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.

Guess where?

My favourite line ever in the news over the past 24 hours:

"...triggering a massive manhunt across the island nation for a man who walks with a limp."

Moments like these deserve an ice cold beer. I am thus fortunate that there's one in the office pantry.

Vicarious Suffrage.

You know what I'm talking about.

I've started on The Audacity of Hope and am very impressed. I'm really looking forward to Super Tuesday.

"Peaches" by PUSA.

This is the sort of song that you (okay, I) sing to myself while at work, realise that you've (sorry, I meant I've) forgotten part of the lyrics and take advantage of the free and ready internet connection to Google look up the lyrics.

This may be old news: turns out some dude did a pretty cogent Marxist interpretation of the lyrics which attracted a lot of attention. Click here to read it.

(dénouement)

Gone as quickly as it came. Madness, I tell you (the cat is awake and out and about).

Drama Mama.

(My, what a busy day it's been for my blog.)

I got tired of the office early and left work at 6.30pm today, skipped the gym and headed for home hoping for some productive time to get some work done. As is my usual practice before 10pm, I give my parents a call to find out if they could give me a ride home from the train station (I live about 30 - 40 min away from it). They're both retired and had agreed to this sort of arrangement when I suggested that I might move out to somewhere closer to work and further from the-middle-of-nowhere. But good Asian girls aren't supposed to move out until they're married (and rental prices here are sky high).

I hadn't the slightest inkling of the histrionics that would ensue.

That didn't last long though as my dad decided to tell me unequivocally the moment I got into his car never ever to ask for ride home between 7pm and 8pm because that's when he's praying and stuff. Alright, so I overlooked that, but instead of getting all worked up about it just TELL me over the phone and I'll catch a cab home instead. It's not like that's never happened before and I never kicked up a fuss when it did. I'm quite happy to take cabs and I only ask for a ride because (i) it's cheaper and (ii) my parents are constantly telling me off for spending too much.

But of course I didn't say any of that as it would only provoke more ire and leave me stranded at the side of the road. So silence hung over us like an evil miasma all the way home.

Home was where the real drama happened. One look at my mother's face and I knew that she'd had an argument with my dad before he left the house. And that she wasn't about to let it end at that.

The words tumbled out of her like a derailed train off its tracks, exploding into huge balls of flame as it rushed its target. My dad would not stand down, coolly delivering his deliberately pointed salvos like jet-powered fighters with a single-minded focus. My mother grasped at her hair in despair, as she called the wrath of God upon my dad.

I fed the cat and quietly retired to my room.

I could hear my mother coming up the stairs spewing forth vitriol all the way to her bedroom. After a few moments of wondering if my closed door would be perceived as another slight to her being, I decided to leave it open instead. Not long after my mother appeared in my doorway, wailing and clutching at her abdomen complaining of a sharp unbearable pain deep inside. I head to the kitchen, past the trenches that my dad has quickly dug up for himself, to get some warm water and lots of painkillers for my mother.

I fed the cat again (what a porker) and went back upstairs.

My mother is sat cross-legged on the floor, clutching at her stomach, complaining of the pain she couldn't take anymore, swaying back and forth, asking whoever would listen how my dad could have said such things to her and how would she ever be able to forget those words. I ask her to get off the floor and lie down on the bed, the pain is from the stress and if she relaxed it would get better. Look here I have some warm water and painkillers and all you have to do is take a couple and you'll fall asleep and forget everything and tomorrow everything will be ok again.

My mother says she needs a shower so she goes to her bathroom and I stand around with a mug of warm water and painkillers in my hands. My cat starts to wail for me and I head past the trenches again (where my dad is watching the football) to pick the fat critter up and bring him upstairs to my room away from all the madness.

My mother is out of the bathroom and sat on her bed looking lost and rueing the day she married my dad and oh the pain it's deep inside where does it come from I can't take it. I coax her into taking some painkillers and she does. I switch the ceiling fan on for her and she tells me to switch it off because she's cold. She complains that she's warm so I switch it back on again. She switches on the air-conditioning and I switch the fan back off again. I tell her to lie down and sleep it will take the pain away and she doesn't listen. I ask her if she wants more water and she says no. I take the pills and leave her room, closing the door behind me. I'm in my room now (the cat is cleaning himself).

How did I end up so emotionless?

I felt so awkward dealing with my mother and was more comfortable in the icy silence of my dad's fortress. I was almost tempted to roll my eyes on several occasions during my mother's dramatic displays of pain and distress and victimisation.

I mean, each argument had a point. My dad said that my mother has no right of accusing him of treating her like a slave, and I can't argue with that. My mother has been financially supported by my dad since they got married, my dad has always helped out around the house, the kids cleaned up after themselves most of the time. Of course my dad really shouldn't have gone that step further by then accusing my mother of being lazy and doing nothing at all, when that's clearly not true. (My mother retorted that she'd been working hard taking care of my dad's products - that would be me and my brothers - and that she'd only quit her job because he told her too, blah blah blah.)

And all they had to do was tell me to take a cab instead (the cat is asleep now).

========

I'm never having kids. Or getting married. All this madness might be hereditary, you never know.

WOOLLYBUTT

How can that name not bring a smile to your miserable mug? And you have to thank the Aussies for that. It would definitely be on my hypothetical list of favourite words.

Where does the name "Woollybutt" come from? Well the website www.woollybutt.com.au (so it must be true) tells us the following:

"In Victoria and Tasmania, Woollybutt is the name given to Alpine Ash or Eucalyptus delegatensis. As a timber, Alpine Ash is highly regarded and very important to the hardwood industry. To foresters, Alpine Ash is often referred to as 'the foresters’ friend because it is so easily regenerated after harvesting operations.

Woollybutt mostly forms beautiful pure stands of straight timber with a grass and fern understorey. In best conditions it can reach up to 80 metres in height, making it one of the tallest Eucalypts in the world behind Mountain Ash. The bark is thick and fibrous (woolly) at the base [butt?] and pure, smooth white above peeling in ribbons. The smaller branches often have a silver colour and the bark is usually covered in distinctive “scribbles” from insect larvae."

Ok, that wasn't quite as interesting as I'd hoped it to be.

Woollybutt is also the name of an oil field discovered on the North West shelf of Australia in April 1997. If I adopt another cat I'd call it Woollybutt. Hell I'll probably start calling the one I have Woollybutt. I might even call my nephew Woollybutt (behind his mother's back, of course).

Woollybutt Woollybutt Woollybutt!!!

So Exciting!

Heidelberg! P's wedding! Berlin! Prague! In August! La la la la la...

Helicopter? Please???

Mmrraaooww!

This isn't Handsome Bob (my baby) although he's a black n white tabby with a pink nose too (who's so special he catches birds in pairs).

(image from icanhascheezburger.com)

Who needs men when there are cats?

But does it make oral sex any better?

Some time ago I was accused of having a forked tongue. About 10 minutes ago I found out that if it were true, it would not only have made me pretty damn "cool" in the bod mod circuits, but also some kind of yogameister.

Yes. Tongue forking (or splitting or bifurcation) is a cosmetic body modification procedure that's been around for yonks. Now banned in some U.S. states, tongue forking as a medical procedure is achieved using a surgical laser but can also be achieved by one's self using the fishing line method (use your imagination for that one). With practice, it is even possible to move the resulting halves of the tongue independently of each other.

Tongue forking also has a historical background in the practice of yoga. To some it is the pinnacle of "Khechari Mudra", a part of Hatha and Kumbhaka yoga where the tongue is split and then "milked" until it is long enough to be turned back inside the mouth and flipped up to the epiglottis. It then is used in breathing exercises, the goal being to seal the body's energy leaks and become aware of only the internal thus entering a catatonic state, crossing back and forth between death and life.

Loads more info on the web. And in case you're wondering, no, I'd never get it done.

Random Cool Thing:

========

As of today, I will try to post a new random cool thing that I've come across on the internet, each day. If not because each item's inherent Coolness deserves special mention, then just to prove to the world that I'm not all about gloomy introspection and whinging about Life :)

========



Today's Random Cool Thing:

The Chinese Giant Salamander (Andrias davidianus)

"Fucking ugly bastard!" you say. And I agree. It's like a giant flatworm with legs (remember that X-Files giant tapeworm episode?) But tell me that you don't secretly want to have one as a pet and I'd call you A Liar.

According to ARKive,

"The Chinese giant salamander is the largest salamander in the world, and is fully aquatic, with many adaptations for this lifestyle. It grows up to 1.8 metres in length, though most individuals found today are considerably smaller. The skin is dark brown, black or greenish in colour and irregularly blotched. It is also rough, wrinkled and porous which facilitates respiration through the skin as this large amphibian lacks gills. This species has an elongated body, and two pairs of legs which are roughly similar in size. The snout is less rounded than that of the related Japanese giant salamander and the tail is a little longer and broader. Both species have tubercles on the head and throat, though their arrangement is different. The Chinese species has small, paired tubercles arranged in rows parallel with the lower jaw, while the Japanese species' tubercles are mostly single and irregularly scattered. The eyes are tiny, with no eyelids, and positioned on top of the broad, flat head, providing the salamander with poor vision."

Ooh sexy. Speaking of which,

"Reproduction appears to take place from late August to September, when hundreds of individuals congregate at nest sites..."

Picture that. Or maybe, don't. An orgy of giant tapeworms with legs. Yuck. Apparently people also eat these things. Super yuck.

..?

Maybe it's because I don't have that one thing that the principal from high school kept raving about - PASSION.

I have none.

...

Debilitatingly frustrating?

I really don't know why I bother to bring work home anymore, cos it never gets done. I just end up starting Monday morning feeling like I've completely arsed away my weekend (which I have). I'd like to think that I'm pretty productive at work, turning over as much if not more than my colleagues. Whatever. Nobody's gonna die if I don't get this shit done on time anyway. It's all just about keeping the rich folks rich and making the politicians look good. I have no right to live really.

I need to pee.

Yeah, so, this Being Bored Thing. What can I do about it? Travel seems to be the only way to get out of my routine, but then I'm greatly limited by the pittance that I earn and annual leave that's almost a crime to human rights. Fortunately I get to meet a lot of different people in my line of work, and drink lots of free booze, so that sorts out the socialising-in-an-inebriated-atmosphere aspect of life. Wacky retired parents, little brother I secretly love to spoil and a fat cat with attitude. Access to the gym, yoga, the internet, cable tv and a lot of good bookstores.

I want to go skydiving. Maybe I'll do just that. Sometime in December. Yeah. I can't wait for my next holiday: diving and mountain-climbing in Sabah. 75 days (approx.) and counting.

Ramble ramble ramble. Keeping pee in gives me a headache. I can't believe I have to write a report on a three hour meeting where the key - and only - takeaway is the confirmation that nothing needs to be done. What a noble use of taxpayer money. I could have pulled that out of my arse in 30 seconds.

Pish.

I'M BORED.

AND IT'S FRUSTRATINGLY DEBILITATING. The highlight of my entire weekend was accidentally catching "Children of Men" on cable. (Brilliant movie - Alfonso Cuarón might just me the only director whose name I'd know, Michael Caine still rocks the silver screen, Clive Owen is The Hotness, it's made me almost look forward to a post-apocalyptic future; according to IMDB.com it was never released here - figures!) Shopping was HELL; this country is seriously overpopulated and noisy noisy noisy and it smells (OMG it's the apocalypse!); I've done an embarrassing number of online tests (Apparently if I were a dictator I'd be Nicolae Ceauşescu.) Even the Hot Young Intern was disappointing, reminding me too much of, well, ME when I was 20.

Fuck this Chris Evans and Jason Statham are on the telly. Back later.

Question:

How do I spin a convincing argument for my bosses to send me to Greece for three weeks during the summer to hit the beaches and party do a course on modern oceans law and policy?

Not just sliced bread.

There are many things in this world that are underrated. Little things that, in their own special ways, make me happy. This post is in honour of all the mini-wonders that have helped me survive a dry weekend spent pretending to study for the CFA:

1. Arnott's mint slices

2. Tea

3. The electric kettle

4. Cheddar cheese nachos/pretzel bits/anything

5. Instant coffee

6. Cotton buds

7. Instant noodles

8. Eggs

9. Free pens that come in corporate goodie bags

10. Toothpaste in flavours other than mint

11. Economy packs of no-frills black thongs that fit perfectly

12. Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger"

...

I either need to stop staring the booze at 6pm ojust say no to it.

Did I mention that Commander (not commodre, apparentluy) is really seally HOT?!

Aww...

I love US navy officers. I try really hard not to because I disagree with US foreign policy, but I can't help being absolutely charmed by them. The ones I've met have all been really cheerful, earnest guys who genuinely believe that what they're doing is right and for the benefit of all mankind. Their optimism and eagerness to learn and do stuff are almost infectious. Maybe it's from being stuck at sea for most of the year, that it's just humanly impossible for them not to find the sheer state of being on land The Most Exciting Thing Ever. I couldn't help but break into an indulgent grin when I heard the commodore I met today say "Wow" like a 5 year old kid when he was informed that the Greeks were influencing Chinese art as far back as the 10th century. SO CUTE. Damn, most of the men I know probably wouldn't have given a shit!

Hell, they probably wouldn't have been caught dead in a museum!

========

In other news, I just caught the last half hour of Predator, which I think is one of the Best Movies Ever, and now I really REALLY want to get my hands on a tri-beam laser pointer which would look so absolutely effing COOL when I make my presentations. I WANT.

Breakthrough and Conquer.

Remember American Gladiators? Sure you do, you used to watch it as a kid. I sure as hell did. Loved it, couldn't miss it. I even had a tiny crush on one of them, his name was Nitro or Laser or Uranium or something (guess which one I made up). Well they've brought it back! To the States at least. I wonder if it'll ever come out here. It's so much better than the wrestling though (yes, I used to love that too, and thought that The Undertaker was the coolest dude ever).

So embarrassing!

*Grrr*

It's barely quarter past nine in the morning and already Wimpy Colleague, who craves stress and pro-actively creates problems for himself (often fucking up the work of other people for whom these are real responsibilities), has ticked me off. As if listening to his quavering voice and spineless complaints all day long isn't enough! I am fed up with people who, with the lack of instruction from their rank superiors, are incapacitated by the unexpected demands of decision-making. I have no sympathy for people who implode under the weight of endless unnecessary concerns. The sooner, the better, I say.

2007 in Review

Although procrastination has always been my favourite vice, it abuses me - forcing me to make a meaningful assessment of the past year and to outline my objectives for the next, in just one hour... But I have always worked best under pressure, expending the least efforts necessary to achieve desired results. I am after all an economist by training and a business school graduate by accident; yet born into a creed that observes relaxation, personal space and balance.

In the spirit of lean operations for best results, I will reduce my world in 2007 to the five key events that would shape my future. In chronological order, they are:

1. I got a new job.

By far the most significant turning point in my life since leaving business school. Suddenly I was motivated to wake up for work every morning and for the first time, considered it possible to survive six years of legal bondage to the government. The new job came with far more responsibilities and much heavier workload; but in return I get real opportunities to influence consequential decisions, and respect for my efforts and my principles (including an increasingly leftist political approach). Oh yeah and I got to go to Hamburg, Copenhagen, Oslo, London and Paris.

2. I kicked the D habit.

Well, really, the habit kicked me. Like a country imploding under the pressures of impasse en route to a change of leadership, I needed a violent upheaval to purge myself of a destructive past and to introduce a brighter future.

3. I got a cat and boob job!

I accepted the responsibility of another creature's life and irreversibly changed my own. Now I can do ANYTHING!

4. I went to Goa.

And everything material has seemed immaterial to me ever since.

5. I finished reading War and Peace.

The words "A Life Changing Novel" ensconced in a very authoritative red circle scream out from the book cover. I dare not challenge it. I also read: Anna Karenina, Crime and Punishment, the Queen of Spades and other Stories, My Name is Red, Industrial Society and its Future, Hegemony or Survival, and a history of Africa's independence since 1950. So those are probably the reasons why I may have seemed overbearingly broody in 2007.


========

I'll work on my expectations for 2008 tomorrow. Meanwhile, I've decided to get a prowling cougar tattooed on my right thigh. I've been trawling the internet for appropriate designs, and it keeps telling me that cougars are signs of courage, loyalty and leadership. And here I was thinking it was a sign that I want to get naked with the Hot Young Intern from the 19th floor!

HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL!!!

Guffing in Cars.

You've probably been through this before. You go out for lunch with colleagues, have a good meal and make convivial conversation. Before long, it's time to get back to the office and the bunch of you pile into one car. There's small talk - there's always a pressing need for some sort of conversation to take place when a group of people get in the same vehicle, even if there's really nothing to be said. Usually someone makes a reference to that universal post-lunch stupor, jokes about shutting the office door to kip for a bit. We're all secretly thankful for this as it gives everyone in the car an excuse for not participating in the conversation thereafter.

And then it happens. At first you think it's just a figment of your imagination. You look out the car windows, maybe you've driven past a dump or swamp or really large outdoor toilet. But then it becomes clear that someone in the car has let out a secret stinker, you just don't know who. You try to look around for a guilty face without making it look like you've noticed - you don't want the culprit to feel too bad about himself, and you certainly don't want others to think it's you. You start to get really conscious of your movements, your facial expressions. You become wary that anything you do might be misinterpreted as guilt.

You start to wonder if it's appropriate to break the almost respectful silence by cracking a joke about what just happened. But then you hold yourself back: surely that would seem too defensive and might inadvertently cast suspicion upon yourself. You take into account the fact that the people with you are colleagues - you wouldn't want to offend someone you have to work with. You feel downright uncomfortable and the thought of making eye contact with anyone in the car becomes unbearable.

While your mind races thinking about the appropriate reaction to the situation, you realise the malodourous veil has disappeared (or perhaps you've just gotten used to it). The rigor mortis that had seized your body quickly fades away. You furtively take a long, deep breath to clear your mind and the black spots that were beginning to cloud your vision from all that shallow breathing. You begin to relax and shyly turn to the person next to you.

"You got any meetings on this afternoon?"

TDBD (Addendum)

11. Navigate the Northwest Passage (while it's still icy) on an ice-breaker.

Things to Do Before I Die.

I blame it on my fascination with Russian fiction and, well, general non-fiction, in the past year. Provoked by the need for retrospect that time forces upon us towards the end of every year; and the sense of hope that Christmas tends to bring round. That things are slow in the office also helps.

Yes, this is (part of) a list of stuff I'd like to do (in no particular order) before I die. It's likely to evolve over time, with more items changing than being ticked off. A crude manifestation of my life's objectives and ambitions. Maybe (hopefully?) even a prototype epitaph. So here goes:

1. Be choppered onto an offshore oil rig, preferably a new-ish one, in the North Sea (or wherever's sexy at the time), and choppered off, of course.

2. Cross the Bering Strait in a kayak.

3. Watch herds of migratory animals from a hot air balloon somewhere over Africa.

4. Do all that travelling I mentioned in the previous two posts.

5. Live and work in London.

6. Live and work in Russia.

7. Find a humanitarian cause and acting on it.

8. See the establishment and worldwide recognition of a contiguous and viable Palestine state capable of sustaining a nation.

9. Raise intelligent and useful kids.

10. Skydive.

...and lots of other stuff. That I can't be bothered to think about right now, when it's time to leave the office.

========

I was reading TIME's list of people who have left us in 2007, and was shocked to find out that Kurt Vonnegut passed away this April. Vonnegut was my favourite critic of modern society and a major influence on how I think today. He's said and written countless memorable things, but I think the following is most apt for my blog:

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be."

R.I.P. K.V.

Hello Traveller! (II)

Russia! Central Asia! North West China and Mongolia!

The Trans-Siberian Railway!

Hello Traveller!

It's a slow post-public holiday end-of-year Friday morning in the office, and work is the last thing on my mind.

Having browsed through Dio's list of places she would like to visit before she dies, I too feel compelled to make public my travelling desires. Bearing in mind that my days as an indentured slave would end sometime in 2011, here are my plans till then:

2008 > International Year of the Sanitation (?) and the Potato (I kid you not)

Climbing Mount Kinabalu and diving off Layang-Layang, Sabah; Mulu Caves in Sarawak

2009 > International Year of Astronomy and Natural Fibres (??!)

Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania; feeling the Freddie in Zanzibar; maybe diving off Mozambique

2010 > International Year of Communications

Trek to Mount Everest Base Camp and getting some culture in Nepal

2011 > International Year of Forests

South America! More high altitude adventures in Machu Picchu! Don't forget Lake Titicaca! A boat ride on the Amazon River, parties in Rio de Janeiro! And culture in Buenos Aires :)

Yeah so there's a lot of physical activity up there, but what better time to do that than when I'm still young?

La la la la la...

Brown as a Berry!

That's me! Got back from a one week getaway to Goa last night, and I'm missing it already *sniff*

Here's a pic from the trip:



It pretty much sums up my Goan experience :)


========


I think I've also figured out what I want. You know, from life. Yay!

Good Idea:

Sleeping during the lunchtime. Rainy weather, a private room, a yoga mat, a half-empty office... zzzz... I might even make this a daily ritual. All I need are a blanket and a pillow to complete the job. Brilliance.

Tick tock?

I want to marry an architect. A naval architect will do too. A man with the ability to weave the elegance of math and starkness of physics with wood metal stone glass mortar anything - to immortalise a beautiful idea in a functional form.

Where do I find him?

I love this city!

Arsey immigration officer, train delays due to a fatality on the track; brazen cold and spiritless rain; blustering moustaches staring sullenly out of kebab stores; Caribbean, Mediterranean, Eastern European voices moving through the streets... it's good to be home :)

It surprised me how easily I slipped into the swing of things here, after being away for over two years. I've paid respect to the city, revisiting streets that have long heard my footsteps and buildings that continue to influence my dreamscapes, catching up with old friends and recalling a culture shaped by freedom, acceptance and intemperate weather.

I leave in two days but now I am certain of returning, for the long run.

========

It amuses me that my Big Boss, a man of political office and foreign affairs, despises small talk as much as I do.

Are you a logophile?

Or do you fancy yourself a cunning linguist? Do you have multiple online dictionaries in your list of "Favourites"? Do you open the "Word of the Day" e-mail every morning, before anything else? Does your everyday speech comprise esoteric words and are you often frustrated by blank looks of incomprehension on the faces of those around you? Does it pain you to have to articulate your thoughts in a manner less intellectually demanding for the sake of your audience? Do you bear with stoic resignation the recognition that your keen linguistic abilities will never be fully appreciated by the hoi polloi (or do you wear this knowledge with pride and a sneer)?

If any of these questions resonates through your being, then Your Time Has Come.

FreeRice is an internet word game that tests the vocabulary of participants. For every correct answer, companies advertising on the website will donate money to buy and distribute 10 grains of rice. 1 billion grains of rice is enough to feed 50,000 people for one day.

So, for instant gratification and altruistic well-being, click on the following:

http://www.freerice.com/

A Response.

Much to my surprise, I received the following response to a past post:

" hey I just realised today that this is you, and I looked at your blog and I was so impressed by your writing and then I noticed you had an entry with my name as the title, it had been removed but the comments by other people had not, after reading them I figure you must have entered some pretty terrible stuff about me. I wasn't going to make contact with you as no one has ever said as horrible and hurtful things to me as you did in your text messages but I think publishing this kind of stuff is going a bit to far, you really insulted me, I have never uttered a bad word about you, anyway if you where wondering why I ceased contact with you, now you know, you are a wonderful person inside but unfortunately you have a fork shaped tongue and talent for making me feel small. I still think of you alot and I really hope you are doing well. Take care and I hope in the future you will seek the cause of the stain before airing the laundry publicly. "

--------

This is my response:

Dear D____,

While my blog spreads out pieces of my private life in the public domain, to all who read it -save a handful of souls with whom I dare entrust my innermost thoughts and feelings - these posts are as good as the random scribblings of the Everyman (or woman, as in my case). Rest assured that there is no possibility that the post you refer to, an insignificant mote on the worldwide web, is identifiable with your person. I would be hard-pressed to believe that the few who have read it can even recall its content, which was hardly as scathing as you imagined it to be. I had even gone so far as to first run your name through search engines to ensure that it occurred frequently enough and in relation to countless other individuals, so that yet another mention on my blog would raise no alarm.

No, I have not been wondering why you ceased contact with me.

I never even began to worry about what you might have been saying about me. The violent contrasts of your words against your behaviour was all the damage I could humanly tolerate. I concede that had I been more rational, I would have realised that much of it could have been avoided if I had attributed the pattern of incidents to benign peculiarities in your personality rather than any malicious intent on your side.

But drawing straight lines of logic in my interactions with you was too challenging, too often. Mostly because you were many persons:

• First and foremost, you were the person you wanted your audience to see.
• Second, you were the person you perceived your audience to see.
• Third, you were the person you wanted yourself to be.
• Fourth, you were the person you only allowed the ones you cared about to see.
• And then there was you.

I often felt that even you were confused by the different characters in your play.

Did you know that a snake's forked tongue allows it to smell its environment better? It helps them decide if there is a need to fight or flee, especially when too many vibrations in the snake's environment make it difficult to discern sources of danger.

Who spilt the sauce that caused the stain? Was someone holding the bottle when another pushed carelessly by? Who wore the shirt? Who made the sauce? Who handed the bottle to the other and who tried to scrub away at the stain, hoping for it to disappear but only causing it to spread? Who stood by the side, watching without extending a hand to help? Why the fuck were these two people eating at the same table in the first place?

They don't even like the same food!

*gasp*

When I was about 6 years old, my parents packed the family and a couple of cousins off to a resort for a fun weekend. I'd just learnt to swim then and was terribly excited by the pool. My parents told me to stay in the shallow regions and left me in the care of my brother and cousin, who promptly swam off to a deeper part of the pool where the older kids were. Of course, as an impressionable little sister I swam off after them. I got tired and couldn't quite make it to the edge of the pool, and started to panic when I realised that the water was deeper than I was tall. Gesturing frantically didn't seem to attract my brother's attention, and the next thing I knew I was out of the pool sitting next to my mom listening to my dad yelling angrily at my brother.

Now, bone dry and 100m over sea level, I feel the same sense of panic and breathlessness from almost two decades ago. I'm not sure how I am going to meet all my deadlines in the next few weeks/months/years, but I do know that this time round my dad won't be able to pull me out of the water.

Back to work.

4Q07

Where did the year go? Tomorrow's the start of the fourth quarter and that'll probably swoosh past as well.

Work-wise, it's been a heavy nine months. And I think my new bosses secretly love me. That can be the only reason why they're giving me so much more work to do than my colleagues. I've got my own room in the office and more importantly, RESPECT. I've been to Hamburg, Copenhagen and Oslo this year, and I'm off to London in November for some serious schmoozing.

The family side of things is good. My parents are surprisingly supportive and have pretty much let me live my life as I want to. And my father has stopped trying to get me to find religion. Plus now I have a cat.

So I don't have a love-life. Which really is better than being under the delusion that I have one. But miraculously I am coming to the realisation that if I'm going to find a relationship I'm happy to be in, I need to start looking for someone with brains and not just a walking dildo.

I may have failed my first sitting of the CFA1 (my excuse being that I just had no time to study for it being a fairly valid one), and I didn't have enough time or the tenacity to stick to regular driving lessons (and it's not my fault that the system is so fully-booked that there's a six month wait to get a test date)... but hey I got myself a new pair of boobs! And they are doing very well, thank you very much :)

Three months to go, how do I make the most of it?

1. I need to go teetotal for October. I have been most unproductive in the past few weeks, and I'm certain it's cos I've been drinking way too much during that time.

2. I need to start eating healthy again. Basically, I need to detox.

3. I need to start hitting the gym and the yoga studio again, to reverse the effects of the past 6 weeks. And to get my body bikini-perfect for Goa in December.

4. I need to get my goddamn office in order. I can't work at a clean table but the need to be able to locate important documents is slightly more important. I need to start using the filing lady, except I feel really bad about it cos she's so overworked as it is.

5. I will ask Hot Colleague out. I was planning to this coming week - you know, strike while the proverbial iron is hot - but I realise that he's being called back to the army for a couple of weeks. I'll do it in late October, I promise.

6. I will go to Goa and have a fucking good time sans drugs.

7. I will thoroughly consider sorting out my room.

========

I can't wait for Goa.

...

Ugh. I do not feel good. I should have finished that bagel for breakfast yesterday. I should have had something heartier than Japanese for lunch. I should have eaten dinner. I should NOT have mixed beer, wine and martinis. I should NOT have allowed my drunk colleague to drive me home, because drink-driving is WRONG. I should have drunk a litre of water and eaten a banana before going to bed.

I need a hot, greasy English breakfast and an isotonic drink, followed by a long walk by a river.

I miss L_____.

I am not fond of shaky buildings.

The novelty of working on the 33rd floor of a sea-fronting building has lost its lustre. If an earthquake (and its aftershocks) 670km away can cause my coffee to ripple, the windows to whine and its blinds to swing, and generally make me feel like I am having the worst hangover ever, then IT IS NOT A GOOD THING.

And yet here I sit tapping away at my keyboard. Because while buildings further away from the earthquake are vacated at the slightest hint of a tremor, the security and management of this one remain asleep.

Moolah.

Yesterday, I managed to convince the HR people that my driving lessons should be considered as a "self-improvement course" and as such I should be reimbursed for it.

And then I realised that I had a $600 claim outstanding on the company left over from my working trip to Europe in June.

When I got home, I found a letter from the hospital waiting to inform me that I was getting reimbursed just over $1,500 from my boob job.

So just like that I'll be getting what is equivalent to an additional month's pay in my account.

Maybe my mother is right - the universe rewards genuinely generous people (I would like to believe that I am one of those) . With cash. [My mother is Chinese, which means that only cold hard cash counts. Or gold. Heavens forbid if the universe should dare attempt to reward me with something as abstract as "happiness" or "satisfaction".]

And to top it off, it seems that I have lost all desire to engage in what used to be one of my favourite activities: shopping. But perhaps that's because there's nothing nice in the shops these days. Except that pair of to-die-for black pumps with super skinny heels that oh my god I MUST GO OUT AND BUY DURING LUNCH HOUR.

Oh. I guess it's back then.

Whodathunkit!

So perhaps I've misrepresented the men of S________ in the past. There are among them individuals who are above and beyond what is average by any standards, and some of them are in fact remarkably ... erm ... eligible.

And such is the case with a particular colleague of mine. I first met him about five years ago, while we were both studying in L_____. At that point I was dating someone else, but a friend did comment that my future colleague was rather Hot and that it would be amusing if we were to end up dating each other back in S________. It was at the time a little glimmer of hope that returning to S________ wouldn't be akin to entering a world absolutely void of Worthy Men.

The "Man" part of my brain was preoccupied with someone else in the first 1.5 years that I returned, and the thought of taking a dip in unexplored waters never crossed my mind. [Ok, that's a lie. But it's more dramatic this way.] But now that this part of my brain has been cleansed, my attention has been rather taken by this colleague.

He would be, in every respect, a Perfect Boyfriend. He's got everything a girl would want from one. Aside from being a really nice guy, he's intelligent, funny, open-minded and genuinely confident in a very charming, understated way. He possesses the rare qualities of having an expansive view of the world and a magnanimous approach to people. On top of that, he has the highly attractive physical characteristics of a lean, muscular, well-proportioned body, a great tan, fine cheekbones and an excellent jaw. He smells kinda nice too.

I've had to work pretty closely with him and it now seems that we may have, well, started to flirt with each other. As I have mentioned before, I am largely unschooled in the art of flirting in a work environment. However, although I appreciate that he would be considered good-looking, I am just not physically attracted to him. I do wish I were because it really is the only thing holding me back from giving it a proper go.

Sigh. Perhaps Bazza is right. Maybe over time I will become physically attracted to him.

In the meantime, I have someone with whom there is mutual appreciation (though not of the physical kind), who responds to all my e-mails and text messages, and who treats me with the chivalry of a true gentleman. And honestly that's a million light years more than what I've had in my recent past.

========

That post took really long to write up because I've been checking out '80s and early '90s rock videos on YouTube. The Meatloaf ones are among the best, second only to my beloved Axl Rose. And Jon Bon Jovi (of course not forgetting the smokin' hot Tico Torres). So I guess that makes it third. Oh My God I am ADDICTED. Did you know that Meatloaf did a cover of Celine Dion's "It's all Coming Back to me Now"? I actually love it!

[It's so easy to admit embarrassing things like that when you're hiding behind a pseudonym...]

Post-Event.

And so the work week is over. The Big Event me and my team of 5 overworked/underpaid colleagues went smoothly and ended a resounding success. Some have called it a historical landmark, but really, the subject matter was so esoteric that you'd never have realised it. For a week I have virtually run my feet raw pulling things together (while inflicting the full force of my inner control freak/bitch on people who don't matter anyway - but damn it was fun). My head has grown so big from people telling me what a good job I've done, I fear I may lose my balance sitting down.


The experience had me immersed in the multi-layered world of diplomacy and embellished my ability to speak at length about everything without saying anything at all. I have gone a step further and learnt how to analyse these seemingly meaningless conversations to expose the hidden truths underneath - and I now know how to use this to my advantage. I have been admitted into that inner sanctum of rookies with whom Very Important People condescend to sharing casual jokes and personal stories.


I have (re)discovered that all hot men are at the very least open to opportunities to cheat on their wives/girlfriends.


I am also convinced that I need to find a Very Successful (Hot) Man to be my husband because spouses are a great conversation topic when you've run out of everything else. (And because I'm still shallow.)

Catgut.

How is it 5:51pm already? There's only 1.5 days of the weekend left!

========

Got my bandages taken off 5 days ago. What a huge relief! The dissolvable stitches are still in but it looks like the scarring will be minimal. The doctor announced that I look great and that they look natural (well I guess he'd have to say that but it made me grin anyway), did a check, told me they're healing perfectly and sent me on my way.

For the first time since the operation, I got up this morning without an intense pain in my left boob. The skin is starting to look less taut now. (So's my arse incidentally, I think I'll start hitting the gym again next week before I lose my boot completely.) Hee hee hee I can't wait to show them off!

========

If you've ever wondered how dissolvable stitches (or, if you want to sound in-the-know, "absorbable sutures") work, apparently they're made of natural materials such as processed collagen derived from sheep intestines, silk, hair, and synthetic stuff that the body can naturally decompose. Sexy hey.

(Slice) Globalisation.

The world over, people working in functional departments are doomed to being known merely as "Admin person", "IT guy", "Finance bitch", etc. They lead stereotypical lives of either being married with children or unmarried and looking after the parents. They get into work at 9am Mondays to Fridays, break for lunch at 12.30pm and leave for home not a minute later (or earlier) than 5.30pm. And don't even bother asking them to do anything that might break this routine or go beyond the strictly defined parameters of their job descriptions.

How have these people, randomly spread across the world and in great numbers, merged to become a single faceless being? How do they cope with leading a life of anonymity, with a raison d’être that is simply to function as the operative arm of an antiquated guidebook? How could they be (are they?) satisfied with their lives?

Are they happier than me?

========

Back to work. Sigh.

DVT

Convalescence does not become me. I am sick to the bone of staying within the confines of my house, my chest imprisoned by bandages that torment me with their constant itch, the beginnings of a rash brought about by my medication. I hate my work laptop and the ever increasing number of e-mails in my inbox from little people scurrying around to execute the orders of overpaid bosses who swoop in to drop shit on projects that they hitherto had zero interest in. I'm beginning to hate the laptop I currently type on that promises me a vast realm of entertainment but keeps letting me down. War and Peace is fucking with my mind, I'm barely halfway through, and the red circle on the cover that proudly announces "A LIFE CHANGING NOVEL" mocks me endlessly. The only other partially unread book in my bedroom is a non-ficitional tome on the plight of African nations since breaking free from colonialism, a very good book in every right but depressing enough to make you want to spend the rest of your life living in solitude away from evil Man.



And I may have mentioned it before, I don't really enjoy watching TV (except for CSI, which isn't showing tonight).



========



A friend once asked, "Why do intelligent women allow themselves to get dicked around by men?". Once I got past the compliment, I felt the too familiar embarrassment of having to struggle for an argument supporting my unhealthy addiction to D____. (Fortunately the question was asked in a club setting, over lime margaritas and vodka Red Bull, and hence didn't require a response.) The felling blow, one that none of my friends has been cruel enough to articulate, was that I had virtually asked to be dicked around. Not only had I let the cycle repeat itself over and over again, it was I who had initiated the process each time. At the end of each cycle I would be reduced to a mess of tears, regret, bitterness and anger, and yet within a few months I would willingly enter a new cycle again with the firm belief that this time round, everything would work out.



And now a tiny voice within me is trying to convince me to dial his number again. It tells me that it's only to find out how he's doing, it's only to show that the bust up was nothing more than a cathartic release that we both needed, that now all the cards are face-up on the table and we can talk openly, honestly, truthfully.



I have deleted all his contact details but his number remains etched in my memory. My only hope is that he leaves this country before I cave in to that tiny voice.



========



Ok. The whining stops here. A yoga instructor once said that self-pity is the biggest ego trip, and rubberbandman is right.

BosoMe.

Done it. Breast augmentation that is. As of 21 Aug 07, approximately 1030h, I have been the proud owner of a new pair of breasts.

Took me some time to make the decision to blog about my experience. I've kept myself fairly anonymous so far (and in the Grand Scheme of Things I am only a statistic) so I've decided that I won't be getting too worried about having everyone know that I've done it. Hopefully this will help anyone else making a decision on whether or not to get breast augmentation surgery. There's a lot of info about it on the web, what I offer you is a very personal (and non-professional) view.

Why did I do it?

I've always felt that the two gifts every human being is born with are the Mind and the Body. Barring extreme circumstances, we have complete control over what we can do with either. Personally, I think it's a complete waste not to maximise the potential of either. I may not have complete control over the direction of my life or circumstances external to my being, but at least I can get my Mind and Body in shape for whatever Life might throw at me.

I try to spend at least 3 hours a week at the gym and another 3 hours at yoga, and I try to eat as healthily as possible. I don't beat myself up about failing to do either (which happens quite often). I am very mindful of how my body looks and what it can physically achieve. I do probably think about it more than an average person, but I am definitely not obsessed with it.

Pre-operation, my measurements were something like 31 - 25 - 35 (my goal is 33 - 25 - 35). I also have a larger than average head. I spend quite a bit of my gym time working on my shoulders, to get a V-shape that is proportionate to the size of my head and my hips. I believe my body has achieved a desirable proportion portrait-wise, but I cannot say the same for how it looks profile-wise. Unfortunately breasts consist predominantly of fat - my efforts to build lean muscle mass on the rest of my body has made my breasts even smaller, and my pectoral muscles larger.

What's to be done then? I was rather happy with my pre-op body (humility aside, I believe it was well above the average), but the fact that my breasts were the only feature of my body I was still dissatisfied with constantly nagged at me. More importantly, I knew that it would continue to nag at me until I did something about it. It was, in fact, nagging me to the point where I would analyse other women's breasts, their proportion with the rest of their bodies, and compare them with my own.

This was clearly not a sustainable situation.

(Some of you would also be aware that I had momentarily made the decision to cancel the surgery, after a particularly incensed end to a particularly screwed-up "relationship". I had thought that the decision was partly made to make myself more attractive to That Person. Thankfully it only took me overnight to realise that the decision had always been only to satisfy me.)

I just want to make this clear: I did not get this done to be more attractive to men. I got it done because it allows me to achieve my objective of a perfect body. I got it done because I can.

Technical Specifications

I chose to have my surgery done at a leading hospital in S________. While it does not offer the "Nip/Tuck"-like frills that a "boutique" cosmetic surgery provides, it is approximately 30% cheaper and offers the same consultative and surgical expertise, and comfortable overnight conditions. (A "boutique" cosmetic surgery would also typically do more breast augmentation surgeries than a hospital, however, I felt that my surgeon himself was experienced enough to the job.)

In consultation with the cosmetic surgeon, I chose the following specifications for my implants:

• Incision type: Below the breast in the infra-mammary fold.
• Type of implants: Silicone gel. (While silicone gel implants have a lower incidence of leakage, it is more difficult to clean up the mess if it does. When a saline-filled implant leaks, the saline solution is simply reabsorbed by the body. When a silicone gel-filled implant leaks, the silicone gel leaks into the "space" between the implant and the "pocket" created by scar tissue that has developed around the implant. The surgeon also showed me a ruptured implant - it was obvious that the silicone gel used is very, very viscous and does not easily flow out of a breach in the implant shell. The implant shell itself is a very hardy thing, with the ability to withstand a lot of pressure [the exact figure is somewhere on the web]. I've also read that if one receives trauma in an accident powerful enough to rupture an implant, then the ruptured implant really is the last thing to worry about.)
• Implant pocket placement: Submuscular. This allows for maximum coverage of the implant with the body's own tissue. This is also the most uncomfortable placement, with the longest recovery time.
• Implant texture: Smooth. Research has shown that textured implants may reduce the visibility of capsular contracture when the implant is placed in a subglandular pocket (over the muscle). Results indicate that there is no significant difference to the visibility of capsular contracture in the use of smooth or textured implants when the placement is submuscular. I chose the smooth texture as it is also easier to remove when the implant needs to be replaced.
• Size: 260cc. This is slightly larger than the average cup of tea. I had asked the surgeon to bump me up from an "A" to a "full B", although the results I see now look more like a "full C". The larger size may be due to swelling. The actual results can take up to 4-6 months to be seen though. At this point in time, my measurements are approximately 34 - 25 - 35.

To note (if you decide to get implants too)

Aside from the personal and technical considerations mentioned above, there's a list of other practical matters that you'd need to look into if you decide to get breast implants:

Pre-Operation

• Be completely comfortable with the decision to get implants. Do as much research as you can, and do ask for other people's opinions. Most hospitals and cosmetic surgery clinics allow payment just prior to the operation, so you have loads of time to change your mind if necessary.
• Prepare your room for your convalescence. Put new sheets on your bed, put everything you would need (e.g. your laptop) within easy reach of the bed. Get in lots and lots of pillows cos you'll need to prop yourself up when you're asleep and sit upright for the rest of the day.
• Iron all your button front work clothes. You won't be able to carry anything remotely heavy - this includes irons - in the couple of weeks after the surgery. You also won't be able wear any clothes that require you to stretch your arms over your head, simply because you won't be able to.
• If you own a cat (as I do), do stock up on cat food and kitty litter (which I didn't) as these are very, very heavy items (as I have come to realise - the hard way).
• Make sure you have lots of things to do (that only require you to sit upright) for the convalescence period. Bring your office laptop home if necessary - it will at least ensure you have a manageable workload when you get back in the office.
• Get rid of any emotional baggage you might have. You don't need to have to cope with that and the recovery process at the same time.
• Stay healthy.

Post-operation (hospital)

• Make sure you have at least one visitor, preferably 8 hours after the operation (you won't be in the condition to speak to anyone too soon after the op). Make sure this visitor is supportive, willing to clear your used barf bags for you (a side effect of being under general anesthesia is nausea), and buys you nice stuff like Pringles Sour Cream n Onion crisps and lots of chocolate. (Thanks T!)
• Warm pyjamas and fluffy bedroom slippers are far more comfortable than hospital garments and bare feet on cold floors.
• Be nice to your nurses.

Post-operation (home)

• As you will be wearing bandages for up to a week after the surgery, I strongly recommend keeping the air-conditioning on. (Alternatively, get the surgery done during the colder months.)
• As you can't get the bandages wet, you won't be able to shower. You're likely to end up using loads of wet towels to keep your body clean (alright, you can shower from waist-down). You can choose to bend over to wash your hair, or opt to just go to the hairdresser's instead.
• You'll be really uncomfortable and possibly in lots of pain. Your breasts will look sore and stretched, and probably nothing like how you expected them to look. This is a time when you are most likely to feel regret for the decision you have made. Make sure you do lots of things to keep your mind busy. (I am a strong believer that a negative attitude will delay the healing process.)
• Bandages are no fun. Be prepared to itch!

========

I can't wait for the next six months to be over and done with, so I can see the final results!

Hot Man Alert:

Guillermo Arduino. He's an international weather anchor and host of CNN World Report based at the CNN Center in Atlanta. He kinda looks like a more pleasant version of Julian McMahon, and has an incredibly sexy accent. Carries a suit well too. Muy caliente.

========

The men I fancy typically display 'M' shaped male pattern baldness. I can't decide if it's that I find older men or high foreheads attractive. I am also only attracted to strong, high nose bridges on men - what I've termed "continuous nose and forehead" - but everyone knows that (although few know why...).

(Slice) Snakes and Ladders.

Hierarchical structures breed and entrench inefficiencies. Each layer presupposes the desires and inclinations of the one above, getting it wrong half the time. Each layer also searches for and creates flaws in the work of the one below, in an attempt to add value to the project. Some layers produce inferior half-hearted work, knowing that the ones above will clean up the mess they've created.

The only "benefit" of hierarchies is the creation of jobs. But why create a new set of problems just to resolve one? The real solution is population control. We do that with animals, so why not with people? I'm not advocating mass slaughter, just a more rigorous framework for birth control.

Cramp.

The lack of motivation to work has reached a critical stage. And I now know why it has happened.

I want to rip my uterus out and feed it to the crows.

Strings and Lines.

This morning has been marked by a singular lack of motivation to work.

This downward spiral into a state of indolence may have been sparked off by a particularly annoying argument I had with the Director yesterday. The argument was about how long we would require a harpist to play at an upcoming Big Dinner. I don't get his obsession with harpists and I honestly don't think guests who've just spent a whole day at a meeting pretending to be interested in international policies would give two shits about whether or not a harpist plays 3 sets of 45 min instead of 2 sets of 30 min when they're at a dinner with good (free) food and better (FREE) booze. What I do know is that (1) the harpist is a human being and not a robot, and (2) we can't squeeze two harpists into our budget. And seriously, in the Grand Scheme of Things this really isn't an issue to harp on. (Ha ha, I can't believe I cracked that one, but I just couldn't help it.)

...

I have recently begun noticing that there are actually Hot Men working in this building, spotting three (the third may have just been here for a meeting but I can continue to hope) in the past few weeks. I'm positive I've seen the first two before, I just never really noticed them. And by noticed I mean regard-with-appreciation-and-feeling-the-sudden-desire-to-make-babies. And I do also believe that I have been noticed in return. I have been informed that this (being noticed in return) is likely to be because I am now completely free of Men-related emotional baggage. Did I look so weighed-down previously? Perhaps I did, I do feel a lot "lighter" these days (but that could also be because I really like my new job - harpist-issues aside).

Anyway, the point is, what do I do now? How do I act on this sudden revelation that Hot Men exist in the same building where I spend most of my waking hours? (I have my own room in the office dammit and it needs to be "broken in"!) When noticed, do I continue to stare in appreciation or do I coyly (or perhaps smugly...?) look away? Do I even smile, and what kind of smile should it be? Having only played the Game in bars where everybody's drunk and doesn't care about "protocol", I find myself completely at a loss of knowing the Rules in a work environment.

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Ok. Back to work.

(Slice) Progress:

BIG FISH, BIG POND.

5

Small fish, big pond.

5

Big fish, small pond.

5

Small fish, small pond.

Some people still can't get that right.

Frais!

Yes, I'm trying to give my blog a new look. And yes, I gave up on making the posts look consistent beyond the previous few. It's boiling hot in S________ you see, so my patience is rather limited. I've spent the past 10 min trying to figure out why, WHY GODDAMMIT, I can't insert double line spacings between the paragraphs of an earlier post. And I've given up - for now. I may have lost the battle, but I will be the victor of the war!!!

Dylan Foster - A Conclusion.

(Post removed. It did its job - I'm not angry anymore. Wish him all the best.)

Buy:

"Rhythms del Mundo *Cuba*" - VA

Lipophobia.

For the past 48 hours, I have been struggling with a very sudden and mysterious phenomenon: "The Muffintop That Sure As Hell Wasn't There When I Woke Up This Morning". Surely an average portion of German mushroom stew and half a raspberry tart cannot by themselves bump me up a whole dress size? (This is particularly annoying because now I am in-between-sizes for a gorgeous MNG suit which I really really want.)

Not that you asked, but even the lax didn't work. (Well it worked, but the muffintop is still there.)

What is really peculiar about this muffintop is that it seems to gather mass from absolutely nothing. I can make it disappear completely by flexing my abs, but I honestly don't know where it goes when I do that. I can make it look even more distended - making me look about 5 months pregnant - by pushing my abs out. The other parts of my body remain the same size when doing these, it's definitely not food or water cos none was involved, and I held my nose so it's definitely not air either...

... I can only conclude that the muffintop comes from ectoplasm, which means that my abdomen is Possessed. Or, I have been artificially inseminated by aliens that can grow and shrink at will.

ANYWAY. Fearing that the phenomenon will turn into a Persistent Fact (I am now 25 and everybody tells me that's when my body will start going downhill), I stopped by the friendly general nutrition store and ended up spending 6% of a month's paycheck on supplements that promise to help me eliminate excess body fat and build lean muscle mass. Now what I need is one of those weighing machines that also analyse body fat percentage.

(Aside: If you intend to start your own business, may I recommend you choose one that feeds off human insecurities - they make a lot of money. Consider how during the most recent economic recession in this country, the slimming industry was the only one that never stopped making profits. Look at how the life insurance industry is the only consistently profitable insurance sector, worldwide. And have you seen how much parents are paying for their kids to attend motivational talks to help them study harder? It's sick.)

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Again a post that with a promising start and a vaguely interesting middle that went absolutely nowhere. HA. Story of my life really.

Slave to the Pituitary Gland.

For every population operating regularly within a contained environment, there exists a Critical Mass of women which, when achieved, will drastically and dramatically change the dynamics of that environment. In the division that I work in (Population: 16), the Critical Mass is THIRTEEN. How unfortunate it is that the sixth prime number, which suffers the ignominies of being forever linked to misfortune and hockey masks, must also bear the blame for Things Falling Apart.

Now I know a lot of about putting too many women in the same place for long periods of time. I attended a girls-only school from the ages of 13 to 16 - those crucial years when girls begin to experiment with Bitchiness and Backstabbing, and then lived in a women-only dormitory from the ages of 20 to 22 - when women decide whether to make them Life Choices. So I've had my fair share of fangs, claws and fluctuating oestrogen levels.

*****

When I first started drafting this post I didn't really know where it would go. I still don't. I'm publishing it anyway as a pre-emptive prologue to a hypothetical future work incident involving women fighting.

Clot.

So I have been sat here since noon (it is now 19:27), slowly bulldozing my way through the CFA Ethical and Professional Standards. I am only at page 41 of Volume 1, which is, at approximately 600 pages long, the thinnest of four volumes that I must digest before I sit for the first CFA exam. In June. 2007. 3rd of.

FUCK.

Right. Something must be done about this. I need a PLAN. The first part of the PLAN is to stop staying late at work, especially since I'm staying late to do non-value-added work for my halfwit Nonsense Boss. The second part of the plan is to eat lunch in every day. Which is pretty sad since lunchtime is the only social life I have these days. The third part of the plan is to stop sleeping. Or at least stick to about an average of 4 hours/night.

(Those of you pointing out that I am blogging despite my obvious lack of time to complete other more important matters, can sit and swivel. I need to talk about this, okay? SO THERE.)

If all goes well, I would have passed my CFA1 with a brilliant score, AND obtained my driver's license by the end of June (which would be too cool as I only started lessons like yesterday). And then the JLPT3 and Mt Everest base camp trek in 2H07, and maybe on 31 Dec 07 I won't feel like I've wasted a whole year (which is exactly how I felt on 31 Dec 06).

And, hopefully, by putting this out in the public domain, I am COMMITTING myself to getting all of these done. Cos if I don't, you can point at me and laugh.

*****

I fucking hate the HR department. How long do they need to sort out the paperwork for my new position? I want OUT and I want it PRONTO. Do they WANT to see me bite the Nonsense Boss's head off? Because I CAN DO IT. It's small, it's empty, and it's attached to the body by a very thin piece of neck. And guess who has six years of job security with the organisation - ME. So ain't nothin stoppin me from doin it 'cept the ZEN within me. And it is FAST RUNNING OUT.

Haiku Monday.

Last Monday that is. I thought it would be a good idea to redirect my "stress energies" to the writing of Haikus. It worked - for one day at least.

As follows, me in blue and my colleague in yellow:

I feel the need to

Express my work feelings through

Power of Haikus


please blow me away
with your talent in rhyming
so what's the story?

Use double spacing

Caps for start of sentences

More pleasing to eyes

when people get old
they need to pick on small things
to feel big again

Some people possess

High standards for aesthetics

Not that you would know


I thought you referred

To the quirks of our bosses

But I see it's you


Some people must learn

The Law of Diminishing

Marginal Returns


Choking. Water. Me.

I must be getting older.

Laws have no meaning.


I feel no sense of

Purpose working here. I feel

Inconsequential


Patience reaps rewards

It will get better with time

Meanwhile there's ice-cream


Patience reaps wrinkles

Cellulite and atrophy

Of muscle and mind.


This could get lengthy

Perhaps it's time for a change

What would you suggest?


Don't know. I think that

Haikus use more brains than work

Makes time pass quickly


I just need more grease.

Cocktail prawn rolls lacked lustre.

And now they're finished.

Everything went pretty much downhill from there, with talk about guavas and gout and German people. Of course this was all pre-Big Job Announcement, these days I don't need Haikus to feel happy.

Exfoliation.

I have been toying with all sorts of ideas on how best to break the silence on my blog. There was the Getting Chatted Up in the Gym Incident, but that news is really dated now, and anyway, you can read about it here. There was also Haiku Day, where I spent many minutes of my work day conversing with my colleagues using haikus - some of which I felt were worthy of publication (on this blog). May I'll put those up some other time. And of course there were any number of bizarre incidents involving fellow colleagues that I could have ranted about.

But now I have it.

Ever since I started work, the primary source of my vexation, the proverbial thorn in my side, the plague in my otherwise alright life, ma main BEEF with da system, has been the several layers above me through which I must clear all my work before it can get to The Biggest Boss. Let me explain this with a simple diagram:

The Biggest Boss

5

The Not-So-Biggest Boss

5

The Bigger Boss

5

The Big Boss

5

The Boss

5

The Nonsense Boss

5

Me

So much of my time is doing unnecessary work, predominantly for The Nonsense Boss, because the bosses between me and The Biggest Boss don't really know what exactly The Biggest Boss wants. And each of these bosses have very different ideas of what The Biggest Boss wants, requiring me to re-do my work in several different versions. I'm sure you can understand how this would drive me fucking crazy.

Anyway, on Friday - which I was having off because I had a driving theory test in the morning - I received a text from The Nonsense Boss that The Big Boss had asked to see me, presumably about my most recent paper. So I went into work just to see him, and it turned out it wasn't because of the paper. Instead, The Big Boss wanted to inform me that I was getting a promotion, leaving me feeling rather stunned. Let me explain why I was stunned by showing you what the previous diagram would look like after my promotion:

The Biggest Boss
5
The Not-So-Biggest Boss
5
Me

As you can see, quite a number of layers have been removed.

And that is how my blogging begins again.