Every day getting closer to Miranda Hart and fruit friends

Ok, so remember the Director of Services who saw me pretending to be a synthesiser while I waited for my job interview? Well today he made the mistake of being in the lunch room with me. I was all, "Oh hey, Important Guy, have you ever watched Battlestar Galactica?" and he was like, "I hate sci-fi," and I was all, "Fool. Ima give you ten reasons why you'll love this shit." I was up to number 3 (sometimes Saul Tigh wears an eye patch) when he stopped me to say he didn't really like television in general. So of course I was like, "I don't understand what you've just said," and he went on to explain that he also didn't particularly care for movies, music, or books. I needed a co-worker to step in and enquire into further interests as I really had no idea what exists outside of those things. Turns out planes exist. I was all like, "Oh you like planes? They have planes in Battlestar Galactica. Except they're outer-space planes. So better, I guess."

Tash on

Blog fail. My bad. Excuses of work and uni will only take me so far—to be honest a lot of it is Geordie Shore's fault. Yes, Geordie Shore. It's basically the same as Jersey Shore except set in the UK and more efficient—they  seemed to have combined the JWoww and Sammie characters into one hellbeast of a lass. Also, I can't understand a word they're saying. It took me a couple of episodes to realise that Geordie girls use plural pronouns to describe themselves (and don't actually have dissociative identity disorder). For example, "I think he fancies us," or "All you wanna do is bang us." Sometimes they need to use subtitles. It's pretty great.

Of course you're a catfish, penis fish.

Diversity Day! This morning at work we had a training session on how to work with clients from different cultural backgrounds. I’ve been watching so much of The Office lately that I was expecting a really Michael Scott presentation, and wanted someone to be all “Abraham Lincoln once said that if you're a racist, I will attack you with the North. And these are the principles I carry with me in the workplace”. Unfortunately, it was really appropriate and respectful. We got to go around the room and talk about our heritage and where our families were from. One chick said she was of Scottish and Irish descent, and I was all like “That sounds really attractive”, which was admittedly a weird thing to say. We spoke as a group about how some cultures have higher levels of accepted conflict than others, and how our own upbringing and family history might affect how comfortable we are with this. I was all, “Bitch please. My people made Vikings and Nazis,” and then wondered who would win in a fantasy battle between Vikings and Nazis. I'd probably cheer for the Vikings, since I love Eric from True Blood, but antisemitism not so much.

Working 9 to 5 (except on the days they let me finish at 4)

Regular blog post fail. Apologies to anyone who was sent into Slanket-reference withdrawals during my absence. I bet that was tough. I wish I could say I've been off doing something fun like visiting Harry Potter World or having a Pretty Little Liars marathon. Actually, if I'm wishing for things I would wish that I've been at my own space wedding to Laura Roslin, but beggars can't be choosers (they can't, they really can't). Unfortunately, the Time Thieves have been my new job, uni, a couple of side projects, and working on assessment items while eating baked beans in bed (I do have a white doona cover though so this is actually more adventurous than it sounds). Also, I have been something of a fatigue monster now that I'm in the caffeine cycle which comes with returning to work. I can't sleep because a) clown will eat me, and b) I keep having dreams that I'm a spy and wake up feeling like I've been working all night. Working at being awesome. Yesterday I had three cups of black coffee because there was no milk in the tea room. Turns out three cups of black coffee doesn't actually make me alert and productive but causes heart palpitations and vomiting. Good times. Also now I'm going to have to spend the rest of my time with this agency pretending I take my coffee black since I don't want to admit I was too awkward to ask where the milk was.

Stop! Husher time.

Employed! Like a queen! Or responsible adult and valued member of society! Just when I was beginning to think it would never happen and I'd have to give up the luxuries of private health insurance and food, someone decides to save me from 24/7 Slanketeering by offering me a job. No more answering strangers' questions of "What do you do?" with "Hmmmm, yes. And you?".  No more trolling Seek and wondering what exactly one needs to promote and how "attractive" and "fun-loving" one has to be to earn $2470 per week. I'm finally returning to the world of overtime and power suits. I guess the interviewer who saw me being a synthesiser in my car understands the meaning of transferable skills.

It's not product placement. I just like it.

I achieved one of my life goals this week. No, I did not get a greyhound named Jane. No, I did not start a folk band with Jess and David Boreanaz. This goal was fashion related. I was given a garment that is red, backless, and sure to turn heads. Yes, it's Slanket. A sleeved blanket (also known as a snuggie), which provides the warmth and security of bedcovers while still allowing the freedom to pour cereal and operate a remote. It also doesn't look significantly unlike a Jedi robe. I'm not even going to pretend to look for a job anymore.

This bundle of joy came courtesy of my friend Jo, who cleaned out her house this week in preparation for several months spent on a boat doing coral research and community development in Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands (You think that's impressive? Today I did a load of washing, reorganised my handbag and made my bed, without even needing a nap!). In amongst the dried apples and non-fiction books I pilfered, there was a good as new, never before used, genuine Slanket. I knew what it was before Jo even unfolded it, and was so pumped that I yelled, "Dibs on Slanket!" despite being the only person around. It's possible that I was as excited about this addition to my life as Jo was about her upcoming trip. Though there are probably different types of excitement—it seems unfair to compare the satisfaction of helping out at community hospitals and protecting endangered reefs with the pure joy that comes from being able to sit comfortably and eat cheese without my arms getting cold.

You may be wondering why—if Slankets are as wonderful as they sound—I hadn't taken it upon myself to spend the $7 necessary to obtain one years ago. Truth be told, the thought of actually purchasing a Slanket has never occurred to me. I always wanted the Slanket event to occur naturally, organically—not so much me choosing a Slanket as a Slanket choosing me. And now it has, and here I am: snug as a bug in a Slanket and ever ready to relax. Thanks, Jo!

Sophie hates the Slanket. Jess hates the idea of the Slanket (even though she hasn't seen it and I'm pretty sure she'd succumb to the Slankety charms). Al asked me if I was wearing the Slanket as a joke. My friend Alethea said she would punch me in the face if I ever wore the Slanket near her. Indy is completely indifferent to the Slanket, even after Sophie helped me shove him into the Slanket pouch while I was wearing it (This could possibly explain why he likes Matt best. But seriously, the only thing more awesome than a Slanket is a Jug in a Slanket).

I really don't understand this Slanket hatred. What's not to love? It's convenient, it's versatile. It can be dressed up with elaborate earrings (as I discovered last night upon Slanketing directly after an evening out) or dressed down over pyjamas (though if I had known I'd be getting a Slanket this week I wouldn't have purchased my pink ankle slippers with silver glitter hearts, white fur and pom-poms...I don't want to show Sophie up in her own home). It's also super helpful. Apart from the Jug, I've also used the pouch to transport pegs (impressing the lady over the back fence with my clothes-hanging efficiency), books (proving it's impossible to make a Slanket nerdy) and my water bottle (because it's nice to know that hydration is never far away). I may or may not have pretended to be a kangaroo while carrying some of these things. Possibly the best thing about the Slanket though is the invention of the song, "Slanket, Slanket, Slanket. I made you out of clay," which makes absolutely no sense and may slightly misrepresent Hanukkah, but is so catchy that I see no chance of it stopping anytime soon.

Finally, I'm pretty sure that owning a Slanket takes me one step closer to actually becoming Liz Lemon. So it's really just a platform for success and a small part of a larger goal. And it seems now that Sophie might actually be warming (punny!) to the whole Slanket idea, if the conversation we had this afternoon is anything to go by:

Sophie: How long before we leave for soccer?

Me: About ten minutes.

Sophie: So enough time to make a Slanket for Indy?

Me: Absolutely.

Sophie: Slanket, Slanket, Slanket. I made you out of a blanket.

I guess that's Slanket: 1, Haters: 0

Get out of my Parliamentary hearing, pigeon!

Ok. Firstly, I want to apologise to anyone who has had enough of the Murdoch-heavy news of late. I'm pretty sure I have brought this on us all with the "What News of the World scandal?" comment I made to Al last week (I bet everyone's glad I didn't ask about the carbon tax. Hey? Hey???). Secondly though, I'm going to retract the apology I just made since I haven't been this caught up in news coverage since that British guy faked his own death by canoe then lived in a cupboard for four years. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion—a car crash that poses a lot of ethical questions and involves Elle Macpherson. And now thank you, Wendi Deng, for upping the entertainment factor. After writing this Ima pen a fan letter and make a request for her to be my personal bodyguard. Or new best friend. Either way, I want her on my side. I also think that if I got in with the Murdochs I could potentially get some help with Parking Ticket Wednesday. Two tickets, I got. Two. Ironically, one of them occurred while I was pleading destitution and begging for money from Centrelink. At least, I think that's irony...I often have difficulty identifying it (a traffic jam when you're already late?). Either way, should I really be punished for being a free spirit and refusing to let yellow lines dictate my life?