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.

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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.

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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!

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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!

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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?

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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).



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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.



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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!

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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.

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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.