for a Pulitzer, when the journalism award is in fact only open to American journalism, and this man's story had apparently been published in Australia.

Monk didn't even pick up on the fact that the Aussie was at the table describing the heat of his environment as "a hundred and ten degrees out there". Now, what true Aussie talks in Fahrenheit except one written into an American show just because the Americans wouldn't understand or relate if he were talking Celsius? You'd think Monk'd pick up on that one!

A real embarrassment to our country, guys - let America have this joke of an Aussie character!

Crash!

Some time ago someone told me I had a weird sense of humour because I watched the movie 'Crash' just before my Learner's Driver Licence Test. 'Crash' is a movie about people who purposely crash cars and get themselves injured for erotic thrills. Whoohoo!

Well, I've just crashed a car, on Good Friday, and I can say it's no erotic thrill. Not for me. I didn't jump the person next to me and want to make passionate love to her. A possible off-putting factor was that she was my sister. But I don't think I would have been that way inclined if she'd been a gorgeous heterosexual male in no way related to myself either.

Going full tilt towards a brick wall is not that much fun. For some reason What I can remember thinking is:

"Hey there's a brick wall"

"Someone's yelling stop"

"How do you stop again?"

"You press something don't you?"

"What do you press?"

"Something!"

"Help!"

"Umm there's a brick wall!"

Kinda all jumbled up in my head at once. I kinda remembered where the brake was after the brick wall stopped me.

I would like to note that neither my sister nor myself nor any other people were damaged in the process. The brick wall wasn't that damaged but a plant in front of the brick wall noted some definite leaf squashings.

I've been told never to drive again by certain people, and to 'think long and hard about it before I give it a go' by others.

In the meantime ....

I have been nervous, hysterical and shaken and upset and everything else in turns. I experienced a terrible dream on Friday night where I got out of bed and left my bedroom and entered a world where everyone was doing driving tests and exams, theoretical ones. I was told to be quiet for the test. I tried to leave this world but every door I went through, I went into a room where people were doing driving tests. I couldn't escape it. It was downright scary.

Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!

Not good

I am feeling not good.

I just had my wallet stolen. It's been a bad experience - I know people say this has happened to many people but I've never had it happen to me before. It's an icky feeling knowing someone else is rifling through YOUR WALLET!

I went out today to have lunch with a friend, after which I roamed about the city a little and then came home and noticed - wallet gone!

In a panic I retraced my footsteps, called at stores I'd been to to find out if it had been dropped and handed in, and finally filed a police report and called the bank.

Naturally, terrible and confused thoughts rush through your mind at this time and some of them are:

1. Why didn't they take my phone? Some people have their phones stolen? Why not take my phone instead? It's a nice looking phone. Also, I had just swapped over to another new phone which was sitting at home so the old phone in my bag had no credit on it and was inactive, I wouldn't ave cared if they had taken that. Why didn't they take my PHONE?

2. Why did I withdraw money and keep it in my wallet recently? Why?

3. I had been checking out frivolous things to buy recently and I was thinking "No, Maria, you ought be a good girl, you don't really need that, keep the money in your purse and be more frugal, don't throw it away on silly bits and pieces." Darn it, I should havem and had a good time instead of letting the thieves have it! I should have partied like an idiot instead of letting a DISHONEST IDIOT have the fun of it.

4. In the same vein, why didn't I buy the more expensive lunch? And what about those silly expensive tiny Japanese canned drinks - shoulda got one of those too. Heck, shoulda got ten of them.

5. My library card was in my wallet. Will I suddenly look on my online library card and find that someone has gone to town with putting a whle lot of Barabara Taylor Bradfords or something in my name, for a joke?

Heeeeeeeeeelp!

Public Toilet Queasiness

I'm going to come out of the bathroom and admit to another phobia.

I have a distinct phobia about public bathrooms.

I really dislike them. I avoid going to any public bathroom; of course some places' "amenities" are better than others but all up, it's not my cup of tea. Or cup of toilette. Or bowl of toilet.

I know there have been studies saying that the public toilet seat is in fact no more swarming with germs than your work keyboard, but I've never believed it. I'm sure they must have done a switch when they did that test. Someone switched the toilet seat with the keyboard and the tester just didn't notice when he or she was taking a sample of germy bits.

I always imagine toilets with this infestation of creepy crawlies. I can never bring myself to sit down on a public toilet seat, which means environmentally unfriendly-like covering the toilet with lots of toilet paper so no skin at all has danger of any even accidental contact.

I can't believe the average public toilet could be considered as clean as a keyboard. not some of the ones I've seen. Twice I've been to a public toilet and someone before me has blasted faeces all over the toilet seat. I have never seen that on a work keyboard, fortunately.

I usually attempt to go to the toilet before I leave the house so I don't have to go in the public bathroom. Sometimes I go twice at home before I leave the house. I dont' know if this ups my chances of not having to go once I've gone out.

There have been some public bathrooms which are not all puddly wet on the floor and don't look like a poo-bomb has hit them, but I never feel quite comfy in the cubicle.

It just doesn't feel the right place for swishing out the bladder and bowel area.

I can never feel at home in a public bathroom.

Or maybe that's the point.

Got my Keys ... Got my Phobia

I have a phobia. It used to be secret, but hasn't been since I went around telling people about it and now am publishing it on the net.

It's about switching things off, especially my heater.

I have this secret fear that my heater is always on.

Before I leave the house, I always check that my heater is off.

Actually, usually I check my heater is off in the morning after I'm done using it, then I check as I leave my bedroom. Then I open my door again after I leave, and check again, in case it turned itself on after I left my room. Then I go upstairs and wander around, and I think I might have been mistaken, so I check my room again. Then later on, when I'm ready to leave the house, I race into my room again to check the heater isn't on. because you know, you wouldn't want to leave the heater on while you're out of the house all day. Think of all the electricity it may be guzzling!

I often do this several times, while I'm at the front door, after I've taken one step out. I then get to the bus stop or I'm on the train and I ring my Dad (who leaves home after me, usually) and ask him to please check my heater. This is the marvel of mobile phones.

But just last week I did a terrible thing.

I walked out the door and guess what?

I was all set to go, and Dad asked if I was ready, and I was, and I was happy and I ALMOST forgot I had a phobia!

I mean, I almost walked straight out of the house without worrying once about my heater!

How could I do such a thing?

Luckily I remembered my phobia just in time, and I got worried and dashed back inside and checked my heater. Then I felt better.

But then I got on the train and I kept worrying - how could I forget my phobia just like that? It's not normal. It's not right. One day I'll completely lose my phobia and I won't be me anymore. I'll be lost.

And then I'll really be scared.

Facebook and Label Neurosis

Facebook or Labels? That isn't a choice between two, I'm wondering whether I should do either. And I'm spiralling into a black hole of indecisive despair.

For months now I've been asked to join Facebook by various people, be their friends (usually by people I thought were friends, or people I didn't know knew my name, let alone wanted to be my friend). I'm tossing up. Should I join? Should I not join? On the one hand, it's good for photos, and Scrabulous, some say. On the other hand, it's a villainous invasion of privacy and more importantly more of a waste of time than these blogs. And goodness knows I spend enough time blogging. Is everyone talking about Facebook but me? On the other hand, if I join, will they be talking even more about me, because I'm on Facebook and they can see me - and worse still, my Scrabulous scores!

So should I set up Facebook and spend my time nudging, winking or whatever people do, and putting up photos and playing Scrabulous, and exactly what IS Facebook anyway?

Next: Labels

Should I put Labels on my blog?

Other people seem to do it. In fact labels seem to be everywhere. I haven't got round to labelling my email but one day I probably will and then I won't be able to find a thing but it will all be filed very neatly, thank goodness. The trouble with labels is I'm sure I will have a new label for every blog-post, which kind of destroys the purpose of a label, doesn't it? What if I can't think of anything but daggy and unoriginal label names? I can't think of anything but daggy and unoriginal label names! On the other hand, is my blog hard to read if I don't have labels? Are labels like mobile phones, soon everyone will have them plastered to them, and if I don't too, I can't communicate with other labelled people? What if I can't think of a label for a post, do I label it "unlabelled"?

I HATE making unimportant but world wide web changing decisions in my life!

Books, glorious books!

I don't know where it was first coined, but I first saw the word "biblioholism" in the book Biblioholism (whaddya know?) by Tom Raabe, describing the addiction of buying books. And of reading books. Hmm, that sounds like me, I thought at the time. Except I was a bit put off buying too many books at the time because I hadn't that much money and a big percentage of it had been locked down in my Commonwealth Bank Dollarmite account.

But I could well attest to many of the sensations and habits described by the author.

The feeling of headiness when you walked out of a bookstore laden with books?

The sneaking of books into class and reading them under the table?

The feeling of discomfort when you're caught on a train, in a restaurant, in a doctor's waiting room WITHOUT A BOOK? (nightmare nightmare nightmare)

So when I met Mr Coffee one of the most attractive things about this gorgeous figure apart from that sweet candystriped shirt and the fact he insists on wearing one green contact lens and one purple contact lens out to parties, was that he's afflicted with the same addiction.

We both can relate to it, which is great because we don't judge each other and we're perfectly understanding, and it's bad because we don't try to help each other, instead we feed each other's habit to buy lots and lots of books.

On the other hand, what's wrong with lots and lots of books?

Except for the fact that my bookshelves are showing a distinct curve where they aren't bearing the weight so well, it's all good.

We've been compiling lists of books we haven't had time to read because we're too busy buying more, and the list is rather long.

No matter, I say. Look, there's a 35% off sale! Can't miss out on that!

Besides, who'd want all your books READ?

Then you'd have to go out and buy more if you wanted to read! It's essential to have a large number of unread books on the shelf. Makes plenty of sense!

I'm planning my next romp on Borders for Thursday. Just for them to be warned.

Men Don't Understand Me! Waaahh!

And I thought I just didn't get the romantic life.

Perhaps we'll start a little "What Shall I Do With My Love Life?" column, right here. All responses welcome. As a long time contributor to the hugely entertaining, highly addictive, often turning-into-jelly-wrestling-type-lowbrow banter blog, Sam And The City (if that offends anyone, please let me know and I'll ignore your complaints - I'm sure even the most ardent fans will agree that Sam's blog doesn't exactly massage the highest of their cerebral functions, or if it does, then ... oh dear) - the topic now turns to romance. Or lack of it.

I head to the streets, and turn my attention to the distressed Pinky.

Maria: Pinky, let me guess. Man problems?

Pinky: Isn't it always? My boyfriend is an idiot. He doesn't know what I want!

Maria: Hmmm, neither do I. What do you want?

Pinky: Boyfriends are jerks! The last one didn't stay long enough to be a boyfriend. He just has sex for a week then he disappears!

Maria: Ummmm ... welll ... Pinky: *glares* I AM NOT A SLUT!

Maria: Errh, I wasn't going to say that. *thinks: next interview I will bring a bodyguard/bulletproof vest/at least a heavy baseball bat*

Pinky: Then the next one gets all gooey eyed and wants to have kids and be my husband - can you believe it? My husband?

Maria: *thinks of glaring eyes* I definitely can't.

Pinky: I just want a gorgeous hunk of spunk who I can use for sex when I want and who'll spoil me rotten and adore me and never look at anyone else but won't marry me and doesn't expect commitment - is that too much to ask?

Maria: Errh ...

Pinky: Men are idiots aren't they?

Maria: *thinks: you'd better hope so* Thanks Pinky, good luck.

There's always someone with a pressing problem. Plenty of those unlucky in love out there.

The Logic Of A Garbage Rat

Someone threw out my precious magazine a few days ago. I didn't notice it for several days, but it was precious just the same, because it had a GLOSSY cover, and it came in the post, BY MAIL (instead of being thrown in the gutter by an inept paper-person - gender niceties preserved - or being inserted into the weekend newspaper by a furniture company.)

And any magazine which falls into this category counts as precious to me.

I was outraged, and insulted, so much so that when I noticed it at 1am, a time when I was scruffling about for reading material, I took a torch and searched for it in the big recycling bin.

There's a huge number of ants crawling about there, and decomposing newspapers and tissue boxes. Still, I ploughed on.

If I found the magazine, I probably would have thrown up on it, and it wouldn't have been fit to bring inside the house unless I'd wrapped myself in a plastic sheath for the hygiene safety of other house-dwellers, and I would have contracted leprosy, and had to throw the magazine out again soon after. Still, the search for the LOST MAGAZINE became more and more frantic.

The more it stinks, the more I scramble after it. There's a metaphor for life in there somewhere.

The Interview: The Nice Guys Never Go For The Nice Girls

The one lesson I have learnt from my interviews is this:

If you think you liked them, if you think they liked you, if you arrived on time, if the job sounded great and the offices had a water view ... well, you probably won't get it. Ah, yes, I'm talking about rejection, a rebound relationship, a wounded heart ... but also long experience. Listen up.

Damn! (they don't want me ... they don't want me ... but I was so nice to them .. what did I do wrong? why me why me why me when will this nightmare end oh but why don't people like me why do they always pick up other girls what do they have that I don't have I'll never find myself an employer I'll always be unhappy why me nobody wants me no one no one no one I'll always be aloooone ....)

There must be some way to negate this - which must mean, go there loathing the place. No matter how buttery smooth the sweetheart of the interviewer is, be impervious to it. Convince yourself you were terrible. Be rude at every possible turn. Tell him or her exactly why you'd be useless at the job and don't be very interested. The more you love the job, The more you despise it. They'll jump all over you to hire you.

Then you're home and hosed, with that dream job you've always hated. What more could you ask for?

Meet The Parent

Well, tonight's the night. It's Chinese New Year, so I'm finally getting the opportunity to meet the boyfriend's (Mr Coffee, for the purposes of the blog) Dad. Errrh-hum.

Several nerves have to be calmed, not least surrounding Mr Coffee's reaction at being given this blogname. I was tempted to name him after the Chinese New Year and call him Mr Piggy, but Mr Coffee seemed safer, even after I'd enumerated the great qualities of pigginess.

Now, first hurdle to be crossed: I don't speak any Chinese. Zilch. Zero. I have been practising diligently saying "Happy Chinese New Year!" in Cantonese for over two weeks now and I think I have said it about four thousand, seven hundred and ninety one times incorrectly, at last count. I tried ringing up the Guiness World Book Of Records to report this, but the line was engaged; I suppose there were a whole lot of other people practising their "Kung Hei Fat Choy's" around the same time and making complete idiots of themselves.

I had a great idea to make a whole heap of placards (with help from Mr Coffee) in Chinese, with some stock phrases on them: "Happy Chinese New Year!" "That's Nice" "Interesting Sir" "Delicious Meal" "May I be Excused To The Ladies'" "Sorry for spilling my beverage down your trousers sir" "Of course the economy is screwed and politicians are a waste of hardworking taxpayer's money" (plus the "I'm a mute and these placards are the only way I can communicate with the outside world" placard).

A mutual friend suggested to me that this was probably not such a great idea as I was likely to get these mixed up in my enthusiasm and I'd probably hold up the "Delicious Meal" placard when I really meant "Sorry for spilling my beverage down your trousers sir" which could convey some rather mixed messages, especially if I held up "That's nice" at the same time.

I decided the best course of action was to sit there and smile inanely and nod - but what if they were talking about granny's almost-fatal heart attack while I was smiling inanely and nodding?

The mutual friend said the formula for meeting with the boyfriend's parent was "Respect and deference ... Laugh at his jokes and wonder at his wisdom."

I'm just hoping I don't mix that up and wonder at his jokes and laugh at his wisdom.

Gulp.

The Interview: Please sedate me

I can never remain cool, calm and collected in an interview, even if I really don't care about the job.

Why is it you go for an interview at a volunteer centre (read: unpaid), the staff are worse dressed than you, it's out of the way and pretty boring, and you STILL have a panic attack?

Who the hell are they to judge you?

Dammit ... they still do.

I plonked myself down in the dark little room and stared at its dusty couches, and suddenly, I was more deperate than Susan Mayer in Desperate Housewives, more paranoid than Monk, and I spewed out verbal garbage faster and more maniacally (is that a word?) than Elliot from Scrubs, except without sounding as intelligent. At least Elliot gets in some big words. The only long words I managed were some "Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrh"s. I can get some pretty impressive ones in, though.

I was still having spasms when they shovelled me out into the street later, so I'm not quite sure how the interview ended. I think it was a bit of the "don't call us, we'll call you".

At least I seemed to make an impression.

Operation Top Secret: Fear Of Blabbermouths

When Operation Top Secret - or as it was better known, Mum's Surprise Sixtieth Birthday Party - was launched, the first fear was of blabbermouths.

I had to bribe everyone out of the cupboards to get them back to talking to me.

Fear Of Blabbermouths was a huge paranoia that festered over the weeks as MSB was put into action. MSB was our secret codename for Mum's Surprise Sixtieth Birthday. Our Fear Of Blabbermouths even grew to the point we couldn't even get an acronym correct.

We were determined to make our surprise party the real thing, not one of those surprise parties where Uncle X blabs it to Mum and Mum turns up and fakes being surprised by jumping up and down and saying "Woo hoo! I never expected this!" as everyone jumps about yelling "Surprise!" even though she has drafted a thank you speech detailing each gift and each gourmet dish and been rehearsing it under Aunt Z's expert critical eye.

Not that I have an Uncle X or Aunt Z. My grandparents were fairly cruel with namegiving, all the same, which is why Uncle X and Aunt Z are chosen to be identified as such, to protect them from revisiting the high school days where they were no doubt tortured for the misdeeds of their parents on birth certificates.

So how to shut up the eager blabbermouths?

One option we had was to not invite blabbermouths to the party. That the way though the list dwindled to nothing, and to be honest, we wouldn't have been invited. We needed a better strategy. I did want to turn up, even if only for the cake.

We also could have surgically sewn up the lips of everyone who was likely to blabber, but again this would have been another barrier to my eating cake on the big night.

Damn.

So here was the conundrum - how to shut up the blabbermouths, but still let them eat cake.

Step 1: Cut out the obvious danger signs.

Just as in military planning you'd check for leaky petrol tanks .... well, don't they? If not, please memo my brainstorm to the army ... anyway, to use the metaphor, a quick scour of the big damage do-ers was Step 1. The drunk uncle. The aunt who is bound to say, "Hi darl, what should I bring to your big surprise party, whoops, oh well at least what I wear will be a surprise since I haven't decided between the lemon yellow or the lime green yet ... oh yes the lemon yellow looks so more modern don't you think, I'll wear that, thanks for your advice, see you Thursday, three weeks time, and I'll bet you'll love the big glass vase I'm planning on buying you! Yoo hoo!" These people needed to be kept in the dark; we could blindfold them, gag them and drag them along on the night atthe last minute if we really needed their presence.

Step 2: Give incentives for keeping the party a secret

This proved to be difficult. We tried the ol' "It'll be so great to see the look on her face" trick, as we just ran out of green-apple flavoured chupa-chups. After all, we aren't political campaigners.

Step 3: Use reverse psychology

Here's the one where you remind everyone that they're terrible at keeping secrets and tell them everyone thinks so, to make them want to prove that they can shut up. Actually, they are terrible at keeping secrets and everyone does think so, so whether it was a sneaky psychological game or just blatant honesty is contestable.

Step 4: Last But Not Least ...

Keep all these people as far away from Mum as possible ...!

I think this is why it worked. My tip of the day.

Meticulous Meatball Making

Many find my meticulous meatball making moronic. (These are also people who generally can’t stand alliteration.)

However, there’s not really much more fun than making your own meatballs. For many reasons:

Making your own mince: This involves getting messy. Enough said.

Moulding little round spherical balls: This is pure relaxation. You’ve got some clay (mince) in your hand, now create. You order some meatballs in a restaurant, and it comes ready made for you – now here’s your chance to become involved in the Creation Process. I’m a perfectionist about mine – the whole “every sphere has to be exactly the same size, shape and weight” business, but when you’re the chef, you have control. Squish the meat to your will. Feel the mince ooze through your fingertips. Make them any size you will. Moulding meat has a soothing effect. For some reason it’s like moulding a brain, in fact, meatballs remind me of miniature little brains, except a bit the wrong shape and the wrong ingredients. Still, it’s animal stuff being made into a being again. Now that’s getting back to basics.

Lining the little balls up on a baking tray: They stand still in a regiment. They’re an army, and you’re in control. This is better than those little plastic soldiers Mum used to buy you as a kid, and after you’ve cooked them in the oven, you can gobble them up. Sheer power.

Ah, meatballs. How I sing your praises.