Forget palm reading - people can now tell a lot about you just by your brand of mobile phone. AC Nielsen has published research outlining which kind of people are likely to buy what kind of phone:
NOKIA: family-minded; middle-aged managers; balance seekers; health conscious
MOTOROLA: under 24; fashion conscious; fun seekers; individualistic
SONY ERICSSON: ambitious young men; professionals; success-driven; individualistic
LG: favourite of mums; stay-at-home parents; success-driver; harmony seekers
SAMSUNG: young women; career-focused; success-driven; fun seekers
I'd have to say this information is amusingly accurate in some ways. I own a Motorola, even though I was over 24 when I bought it. I will admit though I bought it for the sole reason that it's one of those hot pink RAZRs. One year on though, I've been looking at getting a Samsung D900 - which apparently makes me a fun, career-and-success driven young woman. Hopefully I'm all these things - and it would explain why I've never found any of the LG phones appealing!
What then, dear readers, does your mobile phone say about you? Why did you buy it in the first place, and do you possess any of the qualities the AC Nielsen research suggests applies to users of your brand?
Mar 28, 2007
Mar 25, 2007
Weekend warriors
Apologies up front, but this is going to be another one of those boring posts about my apartment that seem to comprise 99.9% of my blog these days. However, this time there are pictures to add some visual interest.
This is my hallway. Note my incredibly sexy "Orbit" clear glass console table (thanks to my new dealer, Freedom). Note also my wonderful Tintin block-mounted comic-book covers (thank you, Hong Kong markets). However this wall was lacking some of what my mother would describe as "oomph". The flat, as yet, just isn't 1920s Parisian bordello-y enough. Not brothel-y enough!!!
The solution? A last-minute, hare-brained scheme to paint the wall red! Huzzah!
Now despite being the daughter of a woman who has a savant-like ability to paint perfect feature walls, I had never actually done one myself. So yesterday morning, Greg and I hastened to Bunnings, that modern Charybdis where many a better home handyman than I has lost hours - nay, days - to isles of Taubmans colour charts, petrol-powered leaf blowers, Australian natives and water-efficient shower roses. I was lucky to have Greg with me, as his doggedness in the face of brain-snapping D-I-Y bargains ("Look honey! Two-for-one toilet seat covers!") kept our mission on a steady path. With the help of the lovely Stacey (hold onto her, Bunnings Cannon Hill), we ended up picking two different reds to try out on some cardboard, before making our final decision. After overnight testing, we decided on Dulux Red Box, which seemed dark on the little sample card, but suited the apartment - and most importantly, matched the sexy red lounge suite.
This afternoon we began operations. Here you can see Greg beginning the paintwork, after first masking the areas of hallway we DIDN'T want spattered with Red Box (hmmm, not a great image, that one).
I proved fairly useless through the painting, as we only had one roller, and Greg had not approved of my technique when we were painting the samples. "You didn't get enough paint on, and look, it's all patchy!"
So I spent my time mopping up drips and spotting areas that needed more coverage. After the first coat, I also indulged in some Shakespearean impersonations:
"Out, damned spot!"
If only Duncan's blood had Dulux's patented water-based rinse-off technology, maybe Lady Macbeth might not have thrown herself off that turret.
Anyway, you can see Greg still painting in the background. I believe his words were "Less archiving, more helping". I reckon he was just jealous of my comedy gold effort.
After a few hours of drying, Greg then used a spongier brush rather than the roller to apply the second coat. And we now have this!
This is my hallway. Note my incredibly sexy "Orbit" clear glass console table (thanks to my new dealer, Freedom). Note also my wonderful Tintin block-mounted comic-book covers (thank you, Hong Kong markets). However this wall was lacking some of what my mother would describe as "oomph". The flat, as yet, just isn't 1920s Parisian bordello-y enough. Not brothel-y enough!!!The solution? A last-minute, hare-brained scheme to paint the wall red! Huzzah!
Now despite being the daughter of a woman who has a savant-like ability to paint perfect feature walls, I had never actually done one myself. So yesterday morning, Greg and I hastened to Bunnings, that modern Charybdis where many a better home handyman than I has lost hours - nay, days - to isles of Taubmans colour charts, petrol-powered leaf blowers, Australian natives and water-efficient shower roses. I was lucky to have Greg with me, as his doggedness in the face of brain-snapping D-I-Y bargains ("Look honey! Two-for-one toilet seat covers!") kept our mission on a steady path. With the help of the lovely Stacey (hold onto her, Bunnings Cannon Hill), we ended up picking two different reds to try out on some cardboard, before making our final decision. After overnight testing, we decided on Dulux Red Box, which seemed dark on the little sample card, but suited the apartment - and most importantly, matched the sexy red lounge suite.
This afternoon we began operations. Here you can see Greg beginning the paintwork, after first masking the areas of hallway we DIDN'T want spattered with Red Box (hmmm, not a great image, that one).
I proved fairly useless through the painting, as we only had one roller, and Greg had not approved of my technique when we were painting the samples. "You didn't get enough paint on, and look, it's all patchy!"
So I spent my time mopping up drips and spotting areas that needed more coverage. After the first coat, I also indulged in some Shakespearean impersonations:
"Out, damned spot!"If only Duncan's blood had Dulux's patented water-based rinse-off technology, maybe Lady Macbeth might not have thrown herself off that turret.
Anyway, you can see Greg still painting in the background. I believe his words were "Less archiving, more helping". I reckon he was just jealous of my comedy gold effort.
After a few hours of drying, Greg then used a spongier brush rather than the roller to apply the second coat. And we now have this!
Looks damn bright, doesn't it? Well, keep in mind I had the camera flash on, as well as overhead and nearby lights. It's a strong red, but not as retina-challenging as it may seem in the photograph. We may have to go back for a third coat just to improve the coverage, but nevertheless, it's looking hot! How hot? Brothel hot!
Note: Big, big thanks to The Wah, for his manly painting skill and slightly camp obsession with "streaking! It's streaking!". ;)
Mar 23, 2007
A Handy Water-Saving Tip
Sick of necessary yet tiresome water restrictions that prevent you washing your car?
No problem!
Simply have a drunk driver crash into your vehicle, have it towed to a bump shop for two weeks' worth of repair - and boom! Get it back brand spanking clean and shiny - saving you the cost of a car wash and/or detail.
Sure, it's not the most practical option, and you have to make sure the collision isn't your fault, but otherwise, it works like a treat!
-------
But yes, I got my car back as good as new yesterday. Thank goodness I didn't proceed to back into a light pole or something - that would have been terribly embarrassing. However, it would have made good fodder for the blog - a nice change to all the furniture updates I've been boring you all with.
Speaking of which...I bought that clear glass console table. Eeep! And tomorrow, I'm getting the overalls on and heading out to Bunnings - I've got a wall to paint.
No problem!
Simply have a drunk driver crash into your vehicle, have it towed to a bump shop for two weeks' worth of repair - and boom! Get it back brand spanking clean and shiny - saving you the cost of a car wash and/or detail.
Sure, it's not the most practical option, and you have to make sure the collision isn't your fault, but otherwise, it works like a treat!
-------
But yes, I got my car back as good as new yesterday. Thank goodness I didn't proceed to back into a light pole or something - that would have been terribly embarrassing. However, it would have made good fodder for the blog - a nice change to all the furniture updates I've been boring you all with.
Speaking of which...I bought that clear glass console table. Eeep! And tomorrow, I'm getting the overalls on and heading out to Bunnings - I've got a wall to paint.
Mar 21, 2007
Podcastably good
The very nice people over at The Big Weird Podcast recently interviewed me for a segment on their online show.
Why? I have no idea. All I can really talk about with any authority is me, and if you listen in, you will certainly see what I mean. ;)
If you click on the streaming version, you'll hear me about 15 minutes in... after an interview with Brett DeBritz. That is just the definition of my life right there... following in the footsteps of Brett DeBritz. When will it be my turn to edit an newspaper entertainment section, dagnammit!
And may I just thank Michael Coles from the Big Weird for a stirling editing job. ;)
Why? I have no idea. All I can really talk about with any authority is me, and if you listen in, you will certainly see what I mean. ;)
If you click on the streaming version, you'll hear me about 15 minutes in... after an interview with Brett DeBritz. That is just the definition of my life right there... following in the footsteps of Brett DeBritz. When will it be my turn to edit an newspaper entertainment section, dagnammit!
And may I just thank Michael Coles from the Big Weird for a stirling editing job. ;)
Mar 20, 2007
Operation Target Freedom
It is with some regret that I announce that my wild days of youthful indulgence and outrageous folly are over (all four of them). I've become one of them - one of those people who spend their weekends furniture shopping.
For shame, I know. I'm officially dull.
No parties or naked romps with Brisbane Lions players to report: instead, this weekend I alternated my time between Freedom and Target: the former because of a fabulous art deco-style mirror I've been eyeing off for a while; and the latter due to a 50% off homewares sale, which netted me some goodies for round the house.
However, I must admit to enjoying the process of furniture shopping almost as much as I enjoyed playing the pokies about this time last year. That was a weird phase. I blame my parents, who despite the good judgement to know better, continue to splurge every few days on a slight pokie binge. Going overseas and moving out seemed to break me of that habit, although I must admit to popping into the International Hotel up the road for a quick spin on a Big Ben machine last Sunday (for the record: it was my first pokie encounter since returning from overseas, and I won $2).
Obviously though the stress on the wallet is a lot more with furniture, so let's hope I manage to avoid homewares-shopping addiction. Although there is a gorgeous clear glass console table I'm keen on... not to mention that Samsung 32-inch LCD....
Hmmm... maybe all that indulgence and outrageous folly has just found a new outlet...
For shame, I know. I'm officially dull.
No parties or naked romps with Brisbane Lions players to report: instead, this weekend I alternated my time between Freedom and Target: the former because of a fabulous art deco-style mirror I've been eyeing off for a while; and the latter due to a 50% off homewares sale, which netted me some goodies for round the house.
However, I must admit to enjoying the process of furniture shopping almost as much as I enjoyed playing the pokies about this time last year. That was a weird phase. I blame my parents, who despite the good judgement to know better, continue to splurge every few days on a slight pokie binge. Going overseas and moving out seemed to break me of that habit, although I must admit to popping into the International Hotel up the road for a quick spin on a Big Ben machine last Sunday (for the record: it was my first pokie encounter since returning from overseas, and I won $2).
Obviously though the stress on the wallet is a lot more with furniture, so let's hope I manage to avoid homewares-shopping addiction. Although there is a gorgeous clear glass console table I'm keen on... not to mention that Samsung 32-inch LCD....
Hmmm... maybe all that indulgence and outrageous folly has just found a new outlet...
Mar 15, 2007
Losing time in Priceline
When Greg and I go to the supermarket, and we split up to get different things, he never has any fears of losing me in the mass of shoppers. Even when we were overseas, and he didn't have a mobile phone with which to contact me, he knew where I would be. Even though the 24-hour Tesco stores I like to frequent while Blighty-side are massive, Greg never worried about wasting time. He'd just grab what he needed then turn up in the make-up and hair section. I'd either already be there, or be there within minutes.
You see, there's something about the cosmetics/hair/beauty aisle that always turns my brain to jelly. I can stand there for minutes upon minutes, just picking products up, reading their descriptions, checking the prices, comparing them to others - I can repeat this process without end. If it wasn't for the fact I have to work, and sleep, and the stores eventually close, I probably could stay there forever.
I thought this condition affected solely me, and that every other woman was capable of making a speedy but confident decision in purchasing their cosmetics/beauty needs. But today I popped into Priceline in the city, looking for something I can't quite remember. For those of you (ie, men) who have never experienced the joy of Priceline, it's like a cosmetics aisle, but expanded into a whole store. There I was, wandering aimlessly through the place - the original purpose of my mission long forgotten as I was distracted by the Palmer's body butter, the Marc Daniels hair wax tubs (six different varieties that all seem to do the same thing!) and the SugarBaby reduced-to-clear lip glosses - when I realised that every other woman in the place seemed to be suffering the same affliction. They all had the same glassy-eyed stare, the same languid arm movements as they reach out to grab yet another product that could bring them instant great skin/good hair/skinny thighs.
I think there are so many beauty products, it leaves us all overwhelmed. There are so many questions. Do I want high gloss or matt finish on my lipstick? Do I want olive body butter or shea body butter? Scented or unscented? Day cream or night cream? Anti-ageing or anti-blemish? Mascara that Long-lasting or quick-dry nail polish? Gradual tan or spray-on? Define curls or straighten locks? Wax, paste, putty, gel, spray, or mousse?
Do you realise there are more brands of fake glue-on nails than there are brands of paracetamol?
I love choice, and I'm glad I live in a society where I have dozens, if not hundreds of products at my fingertips. But when it comes to cosmetics - boy do I get confused. I'm just happy to see I'm not the only one. Perhaps I should start a support group for the terminally dermatologically confused. Don't worry girls - we can get through this together, and finally make a cosmetic/makeup/hair/beauty choice we're happy with, within a reasonable amount of time!
You see, there's something about the cosmetics/hair/beauty aisle that always turns my brain to jelly. I can stand there for minutes upon minutes, just picking products up, reading their descriptions, checking the prices, comparing them to others - I can repeat this process without end. If it wasn't for the fact I have to work, and sleep, and the stores eventually close, I probably could stay there forever.
I thought this condition affected solely me, and that every other woman was capable of making a speedy but confident decision in purchasing their cosmetics/beauty needs. But today I popped into Priceline in the city, looking for something I can't quite remember. For those of you (ie, men) who have never experienced the joy of Priceline, it's like a cosmetics aisle, but expanded into a whole store. There I was, wandering aimlessly through the place - the original purpose of my mission long forgotten as I was distracted by the Palmer's body butter, the Marc Daniels hair wax tubs (six different varieties that all seem to do the same thing!) and the SugarBaby reduced-to-clear lip glosses - when I realised that every other woman in the place seemed to be suffering the same affliction. They all had the same glassy-eyed stare, the same languid arm movements as they reach out to grab yet another product that could bring them instant great skin/good hair/skinny thighs.
I think there are so many beauty products, it leaves us all overwhelmed. There are so many questions. Do I want high gloss or matt finish on my lipstick? Do I want olive body butter or shea body butter? Scented or unscented? Day cream or night cream? Anti-ageing or anti-blemish? Mascara that Long-lasting or quick-dry nail polish? Gradual tan or spray-on? Define curls or straighten locks? Wax, paste, putty, gel, spray, or mousse?
Do you realise there are more brands of fake glue-on nails than there are brands of paracetamol?
I love choice, and I'm glad I live in a society where I have dozens, if not hundreds of products at my fingertips. But when it comes to cosmetics - boy do I get confused. I'm just happy to see I'm not the only one. Perhaps I should start a support group for the terminally dermatologically confused. Don't worry girls - we can get through this together, and finally make a cosmetic/makeup/hair/beauty choice we're happy with, within a reasonable amount of time!
Mar 9, 2007
It may not look like much...
...but this is $5200 worth of damage right here:
Notice the missing Toyota badge front and centre. I retrieved it from the road, and am planning to turn it into a kick-ass belt buckle.
Notice the missing Toyota badge front and centre. I retrieved it from the road, and am planning to turn it into a kick-ass belt buckle.
It's going to take about two weeks to repair. I had the good fortune to be left without a car just as my parents were heading overseas, so as of tonight I now have a car to drive for a few weeks. Still my experiences taking the train to work have been positive - I got to read the launch issue of mX, the new News Limited afternoon tabloid; and I got to travel with teenagers. There's nothing like eavesdropping on the chatter of a dozen schoolgirls and boys to make you realise you've officially reached "old". When you hear three 15-year-olds talking up the benefits of dating a 19-year-old because they're more "ma-chew-ah", you know it's time to start shopping for cardigans.
Mar 5, 2007
Crunch time
It was the crunch I heard first.
Looking back, I think there was some sounds of an engine revving and tyres squealing, but at the time I was lounging on my couch, distracted by the TV and considering the imminent prospect of my bed. Little did I know that slumber would be some time away yet.
But back to the crunch. After establishing that no, it didn't come from the TV (although spookily, the scene I freeze-framed after hearing the noise did feature the main characters in a car), I raced to my bedroom and peered out of the blinds. I saw a dark-coloured car reverse and turn in the empty road, and head off down the nearest side street, and I saw people everywhere, pointing in the direction of my car. Something pinged in the pit of my stomach.
Then my buzzer buzzed.
"Does anyone there own a silver car?"
"Yes - has it just been crashed into?"
"Yes!"
"S*@%!. OK, I'll be right down."
I raced downstairs, joined by my neighbours Mike and Jenny who had also been buzzed, and tore outside.
There was my car, the beloved "Hummer", with its front all crumpled in, its Toyota badge lying amid shattered plastics on the road, having been shunted back about one metre by the force of the impact. I was a bit dumbstruck, and immediately thought "How am I going to get to work at 4am?"
I was quickly surrounded by locals, who all proffered witness accounts of what had happened, where the driver lived, and how the police had already been called. I made a quick call to Greg, who was out at a mate's place, knowing he'd want to be around.
Then a tall, slim and dark-haired girl walked up to the gathered crowd, holding the hand of a skinny emo-looking type lad, and asked who owned the car. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and I was left, standing in a very daggy terry-towelling robe, face-to-face with the guy who had crashed into my car, and his responsible young friend.
"You did this?" I said.
"Yes...I'm sorry". He was softly-spoken and completely passive.
"Why did you do this?" I asked quietly, as I had begun to smell something.
"I don't know, hey."
The stench of booze coming off the guy's breath was palpable. I hadn't really felt angry enough to shout, as I was not in the car at the time and nobody had been injured, but getting a whiff of the guy calmed me. I knew he was in a lot of trouble - he was drunk.
It turned out there had been a house party up that nearby side street, and the guy had decided to take his "new" Mercedes out for a spin. I say "new" because he had only owned it for a week, but it was at least a 15-year-old model. It wasn't registered in his name and it wasn't insured. He had come out fast from the side street, fishtailed and slammed straight into my car on the other side of the road. He had driven back home for whatever reason (I would say most likely confusion), before being dragged back to own up by his friend.
We swapped details and waiting for the police to arrive. A paddy wagon was first to turn up, followed by a uniform traffic cop in a plain car. He breath-tested the driver and yup, the guy was well over the legal limit. I had to remind myself each time I felt sorry for him that he was a drunk driver and he had broken the law. He could have done far more damage had he missed my car and kept driving - he could have hit a person. That's why I couldn't get too angry about my car. If hitting it meant the guy stopped driving, then I'm happy to have sacrificed the car. After all, it was easily fixed, and I was insured.
Eventually the traffic cop chatted to both of us, took the guy away for further testing and I assume, the watchhouse, and I was left chatting to my newfound neighbours. One of them even turned out to be an insurance assessor for Suncorp, so he had some good advice on filing the claim. They were all good people, and I got down all their names and addresses so I could invite them to the house-warming party that I will eventually have. It may have been less-than-ideal circumstances, but I was grateful for the chance to forge some neighbourly bonds.
With all the commotion, I didn't end up getting to sleep until 1am. Thankfully my boss sprung me some cab charges vouchers so I could get to and from work over the weekend. My car was promptly towed by the RACQ on Saturday morning, and is now in a holding pen somewhere on Logan Road awaiting assessment. I should find out tomorrow how long I shall be carless.
On Saturday night, Greg found a bunch of pink gerberas outside the block of flats. The card read "To the girl who owns the car I crashed into: Sincere apologies. J.S." It was a sweet gesture, but I couldn't help feeling I wish the guy had saved his cash. He's going to need it once my insurance company gets onto him - not to mention the fine he will have to pay for drink driving.
Looking back, I think there was some sounds of an engine revving and tyres squealing, but at the time I was lounging on my couch, distracted by the TV and considering the imminent prospect of my bed. Little did I know that slumber would be some time away yet.
But back to the crunch. After establishing that no, it didn't come from the TV (although spookily, the scene I freeze-framed after hearing the noise did feature the main characters in a car), I raced to my bedroom and peered out of the blinds. I saw a dark-coloured car reverse and turn in the empty road, and head off down the nearest side street, and I saw people everywhere, pointing in the direction of my car. Something pinged in the pit of my stomach.
Then my buzzer buzzed.
"Does anyone there own a silver car?"
"Yes - has it just been crashed into?"
"Yes!"
"S*@%!. OK, I'll be right down."
I raced downstairs, joined by my neighbours Mike and Jenny who had also been buzzed, and tore outside.
There was my car, the beloved "Hummer", with its front all crumpled in, its Toyota badge lying amid shattered plastics on the road, having been shunted back about one metre by the force of the impact. I was a bit dumbstruck, and immediately thought "How am I going to get to work at 4am?"
I was quickly surrounded by locals, who all proffered witness accounts of what had happened, where the driver lived, and how the police had already been called. I made a quick call to Greg, who was out at a mate's place, knowing he'd want to be around.
Then a tall, slim and dark-haired girl walked up to the gathered crowd, holding the hand of a skinny emo-looking type lad, and asked who owned the car. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and I was left, standing in a very daggy terry-towelling robe, face-to-face with the guy who had crashed into my car, and his responsible young friend.
"You did this?" I said.
"Yes...I'm sorry". He was softly-spoken and completely passive.
"Why did you do this?" I asked quietly, as I had begun to smell something.
"I don't know, hey."
The stench of booze coming off the guy's breath was palpable. I hadn't really felt angry enough to shout, as I was not in the car at the time and nobody had been injured, but getting a whiff of the guy calmed me. I knew he was in a lot of trouble - he was drunk.
It turned out there had been a house party up that nearby side street, and the guy had decided to take his "new" Mercedes out for a spin. I say "new" because he had only owned it for a week, but it was at least a 15-year-old model. It wasn't registered in his name and it wasn't insured. He had come out fast from the side street, fishtailed and slammed straight into my car on the other side of the road. He had driven back home for whatever reason (I would say most likely confusion), before being dragged back to own up by his friend.
We swapped details and waiting for the police to arrive. A paddy wagon was first to turn up, followed by a uniform traffic cop in a plain car. He breath-tested the driver and yup, the guy was well over the legal limit. I had to remind myself each time I felt sorry for him that he was a drunk driver and he had broken the law. He could have done far more damage had he missed my car and kept driving - he could have hit a person. That's why I couldn't get too angry about my car. If hitting it meant the guy stopped driving, then I'm happy to have sacrificed the car. After all, it was easily fixed, and I was insured.
Eventually the traffic cop chatted to both of us, took the guy away for further testing and I assume, the watchhouse, and I was left chatting to my newfound neighbours. One of them even turned out to be an insurance assessor for Suncorp, so he had some good advice on filing the claim. They were all good people, and I got down all their names and addresses so I could invite them to the house-warming party that I will eventually have. It may have been less-than-ideal circumstances, but I was grateful for the chance to forge some neighbourly bonds.
With all the commotion, I didn't end up getting to sleep until 1am. Thankfully my boss sprung me some cab charges vouchers so I could get to and from work over the weekend. My car was promptly towed by the RACQ on Saturday morning, and is now in a holding pen somewhere on Logan Road awaiting assessment. I should find out tomorrow how long I shall be carless.
On Saturday night, Greg found a bunch of pink gerberas outside the block of flats. The card read "To the girl who owns the car I crashed into: Sincere apologies. J.S." It was a sweet gesture, but I couldn't help feeling I wish the guy had saved his cash. He's going to need it once my insurance company gets onto him - not to mention the fine he will have to pay for drink driving.
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