I have a networking function tonight and I have slipped into the pattern of moroseness I usually feel on such days. I don't want to leave the house and spend two hours talking to other people. There will be more than 60 people there. Obviously I don't have to talk to all of them; usually I manage to avoid talking to many at all because I'm on duty with my camera or up on the microphone being an MC.
So I've been playing online jigsaws for the last two hours while my mind spirals down and I tell myself to buck up, it won't be that bad. It's cloudy and grey outside and that doesn't help either as I suspect I'm prone to SAD. I can't focus on work as I know I have to leave at 4.30 for this function to help set up. I haven't been able to focus on the To Do list since 9.30am and it's noon as I write this.
Most business people head cheerfully to networking events and actually enjoy them. I'm guessing most business people aren't as introverted as I and at least 50% of them are genuine extroverts (apparently the population split in general is 60% extrovert and 40% introvert… which means that almost half the population is introverted, in a world which seems more geared to extroverts).
I found this rather good post today which explains introversion nicely:
http://introvertdear.com/2015/04/30/how-to-understand-an-introvert-explained-by-introjis/
It's not that I'm particularly shy. I used to be as a child but these days I happily get on the microphone and address the networking group. It's the small talk chat and talking to people I haven't met before which I find excruciating.
I have friends who nag me to give up smoking, and part of me would, very much, like to kick the habit. But the fags give me an excuse to escape for a few minutes by myself at parties and networking events. Get away from the crowd, get away from the noise. A bit of me time. Far from the madding crowd, essentially.
My introversion is the same reason I will send an email rather than pick up the phone, unless I'm calling a friend for a catchup. I don't think quickly on my feet and writing down what's on my mind is a far less stressful task.
I work alone and work from home. The introverted part of me can't cope with the notion of going into an office everyday and being surrounded by people for the duration of the working day. I put up with that for 25+ years and got through it only by making sure I had lunch at my desk by myself with a good book. I suspect working alone has made my introversion worse, but frankly I don't care. I'm happiest alone.
My upline in the candle business is chasing me to book for the national conference in July, a horror of an event with 600 people, a networking cocktail party with all 600 and a formal dinner again with all 600. It's my idea of hell. I hate conferences with a passion, especially big ones like this. Two days of being locked in a room surrounded by, mainly, strangers unless I could sit with someone I actually know. The final straw is that we have to share hotel rooms; the only available me time will be in the bathroom. The thought of the conference is making me feel physically sick, so I shan't be going. I suspect I will not go far in the candle business; one is expected to attend the conference if one is on the pathway to building a team and achieving leadership. You might wonder what an introvert is doing in a direct marketing role anyway - but I have no problem with speaking about the product; it's speaking to the guests socially after the parties that's hard!
I'm fine with small dinner parties with up to ten people. I feel quite comfortable and able to chat, particularly if they are people I already know. I find it awkward to talk to new people, particularly if they are as introverted as I. I forget to ask open ended questions; I struggle to think of anything aside from "What do you do for a living?" to start a conversation off.
This week is a particularly bad one for me. I have the function tonight, later this week I have a "Chambers Day" with other execs from Chambers of Commerce (a full day of conference including lunchtime bloody networking), and my stepson is visiting for two nights from tomorrow. I can feel my stress levels rising. I do like my stepson, however. He is in his late 20s. He has Asperger's, which is no big deal, except that like me he is an introvert so we have lots of long, awkward silences between us unless my husband is there to (sometimes clumsily) break the ice. If my stepson does talk it's often about topics he is fanatical about, and it's hard to a) keep up, b) maintain an interest as his chief interests don't interest me, and likely vice versa or c) change the subject. He can talk on his chosen topics for hours.
So, dear reader, or perhaps readers (I might get lucky), are you one of our wonderful 40% of introverts? How do you cope with large gatherings or compulsory work networking events? Do you find you get miserable just thinking about them, or do you force yourself not to think about them until the time is upon you?
Me, I'm heading back to jigsawplanet.com for a few hours to take my mind off it.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Monday, March 9, 2015
It's my party and I'll throw a tantrum if I want to
I have somehow been roped into helping a friend throw a birthday party. It's a major party. One of those which celebrates a birthday with a zero on the end. As you may guess from the title of this post, that friend is Whingey.
Whingey and Mr Whingey asked me about three weeks ago to help. Because I organise events as a regular thing for one of my clients, they thought they'd pick my brains. They were tossing up between the following ideas:
After two weeks of deliberation and poring over menu ideas they decided on the final one. Thank heavens! The first one would have been a real drain on every guests' wallet.
Next was theming. Whingey decided that as she couldn't have the posh restaurant she'd do the opposite and have a 1970s party with people turning up in costume. All good so far. I did the invitations up and they are very much peace, love and flowers.
Until now Whingey has left most of the organising to me, Mr Whingey and another friend. However, Mr Whingey, who has taken to dropping by after work for a drink to look over party arrangements as Whingey doesn't let him drink midweek, rang me yesterday. "Invite us over to discuss the party before dinner," he begged. "I'm bored."
So I did, and Whingey didn't let him drink and she didn't drink and she started to look carefully at the spreadsheet I'd done up and started picking it at. Well, I expected that.
We are having table names rather than numbers, with 70s icons as the names, i.e. Gough Whitlam, Robert Redford. Whingey immediately decided she'd rather have band names or musicians etc so the red pen went through my list.
Her other friend and I decided we'd have a fun 70s trivia quiz as an icebreaker, with one of the topics being sport. Sport got vetoed too, as Whingey has no interest in sport.
When we got onto discussing the music for the evening I really wish she'd had that glass of bubbly I offered; she's always less grumpy after a drink. Mr Whingey likes his early 70s rock, particularly prog rock. All his suggestions were banned immediately. When we all teased her that he would slip a song from one particular band in, she snapped, "Do you want me to walk out on my own party on the night?"
G and I exchanged a glance. We were both thinking the same uncharitable thought: Yes, because then everyone who has worked so hard on this can actually enjoy themselves without worrying about you snapping at them if things aren't bloody perfect!
I am wondering whether Mr W will phone this afternoon and ask to come around and talk about the music. And whether he will, as usual, bring a bottle of red to gulp at before he goes home. I'm laying 5/2 on that one.
Whingey and Mr Whingey asked me about three weeks ago to help. Because I organise events as a regular thing for one of my clients, they thought they'd pick my brains. They were tossing up between the following ideas:
- Hold it at a posh licensed restaurant where guests would pay their own way, which could, depending on wine chosen, work out as $200 per couple (well, won't get many RSVPs to that one as we're all a bit cash strapped)
- Hold it at home, somehow cramming 50 or more people into the small house if it rains or into the garden if it doesn't. Everyone to bring a plate and drinks (logistic nightmare suggesting what to bring to whom without insulting them)
- Hold it at a local community hall and get caterers in. BYO drinks but charge people $25 a head to cover the catering (Slightly rude, asking for $)
- Hold it at a local community hall with a spit roast and pay for the lot, except ask people to bring their own drinks (much better)
After two weeks of deliberation and poring over menu ideas they decided on the final one. Thank heavens! The first one would have been a real drain on every guests' wallet.
Next was theming. Whingey decided that as she couldn't have the posh restaurant she'd do the opposite and have a 1970s party with people turning up in costume. All good so far. I did the invitations up and they are very much peace, love and flowers.
Until now Whingey has left most of the organising to me, Mr Whingey and another friend. However, Mr Whingey, who has taken to dropping by after work for a drink to look over party arrangements as Whingey doesn't let him drink midweek, rang me yesterday. "Invite us over to discuss the party before dinner," he begged. "I'm bored."
So I did, and Whingey didn't let him drink and she didn't drink and she started to look carefully at the spreadsheet I'd done up and started picking it at. Well, I expected that.
We are having table names rather than numbers, with 70s icons as the names, i.e. Gough Whitlam, Robert Redford. Whingey immediately decided she'd rather have band names or musicians etc so the red pen went through my list.
Her other friend and I decided we'd have a fun 70s trivia quiz as an icebreaker, with one of the topics being sport. Sport got vetoed too, as Whingey has no interest in sport.
When we got onto discussing the music for the evening I really wish she'd had that glass of bubbly I offered; she's always less grumpy after a drink. Mr Whingey likes his early 70s rock, particularly prog rock. All his suggestions were banned immediately. When we all teased her that he would slip a song from one particular band in, she snapped, "Do you want me to walk out on my own party on the night?"
G and I exchanged a glance. We were both thinking the same uncharitable thought: Yes, because then everyone who has worked so hard on this can actually enjoy themselves without worrying about you snapping at them if things aren't bloody perfect!
I am wondering whether Mr W will phone this afternoon and ask to come around and talk about the music. And whether he will, as usual, bring a bottle of red to gulp at before he goes home. I'm laying 5/2 on that one.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Rebecca where are you?
One of my favourite books is Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. I read it first when I was in my mid-teens, and needed something to read. In Mum's bookshelf was an old hardback with a yellow dust jacket. On the spine it said The (then a gap where the dust jacket was torn) "Rebecca". Mum had ripped the price out as it was a bargain 2/6 in 1954 and she didn't want the price showing. I genuinely thought the book was called The "Rebecca" and that it was about a ship or something. Booooring!!!!
Mum's bookshelves were full of old hardbacks from the 40s and 50s. Many of them looked awfully unappetising, in fact downright boring, with a few exceptions, the best being They're A Weird Mob by Nino Culotta (John O'Grady to you), which I adore.
"Read Rebecca," Mum advised. "You'll love it." Only the week before she had urged me to read Green Dolphin Country and I just couldn't get into it; historical drama - not my thing at all.
Anyhow, I thought I'd give Rebecca a shot and I fell in love. It inspired me to seek out Daphne du Maurier's other novels and they have all been good companions and re-read over the years. Except for Julius. I hated it. Julius murdered his cat near the beginning of the book. That ruined it for me.
Every couple of years I re-read Rebecca; yes, I can quote from it, but I don't care. When I was living in our old place I borrowed the book from Mum, and when we moved in here I brought it back and put it in its rightful place in Mum's old bookshelf, which is in the room which is now my office.
Last week I wanted to read it. I knew where I'd put it. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. But it wasn't there. That yellow dust jacket is unmistakable. I checked the shelf again. I pulled out the books at the front to go through the books at the back. I looked through the front books, where it should have been, three times in total.
Had I loaned it out to Whingy? I had loaned her other DduM books but had resisted loaning her Rebecca as, in its 1954 'cheap edition' it was priceless to me and I didn't want her losing it or giving it away, forgetting who had loaned it to her. No, I hadn't loaned it.
So, it must be downstairs with most of G and my books. We have six bookshelves downstairs. I went through every single one of them, hunting for that yellow cover. Where the books were double stacked I took them out, and cast my eyes over thousands of books in total.
I was puzzled. Where on earth -? There was one more bookshelf in my office I hadn't checked, my own where I keep business books; it would be unlikely to be there but even so…
I chuntered back upstairs and into my office. And there it was. Bright yellow cover and all. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. Right where it should be.
I swear Mum was playing a joke on me. I did ask her, when I was downstairs, where the book was. It seems inconceivable that I could look at that book three times and not see it, not with that bright cover. I'm looking at it now and it's unmissable.
Now I just have to find my copy of Susan Hill's Mrs de Winter, which was written as a follow up. I've read Sally Beauman's Rebecca's Tale, which was excellent and a believable sequel to Rebecca. But hey, I can't find the book downstairs and it's not in the bookshelf in my office. Mum….?
Mum's bookshelves were full of old hardbacks from the 40s and 50s. Many of them looked awfully unappetising, in fact downright boring, with a few exceptions, the best being They're A Weird Mob by Nino Culotta (John O'Grady to you), which I adore.
"Read Rebecca," Mum advised. "You'll love it." Only the week before she had urged me to read Green Dolphin Country and I just couldn't get into it; historical drama - not my thing at all.
Anyhow, I thought I'd give Rebecca a shot and I fell in love. It inspired me to seek out Daphne du Maurier's other novels and they have all been good companions and re-read over the years. Except for Julius. I hated it. Julius murdered his cat near the beginning of the book. That ruined it for me.
Every couple of years I re-read Rebecca; yes, I can quote from it, but I don't care. When I was living in our old place I borrowed the book from Mum, and when we moved in here I brought it back and put it in its rightful place in Mum's old bookshelf, which is in the room which is now my office.
Last week I wanted to read it. I knew where I'd put it. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. But it wasn't there. That yellow dust jacket is unmistakable. I checked the shelf again. I pulled out the books at the front to go through the books at the back. I looked through the front books, where it should have been, three times in total.
Had I loaned it out to Whingy? I had loaned her other DduM books but had resisted loaning her Rebecca as, in its 1954 'cheap edition' it was priceless to me and I didn't want her losing it or giving it away, forgetting who had loaned it to her. No, I hadn't loaned it.
So, it must be downstairs with most of G and my books. We have six bookshelves downstairs. I went through every single one of them, hunting for that yellow cover. Where the books were double stacked I took them out, and cast my eyes over thousands of books in total.
I was puzzled. Where on earth -? There was one more bookshelf in my office I hadn't checked, my own where I keep business books; it would be unlikely to be there but even so…
I chuntered back upstairs and into my office. And there it was. Bright yellow cover and all. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. Right where it should be.
I swear Mum was playing a joke on me. I did ask her, when I was downstairs, where the book was. It seems inconceivable that I could look at that book three times and not see it, not with that bright cover. I'm looking at it now and it's unmissable.
Now I just have to find my copy of Susan Hill's Mrs de Winter, which was written as a follow up. I've read Sally Beauman's Rebecca's Tale, which was excellent and a believable sequel to Rebecca. But hey, I can't find the book downstairs and it's not in the bookshelf in my office. Mum….?
Friday, January 23, 2015
Dream a little dream of...
I had an afternoon nap earlier this week. It was hot, I'd overeaten for lunch (on salad - can you believe I overate on bloody salad??) and felt unspeakably tired after lunch. It was as if I was being sent to sleep. I had decided to read for fifteen minutes after lunch but couldn't keep my eyes open, and lay on the sofa instead.
I dreamed of Mum, and I do wonder if she sent me to sleep for that purpose. I'm sure she still hangs around here.
Anyway, in the dream I was sorting out the broom cupboard. Last weekend G and I bought a new long-handled dustpan and brush (we do SUCH exciting things together) and I promised to move the old one out of the cupboard and take it to the garage for use down there and on the path and driveway. Lazy me, I hadn't done it at that point.
But in my dream I picked it out of the cupboard, and had the new one in my hand too. Mum was standing next to me in the hall.
"I'll just sweep the kitchen floor," I told her, brandishing the new dustpan.
"No, you don't have to do that right now," she said, a little mysteriously. She was hiding something.
"But it's dirty."
"You won't want to go in there."
"There's a spider, isn't there?" I said anxiously. I loathe spiders - specifically the big bastards such as the Huntsmans we get occasionally clinging to the ceiling.
Mum nodded. I peered into the kitchen and looked up. No sign of it; I went in slowly, around to the cooking area. Aaargh! There it was, above the oven. I squealed and ran back out to the hall and Mum.
And woke up about then.
Honestly, the dream was so vivid I was sure Mum was still alive and with me. And that there was a spider in the kitchen. I wish the former were true with all my heart. I was so convinced I'd had a spider warning I went into the kitchen warily and looked everywhere. I've been checking every ceiling in the house since then.
I think earlier in this dream I was on the patio. I'd had a cigarette and oh heck, Mum was standing at the door. I must reek of smoke, I thought despairingly, knowing how much she disapproved of smoking. I was being very edgy and trying not to get too close to her so she wouldn't smell it on me. I think I had a broom in my hand and was sweeping up outside. Mum was saying something about cigarettes but I can't remember what. That part of the dream wasn't as real and vivid as the spider bit.
Although it's been a stinking hot week here I haven't had that desperate urge to sleep, the sense that I can't stay awake, since the spider dream. I do believe Mum visited me. Lovely warm feeling!
I dreamed of Mum, and I do wonder if she sent me to sleep for that purpose. I'm sure she still hangs around here.
Anyway, in the dream I was sorting out the broom cupboard. Last weekend G and I bought a new long-handled dustpan and brush (we do SUCH exciting things together) and I promised to move the old one out of the cupboard and take it to the garage for use down there and on the path and driveway. Lazy me, I hadn't done it at that point.
But in my dream I picked it out of the cupboard, and had the new one in my hand too. Mum was standing next to me in the hall.
"I'll just sweep the kitchen floor," I told her, brandishing the new dustpan.
"No, you don't have to do that right now," she said, a little mysteriously. She was hiding something.
"But it's dirty."
"You won't want to go in there."
"There's a spider, isn't there?" I said anxiously. I loathe spiders - specifically the big bastards such as the Huntsmans we get occasionally clinging to the ceiling.
Mum nodded. I peered into the kitchen and looked up. No sign of it; I went in slowly, around to the cooking area. Aaargh! There it was, above the oven. I squealed and ran back out to the hall and Mum.
And woke up about then.
Honestly, the dream was so vivid I was sure Mum was still alive and with me. And that there was a spider in the kitchen. I wish the former were true with all my heart. I was so convinced I'd had a spider warning I went into the kitchen warily and looked everywhere. I've been checking every ceiling in the house since then.
I think earlier in this dream I was on the patio. I'd had a cigarette and oh heck, Mum was standing at the door. I must reek of smoke, I thought despairingly, knowing how much she disapproved of smoking. I was being very edgy and trying not to get too close to her so she wouldn't smell it on me. I think I had a broom in my hand and was sweeping up outside. Mum was saying something about cigarettes but I can't remember what. That part of the dream wasn't as real and vivid as the spider bit.
Although it's been a stinking hot week here I haven't had that desperate urge to sleep, the sense that I can't stay awake, since the spider dream. I do believe Mum visited me. Lovely warm feeling!
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Mess and Mr Turdiman
My husband G is away for a few days for work. After spending almost three weeks solid in his company over the Christmas break, it feels both odd and a relief. Love him as I do, it's nice to have the place to myself for a bit.
He does try hard to pull his weight. He usually does the washing up in the morning (and leaves the sink area a total wet mess afterwards) and helps with the hoovering (but not under furniture or on the top of skirting boards or those other little dust gathering places). He helps hang the washing out and is quite OCD about it: he has to pair all the socks together and drape them in pairs over the line before pegging them, likewise all his undies he has to hang over the line first instead of just grabbing a handful and pegging them. It drives me nuts watching him as it's double handling. When he hangs his shirts out he doesn't always check the sleeves aren't turned up, so he gets a surprise to find that some sleeves on his shirts aren't dry as the cuffs are turned in. I mustn't grumble. Most women would be delighted to have the help.
I've been cleaning the house today. I don't think G realises how messy he can be. Crumbs all over his end of the kitchen table and under his chair. Shoes strewn in several places in the bedroom (despite me fixing up a bigger shoe rack for him in the wardrobe), drawers not closed fully (ooooh, that irks me!), papers left everywhere, and worst of all the pee drops on the loo floor.
Why the hell do men dribble? Can't they wipe their willies with a bit of bog roll? G doesn't even realise he drips. I've pointed it out to him and he's been astonished, but he still dribbles. And it smells. If I get in there quickly enough after him I wipe the floor with loo paper but I still have to mop it at least twice a week.
I have a nose which can be pretty sensitive to smells; on one hand it's nice to get a whiff of someone's perfume and be able to identify it, likewise the scent of a flower while walking along the footpath. But I'm very sensitive to bad pongs.
Which brings me to the other bad pong. Shit. G is a shitter. Some days are double dumpers, some are triple turders. The bloke just can't go once a day. We only have one toilet, so while the holidays were on I had to time my own daily dump between the numerous loo visits of G. I secretly call him Mr Turdiman. He doesn't know this. I've never met anyone who needs to crap so often.
So for a few days I have a clean, tidy house and a toilet that doesn't stink. Everything is in its place. I feel calm. It's like a holiday after the holiday.
He does try hard to pull his weight. He usually does the washing up in the morning (and leaves the sink area a total wet mess afterwards) and helps with the hoovering (but not under furniture or on the top of skirting boards or those other little dust gathering places). He helps hang the washing out and is quite OCD about it: he has to pair all the socks together and drape them in pairs over the line before pegging them, likewise all his undies he has to hang over the line first instead of just grabbing a handful and pegging them. It drives me nuts watching him as it's double handling. When he hangs his shirts out he doesn't always check the sleeves aren't turned up, so he gets a surprise to find that some sleeves on his shirts aren't dry as the cuffs are turned in. I mustn't grumble. Most women would be delighted to have the help.
I've been cleaning the house today. I don't think G realises how messy he can be. Crumbs all over his end of the kitchen table and under his chair. Shoes strewn in several places in the bedroom (despite me fixing up a bigger shoe rack for him in the wardrobe), drawers not closed fully (ooooh, that irks me!), papers left everywhere, and worst of all the pee drops on the loo floor.
Why the hell do men dribble? Can't they wipe their willies with a bit of bog roll? G doesn't even realise he drips. I've pointed it out to him and he's been astonished, but he still dribbles. And it smells. If I get in there quickly enough after him I wipe the floor with loo paper but I still have to mop it at least twice a week.
I have a nose which can be pretty sensitive to smells; on one hand it's nice to get a whiff of someone's perfume and be able to identify it, likewise the scent of a flower while walking along the footpath. But I'm very sensitive to bad pongs.
Which brings me to the other bad pong. Shit. G is a shitter. Some days are double dumpers, some are triple turders. The bloke just can't go once a day. We only have one toilet, so while the holidays were on I had to time my own daily dump between the numerous loo visits of G. I secretly call him Mr Turdiman. He doesn't know this. I've never met anyone who needs to crap so often.
So for a few days I have a clean, tidy house and a toilet that doesn't stink. Everything is in its place. I feel calm. It's like a holiday after the holiday.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
New Year's Resolution: Grow Some Balls
If there's a problem client roaming around looking for a contractor they are sure to find me. It's as if I have a sign on my back: Use Me And Don't Pay Me.
After giving up hope of getting any money out of The Scarlet Pimpernel - a cunning, conniving cow who racked up thousands of dollars of web and design work with me and didn't pay me, then proceeded to do the same to at least two others - I now have another client who wants me to do work urgently but doesn't have the money to pay.
A friend of mine nicknamed him Mr Twat. I call him Fer-ANK or Fuck Off Frank. Not to his face as I'm a coward. But when I see his name come up on my phone I want to scream or self-harm (keep me away from sharp objects!), so I yell Fuck Off Frank to it several times before I take the call.
Mr Twat is running a conference. Or rather, I'm organising it for him. He wants it to be an annual event. I'm in the throes of organising the third annual conference and he still owes me for the work I did on the first two. He is paying me off whenever he gets a new sponsor for the current conference.
As a business plan goes, it sucks. "I can't pay you unless the conference makes a profit." It's rather like a commission-only sales job, and that is something to which I have never aspired.
Well. I spat the dummy last week. I have been extraordinarily - some say stupidly - generous in the time I've allowed him to pay me off. I've been called daft for still doing work for him but if I stop now I don't like my chances of getting paid as the conference needs to go ahead and make a profit.
The end result of the dummy spit is that Mr Twat rang me yesterday and told me that regardless of whether or not the conference made a profit he would pay me even if it had to come out of his own pocket. I suspect the concept of loaning your own company your own money to pay contractors or bills has only just occurred to him. The rest of us do it all the time.
What really irritates me, aside from the slow payments, is that Mr Twat will phone me on an almost daily basis with more tasks for this wretched event. He will talk on hands free because he's driving, which means essentially he shouts down the phone at me. I hate being shouted at. He also asks if I am in front of my computer or at my system, which truly pisses me off. Apparently I have no right or reason to be anywhere else, as he is often surprised if I tell him that I'm actually not sitting in front of a computer. People seem to think I spend 24/7 at the desk. Perhaps they believe I sleep with my computer, holding my laptop like a lover. I bloody don't.
This year my intent is to grow some balls and spit the dummy at problem clients more often. I have eye problems which mean I can't realistically do a full day's work sitting in front of a computer. My eyes get tired, the left one gets painful and stings. I am now picking and choosing who I work for, and will be moving Mr Twat off my client list once he has paid up in full.
Life's too short.
After giving up hope of getting any money out of The Scarlet Pimpernel - a cunning, conniving cow who racked up thousands of dollars of web and design work with me and didn't pay me, then proceeded to do the same to at least two others - I now have another client who wants me to do work urgently but doesn't have the money to pay.
A friend of mine nicknamed him Mr Twat. I call him Fer-ANK or Fuck Off Frank. Not to his face as I'm a coward. But when I see his name come up on my phone I want to scream or self-harm (keep me away from sharp objects!), so I yell Fuck Off Frank to it several times before I take the call.
Mr Twat is running a conference. Or rather, I'm organising it for him. He wants it to be an annual event. I'm in the throes of organising the third annual conference and he still owes me for the work I did on the first two. He is paying me off whenever he gets a new sponsor for the current conference.
As a business plan goes, it sucks. "I can't pay you unless the conference makes a profit." It's rather like a commission-only sales job, and that is something to which I have never aspired.
Well. I spat the dummy last week. I have been extraordinarily - some say stupidly - generous in the time I've allowed him to pay me off. I've been called daft for still doing work for him but if I stop now I don't like my chances of getting paid as the conference needs to go ahead and make a profit.
The end result of the dummy spit is that Mr Twat rang me yesterday and told me that regardless of whether or not the conference made a profit he would pay me even if it had to come out of his own pocket. I suspect the concept of loaning your own company your own money to pay contractors or bills has only just occurred to him. The rest of us do it all the time.
What really irritates me, aside from the slow payments, is that Mr Twat will phone me on an almost daily basis with more tasks for this wretched event. He will talk on hands free because he's driving, which means essentially he shouts down the phone at me. I hate being shouted at. He also asks if I am in front of my computer or at my system, which truly pisses me off. Apparently I have no right or reason to be anywhere else, as he is often surprised if I tell him that I'm actually not sitting in front of a computer. People seem to think I spend 24/7 at the desk. Perhaps they believe I sleep with my computer, holding my laptop like a lover. I bloody don't.
This year my intent is to grow some balls and spit the dummy at problem clients more often. I have eye problems which mean I can't realistically do a full day's work sitting in front of a computer. My eyes get tired, the left one gets painful and stings. I am now picking and choosing who I work for, and will be moving Mr Twat off my client list once he has paid up in full.
Life's too short.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Painting walls, not pictures
We've been in this house ten months now and it's time to start tarting the old girl up. We have jokingly given the house a name - Turd Hall (or Tird Hall for posher spelling) as with two cats and a dog there is a lot of shit to pick up! Also as I get the shits with work quite a lot it's appropriate. But I digress…
So the tarting has commenced.
Firstly I had a painter - delectable Daniel, so cute I could almost eat him - do the outside woodwork around the windows.
Inspired by Daniel, who made the woodwork absolutely sing, I decided to paint the inside window trim in the living room and re-lacquer the windowsills because it looked so bloody disgusting compared to the outside woodwork. It took me a weekend and got me back into the swing of painting. I realise I am going about this upside down as the ceilings should come first, then the walls, then the trim, but oh well!!
I also repainted the inside front door jamb after spending a couple of weeks mucking around with Plastic Wood and sandpaper restoring a section which had been thoroughly chewed by a friend's dog (hate to think of the splinters the poor dog must have got in her mouth!). It's not absolutely perfect - which is annoying to this perfectionist - but on first glance you wouldn't know there had ever been damage. It's not like it was a square piece either, there was a little recessed bit I had to match. I am considering becoming a sculptor using Plastic Wood as my medium!
After the delectable smell of oil enamel and turps had faded, I got withdrawal symptoms and wanted another nice task. By that stage I'd amassed around 50 colour swatches for the hall, living room and main bedroom. I bought a few sample tins and did some sections here and there on various walls. For a few days there were parts of the hall which looked positively patchwork as I tried them out!
Tird Hall is double brick and the interior walls are cement rendered, so it's a rough surface and interesting, if a bit labour-intensive, to paint over. The nice thing is that because of the surface you can be a bit slapdash with the roller and it won't show in which direction you've rolled.
The hall was originally yellow and while I wasn't enamoured of it, plenty of farting around with colours brought me back to yellow, but a lighter and more citron shade. The hall is pretty dark so needed a light and warm colour. I don't do cream. I did try with some cream sample paint but I rebelled against it. It's just not me.
I dithered about waiting until we'd had the ceiling painted, but then I thought: I'm a mucky pup when it comes to painting around cornices. I'll be really cross if I get paint from the walls on newly-painted cornices. I can easily touch up the wall for any paint spatters from the ceiling.
So I got the blue painter's tape out and got taping around door jambs, cupboards and skirting in the hall. It took me a roll and a half to do the job properly - it's a big t-shaped hall. I thought, "It's not a huge painting job - there are plenty of cupboards taking up space." Well. The first coat and a bit of the second to use up the paint in the roller tray took me eight straight hours. I didn't even stop for lunch as I was getting a bit tired by then and thought if I stopped, I'd STOP. My arms were a bit sore at the end of the day and I was getting blisters from the roller handle.
Nonetheless, it looked great. And the good news is it only took me four hours to complete the second coat the next day. I was on a roller - er, roll - by then. When I peeled away the tape there was very little paint where there shouldn't have been paint and the carpets didn't get a single drop on them. Phew.
Last weekend's project was the woodwork around the exterior of the front door - undercoat and two coats of glossy white enamel. The paint was original, i.e. 1960 vintage! And it looked it. It was peeling here and there where it hadn't yellowed. Now it's all shiny white again. Have to figure out how to repair the door sill though; it's falling apart.
What's next? Paint the screen door at the front its old original glossy black, as well as the matching grilles which go in front of the windows on either side. I've sanded the grilles ready for undercoat but have to sand and rustproof the front door. I won't get the opportunity to pick up a brush this weekend though, dammit!!! We have too many social activities planned. Hmmph!!
So the tarting has commenced.
Firstly I had a painter - delectable Daniel, so cute I could almost eat him - do the outside woodwork around the windows.
Inspired by Daniel, who made the woodwork absolutely sing, I decided to paint the inside window trim in the living room and re-lacquer the windowsills because it looked so bloody disgusting compared to the outside woodwork. It took me a weekend and got me back into the swing of painting. I realise I am going about this upside down as the ceilings should come first, then the walls, then the trim, but oh well!!
 |
| Ready to go! |
 |
| Done! |
I also repainted the inside front door jamb after spending a couple of weeks mucking around with Plastic Wood and sandpaper restoring a section which had been thoroughly chewed by a friend's dog (hate to think of the splinters the poor dog must have got in her mouth!). It's not absolutely perfect - which is annoying to this perfectionist - but on first glance you wouldn't know there had ever been damage. It's not like it was a square piece either, there was a little recessed bit I had to match. I am considering becoming a sculptor using Plastic Wood as my medium!
 |
| Job done - just have to pull the tape off. |
After the delectable smell of oil enamel and turps had faded, I got withdrawal symptoms and wanted another nice task. By that stage I'd amassed around 50 colour swatches for the hall, living room and main bedroom. I bought a few sample tins and did some sections here and there on various walls. For a few days there were parts of the hall which looked positively patchwork as I tried them out!
Tird Hall is double brick and the interior walls are cement rendered, so it's a rough surface and interesting, if a bit labour-intensive, to paint over. The nice thing is that because of the surface you can be a bit slapdash with the roller and it won't show in which direction you've rolled.
The hall was originally yellow and while I wasn't enamoured of it, plenty of farting around with colours brought me back to yellow, but a lighter and more citron shade. The hall is pretty dark so needed a light and warm colour. I don't do cream. I did try with some cream sample paint but I rebelled against it. It's just not me.
I dithered about waiting until we'd had the ceiling painted, but then I thought: I'm a mucky pup when it comes to painting around cornices. I'll be really cross if I get paint from the walls on newly-painted cornices. I can easily touch up the wall for any paint spatters from the ceiling.
 |
| Before. The paint looked tired, it had worn away around the light switch, it had scuff marks that wouldn't shift and it was plainly dingy. |
So I got the blue painter's tape out and got taping around door jambs, cupboards and skirting in the hall. It took me a roll and a half to do the job properly - it's a big t-shaped hall. I thought, "It's not a huge painting job - there are plenty of cupboards taking up space." Well. The first coat and a bit of the second to use up the paint in the roller tray took me eight straight hours. I didn't even stop for lunch as I was getting a bit tired by then and thought if I stopped, I'd STOP. My arms were a bit sore at the end of the day and I was getting blisters from the roller handle.
 |
| After. You can see there's a slight citron tinge to the yellow. |
Nonetheless, it looked great. And the good news is it only took me four hours to complete the second coat the next day. I was on a roller - er, roll - by then. When I peeled away the tape there was very little paint where there shouldn't have been paint and the carpets didn't get a single drop on them. Phew.
 |
| My paint job was very neat - but my clothes weren't by the end of it! |
What's next? Paint the screen door at the front its old original glossy black, as well as the matching grilles which go in front of the windows on either side. I've sanded the grilles ready for undercoat but have to sand and rustproof the front door. I won't get the opportunity to pick up a brush this weekend though, dammit!!! We have too many social activities planned. Hmmph!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)