Got laryngitis this week. I’m going about sounding like an aged frog woman. Sad thing is, it seems to be an improvement. I talk less, I enunciate more, and I can’t absently start singing to myself because it sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Everyone around me seems a mite happier and no one's in a rush for me to go to the doctor and get it sorted.

Not the most reassuring of thoughts - my friends wanna see me croak.

Journalists and public relations-walas have a tense relationship. We think they're the dumb blonde sellouts of the profession - they look good, they can shmooze but they're all about trying to trick us into attending dumb events so they can get undeserved print space for a client. They think we're the self-righteous, demanding, and exploitative megalomaniacs, who want official comment in five minutes and freebies to boot.

But I got the best PR sell the other day. Typically, a PR wrangle will vary between pathetic pleading ("Please, please come to our event. I have to get atleast three papers in attendance!"), to downright browbeating ("we really think that your newspaper should cover our event"), and even bribing ("we'll be giving away watches to journalists in attendance"). But the one I got from a gentleman I call The Master of PR was the best.

The event in question was the launch party for a news channel. I got the invite, with this text "Hi Aniraz. Acme Channel is going to be one of the big ones. They've brought in the best from around the world, but they've still got some openings, looking for strong journalists. It'd be great for you to attend. Dress to impress!"

I was, as the British say, gobsmacked. Cheeky but so apt. He offered the ultimate carrot for a journalist in the UAE - the opportunity to be headhunted. Forget the gifts, forget the discounts, the fancy dinners, and the cruises. Offer us better jobs, and we'll come running.

I almost did. Now I wish I had. I so want a new job.

And in the continuing saga of “Dubai Is a Hellova Small Place” we have ‘Wednesday’s Incident.’

(Btw, for those of you who missed last week’s exciting chapter, which played out in my comment box, it went a little like this. Owl is a madwoman. She got mad and stomped around Dubai without her shoes on. On the way back to her car, she stomped by a confused looking dude in a green shirt. He ended up being Farrukh, who apparently reads this has-been of a blog, remembered the shoe-less wonder, and put a face to the name and vice-versa.)

This week, we had a new the victim of the hit-and-run Owl Express experience.

I had a package to mail (all crappy paperback mysteries should start like this). In fact, I‘ve BEEN having that package to mail for the past three weeks. Lemme alone, I’ve been busy! So yeah, after letting said package sit in my car for only upwards of 20 days, it occurred to me I had to mail it. Stat! Before it became a fixture in my car, like the empty coke can in the door pocket and the egg yolk stains on the floor (another story for another day).
On Wednesday I had about five minutes to spare between mad-cap reporterly dashing and madcap reporterly writing, so I ran out the office and jumped in my car (which for some odd reason I’m tempted to call a honeywagon). I didn’t know where the nearest courier was, but I knew if I drove down Shiney Hotel Boulevard (the scene of last week’s incident), I’d find one. So I just drove. Rather wobbily-ly, as my eyes were not on the road, but on the strip malls that lined it. After what seemed like forever and a few more, I found It. A Courier. A Namebrand Courier no less!
I scree-ed into the service lane, haphazardly parked, and ran inside. There, I dramatically scribbled my signature next to all sorts of not so factual data on export (how does one value a bathrobe? And they expect me to remember what airline I flew in on, LAST YEAR?), and swallowed my heart when I had to pay many hundreds of dirhams to send my shabby package to the Homeland, where it would be reunited with Momma.
The deed was done and I was just about to walk out (cuz right about now, you’re wondering what the point of this rant is, perhaps I tricked you into reading it and there is NO point!), when guess who saunters down the stairs. Baptised Lucifer – Blogistan’s irreverent stick-girl. - who I haven't seen in ages. She looked at me, I looked at her, and I flippantly said “didn’t know you worked here.” Um, did I mention she and I had a phone conversation on the pains of the corporate world, oh, only two hours before? “You idiot! You should have told me you were coming!” she responded and slapped me. Ok fine, she more like tapped me, but slapping is more dramatic and in line with our crappy novel theme. So it turns out that Lucifer not only works at Namebrand Courier, but she also has rights to a 65% employee discount! I coulda saved millions! CURSES!

In case that was too many words for you and you just want the conclusion here it is - I am losing my mind, people keeping following me, and Namebrand Courier is a racket and Baptised is the fat Mafia Don who runs it.

Today I ate a cookie the size of my head. Nearly. Ok fine, it was more like a large saucer. But still. This from the ‘biter of cookies’ or ‘she who nibbles and leaves for later’ is a serious thing. Blame it on work. I periodically force myself to rediscover my mojo, which briefly motivates me to continue performing despite huge unresolved issues on the desk, but it only lasts so long. Without any help, it’s bound to peter out. A rather futile exercise in the end. I keep pouring my goodwill down a bad-well, haha. It’s not going anywhere. So ate a cookie. And had four cups of caffeine. And still did not feel motivated to turn in another two stories that they will not use until they’re utterly stale and dumbed down to the point of nothingness.

Is all work like this? Are they all unfulfilling painful slogs that you just put up with until you find another one whose problems are different and thus fun? Is it really up to me to force myself to be positive when I’m in a less than perfect situation? I can, but in the end, it’s got to be for a greater good, right?

Sigh.

I want another cookie.

The evil-est shoes on the world's ugliest carpet. The former are mine - alas - the latter, belongs to the Dubai Press Club - which by the way, is decked out with matching chairs and wallpaper. Epileptics beware, just being in the room can set off even the most stable of us.
If the Rulers knew how much bad PR the emirate was getting from that carpet alone, they'd deport it back from whatever colourblind country that produced it. And blacklist it to boot. "Note: No carpets in hues of blue, yellow, or combinataions of said hues, shall forewith be allowed entry into the United Ates of Emiratia."