Nice and Warm and Toasty

Things I did on Saturday:

• took small lad to the golden arches for crap breakfast
• slept
• rolled over and slept some more
• rolled over again, felt nice and warm and toasty and slept some more
• stretched and got up
• washed dishes
• ordered pizza
• combed nits out of small lad’s hair
• combed nits out of my own hair
• watched Gardening Australia (which we never do)
• ate pizza
• had a shower
• thought about how nice I felt being all nice and warm and toasty and rolling over to go back to sleep (LUXURY!)
• moved bags of blood from one place to another
• a QAP set (take that anti-K)

Things I did on Sunday:

• hugged husbandly
• sat next to small lad in his bed and told him to go back to sleep
• looked at this entry, faffed about with it and closed it with no changes
• took chicken out of the freezer
• slept
• got up to wee
• slept again (not in the toilet)
• ate some leftover pizza
• cooked dinner
• ate dinner
• sat still while husbandly and small lad combed nits out of my hair
• combed nits out of small lad’s hair
• washed dishes
• had a shower
• braided small lad’s hair
• bemoaned my fumble fingers since I can braid my own hair quite well, but his always turns out a mess
• emptied bottles of water into empty containers to make cleaning solution
• thumped an uncalibrated touchscreen (because that really works - the last four weeks of the same uncalibrated touch screen show that, right?)
• put rubber bands on cardboard luggage tags for use with platelets
• moved more bags of blood from one fridge to another
• threw out some platelets that weren’t used
• sat with Coraline playing in the background as I added to this list (I’m saving Corpse Bride and Lego: The Adventures of Clutch Powers for start of day jobs at midnight)

Things I will do on Monday:

• take meat out of the freezer
• remember that we have no carrots
• faceplant into my bed
• sleep
• probably get up to wee
• sleep again
• mumble at small lad when he gets home from school -or- panic that he isn’t home yet and stumble out to the car just as he ambles down the drive
• start to cook dinner, remember we have no carrots and paw through the fridge
• find the pumpkin and wonder if I can make it look like carrots
• cook it all anyway and resist putting on that annoying bright face which small lad just KNOWS means he’ll have to eat something he doesn’t want to
• eat dinner
• wash dishes
• comb nits out of small lad’s hair
• sit still for the combing out of my hair
• have a shower
• sit down to braid small lad’s hair, say bugger it, and do a simple plait instead
• feel guilty as I drive to work for not braiding small lad’s hair
• move bags of blood around
• get irritated that no one bothered to make cleaning solution or refill water bottles for making cleaning solution
• get irritated that no one bothered to check the machine needed anything else either
• get over it
• slather hemp hand cream all over my hands and arms and possibly my legs (the air con, she is verrry drying, yes?)
• try not to touch anything until the hand cream absorbs
• fail miserably and try wiping it off onto my lab gown
• clean the phone, pen, bench top and PC I had to use while hand cream was still at smearing stage
• print out confirmation slips and cut them into smaller pieces to send with blood (I went to uni so I could do this job, it’s a wonder)

Things I will do on Tuesday:

• pretty much the same as Monday, plus carrots, which I’ll remember to buy on the way home
• run very fast as someone tries to lose their blood volume
• curse blood banking and all of its works as I try to fit in an antibody, multiple antibodies and a transfusion reaction with the bleeding patient(s)
• curse this list because I pre-jinxed myself
• be hugely relieved that after this load of shit I go home and don’t do it all again until the following Monday.

Things I will do on Wednesday:

• go to a movie instead of going home and sleeping
• get inspired that I’m out and about, plan a hugely complicated dinner
• mentally slap myself sensible and go for sausages instead
• manage the drive home by grinding my teeth in the car (it feels like nails on chalkboard - not pleasant, but I won’t fall asleep)
• be really annoyed I can’t sing in the car because of illness
• get halfway through putting on a load of washing, run out of steam and sit reading facebook and/or twitter (I’ll regret that tomorrow)
• get a fifteenth wind and clean something
• hate everyone else who uses the something (WHY CAN’T THEY BE TIDIER?)

That’s my week. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Not Even On Hiatus

On Saturday night, we sat down with dinner to awesome tv: The Last Starfighter, Stargate and Dark City. I fell out, as did husbandly and small lad, at Dark City, as it was getting late. I didn’t last two pages into a book.

I thought we had Stargate, at least, on DVD, but it turns out we don’t. (Here’s a shock: our DVD collection is organised alphabetically, it was easy to tell.) But until I checked, there was a frisson of watching a movie on tv that we could watch anytime, but didn’t. As if it was something illicit, a kiss in the dark from an acquaintance. And oddly, as if we were showing it to the Man: we are actually watching, with rapt attention, a show on free-to-air.

Yes, that’s bizarre. Free-to-air is there to be watched, but their behaviour towards their viewers is schizophrenic. They want us to watch, but fail to tell us when something big, something huge, is going to be on. Sherlock springs to mind here - channel 9 didn’t give an air date for months after its release overseas, and never bothered to explain why or why not. When they finally did, it was saturation-bombing advertising, that as a fan, was just infuriating. Did I tune in? Of course I did. And when the next season comes around (please please please please please), I may skip the air dates and simply wait for iTunes.

That disregard for viewers has been building for a while. It seems a rare fish for shows to start at their original air times. Or they’re offset: instead of showing on the hour or the half-hour, it’s three- or seven minutes past. Frustrating if you’re watching a show and a smaller member of the audience has an actual bedtime.

And it’s backfired spectacularly in my case. Castle. I’ve watched Castle since it started, which is a story in and of itself, but with Nathan Fillion on board (and nary a desperate housewife to be seen), never mind the extraneous circumstances.

Fast forward quite a few years (is it season seven this year?) and up until season four, I was as happy as a clam. I used to have it on in the background at work. There are parts of all three seasons I could recite along as I moved bags of blood from one place to another. Then in season 4, channel 7 did something weird with the schedule. They fast-tracked the first half, and left us hanging for the second.

Let me tell you, watching the first half of a season on repeat in anticipation of the second half really kills the buzz. Even one that includes Cuffed, where our heroes end up handcuffed together. With a tiger lurking somewhere. Oh Matron. No second half yet. Okay, I’ll wait. Second half, check, fast tracked fifth season. Eheu.

I try not to make the same mistake with season five, and don’t watch it too many times. But it’s been months, channel 7, and you’re not telling me an air date. Castle is curiously locked down on the internet, or perhaps I don’t look in the right corners, but it’s telling that I looked in the first place. For shows I love, I want to be shown, not told: finding spoilers ruins all the fun. Plus interminable fan arguments about what it all means, dear, are just dull. I also watch Doctor Who, and wowsers, no thanks on the arguments, I’m not one of the writers.

With Castle, it’s a gigantic shame, because I love The Final Frontier (yes, present tense), a wonderful take on all things geeky. All that was missing was Lrrr from Futurama saying wide-eyed “Is Joss Whedon here?”. But so it goes, first half shown, second half, maybe months later. After watching the first half all wide-eyed and ZOMG what happens next? I have to go on with my life without it.

Which I duly do, and second half comes on, I can’t be bothered downloading the shows half the time. Externally to scheduling, I work nights, so tv can be a bit hit-and-miss; I rely on iTunes for downloads. And then my internet fell over and died, so downloading a one-hour show took most of a day. That extra delay distanced me even further, and though I saw the first show of season six, I haven’t bothered anymore.

I may go on with it eventually, but that break has happened, and I don’t think even nifty 3-D printed casts will repair it.

As an aside, channel ten actually pulled out SEASON FINALE for the mid-season break in season two of Elementary. Yes, I really believe that when season one was twenty-three episodes and season two is…thirteen? Puh-lease.

There we are, though, goggle-eyed, watching our fillums last night, and in a quandary. After dinner we all have our showers, wash dishes, et cetera. Sometimes I iron. But we don’t want to now, because awesome movies. Well of course, we fit everything into ad breaks, with one of us calling out when said breaks end. Nice in stereo.

I did have more, and one day I may tell the story of the first episode of Castle, but I want to check my dates first.

Have a lovely, lovely day.

Spread My Dreams Under Your Feet

There were wasps flying outside the garage, in formation, orange and black. The garage and side doors were open and small lad was running down the driveway towards me. I put my hand up to stop him, my voice frozen, circuits jammed. Husbandly was standing behind me. The wasps flew past the open side door, diverted by something outside. Small lad came into the garage to look at what Dad was holding - a friendly duck wrapped in a towel. The duck was happy to be with us, a smile sensed (since ducks can't smile, can they?), nice and warm inside the towel. As I looked at him I saw the wasp-maggots on his feathers. He was a diversion. I turned to look out the side door again and the wall in front of me disappeared; the walls behind me changed to a deep golden cream colour with a white trim, the wasps outside, four, five, six of them flying straight for me. As the walls changed behind me, the wasps veered away, unable to attack in the reflected golden light; husbandly woke me up to offer me a cup of tea.

We have wasp issues. There is a nest somewhere near the bathroom window and every now and then (okay, it's only twice so far), I've found a wasp in the bath after I've cleaned. Bees don't bother me at all, I'll happily stand still if a bee is crawling on me. I've scored plenty of bee stings, particularly when I was a kid and went barefoot just about everywhere. Wasps, ick. For some reason we keep getting nest attempts on the front door as well - quickly killed off but after ten years of it, it's annoying. I've never been stung by a wasp, which is why I'm creeped out by the whole notion of wasps.

Back to the dreaming, I don't always get the wake up call from husbandly or small lad; if I'm deep enough I go back to sleep and barely remember dreams unless they are somehow important.

In another, I was sprawled on the lounge reading a book while small lad was playing in his room with a friend. For some reason my hackles were up - I didn't know who the other child was - when both boys came out of small lad's room. The unknown boy came first and my stomach went cold and creepy; there was something wrong about him being in our house. He had blue eyes and blonde hair and a gorgeous smile; but he wasn't supposed to be here. Then someone knocked on the door four times (the heartbeat of a Time Lord?) and I was relieved. Thank God, that will be the police, I thought, so I opened the door, ready to welcome them in when the words died and my mouth hung open. At the door was a lady with a scarf over her head, wrapped completely around her head so I couldn't see her face, facing away from me and turning slowly in my direction - I woke up, heart pounding, since I don't want to be anybody's blue-eyed girl, Mrs Death.

While I'm freaked out about the door knocking - it was so clear, so concise somehow, even if Death was shorter than me - no, I'm freaked about that dream. I think I know that child from somewhere, so whatever freaky thing I'm processing in that one, it's freaky. Unlike the last time I dreamed knocking on my door, this one has me unsettled. The vivid patterning on the scarf, the slow turn of her face toward me, ponderous and unstoppable, until I woke up.

I'm at work at the minute and it has been a very quiet night (yes! I said the Q word!). I'm too scared to move near the stock fridge since it keeps hitting 5.5 degrees and therefore setting off nearly every alarm in the place. Or rather, two alarms, and nowhere near as loud as the oxygen depletion alarm from the BMT lab (that's a horror).

I've had a very full five days off. There was housework. There was shopping for birthday presents. There was an appointment with a hairdresser. There was a christening and birthday party. There was more shopping, this time at Ikea. There was building of furniture. Okay I'm going to stop this half-arsed list.

I went home and crashed out completely last Wednesday, having had the wasp dream on Sunday and meaning to put it in here. Ha! After spending Saturday night reading a book, Sunday through to Wednesday morning was amazingly busy. If it wasn't a bleeding patient, it was an antibody, or just volume of work. Come to think of it, the only thing I didn't have was a transfusion reaction.

So! On Wednesday morning I crawl into my bed, thinking of nothing more than picking up small lad from school, then coming straight home to catch some more z's; oops, I'd forgotten his haircut appointment. I manage to stagger around for the afternoon. I think I made it to about seven in the evening and out like a light. I slept until about two, then surprisingly (surprising to me anyway) went back to sleep until six. Oh bliss.

On Thursday there was housework. Enough said. Small lad and I went to get some veggies for dinner after school and, standing in the "food court" (no it isn't), I talked myself into a hair appointment for Friday, because this going to work and coming home and going to work and coming home is getting a bit dull. With some trepidation, because I have never come out of a hairdressers utterly pleased with my haircut. Until last Friday. Talk about awesome. Three hours later, I have a marvellous colour (not blue, maybe next time) and when we got to the end (because I did so much, sitting there, watching everyone else's haircuts, reading my book and blissed out on the head massage), R. (the BEST hairdresser in the WORLD) says "I could straighten it out, or I could do...what I want to do, and give it some body." "Go on," I say, "I'll let you." Am I glad I did? Or rather, he did? You couldn't have wiped the smile off my face with a sandblaster. Or a grinder. What an awful mental image that is. Particularly compared to how wonderful my hair looked. It still does. Although it's not quite so fancy, I find I'm wearing it out rather than tied back and hidden away. Marvellous.

I was so excited by the Amazing Impromptu Haircut, I had to ring an old friend and burble at her about how truly wondrous it was; which was nice for me, but not much chop for her since she was at work and I could hear people wanting to talk to her in the background, but oh well.

For some reason I thought I was shopping some more on Saturday what with the birthday presents and the christening thing (supposedly) on Sunday. Oops again, because all of that was on Saturday, so emergency shopping and run around later we're all enjoying the splashing of Holy Water (well I might find it a hoot, Catholics may differ and I probably have to avoid any of those people if they read this blog) then on to a two-year old's party (the sister of the christen-ee). Small lad had the joys of trampolining, husbandly reconnected with some seldom-seen friends and I did the helping out, the sitting around chatting, the running after kids. The latter might have been a mistake since I wound up under a pile of kids on the trampoline; it did give a couple of adults a chance to have a lend when they told me I had to get back in as minder. Har dee har har.

Again I have the good intentions and intend to start on the blog entry because the wasp-maggot-duck has caught my imagination, but I crash out again Saturday night, waking up again at two. That night I didn't go back to sleep, but read a book instead (Deep Water, Pamela Freeman, book two in the Castings Trilogy, very good).

Confronted with a now-empty Sunday, instead of a day of family fun, I decide to betake myself off to Ikea. Again. I seem to do that a lot. I spent an hour fiddling with the kitchen planning software and harassing the Ikea "coworker". I'd already picked out the furniture I wanted from the net, only to reverse myself midstream and get completely different furniture. And a soap dish. Coming home at midday, I spent the rest of the afternoon building furniture and emptying the fucking ugly hand-me-down-glad-we-had-something-but-yuck-how-awful we've been putting up with for fourteen years. I can finally open my wardrobe door fully without having it clunk against the bedside. Downer note (to wit: fucking ugly etc.) aside, it does look much nicer than it did.

Once again, I opened my fat mouth and fell in while at Ikea. A lady asked the Ikea coworker (*snort* going to run that into the ground? You bet) about parts missing, and muggins here pipes up with "not ever happened". Guess what I found when I got home. Go on, guess. Not only a couple of screws, but an entire side panel of a storage box missing. Bahahaha. The universe loves me. My first thought was "I hope that lady doesn't have any missing parts," before fixing it up. Ikea will post it so no dramas there.

Much nicer five days off than I've had since I started this noo improoved job. Today (meaning Monday, although it is Tuesday morning), I got it into my head to iron clothes. While I'm happy I only have some odd socks left to match, it probably wasn't the brightest choice given it's four in the morning and I need some toothpicks or matchsticks for my eyelids. Because then of course I did the floors. Colour me silly.

Today (meaning Tuesday, since I'm looking forward now and it is, indeed, Tuesday morning) I plan to crash out again so I'm on form to cook something nice for dinner. Or possibly some washing, because we just can't have enough of that in our house.

Are dreams better than newspaper to wipe the mud off your feet? Not really, ephemera leave smears.

Just Buy a Bucket

Feeling slightly better? Me too.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm sitting in front of the greater mac (ahem, Greater Mac) rather than using the iPad. It feels a little strange. I've been behind on my facebook games and the number of game requests from friends was starting to scare me. I thought I should do something about that.

Today's plan, aside from fitting in some sleep, is the deathless boredom of housework. And posting some book mooches. I can foresee a great deal of popularity for me here - I post overseas. Whoopee! I only hope, since a couple of the books on my wishlist were only ever published in the US, that I find a like-minded moocher.

Husbandly took off this morning with a burgeoning lurgy - yes, he scored it too. Bummer, dude. Small lad took off with a hand-drawn life cycle of a chicken and a thirty-second speech. Life cycle is a small misnomer - it's more an urn-shaped birth-to-death sort of thing. No chicken-or-the-egg conundrums for my son, no sir. The egg hatches, the chicken lives and that's all he wrote.

Tonight I have the joys of working and reorganising the stock fridge, because moving bags of blood from one place to another is a passion of mine. I was going to launch into a sarcastic paean of praise, but I just can't be bothered.

It stems from a chat with a near stranger, who asked if I liked the trots (as in harness racing, not diarrhea); when I said not really, know nothing about it to be honest, he replied with "It's a passion of mine" and then bored me rigid about it for the next five minutes. Then he asked about something else - what it was is lost in the tedium brain-death, sorry - and then said "Another passion of mine" and went on again. I know very clever people are very involved with their interests, but that doesn't mean I need the OCD discussion from a near stranger. Just go away.

Which makes me laugh (at myself), because if there's one thing I have, it's a gob. I can go on for days if you let me - but generally if I see the foot shuffle start I try to break off and set you free, or steer the conversation into something you might like.

Not that I have very many conversations these days. I work alone.

The Lego castle was a great success, the book shopping less so. Although I did find a choose-your-own-adventure clone for small lad. Now I have to wrestle him into reading it. We also had beverages - real coffee for me and hot chocolate for small lad. It's a hard life.

It's 9:23 in the neighbourhood and those sheets aren't going to change themselves. Let me find my motivation and I'll be right with that.

Similar to a mother's womb? Last time I checked my uterus was not a hard plastic shell, nifty bottom parts or not. And what, we should put the baby back now? What for? You can't play with your rubber ducks and plastic boats and squirty empty shampoo bottles in a bucket! And really, I mean really, even upmarket washing a baby in a bucket is still washing a baby in a bucket. More risk of throwing he or she out with the bathwater, too.

Frog Takes On Lawnmower

I have an urge to run and hide this morning. I have lovely coffee-spill decoration drops down the front of my shirt. It might have been better if I'd kept to my old bad habits of wearing a lab gown everywhere, but no, I try to stay gown free on the eating and the drinking. I try to stay gown-free most of the night anyway, because the petticoats just get in the way and pants are just so practical.

I blame the shirt. It's one that has mysterious stains. (Food-related mysterious stains, not- oh never mind). I wash and scrub, until my washing machine starts chugging, iron the shirt and fail to notice the mark right between the boobies. I'm hardly likely to scrub until my fingers bleed, I don't have a washboard and I'm too big a girl for that sort of thing.

Despite appearances to the contrary, I haven't been at the alcohol swabs, unless someone wants to make me an offer.

Yesterday morning (which is still this morning to me, welcome to the disorientation of twelve-hour night shifts) I took forty minutes longer to get home than I should have. Because to wanted to...SING! So I did. Forty minutes of singing at the top of my lungs, with a wind down listening to Vivaldi. Great way to relax. Tell your friends.

Unfortunately tonight/{this} morning my voice is heading towards crackville (not Crackville, in California; only drug addicts go there). I may have the small lad's lurgy, but before the hypochondria sets in, I'll assume it's overdoing the singing.

I have the attention span of an ADD squirrel. Or a dog distracted by a squirrel while trying to get it to fetch the stick, boy, go on! It's a problem and not one to explore at four in the morning, unless I really have been at the alcohol swabs (or much more likely alcoholic facsimile from a pretty glass bottle in a special shot glass); small bananas compared to solving all of the world's problems (this should only ever be undertaken while mellow and under the influence). Two o'clock is the best time really, particularly if beer has been consumed, but let's make do.

Or we could all be kind to each other, all the time, or most thereof, but apparently not.

Oh, terrific mood, thy name is me. I had a phone call earlier, the kind where I hung up the phone and said, "And when you've finished being unpleasant, perhaps we could get on with it." Because everyone else "just does it" (no they don't), and I wouldn't. Blood Bank! Mad with power! Arbitrary rules just to shit you! Yes, you in particular! Patient safety doesn't enter into it!

So much for leaving work at work. No, wait, I am at work, so that's all right.

SQUIRREL!

As much as I like the movie Up!, the dead squirrel joke isn't much chop for very literal little people (like alliteration? Me too!). "It is funny because the squirrel is dead." and it is, for the grownups; mystifying for littlies.

For anyone who hasn't seen the movie, skip the squirrel, dog and random exclamations. If you want.

If you don't, go watch it. It's a great movie though strangley not as beautiful as Wall-E. Back to Up!, the only part that puzzles me is the bad guy. In the commentary it was said that the writers tried not to make the bad guy intrinsically evil. The odd part is the bad guy takes the prize in the Pixar universe for "Most Evil (and Believable) Villain". He's adult, ugly and twisted, and creation of talking dogs (!!!) notwithstanding, one of the most reprehensible characters in a kid's movie.

The other bone I have to pick with Up!, and since I've started I may as well, is the talking dogs. Talking dogs! Really! I want one! I want all of the dogs I have ever owned to be talking dogs! Every dog person who saw the movie (especially the lines "Can we keep him?" "No." "But he's a TALKING DOG!!" and the very well-animated Kevin's body language on the "TALKING DOG!!") wants one! Sometimes when I'm not thinking about anything, I think about how much I want a talking dog! Ever since watching this movie! Do something about that, would you?

I wish I were a rich man, ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum, all day long I'd sit on my bum, if I were a wealthy man.

Then again, I'm not sure I want to commit to the sex change.

Today is my birthday. Thank you for all the good wishes. I have no plans to do anything. Other than the ironing, I'm catching up. Finally I have myself slightly organised, while outside my windows zombies smear icky things and mumble about brains. They don't want mine, apparently it induces fits. I'll be safe come the end of the world then.

I meant to be serious there, not quite sure what happened. Just think, you too could be this mental...just...errr...maybe not. I was going to blame something, but it's much more fun to assume I'm a nutbag. Better than being a peanut (as in size of brain equals, for those who don't geddit, geddit?).

Lawnmowers: one. Frogs: a blood-smeared and speckled zero.

Morphometric Cartoon Characters

At the moment I'm reading The Wayfinders Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World by Wade Davis. Very long-winded title, but appropriate since it's a lecture series, really, rather than a book. Very interesting. I just finished The Stars My Destination (yes, okay also known as Tiger! Tiger!) by Alfred Bester ("...for tin crumbles to dust in the absolute zero of space."), one of my favourite novels for the moment.

At the back of my copy is a little blurb from Neil Gaiman (is it just me or does he turn up everywhere?); apparently Alfie Bester bequeathed his estate to his favourite bartender. Who knew? Well, apparently lots of people, but Wikipedia was strangely reticent about the fact. Because I like conspiracy theories, even small ones, I'm going with no-one wanting to mention that he drank. A Lot. Towards the End.

In the way of wiki, that led me on to Babylon 5's Alfred Bester. For some reason, although he's played by Walter Koenig, still recognisably Chekov, the character keeps morphing in my brain into Bilis from Torchwood season 1 (Captain Jack Harkness/End of Days).

The mind is strange. Mine, anyway.

As predicted, I've done less than I hoped to do in the house-clean-keeping stakes, but then, I also made Yorkshire puddings with dinner tonight, so I'm not too bummed. The boys are keeping well. And I predict, since I've come in to work and there were puddings left over, over-fed.

Anything else to report? No not really. I've taken to braiding my hair again. Isn't that a bottom-of-the-barrel mention?

My head is all over (the braid isn't long enough to hold it in place), partly due to my reading habits lately, because nothing messes around with my inner life than compelling science fiction - slideshows of the Spanish Stairs, a space-yacht and the commercial dynasties of the world persisting into the future ad infinitum as a ridiculous upper class - the exhilaration is marvellous, though the spontaneous giggles are off-putting for passersby.

The rest of the slideshows currently running (come visit my head, bring your own popcorn and please be tidy) are intercuts between two short stories that are not written yet. Probably if I did the work instead of thinking about it, things would proceed swimmingly, but again I'm caught in the conundrums of far too much to do half the time, and little motivation for things other than sleep the rest. And the boys have been home. And I'm sure I can think of more excuses if I try only a little. If I try really, really hard, my head might pop.

I normally drink about a litre of water on my shifts these days. The tea room is right next door! There is nice water! There are no comfortable chairs! Count them, zero. Really. No comfortable chairs in a tea room. I'd bring in my own, but it's a bit big to be carting around. It probably doesn't comply with OH&S requirements either. Frankly the thought of doing a risk assessment on a comfy chair doesn't float my boat. It does boggle my mind, however. The Spanish Stairs must be wearing off.

I have no idea where I was going with that. I had to stop and do some work (that is, after all, what they pay me for); marvellous for breaking the concentration.

Anyhoo, as I wasn't saying, I was thinking of doing something postgraduate. I found a couple of master's programs (not the "he knocks four times" Master, but the- oh, you know), that looked pretty interesting. I think it was either Charles Sturt or UNE that had an MA with a non-MA component. I was thinking of doing the "Arts" requirements and then picking up either maths, IT or pathology subjects to fill it out. That would be interesting. Then I looked at the cost. Which didn't bother me, per subject; I could always do the units I wanted without an award at the end. I'm a grownup, I can do whatever I want. Then I saw a disclaimer on one of the websites saying "you must balance the expected career benefits against the cost of this course". Consider me paused. I think I'll just muddle along without, thanks.

Speaking of he knocks four times, back to the science fiction, what the hell was up with those episodes? Flying death's head. Green light things. Ay? Tim Dalton as evil Time Lord, kinda nifty.

No idea where I was going with that either, except the boys are having the Doctor Who Bonanza (all seasons and specials now available in my iTunes library! Go nuts, boys!). Me, not so much, although I did make them sit through "Midnight", my favourite creepy Doctor Who after "Blink".

Much, much later than the above, that will teach me to think it was going to be a really quiet night. You know it's bad when you start growling every time the phone rings. Although people who know me are remembering the number of times I've been caught swearing whenever the phone rings at work. The only thing that mortifies me is that I'm not all that creative in my swearing, generally it's {expletive} off and then I answer the phone. Pick an expletive, I don't always go on about fornication.

Not everything is about sex. Including sex. Apparently.

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.

Talons O'Death At Your Service

Toenails! It's all about toenails.

I've decided I am a very boring person, since I have spent this week doing virtually nothing but reading books, playing the Wii and painting pictures on small canvas squares; school holidays are my kryptonite. I've been off from work for the last two weeks and I'm down to my last day of freedom. I had plans to do a number of things, but the martini drinking got in the way.

At least, at least, the majority of study-related tidying has been done. I have ordered the new Apples. I have fiddled around with some writing (and then realised how out of practice I am...rewrite! rewrite!). I also realised that most people who have seen my new-look study keep referring to it as a home office. Because it looks very different to the rest of the house (it does, black and red and glass versus Tasmanian Oak and blues)? Because a home office is considered the in thing? Because small ferrets only travel clockwise after the full moon?

Speaking of the moon, I was watching one of the Lord of the Rings movies a week ago (or thereabouts...who cares anyway?) and realised the moon was up the right way. For Southern Hemisphere-eans, the moon is always upside down in movies and film.

I have no real plans today, world domination seems like too much effort for a lot of administrative headaches. Since I'm planning on opting out of the administrative headaches department in as many ways as I can, I'll restrict myself to maniacal laughter.

Evil laughter has three discernible spellings from my researches (i.e. laughter spelled out in facebook, twitter and a great RPG called Dink Smallwood):

• bahahahaha
• bwahahahaha
• mwahahahaha

But it only works with three or four ha-ha's at the end, okay? Any more and it looks like you're trying too hard. One ha sounds like "ah-ha!" (Eureka! I have discovered a mess of malcontents with whom I shall form an evil army of robots!); two ha-ha's sound like some do-gooder just shot you in the middle of a triumphant evil laugh, and five ha-ha's (or more) sound like you've been sniffing nitrous.

What scare me most in the world? I sat here evil-laughing quietly to myself for the last five minutes to test out all of those theories about the length of evil laughter in print.

Of course, all of these can work as general laughter as well. For anyone who has played Dink Smallwood, "MWAAHAHAHAHA" is the strict province of the evil.

One day of freedom left. On to coffee!

The Wonders of Sleep

I've had (I'm counting) sixteen hours of sleep. Now that's a Nanna nap. I feel so cheerful!

Broken sleep, of course; I woke up about six yesterday evening to have dinner. I staggered off to bed about six-thirty, read for a little while, out like a light in ten minutes. The next time I looked at a clock it said 10:40. I told myself I didn't have to work tonight and myself went back to sleep. A brief surface at twelve in case I really did have to go to work and had now overslept. I woke up for good at five.

My back is stiff, my eyes are gluggy; I have an entire couple of weeks to work that off, I get to sleep at night and do whatever during the day. With no potential for a phone call on my nights off to ask if I could possibly come in. I say ask with that inflection because it never seems a choice, but perhaps that's the bitter and twisted midnights talking.

Off work and onward! I have a house full of things to do.

Out Of The Loop, Into The Fire

I have more days off than expected (yippee!), having a cancellation on my agenda. I didn't have to climb out of bed this morning at an ungodly hour to pretend to be godly (as in, knowing things about something and passing along said wisdom to others). Friday and Saturday midnight shifts are still on the cards, but after that I'm off on holiday for a whole twelve days.

I feel special.

I'm deranged after all of these midnights, but feel cautiously optimistic and willing to work on other things. I chickened out on Tuesday (bok, bok, bugack!), but will still be there next week armed with various writerly things.

Well that's oblique, but never mind. Onward to dishes and housework. For now.

If my neighbour keeps yelling today I'm over there to kick some arse. So over there.

Sucks Budgies and Personalised Everything

Can't wait for that T-shirt to appear in the mail.

I had a quick squiz over my counters yesterday and discovered that my readership is non-existent.

So it goes.

That means I can come out with even more insanity that usual, doesn't it?

I spent yesterday using my free stuff from vistaprint, since I got a pile of business cards, etc., they decided to offer me a lot for almost nothing. T-shirt, pens, small magnets, post-it notes. Hilarious.

I have a dare from my boss to wear a T-shirt with the Grim Reaper on it. Not much of a dare (or the best kind) since I was going to do it anyway.

Uh-oh, I'm boring myself again. Better go and do some housework.