Dear McCann Sydney,
It has been some months since your initial call over the interwaves for ‘Australian Mum Bloggers‘.
I, along with half a zillion ‘Australian Mum Bloggers’, dusted off my CV and sent it off, in the hope of one day making an honest buck from what I love doing most (other than sleeping).
I was excited. After all, I loved that you were looking for someone with “proven experience in the online content space”. It made me walk around muttering ‘Online Content Space: the New Frontier’ to myself for a few days. I was even tempted to include in my application a photo of me sitting at my computer, wearing Spock ears and maybe, just maybe, one of those Seven Of Nine outfits that’d make my breasts look like they were about to start their own blog. But I didn’t.
Perhaps, in hindsight, I should have. You see, I recently found out that some other ‘Australian Mum Bloggers’ had already received rejection letters from you weeks ago.
Me? I’ve received nothing. Nothing.
I mean, don’t you know who I am?
For one thing, you might think I’m just some sad pathetic housewife who likes to write about menstrual accidents. And yes, I am that, but I’m also a sad pathetic housewife who dislikes rejection so much that she will try to pass off a bruise on her leg as the image of Jesus Christ. Remember this, McCann.
For another thing, I know people. Important people. Why, one of my friends won a Creative Emmy just the other day (it’s the same as an Emmy except the statuette apparently comes with its own hand-crocheted cover). Although, having said that, when I tweeted about my friend winning the Creative Emmy on Twitter, nobody seemed to care. Perhaps it had something to do with me also tweeting at the same time about my cat splatter-crapping all over the carpet. People were a bit more concerned about the state of the carpet and the colour of the shit than they were about the Creative Emmy. And me, being me, I went and told my friend that my cat’s shit was evidently more interesting than his Creative Emmy so he might not actually be my friend any more. Still, he said he’d let me have my photo taken with his statuette so my plan is to start claiming I’m a Creative Emmy Award Winning Blogger and make all you McCann folk regret having put my McCV in your McBin and missed your McChance with my McWriting Genius. Are you following me, McCann?
But actually, now that I think more on the subject, my cat is probably the most effective weapon I have at my disposal.
So let me conclude this letter by saying this: I have a splatter-crapping arsehole of a cat who will fuck your soft furnishings up big time.
You have been warned.
Yours sincerely, etc.
The NDM
cc. The Age Online. You’re next.
Not Drowning, Mothering. 