Women are...

Late last year I attended a physical examination at the request of my employer - I guess they had to justify paying me the monthly packet. As it happened I passed with flying colors, however the doctor did suggest I consider donating my liver and kidneys to science fiction. Fair call, I thought.

As I sat in the waiting room staring blankly at the patients, playing guess the ailment, I did something I swore I'd never do. In a moment of gender disillusionment I picked up an edition of Cosmo. Sure, in the past I'd dabbled in Who, I'd perused a copy of TV Week, I'd even endured part of a television adaptation of a Jackie Collins novel but never had I been thrust into the seedy underworld of femininity so face first. It all happened rather quickly. I glanced peevishly at the cover, checked the room for prying eyes and then made my lunge. I'd grabbed the October edition and carefully placed it inside some medical journal. I sat back and opened it. So far, so good.

First off, a perfume commercial . Easy on the eye and strangely enough, it even smelt like the product it was advertising. Very weird. I pushed on. Past the contents page and through more advertising full of women who needed a damn good meal. Shampoo ads that directly questioned my hairs lipid levels, a toothbrush commercial that suggested that maybe, just maybe my bristles were flattened and lifeless and a mostuiriser commercial that basically implied that unless I slopped on their product I'd look like Gorgonzola in a matter of days.

I finally arrived at an article between the ocean of advertisements. It was titled "Shopping For Love". It seems the disco, the cocktail lounge and the holiday resort have all been pipped at the post in the pickup stakes. Supermarkets are the meat markets of the new millennium if the author of this article holds any credence in the world of meaningful pick-up journalism. But you must choose your supermarket carefully. No bulk buy, bargain basement, generic brand stocking, supermarket will do, I soon found that out. If there's cardboard boxes in the aisles, beware! You shop for love in the bargain basement, there's a very real chance you'll end up with spoiled goods. And further to that I also learnt that certain aisles within the right supermarkets are also of vital importance. How can one expect to meet Mr. Right whilst carefully reading
the instructions on a 'no more pet smells' carpet deodoriser. It just wont happen. No, the selective single must stick exclusively to the trendiest aisles in the hippest supermarkets. I now know the fruit n' veg section is a good place to start. A bunch of bananas pointing upwards implies you're hot, available and ready for action; no questions asked. Either that or you like bananas. The article finished up with a shopping list that guaranteed a bunch of drooling, Tom Cruise lookalikes begging for your phone number by the time you'd reached the deli. I must admit I'm still a touch skeptical but to this day I always put a jar of strong Garlic Pesto in my trolley just to be on the safe side.

I moved on, engrossed in every detail, feeling my knowledge of the fairer sex growing with the turning of every page. I came to the horoscopes. I found myself staring at a portrait of a woman trying her darndest to look both psychic and mystical. She failed on both counts. She looked as if she'd just had one too many Tequila's to me. No link to the other world there. She wore half a kilo of mascara, a couple of trowels of Polyfilla, and had the dizzy gaze of a Labrador pup that had just spent fifteen minutes in a tumble dryer. At a guess I'd say she was holding a ouija board although I've never seen one, so I can't be sure. I scanned the page until I found Sagitarius. According to Ms Gongonzola, Sagi's could look forward to a month of sin and debauchery. My grandmother is also a Sagi. I myself am partial to a little sin and debauchery, but I found it hard to imagine granny getting down and dirty. For one, she'd have a hell of a time getting back up. Anyway, she's usually far too busy watering the television, or watching the pot plants to get up to too much else. I also learnt that later in the month there was a very real chance us Sagi's would meet Mr. Right in a launderette. How they determined that from the date of my birth still has me flummoxed. Just to be on the safe side though, I made a mental note to steer clear of launderettes, dry cleaners and that aisle in the supermarket that sold fresh veggies - you just can't be too careful. After learning that I was odds on to sprain my ankle in an overzealous move in a game of twister, I decided to turn the page.

I'd reached the zenith of any women's magazine, the problem page. The magnet that draws my girlfriend like Elvis to a super supreme. The page or two where you get an insight into everyone else's problems. Problems that make a bad case of split ends seem as trivial as a full lint filter in the tumble dryer. The first letter came from a male. As I read on, I came to the assumption that he lacked a certain something. By the end of the letter I realised that that something was I.Q.. I.Q. and a good dose of common sense. It seems our friend had placed a sewing needle up his wrong end to the point of no return. He had tried in vain to retrieve it but with no success. He went into a little too much detail regarding the whole tweezer thing for my liking. But besides that it was a strikingly good read. This was days ago and now he was too embarrassed to visit the GP. To my way of thinking this whole scenario begs for the answer to one simple question. Why? In what situation would you find yourself doing such a thing. And if you did, what would compel you to push it past the point of no grip. The answer was strong and to the point. Visit the
doctor. Good advice I thought but I probably would have added something along the lines of: If you feel the need to keep up with this sort of practice use something softer and not so pointy. Maybe a cotton bud. That's just my thoughts though.

Then there was the middle aged woman from Mooloolaba who owned an overly excitable Pekinese and was looking for a spray or something to curb his peeing habits. Nothing was sacred to this piddly little hound. The couch, the hat rack, the swing top bin. It seems it had even formed a special bond with a feather duster. The problems went on. Each one slightly weirder and a touch more perverse than the last. Fantastic stuff.I closed the magazine and gently slid it from between the pages of the medical journal.

The perfect crime. I sat waiting and felt an overwhelming surge of relief pass over me. I'd done it. I'd entered the female world for a period spanning some thirty minutes ... and had emerged
unscathed. I felt my biceps and discreetly beat my chest. ;-)

Meetings are GOOD

I don't know what it is about meetings but if you contribute to their setting up and provide one or two insightful comments, middle management offers generally tend to flood in. Meetings and producing reports.

I produced a report on the frequency of meetings, which concluded that, "meetings are good". This report was then discussed at an executive management meeting and the findings relayed through our director at our section meeting. It appears Management agreed with my findings adding the word "very". "Very meetings are good".

Another meeting was held to look at the placement of the word "very" in my initial statement and it was decided by a majority (eight votes to five) that the statement should read "Meetings are very good".

I now have a car space in the buildings basement, my gross annual salary has increased significantly and the Chief Executive Officer chatted about the intricacies of Thai cooking with me at the urinal on Tuesday afternoon - I stood there nodding intelligently, offering timely remarks and praying for my stream to begin - all due to that single report.

I'm currently working on another......