Words are my enemy.
Actually wait, words aren't my enemy, people are my enemy. People and the way they use words are my enemy.
Words are actually quite useful and my possible career is centred around them and the way I use them so I should probably be nice to words.
So let's just stick with me hating the people who use them. It's always the people's fault.
Lately I find myself cringing at a few terms that are being thrown around a little too freely for my liking...
"Thanking you!" - My job involves lots of times a day where I am giving someone something, because of this there is a direct impact on how many times I am thanked. A simple 'cheers' or 'ta' or just a plain old 'thanks' is more than sufficient but some people insist on murdering this age old exchange. Why do these people feel the need to tell me that they are thanking me while they thank me? If you just said 'thank you' in the first place I'm well aware of what you are doing, there is no need for you to tell me " I am thanking you"! It's not like I look at you and say "Serving you!" when I hand you your beer do I? There is no need for either of us to provide a running commentary of our actions while we do them.
It's normally coming from a middle aged man and he always does it with a dorky smile on his face and it's hard to hate him for it. I still manage.
While I'm tearing apart gracious people - I also hate it when some say "Thankyou kindly". Aren't you already being kind when you thank me? Or were all those other thankyous just hollow? Or are you just trying to make yourself sound better by asserting that you are kinder than other thankers? What's your story! Huh!? If you must exaggerate your appreciation, just say 'thankyou very much'.
"Deets" - short and slang for 'details'. As in - "I'll send you some deets on tomorrow night" or "What are the deets for this project?"
What was wrong with the word details? It was only a mere two syllables? I think I hate it most because it's always being used by extremely white guys who just can't fit it into a sentence casually enough for me to not notice it. It just screams "I'M TRYING TO SOUND CHILLAXED"
"Chillaxed" - bleeeeugh.
"Flick you an email" - I have no idea why this one annoys me so much but I just hate how unnecessary it is. Why can't you just send the email like everyone else? There is no flicking involved at any stage of email sending. Thinking, writing, reading, typing, attaching, drafting, proofreading, cutting, copying, pasting and linking are all perfectly acceptable present participles (Yeah - take that every english teacher I've ever had!) that could be used in the process of emailing, but 'flicking' never arises! At a stretch the only time could be when you press the send button, you could possible move your cursor over 'SEND', hold the mouse still with one hand, and then flick the mouse button with the other one - but I just tried it and it really hurt.
"Naysayers" - Who exactly are these naysayers, where can I find someone who refuses something by saying 'nay'. THEY DON'T EXIST SO STOP USING THAT TERM!
"Hubby" - if you ever use this abbreviation in any way, shape or form. I am TOTALLY unfriending you on Facebook.
Sometimes people create and change words for good, like "Maccas", "Octomom" and "Oprah rich". But the other people who abuse them and coin terms like "Brangelina" should chillax before saying thanking you or I will flick them and their hubby an email saying NAY!
Exercise is lame.
I completely and utterly SUCK at estimating.
Ages, distances, weights, heights, but most importantly.... times.
So when it comes to "Finding Thirty" I'm hopeless. If go for a run - ok well I use the term 'run' loosely - I'll run about 100m out of my driveway (or is it 10m?) and then it will be time to have a quick walk to recover from that strain, and then repeat that pattern until I can't go anymore.
I figure this journey to a sweaty, tired and bored destination of exhaustion would take me AT LEAST 30 minutes. But then when I drag my arse back inside and realise it's the same episode of Neighbours playing as when I left, I'm just plain embarassed. I can't even run around my suburb for as long as it takes Karl and Susan to make a cup of tea for Toadie and explain to him that he needs to get out of Erinsborough because the writers are running out of storylines that explain why he gets such hot love interests while he too closely resembles his namesake.
And running around the neighbourhood just isn't as glamourous as the Lorna Jane commercials make it out to be. My outfit rarely consists of anything that remotely matches or is of a sports brand at all. I don't have any windswept hills around my place where the sun shines perfectly behind me while my ponytail swings in perfect unison with my arms. There's no conveniently placed concrete steps for me to run up with a even more conveniently placed water fountain at the top. I rarely see any tanned, toned and painfully good looking guys jogging in the opposite direction shooting me a flirty glance as we cross paths suggesting a future romance.
In fact, the reality is I'm wearing some daggy shorts that once formed my highschool uniform and a baggy tshirt that was bought only because I found myself needing one last item from the '3 for $10' table at JayJays. My sneakers are from the Mart of K and bear the name of Australia's own D-list hero- Guy Leach. Running down my street is no easy feat, it's a gauntlet of avoiding reversing cars and old Italian Nonnas weeding their nature strips while they secretly curse you because you don't. My once perfect ponytail has slipped out of it's band and now the back hangs out giving me an essence of mullet and I'm almost stacking it every few steps trying to keep my dam earphones in my ears because I can't make out where the 'L' and 'R' are anymore. The only source of water on my route is from a fountain at the oval which you've always been told 'someone probably pissed in it'. Seriously - who actually pisses in a water fountain? I'm no guy, but I'm pretty sure that angle is a little uncomfortable, either way I'll be buggered if I'm drinking out of it.
Struggling home I'll be trying not to let anyone see my red and sweaty face, let alone a male of the tanned/toned/hot variety.
So as I collapse on the couch and the credits of Neighbours rolls down the screen, I curse my unfitness and swear never to leave the house again and to listen to Olivia Newton John and just get a Wii Fit.
Ages, distances, weights, heights, but most importantly.... times.
So when it comes to "Finding Thirty" I'm hopeless. If go for a run - ok well I use the term 'run' loosely - I'll run about 100m out of my driveway (or is it 10m?) and then it will be time to have a quick walk to recover from that strain, and then repeat that pattern until I can't go anymore.
I figure this journey to a sweaty, tired and bored destination of exhaustion would take me AT LEAST 30 minutes. But then when I drag my arse back inside and realise it's the same episode of Neighbours playing as when I left, I'm just plain embarassed. I can't even run around my suburb for as long as it takes Karl and Susan to make a cup of tea for Toadie and explain to him that he needs to get out of Erinsborough because the writers are running out of storylines that explain why he gets such hot love interests while he too closely resembles his namesake.
And running around the neighbourhood just isn't as glamourous as the Lorna Jane commercials make it out to be. My outfit rarely consists of anything that remotely matches or is of a sports brand at all. I don't have any windswept hills around my place where the sun shines perfectly behind me while my ponytail swings in perfect unison with my arms. There's no conveniently placed concrete steps for me to run up with a even more conveniently placed water fountain at the top. I rarely see any tanned, toned and painfully good looking guys jogging in the opposite direction shooting me a flirty glance as we cross paths suggesting a future romance.
In fact, the reality is I'm wearing some daggy shorts that once formed my highschool uniform and a baggy tshirt that was bought only because I found myself needing one last item from the '3 for $10' table at JayJays. My sneakers are from the Mart of K and bear the name of Australia's own D-list hero- Guy Leach. Running down my street is no easy feat, it's a gauntlet of avoiding reversing cars and old Italian Nonnas weeding their nature strips while they secretly curse you because you don't. My once perfect ponytail has slipped out of it's band and now the back hangs out giving me an essence of mullet and I'm almost stacking it every few steps trying to keep my dam earphones in my ears because I can't make out where the 'L' and 'R' are anymore. The only source of water on my route is from a fountain at the oval which you've always been told 'someone probably pissed in it'. Seriously - who actually pisses in a water fountain? I'm no guy, but I'm pretty sure that angle is a little uncomfortable, either way I'll be buggered if I'm drinking out of it.
Struggling home I'll be trying not to let anyone see my red and sweaty face, let alone a male of the tanned/toned/hot variety.
So as I collapse on the couch and the credits of Neighbours rolls down the screen, I curse my unfitness and swear never to leave the house again and to listen to Olivia Newton John and just get a Wii Fit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)