Sucked in?

It all started when I looked back fondly on my teenage years and realised that although music played a definitive role in my life back then, it had been reduced to a bit part a decade later. So began the raids on the virtual and old-school music stores for the beats from which I was wrought, and the creeping desire to have in my possession an mp3 player. With my purchase of an electric toothbrush, partly to motivate myself to look good for the office, I had hoped that voices urging me to be au courant would be silenced. And so it was - for approximately 24 hours. Now with my next holiday just round the corner, I find myself contemplating the purchase of a digital camera. For years I have avoided these very trappings of a generation brought up on instant gratification and a burning hunger for excess. I have defended my abstinence (to myself more than anybody else) by reasoning that there really is no need for these things, that such possessions create the demand for themselves. Sigh.

I've kicked the cosmetics habit only to grow an electronics one. Bleurgh. Damn you internet, it's all your fault!

Packing List!

It's less than two weeks till I hit the beaches of the South China Sea again, so I feel it's time to start on my packing list. Why blog it? Well so I can't exactly lose it, and also cos I'm currently undertaking the mammoth task of clearing out the monstrosity that is my e-mail inbox. (I've actually come across a couple of e-mails from people overseas who've tried to catch up with me while here in S________, but who obviously didn't manage to because I never checked my e-mail. That's what fb's there for dummies! I'm also shocked by the number of newsletters I may or may not have subscribed to. These things are like mold. Or snails. Or gnats. You know, useless stuff that appear out of nowhere. I'm thinking of shutting this e-mail account down and starting afresh. Which means I'll probably lose contact with some people forever, but hey, it's a brand new year for me - 26 years and a day - and any number of women's magazines could tell you that I MUST declutter in order to move ahead.)

ANYWAY. This packing list is going to be extra nerdy special because there'll be a general one and three others according to the stuff I'll be doing while there. (LABELLED ZIPLOC BAGS!) So exciting!

Rafting
Sandals
Swimming gear

Diving
Sandals
Swimming gear

Climbing
Shoes
Sandals
Torch
Socks
Trousers
Long-sleeved t-shirt
Gloves
Windbreaker

General
Undies
Bikinis
Big towel
Small towel
Toothbrush
Toothpaste
Shampoo
Conditioner
Shaver
Moisturiser
Sunblock
Handphone charger
2-pin adaptor
Laundry detergent
Contact lenses
Saline solution
Plasters
Tea tree cream
Tweezers
Extra batts for torch
Antihistamines
More singlets than you can shake a stick at
Shorts
Insect repellent
Haversack
A book

Hmm, I think that's it. Shopping time!

Delayed Monday Morning Effect.

I am now paying the price of having a cheerful and invigorated Monday morning with a crappy Tuesday one instead. It doesn't help that I have a potentially long (and painful) meeting later with some folk from the ivory towers of the civil service telling me how my division can manage our knowledge better. (It's difficult enough getting my colleagues to keep records of stuff, I can't imagine persuading them to save it all to a fancy central database full of wonderful helpful features that you MUST use, because if you don't it just WON'T WORK AND THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT WILL CRUMBLE TO PIECES BEFORE THE UNIVERSE CEASES TO BE.)

Bazza highlighted to me over the weekend her disbelief that, N years on, I still continue to spend marathon lengths of time in the mornings (well, afternoons and evenings too...) just getting ready. It's true - I spend at least half an hour in the bathroom each morning and a further 10min just putting clothes on. I know why I spend so much time in the bathroom - I mean, it takes me FIVE whole minutes just to brush my teeth. I'm not sure why it takes so long for me to put clothes on though, I don't recall getting really confused by it in the mornings and my clothes are pretty standard items of attire. Maybe the wormhole in my room does more than suck in my socks...

So I've decided to buy an electric toothbrush that promises to cut down my teethbrushing time to a mere TWO minutes. Unfortunately my (no longer) trustworthy toiletries store doesn't have much of a range to choose from. I want one of those fancy Oral B ones that threaten to shut down the entire power grid if you switch it on, not any of the wussy "affordable" ones that share the same shelf space as conventional manual toothbrushes.

Shit I forgot to buy floss.

My Mother...

... has well and truly returned to her Psychotic self, the same monster that I spent my childhood and teenage years battling. The only person who can help her now is herself - reason is clearly lost on her, as proven by today's hysterical episode. I can't even bother with keeping my personal opinions to myself anymore. Protecting her from what are her real issues isn't going to make things any better. My father seems desperate to stick to quick, short term solutions that pacify my mother, to accede to her crazy demands and to allow her to wallow in self-inflicted misery. I'll let him know what I think - that this will only make things worse, that what we should be doing is to discuss the fundamental issues that are feeding the maelstrom of negativity that she seems to thrive on. He'll probably respond with the stock reply that at the end of the day she's my mother and I have to let her be as she wants to be even if she's in the wrong; that if she gets angry with me I should seek her forgiveness - even if she's in the wrong. And then I'll reply that accepting today's spurious demand would in fact take away the one thing that's she's known as the reason for her being; that allowing her to languish at home doing absolutely nothing will merely increase the sense of irrelevance she already feels; that ultimately both her physical and mental health will be at stake.

He would just say that we should just give it a try, and see what happens.

========

When I was a child and then a teenager, I had no choice but to deal with my mother's demons. Returning from London, I told myself to wait things out first before making the decision to move out. Rental prices are after all astronomical and I wasn't earning much, plus by moving out I would create a rift in the family. After two years of normalcy I felt that things were good and that there was no need to move out, then I adopted a kitten.

Maybe that tempted Fate, who decided my sanity needed a challenge. Now that I can afford to move out, I'm faced with the dilemma of choosing between paying a huge premium for a place that would accept both human and feline; and continuing to live under the same roof as my mother, unsure of which one of us would lose her mind first.

Smelling good...

...may be having an adverse effect on my productivity. I've noticed that mornings where I expend considerable effort carefully anointing myself with a selection of perfumes and scented products, are often followed by days in the office that are surprisingly free from personal desire for urgency in my work. It appears that the redolent fortress that I have built around myself against the olfactive offences that plague public transport, is also protecting me from meeting my deadlines. Each time I think, "right, this can't go on, I've got to get that e-mail done now", I am suddenly distracted by another thought: "Good Heavens what is that absolutely divine fragrance?" ... And then I realise it's just me.

========

Ha ha ha ha ha whoop dee doo thank beer it's Friday!!!

IF...

...Ihappenedtodrinktoomuchcoffeeaboardaboatinthemiddleofsharkinfestedwaters

andfellintotheseagashingmyarmintheprocessthusattractingthesharksandwaseaten

byonewouldthecaffeineeventuallymakeitswayintothesharksbloodstreamandwhat

effectwouldthathaveonit?

Maybe that's why sharks have started sleeping again, because pussies the world over are switching to decaf.

Cacacacaffeinate Me...

Big Brother wants me to stay later and work longer - by stocking the pantry with "Intense" instant coffee mixes. When I first came in there was just normal instant coffee and lots of teas. The teas started to phase out, but the coffee grow stronger - from unspecified to "Dark" to "Rich" to "Intense". I've just had a couple of sips of "Intense" and already I'm certain that I will never sleep again. (Perhaps that's also the triple-shot non-fat tall latte I had this morning.) If I finish the whole mug I may just explode. In fact I think that's happening right now.

* S P L A T *

Scorpio Rising.

I would say that I am in a pretty good mood today, largely because of the surprisingly large bonus that appeared in my bank account, in addition to the sudden and fairly significant increase in my salary. I guess I am appreciated after all.

And not immune to the allure of money.

========

I am totally in love with Brett Anderson. I feel almost like a melancholic, angst-ridden teenager again.

Where did they go?

Took a trip down memory lane and stumbled upon this.

He's still the most beautiful man alive.

:(

I feel bloody guilty. If I had been thinking clearly, if I had left work at the office the way I keep telling myself to, I would have reacted immediately the moment my cat brought the bird in. I would have taken an hour, not a day, to figure out how to keep it alive, and I would have taken the day off today to make sure it would happen.

Sigh.

...

The bird has died.

24H

This time last night I received an e-mail at work which effect on me had symptoms similar to that of a heart attack. I had just wrapped up things for the day and was looking forward to getting home to have an early-ish night. Adrenaline kicked in and within a couple of hours I had nearly typed my fingers to bloody stumps. My boss was still at dinner so I headed home knowing that I would have an hour or two before I started receiving his (missed) calls and infamously one-lined e-mails.

Got home, put my dinner on a plate and set up the laptop for a final burst of productivity for the day. I had barely gotten through one e-mail when my cat jumped in through the window with something(s) caught between his jaws. I shrieked. It looked small and brown and too much like a fat cockroach. He dropped it(them) at my feet and I realised that they were two tiny nestlings, each smaller than my (smaller than average) big toe. He picked the smaller one up and ran off to a corner to "play" with it.

The urgency of work however made me delay stopping the wretched feline from his terrible diversions. Once done, Bob the cat found himself ignominiously incarcerated in the bathroom shower stall, and I found myself with one dead nestling and another barely alive. The search for their nest proved futile, and I forced myself to accept that it too would die shortly. I left them in separate flowerpots, had a shower and fell asleep.

Morning was a blur. Rushing several changes for an 11am deadline while battling a cold-from-nowhere left me breathlessly making my way to Parliament for the debates. The cold raged on, aided and abetted by what must be air-conditioning designed to deter terrorist attacks. I could not focus on anything and my only thought was an overwhelming desire to ensconce myself in a thick, fluffy towel in a sauna somewhere really really hot.

I was the first person out of there when it all ended.

It was only when I picked up my mobile from the legions of policemen guarding a glorified freezer, when I was reminded of last night's incident by a text from my mother saying: "The bird is still alive." Half an hour later I was sat in the kitchen observing a miraculously still-alive nestling sat amidst a mountain of shredded tissues, a syringe full of catfood (organic salmon and trout) in my hand.

It's not easy feeding a nestling. I don't even know what sort of bird it is. (It has not feathers - it's that young.) Great accuracy and impeccable timing is required to catch the exact moment it opens its mouth (beak?) for food. Battling a cold and a curious cat made it incredibly difficult to control my fingers on the left hand - so that it didn't exert unnecessary pressure on the bird -and to the right thumb - to ensure that I wasn't choking the bird with too much salmon and trout at a go.

I've never been more relieved watching a bird poop (head down and butt up - I really wish I had recorded it). I've taken it as a sign that it's well on the path to recovery. The bird - I think I'll call him Birdie - now sits in a mound of tissues, in an ice-cream tub, in the only part of the house beyond Bob's reach.

If I've made a lot of mistakes in this post, or if you find it meandering and purposeless, it's probably because I'm having difficulty focussing because of this cold. I just really wanted to tell everyone about the bird. That's all. I'm off to bed now. Tweet tweet.

All in a name.

In recent weeks my life at work has been plagued by the remarkable vacuousness of a certain girl in my office.

But I guess I can't put the blame entirely upon her. After all, her parents showed an equally remarkable lack of undifferentiated consciousness when they decided to bound their daughter to what must be insuperable confines of the name "Pristine".

Yes, Pristine she is. Untouched and uncorrupted by intelligence, sound judgment or common sense.