I Have Measured Out My Life in Coffee Spoons

Obviously the last entry left me tired and in need of recovery time. Or I had some really busy shifts (a self-venting spleen! not as convenient as it sounds!), lots of housework (it's a clean bathroom!) and champagne (bubbles!) played their parts in there somewhere.

I've had occasion this past couple of weeks to be told all about Listeria (a bacterium found in soft cheeses, etc., not a mouthwash*), the new redevelopment at Liverpool hospital and why I should lose weight, quit smoking and/or exercise more. Why do hospitals have such tiresome spiels? At another hospital I worked, the hold "message" was Spanish guitar music which, in and of itself, wasn't too bad. Until the fifteenth repetition on the one phone call. Perhaps I am a Philistine and have no appreciation of Spanish guitar music. The quivering first twang followed by a repetitive descending cadence; a couple of musical curlicues thrown in; it may have felt like the song that never ends (just tell me tell you about this meningitis-ridden patient so I can attend to my bleeding ears); in retrospect it seems fascinating. Much better than canned health messages from a man with a slightly nasal voice, a way-too-perky woman and elevator music in between them.

*There's a novelty. Bacterial mouthwash. Have some flora. Provided it's not Listeria monocytogenes.

I discovered small lad likes chicken giblets in rice. The outlaws/grandparents (whatever, I'm sure you can infer who I mean) came to visit last weekend. I was rude and ate only the rice because chicken giblets are not my thing. Chicken. Giblets. Erk. It's a texture thing, not a giblets thing. Mostly. The rice was rather nice though. Mother Outlaw does this marvellous chickeny-stock thing with it all.

The distance between entries has a lot more to do with my internal weather than how much I've had to do (or not - bubbles!). I keep a journal. Well of course I do, what aspirant writer doesn't? Every now and then I get a surprise at what comes out of the pen when my brain is otherwise occupied. That doesn't sound right, does it? In the zone I'm not thinking about what I'm writing (particularly not in a journal, where I'm not making a point, I'm just - SPLAT! - onto the page), it all just blurks out, to keep up with the auditory splashing metaphor. Because we all need reminders of how vomit sounds when it hits something, right?

It has been a bit odd adjusting to this new job with its long hours and minimal people time. I find I'm becoming a recluse and avoiding social situations. I left behind some pretty nasty effluvia in my old job (not entirely the reason for leaving, but certainly reason for not-staying) that has taken me a while to deal with. Simply put, a couple of people I thought were friends turned out really weren't; and the blood loss from the knives in my back didn't make staying worthwhile. (The positive "real" reasons for changing were the regularity of the roster, wanting to write a novel and my new job is about fifteen minutes from home as opposed to sixty).

Having left all of that behind (with limited success - there's nothing like hanging around with only yourself to help with obsession), I assumed the lows and not-very-high highs were just adjustment to the new! life, with the new! job and the new! time at home; I'd be back to myself in no time. Not so much. I've changed, but I have no real idea about the dimensions of this change.

It's surprising and dismaying that this betrayal* has had such repercussions. I'm not three; that grown-ups are nasty to each other is no surprise to me in prospect. But in fact it floored me. I'm thoughtless occasionally, I'm hideously forgetful, but I mean well; being deliberately nasty just isn't my style. There was a stage in all of this that I understood the idea of keeping your enemies closer, but the thought of being nice to someone who hated my guts and I loathed equally in return just isn't my cup of tea. If I don't like you I'll prefer civility. I'm not going out of my way to make your life hard.

*Betrayal seems too strong a word, but it will do in place of le mot juste. Plus it's accurate.

I always thought I would become more myself as I get older, or at least that's how it has worked before. It seems that the previous myself wasn't really working for me. So here is me, dingy and moulting to a new skin. When this particular epiphany happened (two weeks ago), the imagery seemed apt, but I was probably struggling to stay awake at the time, always a downer. If this were a self-help book the inside of the dingy would be all shiny and bright and full of new! possibilities for the new! me. I don't feel like having a new me, I want some of the old one. My sense of humour and optimism, for a start.

I suppose it feels very dull and dusty because I've limited (professional) possibilities, and the majority of my achievements to date have been professional ones. I could have taken a different kind of job which would have moved me into a management path, but the thought of it didn't thrill me. Then there's writing, very much on the back burner these days. I want to write a novel. I've wanted to write a novel for...ever. That's the next adventure, but I have this to work out first. I want my job to be something I want rather than something I show up at, but I'll settle for what I have. For now. Sound good?

The biggest blot on my horizon right this second is that it is bloody hot in this lab. I am temporarily without joggers and my current work shoes look really naff with shorts, so not only is it hot, I'm in long pants. Unless I'm in early menopause and it's hot flashes. Eek. At least I'm no longer dreaming of zombies during the day (or at night, when I sleep at night, that is).

The biggest question(s) I have at this time of the morning are a) why did four more questions pop into my head when I started this paragraph (including this one)? and b) why are the contaminated waste bags fitted into our big Sulo bins always too small? I'm not boring you to death with the other three questions. I'm sitting here typing this with the Dr Horrible soundtrack playing as specimens run in the background (run, specimens, run!). Soon I will get up and do the morning start up. Soon I will wonder if I should have that second cup of coffee (non, non, Nanette, ze diet is staying). Soon I will try not to look at the clock and count down to just how long I have to be here (the last few hours are always the hardest). Soon I will stop starting my sentences like this, tie off this blog entry and post it. Soon I'll read over it for the fifteenth time, discover the two errors I missed, edit it, re-post it, and sometime tomorrow or on the next entry I'll discover another two errors I missed and edit and re-post again. I am such a dedicated nit-picker that if I don't go and fix something broken it will bug me. For years, if that's what it takes.

Oh, I have to go and catch those running specimens. Then tidy up my coffee cup. Possibly brush my teeth. Ponder. Something. Check my stats again (I have stats these days! Thanks Robert Frost). I leave you with this thought, since I have gone from profound to profane (or at least light-hearted): "This sounds like a twelve-change-of-underwear trip." (The Cat, Terrorform, Red Dwarf.)

Fragmentation Grenade

I have no coherent thoughts this week.

This will make the half century of entries. I should do something celebratory, but baking a cake is futile internet-ically speaking. I feel slightly better than I did, with the help of paracetamol, naproxen and the occasional hot toddy. My biggest achievements for the last few days involve going to work, talking to the boys and shaving my legs. If you complain to a razor company that your legs are not silky smooth, do they send someone out to check? Does a little man with a doctor's bag come out and ask to stroke your shin? "Hmm, yes Ms Lateonenite, I see what you mean"?

I seem to have quit smoking, which has prolonged the illness. I almost hesitate to say it, because it's only been a week. Strangely I don't have any (more) cravings for the nicotine (so far), which is just as well, because nicotine replacement therapies make me want to hurl. Seriously. Barf city. Over the weekend I kept picturing myself stopping at a service station on my way home from work, but it was late and I was tired. Today I keep thinking along the lines of not wanting to quit, because I'm a rebel, a crazy young kid living for the now. Sure I am.

Now I've spent time typing this out, of course I really, really, really want to have a smoke. Too bad I don't have any then, isn't it?

We have a (relatively) new supermarket near us that boasts the wonders of the self-service checkout. Small lad keeps calling it the Silver Surfer. All we need is a Fantastic Four deli counter and we'll have the set. (Would the Thing be slicing meat, or would he be a kind of pastrami?)

In an effort to change up on my dream cycles, to wit: ditch the damn zombies, I've been mainlining Blackadder and Red Dwarf. It seems to be working except for re-reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies yesterday. I don't know why I did it either. I like the book, a lot, but that doesn't make up for being pursued by drippy corpses in my sleep.

Dear Tarted-Up White Pages Website,

Perhaps when I search for a business at a given postcode and suburb, I am not searching for a business at a completely-different-suburb-on-the-other-side-of-Sydney-but-I-can't-tell-that-until-I-click-on-that-link. Just a thought.

Disgruntled.

It really is late and I am tired. This is shift four out of five and my eyelids are ready to slam shut. Time to move around. Midnight will be here soon and I'll have lots to do after that. Mwahahahaha!