I'm a geek, I'm a lover

My workmate He who shall not be named, and I are self-confessed geeks.

He who is a bridge-loving-bearded-obvious geek, whilst I am a closet-had-a-few-drinks-and-crank-out-the-binary type geek.

Although we are from different ends of the geekosphere, we share the geek bond, and the incredible ability to drag up incidents from the past and flog them over and over until all humorous facets have been revealed. Not to mention a race to get the exclusive blog posts...

He who is a bit of a mess, whilst I am a neat freak. So I was helping put away some books. He came onto the scene as I was placing "Pearl of the Plain" and "Heart of a City" onto a shelf together.

"What sort of filing system is that?" He who asked.

"Metaphor filing" I replied, sniggering at my geeky awesomeness.

Then He who shall not be named retorted:

"Two metaphors don't make a meta-eight"

Brilliant, and very funny, unless you are a non-geek, then sorry I subjected you to it.

Sign of the times

Over the weekend I noticed some signs. Some funny intentionally, others not. Unfortunately I missed out on getting photos of some of the better ones, but I will forever know Blenheim as the town with a lack of proficient signwriting expertise.

I realised that this is becoming a bit of a hobby of mine, so I've compiled a collection of "The Greatest Signs, Randomised"

I like this one for the double denotation:
If you see the error here, you'll understand why I sniggered. And probably why my tea took so long:

This one is courtesy of Naesby's sports ground. Subtle but creepy:

Here's another from Naesby, at the car show. Let me point out that it was likely this car had only been entered into the carshow for the conveniant parking. The sign was the only remarkable thing about Cedric:

The Eternal Quest for the Tangy Fruit Sticks

I made a decision early in the weekend that was to forever change the course of my trip to Blenheim.

I passed up an opportunity to purchase tangy fruit sticks.

I know! I know!!

So of course, from early Friday on, I craved them.

Every shop we went in to, I pursued my dream. Every shop we went in to, I failed.

I asked at one highly probable candidate, "Do you have tangy fruit sticks?"

The emo girl behind the counter scans below the counter with her sad emo eyes.

Finally she looks up, sadly.

"Um this?" she says, holding up a jar of tangy fruit balls.

I shake my head in disappointment.

"No thank you, I need my tangy fruit in stick form".

We left Blenheim, my hopes and dreams for tangy fruit sticks in tatters.

We stopped in Oamaru for petrol, the very last stop before home. I was parched from my nutritious lunch of a caramel square (Thanks Couplands Timaru) so wandered into the station for a can of liquid tooth decay.

On my way to the till, I stopped.

Fruit. Sticks.

Tangy?

I wasn't taking any chances. I made the purchase.

My hands shook as I opened the packet. I selected a pink stick as the fateful fruit stick, and bit in.

The clouds parted, and the sun shone down on the packet of Tangy fruit sticks! At last!

My life is complete, and my dentist is rich. We all win.

Mummy Mullets part deux

You're about to read a momentous piece of randomamanda.com history today folks. My very first sequel post! The initial post, for those new to the randomness, is here.

Quite honestly, I never expected some good ol' piss-taking of my mother's fashion faux pas was going to generate such interest. Many people (and by many, I mean about four people) have contacted me to sympathise with my misfortune (proposed) mummy mullet, and so I feel it is only fair to share my Mum's hair cut with you.

She rung tonight and casually said "...I went to the hairdressers today".

"What, and got that mullet?"

"Not quite. You'll see it in the morning"

"I want to check it now"

"What, this late?"

"I'll make you a coffee"

"Ok, be round soon"

A tremendous weight was lifted from my shoulders when I discovered Mum had not gone ahead with the mullet, but had actually decided to go with a "Pob" (or "Pod" if you mishear me saying it, aye Mum). Mum shies away from the photographic spotlight but wished to set the record straight and prove her mullet free innocence.

Result:

Wedding invite: Safe.

Just another Blenheim sunrise

I've returned from a short holiday in Blenheim, with many stories and adventures to tell. Stay tuned!

White on!

I cannot believe I've been rambling on for five months without mention of stationery.

One of the great pleasures in my life is when it is time to restock a piece of stationery from the cupboard. There's always so many different varieties to choose from, and the "first use" thrill is like a P high without all the bad bits.

But the one piece of stationery I hold closest to my heart is the humble White out. I prefer my twink to be of the liquid variety - the tape white out lacks personality and the job it does is inadequate. There's also twink pens. They have their place, but their place is not with me.

Did you know liquid twink applicators come with a sponge or a brush tip? I have found the sponge tip to be superior in the short term, but in the long term the brush outruns them all.

Liquid twink was the preferred twink in four out of five people surveyed.

This geekatorial was bought to you by Amanda!

Top 10 ways to tell you've worked in my workplace too long

Top 10 ways to tell you've worked in my workplace too long

00010011. Binary is an in-joke
2. The in-jokes have developed their own in-jokes (the fire pole etc)
3. You consider scheduling some time at home to data cleanse your iTunes library
4. You start making comments like: "It's not like you'll be on your hands and knees for an hour or something" and "What's your performance like?"
5. You start collecting comments like the ones above
6. You use "mitigate" to refer to the weeding
7. In order to ease your mind you have obtained a Certificate of Compliance for the garden shed
8. You've change your home computer font to Verdana 9.5
9. You know the lolly preferences of your team mates
10. You can distinguish PMT and AMP from the AUD, IMU, DWX, EEOs, LUCs and ROWs

and a bonus...

11. The top ten list propogates further in-jokes "you've spelt number 6 wrong" and "you'll be mitigating something at the wedding, hahaha"

Where, where, where is Dibbo?

Our workmate Dibbo is off on holiday for two months. We're at the half way point, but our morale is starting to wane. Before you think I've gone all royal on you, I'm not talking in the third person. I'm talking about the team here at work.

As well as being our font of all rock knowledge and an authority on colour schemes and design, she's responsible for the ecologicaliciousness of Dunedin. So we shouldn't be terribly surprised that the house plants on her desk are taking back the computer equipment:



I'm checking Dibz's emails, to save her from having a thousand emails to wade through, and I'd like to say I'm very impressed by the high standard of joke emails she receives.

So in conclusion, Dibbo-dear, can you give your opinion on the proposed colour scheme for the wedding here, (I think the greeny green is too green - it can go without, possibly).

P.S. The funding came through, did you get my text?

P.P.S. He who shall not be named wanted tio excite you with "DOC is looking to hold an Otago Bio-D forum"

Dress up dolly

My sewing room cupboard and my refurbished glory box are stuffed to the brim with dress ups, old clothes, and accessories. I love playing dress ups!

Lisa is a bit of a bad influence. She loves wine and dressing up as much as I do. We're the sort of girls that the teachers would separate at school.

Naturally when we had Swedish day at work, I was Agnetta, the Swedish Volleyballer, although my research was lacking; I learnt later I was wearing far too much.

Dressing up as a graduate was fun. Being accosted by dozens of people who wanted to congratulate me was even better; we happened to dress in BA colours on a BA graduation day.

When I was walking home as Princess Di, Colonel Sanders accompanied me home. But we had to walk past a KFC. Embarrassing, but not the worst dress up drama I've weathered. (PS Who do you think I'm with: Burt Bacharach or Meatloaf? Calvin got toey when the boys told him he was the former)


I'm always hesitant to go to a private party dressed up. Sometimes, barely anyone bothers to dress up, and you look like a bit of a tool. Other times, you are the only person dressed up, and you are shame faced. And occasionally, you dress up as a lady of the night, and you are scared for life when noone else bothered.

Where to for Random Amanda?

This morning, I was reminiscing about the Careers program which, in 7th form, told me my ideal career path was to become a milliner. Well I've been unemployed now for five years waiting for my perfect job to come available, so I decided to redo the quiz and see if I still should be designing facinators.

I logged into Pathfinder and discovered, to my surprise, that the quiz was pretty spot on - thank god for that as I'm not quitting my degree now. However there were the odd few unusual suggestions which I want to share. For full effect, imagine me doing the job.

1. Hardware salesperson
There must have been a question about Joanna G in there somewhere. Funnily enough I've been trying to talk people into buying a stripper pole for $50 from Peaches and Cream. What a deal!

2. Shearing Contractor
I've seen shearing up close and personal - in the Mataura pub. But ask Craig or Doug - I'm terrible at haircuts.

3. Model
Since I never submitted a photo, my reputation obviously precedes me.

4. Jockey
I thought being a jockey and a model would be mutually exclusive, but I suppose a talent for the nags might run in the family (Dad was a jockey).

5. Zoo Manager
Amazingly they picked up that I am already employed as a Zoo manager at home.

6. Crop Farmer
I think the job title should be "Crop Duster" actually.

7. "XYZ" Teacher
Lots of different teacher roles popped up. This is because I like telling people what to do. The problem is I can only cope with children in groups of two or less, and get frustrated by stupid people. So might not pursue this one either.

8. Stuntperson
This is probably the most likely of the unlikely jobs. I'm excellent at falling over convincingly.

Ginger Whinger

Last week I thought I ought to look up what my wedding flowers actually meant, as if they meant something dodgy I would have time to change flowers.

I'm having freesias, which mean "innocence". Perhaps I am innocent, but the better term, I guess, would be naive. This is because I often have to google things to understand what they mean.

I came to this conclusion when in the car with my Mum and my sister. I explained I used to call folks of the ginger persuasion "minges". Of course, I now know that this term is grossly incorrect, mainly as the folks at work suggested I look it up on my home computer (unless I wanted fired). My sister nearly wet herself at her big sister's stupidity, then asked:

"So what does minge mean?"

This makes me feel a lot better. Not only did Danielle find my stupidity stupid, she didn't even know what I meant. Luckily for her, she is finding out six years earlier than I did.

Nemo, Lance and Amanda

I'm diversifying my exercise habits. I've decided, after procrastinating for a long time, that it's time I learnt how to swim.

Swimming is a skill that has eluded me for a long time. For one, I hate having my face touched, and that includes by water. The prospect of wearing next to nothing in public is kind of off putting also, but a sport that requires waxing, even if it is "French" - well, now there's a killer reason to avoid it like the plague.

I haven't bothered to read about it, but I figured doing different types of exercise work different muscles. Since whenever I ride a bike I get a very very sore arse, I decided if I was going to fit into a swimsuit, I'd go for a bike ride.

It was maaaaaaaaarrvellous. Lambs frolicked next to the fence, unaware the World's Biggest Lamb Fan was watching in wided-eyed wonder (at least, until I rode into the ditch). I also saw a mother duck and 12 wee babies.

I learnt that next time I'll wear sunglasses and keep my mouth closed, because I was a human windscreen. I love riding my bike. But I hate the after-taste.

I got back after biking for 5kms, and strutted inside, strutted, as my legs were stuck in the "cowboy show down position". I got myself into the chair, and it took me an hour and a half to get back up.

I need a sport to ease into. Maybe bowls is the ticket.

It's inspiration Jim, but not as we know it

I have a lot of ideas for blog posts, many of which don't make it further than that initial lightbulb moment. That's because I've got a hopeless memory, and because some of the stories are about people who may come across my mocking tones on the net - my workmates are lucky to have the unabridged random Amanda diatribe.

I have no such qualms about writing about strangers. I write my ideas in a notebook (one of my tools to fight off memory loss) and today, whilst with notebook in hand, the young gents behind me on the bus were talking about their sex lives.

My story, originally about swimming (that's tomorrow's now) turned into scribbled notes about these fellas incredible sexual prowess. But since I'm trying to keep this at R16 I can't use half of the material.

I look back to when I was their age (one just turned 18 this last weekend) and my life was nowhere near as 90210. Britney, Rihanna and Christina were all guest stars in these blokes bedrooms, and much to the disgust of the lady sitting next to me, they went into some quite fascinating stuff.

One of the girls who'd they'd shacked up with had turned lesbian; one, Gemma, was quite close to Dodgy Derek "if you know what I mean", and the boy directly behind sounded like he'd had Quite a New Years in Wanaka.

I really wish they'd been in their school uniforms, as I certainly hope the Danielle they were referring to was not my younger, innocent (or not according to the boys) sister.

I ought to take the bus more often.

Old wives tales

When hungry, I enjoy watching Food Television. As well as giving me ideas on what to eat, I also motivate myself to get up off the couch, stop this self-torture, and actually prepare something from the kitchen.

A lot of the cooking shows are American, which is nice if I had a deep frier and a taste for powdered sugar, but as I don't I usually tune out. I also tune out because of the tendency to remove the H from Herbs, resulting in, "mmmm, fresh EEEEeeeeeeeerbs!". Although saying that, the Americans probably think we are savages for pronouncing the silent "H".

I've noticed a few inner-city herb gardens recently which is nice. MTF has silverbeet growing and a place down the one way into town is growing parsley. I know silverbeet isn't a herb but I have it in my herb garden so shussh.

Parsley is a pain in the neck. I use about 6 sprigs a year, but you can only buy it in punnets of six, so I end up having a parsley garden with a couple of other herbs in the gaps. There's an old wives tale that warns against giving parsley away, lest someone gets pregnant. I don't quite believe it as I gave some to my elderly neighbour and she's not knocked up, but I can't risk it.

Speaking of elderly neighbours getting knocked up... I looked out my lounge window on a recent Sunday morning and saw an older guy out the back door of the flat next door. He was standing there, having a smoke (post coital probably) and wearing the lady's pink bathrobe. I vomited in my mouth a little and hoped it was a one nighter, but his truck has been out the front a few times. The wonders of modern medicine!

Crazy friends, a wedding and a doorway

We've been invited to a wedding today, which has led to some discussions on the appropriate etiquette and decorum we'll be expected to display. So far, Craig's had to buy a new shirt, James has been banned from wearing his Nikes (and your Adidas ones too), and Jill's been told, "you're not in Scotland now, you can't swig Cherry Brandy from a hipflask at the ceremony".

With all these do's and don't flying round, I got thinking about "the awkward door situation" the other day. It is basically compulsory for blokes to open a door for the ladies, so they've probably got the nuances of it down flat, but for us lasses, well, it don't come naturally.

Here's the thing:

I was walking out the door at work the other day, when I heard Ros behind me saying bye. So obviously, she was also about to use the door. I froze, door in hand, waiting for her to come through.

As she said her goodbyes I realised she wasn't as close behind me as I thought prior, so I should shut the door. But I'd waited too long.

Here's the catch 22: She was so close to leaving, that should I close the door, it may slam in her face. Bad enough, but I wouldn't be able to make a clean getaway. Oh no, Ros would open the door to see me escaping down the hall, and would realise who had slam the door in her face.

However, if I stood there and waited for Ros, I would potentially look rather odd, or even a bit of the ol' peeping Tom type, and could crowd the theoretical personal space bubble.

I opted to look like a creep and stand there with the door open. I don't know if I would close the door if I could make a clean break, but probably not. Unless I didn't like my workmates. Which I do. Usually.

One small step for men, one giant leap for the shed

After months of procrastination, the stars aligned and enough people gathered in the one place to get our garden shed moved from point A to point B on Sunday, as originally planned in July. The father in law provided the building expertise, the father provided the logistical nous, and the boys from across the road provided an audience to the action.

I sat the digital camera down and taped 30 minutes of the shed moving - all up it took about an hour. I've condensed it into 3 or so minutes of speedy DIY porn:

No blog post would be complete without the blonde moment of the day.

I attempted to measure the height of the garden shed, in order to determine compliance with the Dunedin District Plan. When I had determined my shed was compliant with the height plane angle requirements of the Residential 2 zone, I started to retract the measuring tape... as it retracted, it whacked me in the face as it went past.

I squealed, then glanced around to check if anyone had witnessed what felt like a face slicing. No one had, so I turned to leave the 1.1m side yard... and promptly tripped over.

Sigh.

Soft Porn on the Dancefloor

We went out on Friday, for a night of entertainment, education, and excitement. Initially, I thought the dodgy goings on were the result of the nature of the night, but after mulling it over, I think it is more the nature of Dunedin - thus I have produced a list of "Don'ts" based on my experiences on Friday night:

1. Do not stand or sit by yourself watching the half a dozen girls dance. It is creepy.
2. Do not approach the girls dancing and ask to take their photo for them, whilst thrusting your hips.
3. Actually, do not thrust your groin region at all.
4. Do not ask for ID, jokingly, then grab and restrain girls.
5. ...and once you've restrained someone, you are not likely to get a kiss on the cheek, so do not ask for one.
6. Do not yell out the front window of the car "You've got a vagina".

Luckily, I was with my fiance and several friends, so I couldn't help but laugh at the creepy men, the sad little boys, and the boozehags with inappropriate clothing. But without those folks around I think I might've been a tad scared. What I was scared of was the soft porn goings on down on the dance floor. I might not be a naive young lady, but I saw more petting at the Fever Club than a late night Sky One porno.

If last Friday had been "Girls, girls, girls", this Friday was all man.

Kia Ora New Zealand

Jill, our favourite crazy Scottish girl, was bumming round at home (it is the school holidays, so bumming isn't really the word) when an ad for Proactiv solution came on.

Jessica Simpson's bright and clear face popped on the screen and announced "Ke-ahh-youra Noo Zeeland!". Despite being a Brother from another Mother (country), she knew Jessica Simpson was way off the mark. If you are going to say Kia Ora, say it properly. Not that Jill can say "iron" properly, but that's another blog post.

This debacle reminded me about the time during Maori Language week, when I attempted to inject a bit of bro into my discourse. Picture this:

The phone rings in the Random Amanda household.

"Kia ora! Amanda speaking!" I chirp, with a hint of a Lynne from Tawa twang

...silence....

"uh, um... g'day?..." I say, into the depths of my cordless, "...anyone there?"

A nervous laugh is quickly followed by the disconnection tone - thus, I ended my attempt to Maorise my conversational styles.

The moral of the story being you can be wrong or you can be right, yet you'll still get laughed at.

Carnivore

What with a recession, a new kitchen, and a wedding and all, we are trying to cut down on the basics, to save some cash.

I've been reducing the amount of meat we use by adding lentils or serving more vegetables, but Craig is struggling to cope - there is no nice way to put it. He can't cope, physically, mentally, or spiritually, without meat. Craig is a carnivore.

I remember making my yummy wedges once. Without bacon. Needless to say the fact that we need to save for a wedding is a minor miracle. Lesson learnt: serve meat.

We share the cooking. Craig sometimes is very anti-vegetables, and makes just meat. I'm serious. For example, one time Craig served up red wine marinated venison... and... that was it.

On top of this, I'm trying to keep healthy for the wedding, so went out for a walk with Jill the other night, leaving Craig with tea duty. When I returned, he'd made a massive salad... sweet huh?!

Guess what was in the salad? That's right, the salad had bacon and chicken through it. Yum?

I don't think I can dabble in vegetarianism anytime soon.