Towards the end of a (long, tiring, frustrating) shift today, I was installing Office on a PC in the call center attached to our workplace. The joys of remote control.

It was a bit of a rush/favour install, to the manager down there, who has had to dick around with licensing agreements and such to get the poor girl on the computer access to Excel. It’s been a bit drawn out, and the guy was so relieved to find a solution that I practically promised to install today, despite having other priorities.

When Office got up to the “Hello! I need a product key!” stage, I became aware that someone else was driving. They typed in hello mr HACKER (sic). So, like a good IT monkey, I brought up Notepad.

ALSO KNOWN AS THE SERVICE DESK.
Kindly allow me to finish installing Office
Thank you.

Their response? Well, see the screenshot linked above.

I was absolutely flaming mad. So violently angry I was shaking. You just do not do shit like that in the workplace. Ever. Have whatever sense of ‘humour’ you like in the privacy of your home or with your acquaintances! Just not at work to a stranger!

I called said Manager on his mobile phone, demanded as politely as I could manage* that he find out RIGHT NOW who was sitting in front of that PC, as it probably wasn’t the best manners to type “hello hacker” into the product key window, and ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE to respond to my following comments with SIG HEIL.”

The manager was somewhat gobsmacked**, and promised to deal with it immediately.

He rang back five minutes later. Apparently the shitbucket responsible had tried to skedaddle as soon as he caught Manager emerging into the call center - I’ve dealt with Manager in a bad mood, at 200km distance over a telephone, and it was no fun and it wasn’t even my fault. Manager informed me that apparently this charming person hadn’t been aware of the Nazi associations of the phrase***, which made him (direct quote) as stupid as he was annoying; and that he would not be troubling me forthwith.

If nothing else, the adrenalin shot from the anger woke me up for the first time this week. The Lurgy has been quietly eating my brain and energy reserves, so that was a pleasant side effect.

But seriously. What kind of shit-for-brains cockwalrus moron actually types SIG HEIL on a bloody WORK COMPUTER to a TOTAL UNKNOWN WHO HAS ADMIN RIGHTS? In the middle of a CALL CENTER, surrounded by PEOPLE? Clearly he didn’t expect me to be able to go straight to the manager, and I’ll admit it was a long shot that the culprit would be enough of a twatting moron to still be sat there, but…

*Boss later informed me that I was behaving with extreme politeness, which I was somewhat surprised by.
** “Yer… wha… who… I don’t, well, I believe you, it’s you, but whaaa… the… Yes. Right away.”
*** Boss’s response, with which I emphatically agree: “Fucking bollocks, he didn’t know.”

I am once again at the point where I desperately need a holiday from work. I’m getting angry and frustrated at the unending unerring stupidity, I’m sick of one of my coworkers, my mother asked a stupid question the other day and it is a Good Thing that I was not on the telephone with her at the time, as I would have chewed her out for being retarded.

Kat rescued me from insanity and had lunch with me yesterday, and whilst retailing the story, I finally saw the funny side.

See, there’s a rewards-points scheme Mum and I belong to (we share the account). She sent a text message, requesting one of the rewards from said scheme. The service responded with You have not registered your phone number. Please respond with reg , eg reg 1234567812345678 ddmmyy. Mum read that as “A whole bunch of numbers and things I didn’t understand, then it called me a dummy.”

I did manage to explain, in my politest “I work tech support” voice, that she’d essentially done the equivalent of calling Pizza Hut from her mobile, saying “Hi, Hawaaian, my house, 20 minutes” and hung up without any further details, and she did get it.

I maintain that I am my father’s daughter.

Work has a gym that costs $3 a week. I joined last week, and have actually started going.

I’ve also downloaded a podcast series which, while somewhat less than mindblowingly fun to listen to, is very helpful in maintaining a good speed. (It’s an interval training series - first gets you to running 5k, then 8k, then 10k, etc.)

Frankly, I’m tired of being fat. I’m tired of looking in the mirror and seeing the wobbly rolls. I’m tired of buying the fat girl clothes, tired of the looks and expressions, tired of having pamphlets shoved in my face by recruiting gym bunnies. I’m tired of making excuses to myself about why I got fat, tired of avoiding exercise because of dark nights and the cold and the rain, tired of saying “But I’m pretty fit for a fat girl!”, tired of complaining about myself, tired of not liking my appearance, tired of lugging around the equivalent of a couple sacks of potatoes every time I take a step.

I was fit, before I left my hometown, and I let it slide when I moved. Mind you, there were a lot of reasons for that. I wasn’t exercising for the right reasons - it was a distraction, not something I did for itself or for myself.

And then I took the shitty callcentrehell job, and retreated into my shell, and I piled on the weight and lost the fitness. I gained a dress size in two months! Not to mention the muscle tone I lost, stamina I lost, general fitness I lost. Yes, I could always walk for ever - I honestly am fairly fit for a fat girl - but I looked bad. I’d added at least one more chin to my collection, my skin was looking pasty, and most importantly I was very unhappy about it.

I’ll never be skinny. Nor do I really want to be. I’m not built like a twig, I have what are politely referred to as child bearing hips, and I lost the thigh gap approximately age 12, when I hit puberty. My lowest weight in my teens was maintained by dint of having a somewhat unhealthy relationship with food, something it’s taken me a few years to straighten out. (No, I wasn’t anorexic or bulimic. But I didn’t exactly have heart-to-hearts with my plate either.) For that matter, I suspect I screwed up my metabolism for a while there - when I returned to normal eating, I piled on the weight like crazy. Three dress sizes in two years REALLY leaves you with funky stretchmarks. And yes, I ended up going up four dress sizes between ages 17 and 23.

Through some slightly more sensible eating and drinking, I’ve lost a dress size this year. I’d already lost weight, just through leaving callcentrehell and removing the stress. It’s a good start. Friends have commented I’m looking healthier. Heck, two of my workmates have commented! I’m feeling better, too.

I’m joining the gym for me, this time. I’m sure I won’t enjoy it all the time. I’m sure I’ll have days where I give up after half an hour, or I don’t bother because I slept badly. I’m not fond of exercising in company, so I’ll probably steer clear of busy times (my shifts will help there), and I’m sure there will still be days when I make excuses.

I want to be fitter, healthier, happier in my skin. Not for anyone else’s reasons; just because I’ve spent too much time making excuses to myself, and I’ve had enough.

The six people at the bus stop this morning all had the same outfit. Knee length black jacket in varying cuts, dark trousers, black leather boots. Four of us had backpacks (grey), one briefcase, one ladies tote (black). It amused me no end, the parade of the officedroneclones.

Unlike the other clones, I had a bright aqua umbrella. And my purse, which I was holding for easier immediate extraction of my bus pass, is a bright farkoff 70’s orange. And although I wasn’t wearing them today, I own a pair of bright yellow heels. Bright, COMPLETELY impractical, and I love them. (Pardon the picture quality - my cellphone has a good quality camera, for a cellphone, and these were taken to pass on to a friend via email during the work-day.)

I turned 25 yesterday, and still can’t get my head around the concept that I’m actually an adult. I mean, yes, I hold down a (good) job, and oh dear god Tobermory and I bought a HOUSE what have we DONE - I am still not mentally prepared to deal with this concept. It is a very nice house, however. I keep stopping and going “oh dear god we bought a house”. We move in September - and clearly I act like an adult. The new chap at work is 19, and I definitely feel older than him.

Possibly due to my age, I have started making an effort to tidy up my wardrobe. No particular reason - I just felt like it. I have started getting compliments from the women at work, from both the fashionable and the stylish. (No, they’re not always the same women. Fashion and style aren’t mutually inclusive. One in particular is utterly unfashionable, but her style is so fitting to her that she always looks amazing.) It makes me … happy?

I know I’m overweight, and I’m working on that. I know (mostly) about what suits my shape/build/style, too, and I’m learning how to dress for that. I spent rather large amounts of money on my kneelength black coat. It’s lovely, suits me (I think), classic, well cut, warm. Spent even more on the Boots. Rather less on the yellow heels*, but they’re leather, surprisingly comfortable - no blisters - and I’d coveted them for four months before I saw them on special and caved in and bought them. Some days I’m sure I have fashion disasters, but others I go to work and get multiple compliments on whatever I’ve put together, and you know? That feels really good.

A few years ago, I wouldn’t have worn the bright colours, ever. In case I drew attention to myself, because I didn’t have the courage, in case someone laughed at my lack of fashion, because I’m overweight, because I was depressed and wanted to hide, any one of a number of reasons.

I’m going to mark it down to being 25 (gleep, first quarter century down…), actually becoming an adult in some part of my poor bemused brain, and to being happy.

And Tobermory got a call from Immigration today. His residency application has been put forward for approval. YES.

*Amusingly, I was watching Moulin Rouge a few days after buying The Yellow Shoes, and realised they’re remarkably similar to the pair Nini Legs-In-The-Air is wearing in the cancan scene. Hee.

Today is my birthday. I was given chocolate by two different coworkers, and returning from his lunchbreak, the Thoughtful Linguist presented me with a small, fluffy, plastic pig.

The Thoughtful Linguist is Asian, so it’s one of those little doofers that can be attached to telephones/keyrings/whatever your heart desires to attach a small dangly fluffy thing to. Mine’s on my cellphone for the moment.

Along with the “Aw! Presents!!” and “eeecute”, I was completely overrun with hilarity. As a female, I’d never give a large woman a pig. The connotations are just all wrong! Even if it was someone I was sure wouldn’t be offended by a piggy present, I’d not do it* in case she thought I thought she thought it, etc, Yay female logic. But it is cute and fluffy. And, y’know, presents! Yay, etc.

And then I remembered that the Thoughtful Linguist is Asian, and I was born in the Year of the Pig. And I am glad I said a genuine thank you for my little pig.

* Unless she collected pigs, which is a bit different again.