Acronyms abound where I work. All this computerization has forced us to tag every item in each direct mailer with a code so that production (or pohduction, as some would have it) can pick it out from among the thousands of other items my company has produced over the last 80 years or so.

And so we're constantly stricken with ENSBs and STs and WPs and GEUMMs and CBs. “We've gotta promote our CBs very strongly this quarter.” “Great discounts on our CBs!” “Get a CB now and receive a special gift.” I ain't no pimp man. (You have to know Hokkien in Singapore to understand what that was all about. Take it as a blessing if you didn't.)

To exacerbate (almost sounds like a dirty word, ahem… never mind) matters, it's us copywriters who, like bright pink 20-pound ducks with the words “cook me” plastered on our downy underbellies, have been arrowed to assign these codes to each item. What happened to our minions, otherwise known as account servicing?? Oh yeah, they've leaped out of existence where I am now. Dammit. Thus I find myself opening MS Excel documents and cursing the fact that they actually work on Macs. Excel! I've never touched Excel in my life and suddenly here we are getting all intimate with macros and all that rubbish.

For the first time too, I have a use for a ruler.

“Here's your ruler.”
“I don't think I'll be needing that.”
“Oh yes you will. You WILL.” *fiendish laughter*
“Noooooooooooo.”

And they don't measure things in centimeters. They insist on doing it in inches. Good grief. “What's a quarter of an inch?” “Why is each inch separated into 8 parts?” “I can't divide by 8.” “I'm Singaporean lar! I think in metric units!”

One good thing is that I've gotten my namecards. All 200 of them. Time for card castles and card blotters and card ant-killers.


I know I'm bored

[This Fashion] has no clothes for us lar. They have no upsize.

Someone: “She's always the last to leave. Every night sole survivor.”
Someone else: “Yeah. It's tough. After survivor, you have Amazing Race and then all those horrible things on Fear Factor.”
Someone: *blank stare*

He was moaning for his dog. (mourning)

In response to her design that came out of the printer.
Someone: “Where are my four dots?”
Me: “Stop talking about your dots!”
Someone: “I'm not a cow ok!”

“You wanna go to Starlight Cinema?”
“I prefer Star Movies.”

(via email)
Dear Colleagues, I brought some sweets from Bangladesh. Please stop by the panty and have them (they are in a golden box)
All this talk about boxes (golden or not) in panties isn't very appetising. Or maybe it is.