So much vanilla, so little time

My parents are trying to set me up. OK - the current romantic situation is looking kind of dire (and confusing) but I do not need to have potential suitors paraded in front of me like I'm shopping for the right size. Particularly when they're Josh. Oh, Joooooosh. Let me tell you about Josh. Josh has no personality. Josh makes cardboard seem lively. Josh is often mistaken for his own wax figure. If you set Josh on fire, I can guarantee you would hear very little from him in protest; he would simply go about fire-extinguishing himself, and then resume beaming at you silently like a snowman that refuses to melt. For Christ's sake, Ma and Pa, if you're going to humiliate your daughter socially, at least do it with someone with whom she can have a lively argument at some point.

I forgot to mention that the Doctor has returned, in disgrace. I promised him I wouldn't mention what he smelt like when we were reunited. But even Josh would have slightly wrinkled his nose in response.

Angels, demons, and other handicrafts.

'Skank' is a word I don't like very much. It always holds a hint of envy. Look at her with her crappy hair extensions and her cheap shoes and her skirt hiked up to there and her dimple-less thighs and creamy skin can you imagine how much she spends on facials I bet she earns it at her local pole-dancing emporium and would you believe they keep drooling because she's just so obvious my god would you look at it. Boys who use the term usually can't get The Sex. Girls who use it splinter the sisterhood. (The sisterhood still exists, right?) So I refuse to use the word 'skank'. But I will say this: Bessie is a scrag.

On a happier note, I think the weekend's Expo managed to convince my parents that the Empire isn't as weird as they thought. Who could fail to look normal next to:

• the people who believe that if you sit under a pyramid, it changes your DNA;
• the guys claiming that we're all part of an inter-galactic experiment and are actually human-alien hybrids;
• the institution selling a Vitamin C supplement that can apparently cure schizophrenia;
• the woman who says rocks feel pain and don't like being trodden on; or
• the pamphlet I got which swears that you only get cancer if you're a cranky-pants?

Next to these guys, the Empire's aromatherapy stuff looks like common sense. And don't get me started on the unicorn craft. (Though I did buy my dad a tea-towel just because it spelt it 'unicron'.)

Missing: one cat.

This is probably not going to get me anywhere but has anyone seen an orange/white/mottled cat, very fluffy, huge tail, answers to 'the Doctor'? He's wearing a collar...I think. No. Yes. Yes, he is, but I can't remember the colour because it's usually covered by rolls of fur. Favourite food: herring, though yoghurt and Vegemite also rate. He also tends to look permanently surprised/outraged. So if you're a fishmonger and there's a matching cat outside, complaining loudly, please please please let me know.

Is it good to be told you have an "affinity with wax"?

I've had my new job for just over a week, and I still don't really know what it is. I was going to tell you about the departments I've seen ("visited" is probably the wrong word; I stumbled into one and broke some things in another) but I've been going through the confidentiality section of the employees' handbook (so huge it's a wrist injury waiting to happen) and it looks like I can barely even tell you where I work, let alone spill inside information. Crap. I'll have to be super-vague. I'll just call it the Empire.

The Empire deals in new age-y stuff. They sell candles and oils, hold classes for people who suffer things (don't ask; I'm still not sure), and the most beautiful woman I have ever, ever seen runs it. Seriously. She has no pores. I bet she bathes in... what's the most luxurious thing you can bathe in? Truffles. She bathes in a mix of truffles, caviar, lobster, wagyu beef, and angels' tears. Then she's rinsed with a fire hose to get the stink off.

Anyway. The Empire staff are really nice, albeit kind of spacey. Well, almost everyone; the assistant to the Most Beautiful Woman Ever is a freak. Hopefully I'll never have to work with her. Another girl started on the same day as me (we did the aptitude tests together and, boy, do I wish I could post about those because they'd make your hair curl, but hello confidentiality clause) but she doesn't seem to be doing very well. At least I don't think so. It's kind of hard to tell. On the plus side, the Empire seems to think I have a talent for their ...whatchamacallit. On the down side, I've got a sneaking suspicion that I've just been lucky and any moment now they'll realise that employing me was a mistake.

Having a talent would be pretty good, though. I don't think I have any. (None that I'll admit to in public, anyway.) Can't cook. Can't sing. Can't play an instrument, because I don't think the recorder counts. Can't knit. Can't perform complicated mathematical equations. It's a litany of failure. However, I can read people fairly well. It may come in handy.

Cupid's fatal flaws

Less cranky now. Bad dates tend to do that to me. Particularly bad dates that looked as if they were going to be good dates and then... stuff happened. I'm not going to dwell on it. However, it's made me wonder - what isn't a good enough reason to break up with someone?

Bernard is my ideal partner, except for his:

* collection of Two and a Half Men DVDs.
* slight tendency to spit on the footpath.
* frequent use of the word "panties".
* Nazi sympathies.

But what do you do if it's not so obvious? Last year I turned down a dinner with a guy who had a really high-pitched giggle. I couldn't help it; every time he laughed, I imagined his testicles to be the size of Tic-Tacs.

Anise, from the corner chair, would like me to add that she once ended a relationship because the guy refused to try Malaysian food. I shall quote directly: "It denoted a degree of pointless inflexibility, which would probably end up extending to other areas in his life." I assume she's referring to The Sex. Yes, says Anise. "Duh," she adds.

However. If your paramour (who is a sweetie in every other way and super cute and has really nice hands and a sense of humour that makes you snort-laugh) basically implies that you're working for scammers and are possibly too dim to realise it, what then? My current method of coping is avoiding his calls. Call me a coward. I don't mind.

OK, I do mind. But it's either this or One of Those Conversations. And I'm really bad at Those Conversations.

Supercrank

I will not blog when I'm cross. I should not blog when I'm cross. I will really, really, really try not to blog when I'm cross. However, I'm cross right now and I can't calm down and I'm hoping typing will help somehow because TV, cat-squeezing, and three glasses of wine that I really shouldn't have had have not.

TV, in particular, is useless. SBS is showing yet another documentary on Hitler. Do they have ANY OTHER DOCUMENTARIES? Because every time I switch over it's either Hitler or Obscure Sex Movie. Hitler! Sex! Hitler! Sex! Tour de France! Hitler! CHRIST ALMIGHTY, DO YOU PEOPLE HAVE ANYTHING ELSE IN THE ARCHIVES?

See? Don't blog when you're cross.

And I've just realised I've been using 'blog' as a verb. Kill me now.

I will try again tomorrow. My mood will be better. Off to have a soothing cup of tea, nicked from New Job.