Ah! The Clock is Always Slow; It is Later Than You Think.

It’s New Year’s Day! Happy New Year! For some reason small lad is swanning around rugged up like the middle of winter – this summer is not so much a summer as slightly warm with daylight saving. Disappointing.

Today I’m fighting the battle of the gorge after the champagne and amounts of nibble food partaken of last night (the heartburn today is teeeee-riffic!). One of my ears is a bit spinny as well, so I’d better not lean down too fast or I’ll topple over like a Terry Gilliam animation in Monty Python.

After my last entry I had some lovely silence in my head, where I wasn’t telling myself anything. Nothing. Zip. Tranquillity. It was a nice place to be in, but the world will rush in, as it does, so that lasted about a month. Then it was a case of telling myself far too much and beating myself up rather a lot. Sigh.

It would be nice to give my brain a holiday, especially the parts monitoring just how badly I’m screwing something up. It gets tiresome.

Since I’m now a recluse (I’m thinking of getting a membership badge) big groups of people freak me out a little. So Christmas shopping was approached with a contradictory mix of “eek!” and “grrarr!”, but it all worked out in the end. I must be doing something right, because I got asked in shops where “x” might be as if I was staff and everything.

There was a Christmas event I didn’t attend, which made some waves of an interesting stripe. One of the guests opined that I hadn’t shown up because of her. Since we're all friends there, way to put people on the spot. Way. Go you. (Actually she asked if, not opined that, but I wanted to use "opined" in a sentence. Opined. Dig it.)

Guesty then went on to say that nothing was her fault; it was the fault of someone else (I’m going to call that one Else).

Else, Guesty and I worked together in my old job. Else was having rather large issues at the time – bad divorce, almost no visitation, previous breakdown under her belt – and having trouble with the job. Since I’m big and mean and tough I report it. Cue about eight months later, I’m frustrated beyond belief and I blow up. Else tells me I should “take it up with management”*, to which I reply that I have…big mistake. For the next year after this I have Guesty and another, let me call her Quitty**, telling me how I don’t understand how bad it all is, I’m unhelpful, blah blah blah. And blah. It takes me a while to figure out just how much is being said behind my back, because prior to this Guesty and I, at least, seemed to have been pretty close friends***.

So Else is using me as a scapegoat. That was no surprise really; working with her was always a foray into being questioned over everything I did. Mostly I flicked it off (to which Else would be saying, “really?” “are you sure?” ad infinitum – so you either flick it off or become a mass of neuroses – and I have enough neuroses). Even at its worst though, I felt pretty sorry for Else – because she couldn’t seem to take any responsibility. In the finish, to make the long story short, she leaves for greener pastures. Guesty and I have a conversation about the things Guesty has said over the last twelve months or so – to which she replies “I never said that. If I’ve ever given you that impression, I am very sorry – you’ve always been…” blah blah, I can’t go on with it, I really might vomit. That was the last lie I was willing to listen to. (Yeah baby, there were more, yeah baby yeah). I haven’t been in touch since.

*If there’s one phrase used by the barely competent I can’t stand, it’s “take it up with management”. As if that’s got anything to do with the discussion: yes, congratulations, you’ve said the threatening thing so now I’ll back down, soooo not, you’ve just effed up good and proper and I have to fix your mess. Grrrraaarrr I want to smash.

**”Quitty” because during all of this she made a point of telling me I should quit my job because a) the system had screwed me (different pay grade by qualification – I was in the lower grade with the higher qualification) and b) I would never get anywhere here. On separate occasions. Strangely, because professionally I’d been part of something really big and good and quite successful and I’d gotten into the higher grade, just before this little shit nugget was dropped.

***I suspect that the pleasantries in the middle of the backstabbing had to do with husbandly and his amazing fix-it prowess, but maybe I’m far too cynical for my own good.

Anyway, sheesh, even having left stuff out it’s a bloody long spiel. I wasn’t perfect in here either; temper, temper, I’ve got a temper, but never mind all that. This distance on I still feel pretty sorry for Else: I don’t think she’s capable of better, which means she’ll constantly have enemies and nothing will ever be her fault. On the other hand, I have nothing but contempt for Guesty and Quitty – friends of Else or not, it was all pretty crap.

That contempt hit a new low after the event I didn’t attend. Guesty was trying to blame Else for showing up at my farewell*. Some friend; blame the incapable one for something you did. I know some of that is unfair – Guesty likes a bit of drama and didn’t (doesn’t?) always think of ramifications, but tough noogies, she made me miserable – Guesty. Not Else, credit where credit’s due.

*Else showed up. I knnoooooww!. For pure gall, I stand in admiration.

I’ve also had a few events to go to where other attendees looked rather unhappy I was there. In one case it was assumed (why?) I wasn’t showing up at all and the dirty look I got will keep me going for a few months. Snort. Maybe I should stick with the recluse thing...except I'd miss out on:

1.Driving behind a car with the number plate MUM-291. Is there a MUM-666 out there? Is her other name Rosemary? Or has the Devil gone for a daughter (who has since reproduced)?

2. Fruit pots, brought to me by Woollies, awesome last minute snack when I've been lazy in the food-to-take-to-work department.

3. A rather loud phone conversation where a lady (?) was telling her last date that she thought he (or she) hadn't been on many dates. She moved away before I could hear any more. She had nice legs, just to enter into the reportage.

4. The Harry Potter Exhibition. Awesome. I want the clothes.

5. They make CC's corn chips with guarana now. Why, oh why?

6. Sitting on a train going past people's backyards: one has a pool with no ladder, and two doors down is a pool ladder with no pool. A feud in progress or a coincidence?

7. Watching a Mum train her child (over a period of years) to wait for the toast instead of trying new foods. Just give the kid the damn toast. Or not. Don't hold off for hours and then give in; the kid will just keep doing the same thing, and while parent-etiquette prevents eye-rolls, said rolls are happening, believe me.

I finished reading Sewer, Gas and Electric: The Public Works Trilogy (just to keep some narrative in this overly-spaced-apart thing) and I love that book. Hilarious, well paced and full of little nuggets to give one to thought*.

"The ultimate consequence of denying reality is always failure. Scratch a worthless bum and you'll discover an irrational man." - Ayn Rand, the hologram. Very certain is our Ayn.

* As opposed to giving one to drink, to the earth, to be married or to the blood-brain border patrol**.

Is it bad to sidebar a sidebar?***

** Try saying that three times fast. While drunk.

*** Well it isn't a footnote. Much as I like them, i don't have the little horizontal line and smaller-print below said line.

I had my grammar corrected by Google. And Google was right (technically - I stand by my use of tense, since I was watching the movie at the time, it was in the present). How mortifying.

My shifts generally go quiet in the depths of the night (can you tell?), when little is stirring except rogue cockroaches scurrying past the tea room*. Sounds great, doesn't it? Work goes quiet, there's nothing to do, how too, too marvellous. What it really means is I'm struggling to stay awake. To the extent where I think: "Hmm, I feel a bit sleepy eyes, oh my head's going down (a submarine klaxon sounds) 'we're going down, Captain!' head going for bench, what bench, that bench, clunk." and out like a light. I surface when the chute system goes (I'm sitting right next to it) or if the phone rings. Bleary-eyed and probably puffy, I'll get up and work or speak on the phone. It must be hilarious to watch, from passed out to "HELLO, Blood Bank! Lateonenite** speaking!" I've probably alarmed a few people that way.

*I've only seen one in the whole year-and-a-bit I've been here, but allow me the poetic license, okay?

**of course I don't say Lateonenite, but perhaps I should. My name gets mangled into Stacey, Tracey, Therese, Vanessa, and on several memorable occasions, Elizabeth. Or I could give up and call myself Barry.

So this is Barry, signing off – I’ll try on the next entry to talk less about myself.

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.)

Reruns of Reruns

Bewitched? Not really. I saw this episode yesterday.

Small lad excelled himself in the Mother's Day stakes this morning. He made cards, both of them utterly gorgeous (particularly the emoticons in silver pen), and handed over an oil burner - something I've needed for a while.

"Needed" being a relative term: the fates of our lives do not depend on the presence of an oil burner.

The day went sort of downhill from there. I had half-planned a trip to the Powerhouse Museum, but before I said anything about it we had an invitation to a family do. So tough luck on that. It's frustrating that there is never room for compromise with these things. And no is not taken well with this particular bunch. All of that grousing aside, "my" herb bread went over a treat.

So much so I looked it up on the iPad; cue watching youtube videos and getting embarrassed about looking up my stats for this blog. (I opened Safari, okay? Blogger was one of my open pages, okay?) Some people read this page. Good Lord. Drivel ready? Drivel launched.

This is the most stop-start entry ever. I have A Few Good Men playing in the background - late-eighties/early nineties musical grace notes to denote action, ick - and keep getting sidetracked. They're all so young! Jack Nicholson is so crazy! Guantanemo Bay - that embarrassment - before anyone had an idea what it was!

As much as this is compelling, I find myself out of love with easeful deat- Sorry, wrong opinion piece. Ahem, I find myself out of love with American courtroom drama. The constant harping on judicial process and the majesty of the legal system is starting to sound like a denial argument - methinks they doth protest too much. Extrajudicial process? Sure. Go overseas. Disregard any judicial process in the host country; it's probably inferior.

Okay, that's it for my incendiary remarks for today. Good timing. Jessup (Nicholson) has just entered the courtroom. Got to love the logic of the righteous - how utterly insane in the brain, murrain. Well, not really a murrain, unless I wanted to start a whimsy on the death of empathy; the death of understanding and the deeper ramifications. Nah. Take too long, and I'd contradict myself at least four hundred times.

Still worth a thought.

I have mixed feelings about the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. There's no Will Turner or Elizabeth. Not that the only reason I was watching was Orlando Bloom...not at all preciousss.

Hairy Bikers are now cooking, and I have an urge to barbecue a pineapple on a spit, basting it with sugar and cinnamon as I go. Not what the Hairy Bikers are doing, they have some sesame seed thing (gak! blech! I hate sesame!). I had my pineapple thing at the Braza in Leichardt and think about it every now and then as the perfect dessert. Except for the heartburn from the pineapple, but you pay for what you get in life, right?

It is late and I am tired so it is time for me to read a book until my eyes slam shut and I leave the light on all night.

The Eyes Have It

I'm awake, it's true.

The new job. Oh, it is terrific. I'm repeating myself on that score quite a lot lately. I don't really believe I've been this lucky.

In May, after Alex's birthday, when all of the dishes were washed, everything done and squared away, I had this thought that "this is how normal people live". Now I'm there. I'm living like a normal person. I'm living - as opposed to lurching from one shift to the next, listening to all of the whingeing about how the roster, she is so bad; listening to complaints about everything under the sun.

My old job was not all bad in total, but it's leading that the best thing anyone can say about a workplace is "it's the same everywhere else". It isn't, something I already knew - after all, I had worked somewhere else - and now I'm living the proof of that. Granted (while I'm qualifying this), not everyone was in the same boat. And that's enough qualification.

I'm still in the honeymoon period, true; real shifts, all on my lonesome, are at the end of this week. All at full tilt (five-on, five-off, two-on, two-off) from then on - but I will have regular days off. I have plans in those days that I will be able to carry out.

Bliss.

So today's plans include some cleaning, some journal writing, some musing on the state of the non-existent but being worked on bathroom (renovations, thy name is hysterical laughter), and some kitchen planning, since that is the next room to go.

First things first. Mindless entertainment today - vacuuming plaster dust. The fun never stops.

Spiffy Abounds

For some reason I'm sitting here with a blanket over my knees instead of turning on the air conditioning, but other than that, it's a normal day.

I look up at my ego wall and consider straightening one of my certificates inside its frame, but for some reason I feel affection for its skewed mien.

This week is more and yet more working night shifts with barely any breaks off, but oh well, what the hell, at least I'm not flying into a mountain.

Have once again finally had enough of the neighbour and just been over to ask her to keep it down. Much better than sitting here getting wound up every time her voice penetrates through the three closed doors and brickwork in between. Bloody hell.

Feeling a bit more than slightly guilty at the moment as I'm about a month overdue on my letters to my Aunty, but I hereby vow to write one today and print it on my beautiful new printer. It's awesome.

This afternoon's plan, since I'm free from cooking dinner tonight, is to take t'yoong man out to Campbelltown, buy some batteries for his beautiful new walkie-talkies, some vegetables for all of us and maybe call in to JB Hi-Fi or Dick Smith and get a new toy. A composite AV cable for my iPad, a cordless keyboard, or something. And an iTunes card while I'm there. Maybe. We need food more than we need that and I'll have to check the bank balance first. And I doubt Mark Latham will be there this time, as he was when I bought the printer.

The reason I'm free from cooking dinner tonight is because somehow the boys missed the dinner on the stove yesterday and had sandwiches. I enjoyed it though, although I think I rather overloaded my bowl for work. I spent the rest of the evening walking around very upright because my stomach was so full. Hard life, not.

The creative writing course has finished, although I didn't attend the last class. Originally when I booked in I was working every second week before the class. Not too bad, I think. HA! It turned out to be every week. So on the final, faced with exhaustion and an overwhelming desire not to be looked at like I had two heads, I chickened out.

The previous week I fell asleep at my desk just before the class started (at least it wasn't in class), and the horrified looks were a bit off-putting. So it goes. Still worthwhile, and if I can get the rest of my life sorted I'll book in for another couple that I have my eye on.

Getting my life sorted means getting out of this horrible roster and getting some normality back. Reclaim my life from its ashes and so forth. Possibly attend some social functions. Without having to go to work afterward.

Bliss.

Not just for smack-heads.

In the Red Corner

In the red corner we have barking Pomeranian crosses (who, without fail, manage to also start up at 2:15am (yes, am when the local feral cat wanders through).

In the blue corner we have the screaming neighbour. I spoke too soon yesterday afternoon - started in again around three, stopped at three-thirty, then her husband came home. Another twenty minutes worth.

I think they should square off, but I think it would be a bit much for the two dogs. I don't like cruelty to animals, so another idea bites the dust.

Do you want to be cool? Here's the definitive list.

My personal favourite on that list is "Learn to speak European". I won't make all of the obvious sarcastic comments, even though I really, really want to.

Ending on a preopisit preposition, and misspelling too! Love it? Yeah.

Trying really hard not to clone mimi smartypants, but this is just how I talk. So I give up.

Last night we watched Bulletproof Monk, or part thereof as it was small lad's bed time. We had started on My Fair Lady, but it was leaving me a bit cold. Plus I wanted to read some more of my book while t'yoong man was in the bath.

Anyway, Bulletproof Monk. I love Chow Yun-Fat in just about everything but this one was also leaving me a bit cold. I'd finished off my book by then, so it wasn't impatience.

Perhaps it's because my favourites of him are Croughing Tiger, Hidden Dragon (even with terrible American subtitles) and some of the odd Hong Kong martial arts films. The best one I ever saw was a buddy movie, no idea of the name, but he is such a goof and does it well (cue laughter). As far as Croughing Tiger, Hidden Dragon goes, if you want a real treat, hang out for the SBS translation whenever they show it again. They obviously bought the film in Mandarin so they could subtitle it themselves, because the depth to the story and beauty of the script really comes through. To wit, there appears to be a plot; I wasn't so sure on the DVD. Plus you get to see Michelle Yeoh looking splendiferous and kicking proverbials.

Bulletproof Monk, on the other hand, well, let's just say that the spiritual journeys of the young leads are a bit, well, dull and hackneyed. Yeah, they come through, yeah isn't love grand and they carry the torch on, the world is safe once more - but I just can't seem to buy it.

Since this morning as we left for school, t'yoong man decided to spill that his head has been itchy for five days, today's plan has gone out the window and instead I'm washing all of our bedlinen. There is a nit plague at school. I had a quick squiz at his hair this morning and found an egg without trying too hard, so here we go.

The most disappointing part of this is one of the other mothers had a whinge a few weeks ago about one of the kids having nits. The mother of said child got all huffy and started going on about how clean she was. Oh boy.

Really. Oh boy.

Get the point: infections (insectoid, bacterial or viral) don't care about your level of cleanliness, your societal status, your marital status, or how much money you have in the bank. If you are in the wrong place at the wrong time, you'll probably cop it.

Obviously for nits, the flu, tuberculosis, meningococcal meningitis, mumps, measles, you can take some basic precautions but really, if it's rampant, well, sucks. Others like Hepatitis B, C and the old horror HIV there are certain behaviours you can avoid but again, there are windows in every infection where the infected are unaware they are even sick - and can pass things on.

It's very sad that in this day and age people still associate disease with dysfunction. It's even worse - and not worthy of sad, but rather reprehensible - that dysfunction is associated with poverty, low education levels or laziness.

Yeah, sure you make the argument about sterotypes and you generally find disease in poorer areas - but try and think about it, 'kay? One, probably can't afford treatments. Two, just because you can't afford it doesn't mean you don't care.

One of the things I find hardest to get across to people is the concept of unaffordable anything. Since I work in a professional field, most of my workmates can afford what they need and, frequently, most of what they want.

The idea of literally not being able to afford to eat, wash or buy medicine is at best intellectually understood. At worst, it's a publicly politically correct agreement ("yes, yes, isn't that terrible"), while privately disagreeing ("they're just lazy" for example).

I have more, but I need to repair the creaks in my soapbox.

A lot more serious than when I started. Sucks budgies!