Isn’t that a Spice Girls song? Or am I getting confused with “Who do you think you are?” Kind of opposite my intended meaning, however had I actually said my post title out loud, I’m sure the receiver would have been quoting the Spice Girls.
Every so often, not too much thankfully (because to say the above would mean I’m in a not-very-good-situation) but I’ve had the feeling of wanting to say something along the lines of that.
In particular in relation to my job, if I’ve felt I was going to get unwelcome, in particular unfair trouble/treatment for whatever reason, I’ve had the strongest inclination to say “Do you know where I work?”
It’s something that naturally comes with working where I work, at a particular ‘influential’ media company, with ‘influential’ media contacts, and lots of other people I work with, have both admitted to thinking/doing the same, and encouraging the same. If you have it, you gotta use it, true?
Although I’m not one to take advantage of, guilt people into, or blackmail others into certain ‘desirable’ outcomes for myself, like I said, only when I felt I was getting inappropriate treatment did this thought cross my mind. Never have I used it.
A couple of weeks ago, something happened, that rather than make me want to say “Do you know where I work?” made me want to say something that only the biggest nose-in-the-air stuck-up celebs would say. I was soooo close.
I’d made my hair cut appointment over a month before the busy/crazy festive month. I’m never this early or organised with my hair, only just getting in before Christmas each year, but this time I was there at the hairdressers for a hair cut in October, and I thought “why not? I’ll be organised.”
So I made it.
Then something/someone broke my windscreen. I don’t know who/what it was, whether it was intentional or not, but one morning I got into my car, and there was a crack in the top right, and it proceeded to get longer and extend to the middle of the window over the next couple of days.
I initially freaked out. I thought the windscreen would shatter and cave in on me at any point in my driving. I was yet to find out that I could drive like that for 3 years (not that I wanted to), and in my freaked out state I had to IMMEDIATELY get it fixed.
The only day the guy could fix it, was a day I felt I already had an appointment. But I made the windscreen appointment anyway.
I called up my hairdresser’s, hoping whoever answered wouldn’t tell me what I already suspected. Yes I’d made the appointment so many months earlier, only I hadn’t been organised enough to write down the date. When I found out that the time of the hair cut coincided with the windscreen getting fixed, well I felt I had to cancel my hair cut appointment – I felt it was a matter of safety.
A bit disappointed, I informed the girl that I had to cancel, and asked her what other times I could see my usual hairdresser.
No times. Not that week or the one other.
I took a deep breath, and asked about getting my hair cut by the owner. He’s cut my hair a few times, and he actually knows me really well. I’ve been going there for so long, and he’s always really polite and friendly to me, and treats me almost like we’re friends. On several occasions he’s even bent over backwards to get me in, because I’m such a loyal customer.
No free times for him either. Not that week or the one other.
And then they were on leave ‘til end of Jan. END OF ‘JAN.
I was quite upset, and mad, but asked to get my name and number down so they could call me if there was a cancellation. Surely there’d be a cancellation.
In the meantime, the windscreen man cancelled on me, 10 minutes late into the time he was meant to come and fix it. I told him not to worry about coming another time, and then screamed the house down when I hung up. I was having a bad week.
At about the same time I got a voicemail message from the hairdresser owner, telling me someone had cancelled. I was really excited calling back, until I realised the date he’d given was actually a date I was already booked with something else. I wasn’t going to cancel my work Christmas party for a haircut, no matter how much my split ends needed to be removed.
I asked to speak to him – it was the same girl who told me there were no bookings available the first time around – and when she asked why, I explained he’d left a message for me. She returned in less than 10 seconds, informing me he’d made a mistake and hadn’t seen the message that I actually couldn’t come in on the day he suggested. I knew that, I just wanted to talk to him and get him to help me! I knew, I felt, that if he actually spoke to me, HE would squeeze me in, because HE knew how important I was. “Do you know who I am? How long I’ve been going there?” I wanted to scream into the phone. But I didn’t scream it. I tried to remain calm.
I was soooo mad. I devised a plan to ‘swing by’ the salon after work the following week, even if they hadn’t called me, just so I could see him ‘in person’ and make a ‘booking’ for the following YEAR.
When I came in, perhaps right near their closing time, I found:
Owner
Woman with child (child appeared to be getting hair cut), &
Said women from phone with her hair in foils.
AHEM. IN FOILS.
So it appeared that two people were working, and only one was paying. They couldn’t fucking get me in, a loyal customer, for a simple haircut, but they could put foils in the hair of a non-paying employee. I was soooo shitty.
Owner seemed to be aware they’d been trying to get me in though. That’s what I found surprising. He asked when I was coming in next, and I said with some bite ‘next year.’ I couldn’t follow through though, and still said a nice goodbye and ‘Merry Christmas’ – but really thinking of the scenario there over and over, I felt they could have treated me better, and at least tried. Considering it was their last week of Christmas trading hours, they didn’t look busy AT ALL.
Maybe owner didn’t know I had previously booked, and had to cancel due to what I temporarily though was a safety emergency – I certainly didn’t tell the girl, but she knew I’d booked months earlier, I told her that much.
Maybe I should have asked to speak to said owner from the start, in order to avoid all these ‘what if’s’ and urgencies to scream “Do you know who I am?” through the phone receiver. Maybe he would have helped me out more. She doesn’t know who I am, after all.
However, it didn’t appear I was anyone, from the moderate, average treatment I got when I walked into the salon unexpectedly that day… from the lack of treatment I received.
I’m booked in with him in late Jan. On the first day they come back. Gosh I hope he comments on my split ends. I intend on making him feel soooooo guilty.
Because clearly he’s forgotten who I am.
Friday, December 28, 2012
The weetbix incident
So after a long time of no blog posting, let’s now bombard Blogger in one day.
Let me now recount, the ‘weetbix’ incident.
I have a certain name, that whilst young, could be teased. Sorry, WILL be teased. Fortunately when I was growing up I didn’t get teased much for it; however, I was really quite tough when it came to that aspect of my personality, as it honestly didn’t faze me. I would say, and still do say “honestly is that the best you can come up with?” These days it rarely comes up, only an extremely immature person would say something funny relating to my name, and I suspect even then people would look at them like ‘you’re so dumb right now.’
In my entire life, I don’t think I’ve been teased as much for my name, as I have been teased for my morning weetbix at work.
Honestly, it must be a male thing. Because only males here do it.
In the short time that I’ve been eating brekkie at work, I have had so many guys being so ridiculously stupid, it’s not funny. I have a large container that I fill with my weetbix, and leave in my locker, so every morning I take out 2 weetbix for my brekkie. 2, that’s all. Not 18, like the amount that is in my container at maximum capacity, but 2.
The container will sometimes be on my work desk, or on the table in the kitchen as I get my breakfast ready, and always some stupid person, even from a supposedly smart mouth, will say this remark “oh ,you’ve got a lot of weetbix.”
“That’s a lot of weetbix.”
“Oh, big breakfast!”
“You do a lot of weetbix!”
They are soooo rapt with themselves for their brilliant/stupid insight. They almost pat themselves on the back. Obviously it’s done as a joke. However, for some reason, it shits me up the wall.
I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s super early when I’m at work, and I need to have my breakfast before I can gain my regular sense of humour. Maybe it’s because men say generally stupid things. Or maybe it’s because it’s so blatantly obvious to me that I only have a few, that I find it absurd that the guys here continue to say the most stupidly insane things. It really annoys me.
It annoyed me to a point of no return a couple of months ago.
I came in to work, and had my container on my work bench before making my way into the kitchen. This guy who works near me walked past, and after we said a polite hello to each other, he proceeded to fuck his morning up with this:
“oh, you have a lot of weetbix.” (hahaha, jibe-smile remark – all this ‘intellectual’ though average-breed male was missing was a fellow caveman to prod in the side as they looked on stupidly at me)
And I proceeded to fuck up MY morning with this:
“(deep breath) I don’t know why everyone says that, it’s obvious that I only have 2 weetbix, really.”
I must mention that I responded quite strongly/vehemently, which resulted in intellectual caveman putting his hands up in front of him in a ‘I back down, don’t bite’ motion, as he stepped backwards slowly.
And then I HAD to add:
“Sorry, you were just the straw that broke my back.”
OMG. Just shut up already Miss S.
I was freaking worried then, and embarrassed after the fact, that I would get some stupid office reputation as being a ‘weetbix stickler’; someone paranoid over/about their breakfast; just a general breakfast-biscuit freak.
This dude, he totally avoided me, FOR AGES. I don’t generally talk to this guy, not only because we don’t exactly, well in any way shape or form really have to talk to each other with our work, but also because he kind of annoys me. I don’t like his sense of humour. It offended me once upon a time, so in my books, he’s out.
He’s just ‘not my type.’
And yet now, I was feeling so bad. Seriously, I think I scarred him. I was thinking of it for ages, and I even wanted to somehow say sorry, without putting more weight on the topic. But really that’s what I would have done had I said something. So I just left it. And left it. And we walked by each other, while he absent-mindedly on purpose pretended he didn’t see me.
We have spoken some words since then. Very few, so I hope he’s gotten over the pain of being verbally attacked by a supposed ‘wallflower’ like me. I don’t think he’ll stir me about my brekkie again. I don’t think he’ll mention weetbix to anyone again, EVER.
I did get a weetbix remark a couple weeks ago, in the kitchen, by another unsuspecting caveman.
He said “oh, you do a lot of weetbix.”
Remembering how I thrashed caveman 1 a while back, I just smiled, not looking at him, and said sarcastically “yeah, I have a 15 a day problem.”
He laughed. Stupid caveman.
Let me now recount, the ‘weetbix’ incident.
I have a certain name, that whilst young, could be teased. Sorry, WILL be teased. Fortunately when I was growing up I didn’t get teased much for it; however, I was really quite tough when it came to that aspect of my personality, as it honestly didn’t faze me. I would say, and still do say “honestly is that the best you can come up with?” These days it rarely comes up, only an extremely immature person would say something funny relating to my name, and I suspect even then people would look at them like ‘you’re so dumb right now.’
In my entire life, I don’t think I’ve been teased as much for my name, as I have been teased for my morning weetbix at work.
Honestly, it must be a male thing. Because only males here do it.
In the short time that I’ve been eating brekkie at work, I have had so many guys being so ridiculously stupid, it’s not funny. I have a large container that I fill with my weetbix, and leave in my locker, so every morning I take out 2 weetbix for my brekkie. 2, that’s all. Not 18, like the amount that is in my container at maximum capacity, but 2.
The container will sometimes be on my work desk, or on the table in the kitchen as I get my breakfast ready, and always some stupid person, even from a supposedly smart mouth, will say this remark “oh ,you’ve got a lot of weetbix.”
“That’s a lot of weetbix.”
“Oh, big breakfast!”
“You do a lot of weetbix!”
They are soooo rapt with themselves for their brilliant/stupid insight. They almost pat themselves on the back. Obviously it’s done as a joke. However, for some reason, it shits me up the wall.
I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s super early when I’m at work, and I need to have my breakfast before I can gain my regular sense of humour. Maybe it’s because men say generally stupid things. Or maybe it’s because it’s so blatantly obvious to me that I only have a few, that I find it absurd that the guys here continue to say the most stupidly insane things. It really annoys me.
It annoyed me to a point of no return a couple of months ago.
I came in to work, and had my container on my work bench before making my way into the kitchen. This guy who works near me walked past, and after we said a polite hello to each other, he proceeded to fuck his morning up with this:
“oh, you have a lot of weetbix.” (hahaha, jibe-smile remark – all this ‘intellectual’ though average-breed male was missing was a fellow caveman to prod in the side as they looked on stupidly at me)
And I proceeded to fuck up MY morning with this:
“(deep breath) I don’t know why everyone says that, it’s obvious that I only have 2 weetbix, really.”
I must mention that I responded quite strongly/vehemently, which resulted in intellectual caveman putting his hands up in front of him in a ‘I back down, don’t bite’ motion, as he stepped backwards slowly.
And then I HAD to add:
“Sorry, you were just the straw that broke my back.”
OMG. Just shut up already Miss S.
I was freaking worried then, and embarrassed after the fact, that I would get some stupid office reputation as being a ‘weetbix stickler’; someone paranoid over/about their breakfast; just a general breakfast-biscuit freak.
This dude, he totally avoided me, FOR AGES. I don’t generally talk to this guy, not only because we don’t exactly, well in any way shape or form really have to talk to each other with our work, but also because he kind of annoys me. I don’t like his sense of humour. It offended me once upon a time, so in my books, he’s out.
He’s just ‘not my type.’
And yet now, I was feeling so bad. Seriously, I think I scarred him. I was thinking of it for ages, and I even wanted to somehow say sorry, without putting more weight on the topic. But really that’s what I would have done had I said something. So I just left it. And left it. And we walked by each other, while he absent-mindedly on purpose pretended he didn’t see me.
We have spoken some words since then. Very few, so I hope he’s gotten over the pain of being verbally attacked by a supposed ‘wallflower’ like me. I don’t think he’ll stir me about my brekkie again. I don’t think he’ll mention weetbix to anyone again, EVER.
I did get a weetbix remark a couple weeks ago, in the kitchen, by another unsuspecting caveman.
He said “oh, you do a lot of weetbix.”
Remembering how I thrashed caveman 1 a while back, I just smiled, not looking at him, and said sarcastically “yeah, I have a 15 a day problem.”
He laughed. Stupid caveman.
Yowza
Wow. So I haven’t written in a LONG time.
I lie. I write heaps, I just haven’t written in here.
I think it’s time for a bit of a catch-up post, don’t ya think?
So life apparently, is getting better. Who am I kidding, it most definitely is. Some things I’m unable to divulge just yet (quite amusing since this is an anonymous blog) but I can say that
a) I won a competition (which helped with the red light camera fine I received)
b) family members who were sick, well are sick, appear to be getting better, and we are very hopeful (fingers crossed) that they will continue getting satisfactory and positive results
c) and in the month leading up to Red’s wedding, it was a massive reunion with all our friends, including Blonde (yes, it appears she gave up on her stubborn stance, in my opinion anyway – listen to her reason for attending “it just worked out with work” LOL)
Following the wedding Hubbie and I went away, and now we’re looking forward to the year of 2013. I’ve never been keen on the number ‘13’ yet it seems life has other things in store for me, wanting to turn my perception of the number into a REALLY good one. Watch this space.
There’s nothing quite like cracking it at someone who you have confused or unresolved feelings about. This happened at Red’s wedding with Blonde. Hubbie was paying her a lot of attention, and hugging her and talking to her, and I was getting peeved because I felt like when I was talking to her, she was being quite flippant about it. This continued for a couple of hours, until I cracked and said in front of her and Hubbie “Blonde has her own friends tonight,” referring to the table she was at.
Now let me get things perfectly clear: I have no issues, no jealousies whatsoever when it comes to Hubbie showing affection to the people I love most: this most particularly includes my sister, Red and Blonde. In fact, it fills my heart with such joy when I see these people getting along with Hubbie so well, that I feel as if my heart might burst. I love it sooooo much, it makes me so happy. But it was the fact that he was giving her attention, and I felt she wasn’t me, that I said the above remark with very much intended and directed malice. No subtlety there.
And, I’m one of those ‘nice’ people. I hate the word, but it’s the only way to explain. You know those people who never crack it? Well I do crack it, however quietly, and not directly at people. So if in the rare circumstance I have a go at someone, a close friend who knows me so well, I suspect a part of them cries internally.
I don’t mean to brag, but it’s just how it is, and I saw it in Blonde’s face and how it changed so much when I said it. Hubbie went “ooooh,” and I danced away, as you do at a wedding, but with my insides raging.
I later felt the true meaning of guilt and foot-in-the-mouth syndrome when I spoke to a close friend of Blonde’s. In talking about how we need to catch up, she mentioned how she had said to Blonde “I hope Miss S isn’t upset how I haven’t made an effort, I’ve been so busy,” to which she told me Blonde replied with “no, Miss S is so sweet she can’t get upset.”
Insert massively uncomfortable rock in centre of stomach.
I felt so bad. Blonde perhaps had her own issues that day; she was back in the country, having to deal with family issues even as she was at the wedding, and maybe was feeling a little envious that I was such a huge part of the bridal party, and she wasn’t. Maybe she had her own things going on.
I went to visit her at one stage at her table, and kind of, not really casually, but in a way so as not to get too deep into it, I said “I’m sorry about before, what I said, just forget it.”
She went “why? What happened? Why were you upset?”
I tried to brush it off, saying something like “don’t worry.” I was too ashamed to go through the real reasons; I felt too selfish to say ‘I feel like you don’t care about me’ when she had so much going on. Her behaviour following that was immaculate. Not to say you should crack it at your friends just to get them to pay attention to you, but she proved to me how much she does care, with remarks like “and this was here at your wedding, and I remember this, and that” etc and etc. She remembered things I didn’t. I felt touched, yet so bad for what I’d abruptly said.
She continues to send me messages from overseas, with things like “I bought you this. One for me, my sister and you.”
I see what you’re doing Blonde. I see.
My writing project has temporarily stalled. My first writing project. Intentionally I might add, which makes it acceptable I think. I’ve decided it’s inappropriate sending out a synopsis with chapters and all the bits and bobs to market the book, to prospective agents when it’s the yuletide/holiday season. So I’ve deliberately put it on hold until after Christmas, (which is now) but I’ve given myself the deadline of about 2-3 weeks into Jan by which to have it sent by, to the initial agent who showed interest if I reduced the word count.
Oh that. Yeah I didn’t get to reduce it by much. (very little, shh) But I figure she can’t tell that from the first 3 chapters.
Oh, and I still drink coffee. Like now. Hence my randomly impromptu post. I’m out.
I lie. I write heaps, I just haven’t written in here.
I think it’s time for a bit of a catch-up post, don’t ya think?
So life apparently, is getting better. Who am I kidding, it most definitely is. Some things I’m unable to divulge just yet (quite amusing since this is an anonymous blog) but I can say that
a) I won a competition (which helped with the red light camera fine I received)
b) family members who were sick, well are sick, appear to be getting better, and we are very hopeful (fingers crossed) that they will continue getting satisfactory and positive results
c) and in the month leading up to Red’s wedding, it was a massive reunion with all our friends, including Blonde (yes, it appears she gave up on her stubborn stance, in my opinion anyway – listen to her reason for attending “it just worked out with work” LOL)
Following the wedding Hubbie and I went away, and now we’re looking forward to the year of 2013. I’ve never been keen on the number ‘13’ yet it seems life has other things in store for me, wanting to turn my perception of the number into a REALLY good one. Watch this space.
There’s nothing quite like cracking it at someone who you have confused or unresolved feelings about. This happened at Red’s wedding with Blonde. Hubbie was paying her a lot of attention, and hugging her and talking to her, and I was getting peeved because I felt like when I was talking to her, she was being quite flippant about it. This continued for a couple of hours, until I cracked and said in front of her and Hubbie “Blonde has her own friends tonight,” referring to the table she was at.
Now let me get things perfectly clear: I have no issues, no jealousies whatsoever when it comes to Hubbie showing affection to the people I love most: this most particularly includes my sister, Red and Blonde. In fact, it fills my heart with such joy when I see these people getting along with Hubbie so well, that I feel as if my heart might burst. I love it sooooo much, it makes me so happy. But it was the fact that he was giving her attention, and I felt she wasn’t me, that I said the above remark with very much intended and directed malice. No subtlety there.
And, I’m one of those ‘nice’ people. I hate the word, but it’s the only way to explain. You know those people who never crack it? Well I do crack it, however quietly, and not directly at people. So if in the rare circumstance I have a go at someone, a close friend who knows me so well, I suspect a part of them cries internally.
I don’t mean to brag, but it’s just how it is, and I saw it in Blonde’s face and how it changed so much when I said it. Hubbie went “ooooh,” and I danced away, as you do at a wedding, but with my insides raging.
I later felt the true meaning of guilt and foot-in-the-mouth syndrome when I spoke to a close friend of Blonde’s. In talking about how we need to catch up, she mentioned how she had said to Blonde “I hope Miss S isn’t upset how I haven’t made an effort, I’ve been so busy,” to which she told me Blonde replied with “no, Miss S is so sweet she can’t get upset.”
Insert massively uncomfortable rock in centre of stomach.
I felt so bad. Blonde perhaps had her own issues that day; she was back in the country, having to deal with family issues even as she was at the wedding, and maybe was feeling a little envious that I was such a huge part of the bridal party, and she wasn’t. Maybe she had her own things going on.
I went to visit her at one stage at her table, and kind of, not really casually, but in a way so as not to get too deep into it, I said “I’m sorry about before, what I said, just forget it.”
She went “why? What happened? Why were you upset?”
I tried to brush it off, saying something like “don’t worry.” I was too ashamed to go through the real reasons; I felt too selfish to say ‘I feel like you don’t care about me’ when she had so much going on. Her behaviour following that was immaculate. Not to say you should crack it at your friends just to get them to pay attention to you, but she proved to me how much she does care, with remarks like “and this was here at your wedding, and I remember this, and that” etc and etc. She remembered things I didn’t. I felt touched, yet so bad for what I’d abruptly said.
She continues to send me messages from overseas, with things like “I bought you this. One for me, my sister and you.”
I see what you’re doing Blonde. I see.
My writing project has temporarily stalled. My first writing project. Intentionally I might add, which makes it acceptable I think. I’ve decided it’s inappropriate sending out a synopsis with chapters and all the bits and bobs to market the book, to prospective agents when it’s the yuletide/holiday season. So I’ve deliberately put it on hold until after Christmas, (which is now) but I’ve given myself the deadline of about 2-3 weeks into Jan by which to have it sent by, to the initial agent who showed interest if I reduced the word count.
Oh that. Yeah I didn’t get to reduce it by much. (very little, shh) But I figure she can’t tell that from the first 3 chapters.
Oh, and I still drink coffee. Like now. Hence my randomly impromptu post. I’m out.
Friday, October 26, 2012
I ran over a mattress
There is no lie, no exaggeration to the above statement. True story. Just another one of the random things I do.
This actually happened to me last week. I do fairly early morning work shifts, and need to get up at an unfathomable time in order to get to work. The unfathomable-ness is made even more so by the fact that rather than sleep in an extra 20-30 minutes and get to work right on time, I actually need to leave the house earlier than I have to, just to get parking. That’s just shithouse.
Because of the insane hour I’m driving at, needless to say I’m still a little sleepy when I get in the car; not dangerously so, of course, but even after washing my face, brushing my teeth and getting dressed, I’m still in a bit of a haze, with sleepy-land trailing slowly behind me.
And because it is so dark, well… there is not much on the road near my house, except for some other random poor soul in their car that also has to get up at an insane hour to get to work. Because not much happens, and it is relatively still and quiet at that time of the early morning, I was quite hazily staring into the far horizon of darkness as I drove down my street last week, not aware of what was coming up in front of me…
It was only when it came within a couple of metres of my impending headlights, that I noticed an unexpected white line. My immediate thought was “oh God, I’m going to hit something” but it was so close and I was travelling about 50 kms/h that it was too late to not hit it. As I reached it, braking, I realised what it was. However the brake stopped me just as I drove over it, and I was there, fully stopped, my car sitting on a freaking whole mattress in the middle of the road.
What made it worse was that a car had come out from a side street up ahead, and having seen me approach had to stop to give way. Only they stopped to watch me stop on a freaking mattress. How embarrassment. I had nothing else to do and accelerated hard, hoping to get off the mattress and away from the stupid situation as fast as I could.
I angrily called Hubbie as I sped away (emergency call it was). I wanted to warn him of the mattress so that he wouldn’t run over it on his way to work 30 minutes later. Huh. Like he would. As I told him he was like “you ran over a mattress? How come you didn’t see it?” As I angrily explained that it was dark and how it apparently had risen from the ground appearing out of nowhere, I could hear him smiling. Men.
Every time Hubbie sees a mattress now, he laughs.
This actually happened to me last week. I do fairly early morning work shifts, and need to get up at an unfathomable time in order to get to work. The unfathomable-ness is made even more so by the fact that rather than sleep in an extra 20-30 minutes and get to work right on time, I actually need to leave the house earlier than I have to, just to get parking. That’s just shithouse.
Because of the insane hour I’m driving at, needless to say I’m still a little sleepy when I get in the car; not dangerously so, of course, but even after washing my face, brushing my teeth and getting dressed, I’m still in a bit of a haze, with sleepy-land trailing slowly behind me.
And because it is so dark, well… there is not much on the road near my house, except for some other random poor soul in their car that also has to get up at an insane hour to get to work. Because not much happens, and it is relatively still and quiet at that time of the early morning, I was quite hazily staring into the far horizon of darkness as I drove down my street last week, not aware of what was coming up in front of me…
It was only when it came within a couple of metres of my impending headlights, that I noticed an unexpected white line. My immediate thought was “oh God, I’m going to hit something” but it was so close and I was travelling about 50 kms/h that it was too late to not hit it. As I reached it, braking, I realised what it was. However the brake stopped me just as I drove over it, and I was there, fully stopped, my car sitting on a freaking whole mattress in the middle of the road.
What made it worse was that a car had come out from a side street up ahead, and having seen me approach had to stop to give way. Only they stopped to watch me stop on a freaking mattress. How embarrassment. I had nothing else to do and accelerated hard, hoping to get off the mattress and away from the stupid situation as fast as I could.
I angrily called Hubbie as I sped away (emergency call it was). I wanted to warn him of the mattress so that he wouldn’t run over it on his way to work 30 minutes later. Huh. Like he would. As I told him he was like “you ran over a mattress? How come you didn’t see it?” As I angrily explained that it was dark and how it apparently had risen from the ground appearing out of nowhere, I could hear him smiling. Men.
Every time Hubbie sees a mattress now, he laughs.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Red Gerberas
Yesterday I went to the place where Jill was last seen. Walking past the church which had become a makeshift shrine for her... past the bridal shop where the influential CCTV footage had been taken of her attacker... walking past Hope street... it made me shiver. Still does.
I had to buy her flowers. After I did my jobs on Sydney Road, I went up to a shop I had driven by on my way there. The thought had been in my mind as I drove towards the area: "What colour flowers?" I don't know why it was but the thought kind of lingered in my mind, and yet there was no real question, no real hesitation in the colour that I had already chosen before the question even existed in my mind.
I reached the shop and at the front saw a small bouquet of bright red.
The image of her on all the posters we've been seeing - on the news, street poles, online - smiling with her mass of dark hair waving behind her, punctuated by her dark red lipstick, is so fresh in my mind.
However red can be a cruel colour. On the flip side, it means rage; anger; fury.
For me though, red stands for everything that is powerful, for all that is great. It means passion, desire, strength and love. It stands for old-fashioned virtues, and everything that is bold and new in this world.
The red I bought is a reminder to her, her family, and to everyone out there: the fury may have momentarily taken a beautiful woman from this world; however the love and light of the community, the city, and the world, will always win out over the scum.
The passion of red will always endure. No one can take that away.
I had to buy her flowers. After I did my jobs on Sydney Road, I went up to a shop I had driven by on my way there. The thought had been in my mind as I drove towards the area: "What colour flowers?" I don't know why it was but the thought kind of lingered in my mind, and yet there was no real question, no real hesitation in the colour that I had already chosen before the question even existed in my mind.
I reached the shop and at the front saw a small bouquet of bright red.
The image of her on all the posters we've been seeing - on the news, street poles, online - smiling with her mass of dark hair waving behind her, punctuated by her dark red lipstick, is so fresh in my mind.
However red can be a cruel colour. On the flip side, it means rage; anger; fury.
For me though, red stands for everything that is powerful, for all that is great. It means passion, desire, strength and love. It stands for old-fashioned virtues, and everything that is bold and new in this world.
The red I bought is a reminder to her, her family, and to everyone out there: the fury may have momentarily taken a beautiful woman from this world; however the love and light of the community, the city, and the world, will always win out over the scum.
The passion of red will always endure. No one can take that away.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
My Blonde Continuation
That sounds like it should be a title in the Bourne series.
I was going to use the word conclusion, but then I realised when it comes to this girl, nothing she does, no motive, no event, is really ever going to be final or conclusive. Just as our friendship.
Boy was my dream right. The hole in her top from being shot at, represents the shots being fired at her in real life. Her sister didn’t tell me this when I asked about Blonde, because she too is involved in the family turmoil that is clouding them all.
Without getting into detail, shit has happened, life changes and choices abound, and she feels like a little lost puppy, with many places to go, but with no real home.
I’m feeling quite torn and confused after our almost 2 hour Skype chat. I feel deeply sorry for her, and I even shed some tears of my own about my life in amongst her tear-stained face. We were a couple of massive sooks on a sunny Tuesday afternoon.
And, although my question of why she hasn’t made contact with me in ages has sort of been answered, in another way it kind of hasn’t. Although she said she tends to bottle things up, she mentioned how she’s been speaking to another close friend of hers, and I couldn’t help thinking ‘who contacted who?’ It’s very likely that the ‘other’ friend contacted Blonde, but I’m kind of wondering, festering slowly over the annoying chance that Blonde went to her… and then I must ask – why didn’t she come to me?
I know it’s a lot of ‘what ifs?’ but there’s the other annoying thing, the part where she didn’t mention, or take note ofthe fact that I was quite worried about her these last few months. Either she is oblivious to it, or doesn’t care that I was looking for her. I know she’s had a lot on, I get it; however I had this really overwhelming emotion come over me when we were talking, and I thought to myself ‘I’ve been listening to everyone this year, from their happiness, to mostly their crap and problems and issues with life, and now it’s time for me. What about me?’
What about me. That has been circling my head for a couple of days now. I need someone to listen to me as well. I need someone to care. I need someone to ask if I’m doing alright. I’m a person with real needs and emotions too.
The day after our Skype chat I noticed she had sent me an email which I hadn’t seen at the time. She said she was going to bed. Having not seen this, I’d logged onto Skype and she had told me she’d get out of bed when I messaged her. I just thought she was resting there… that shit me too. Here we are, we haven’t spoken in yonks, I’m worried about her, and she can’t stay up for a bit to talk to her ‘close’ friend? I can’t say bestie anymore…
I know she cares… but I just have to wonder. I wonder if I’ve invested more into this friendship than she has, and I feel that is apparent from her failure to acknowledge my concern, in her absence of reaching out to me in her hard time, and in the fact that she was still crying over Red. That makes me sad too; but I’m here. There is someone who cares. I don’t know if she’s seeing that, or if I’m looking into things too much.
I can’t talk to her for a while now. As hard as it is, and as much as I wanted her to know I'm thinking of her, I need to distance at this point in time. As much as I learnt the other day, I feel like I know that much less about our friendship. And the not-knowing hurts.
I was going to use the word conclusion, but then I realised when it comes to this girl, nothing she does, no motive, no event, is really ever going to be final or conclusive. Just as our friendship.
Boy was my dream right. The hole in her top from being shot at, represents the shots being fired at her in real life. Her sister didn’t tell me this when I asked about Blonde, because she too is involved in the family turmoil that is clouding them all.
Without getting into detail, shit has happened, life changes and choices abound, and she feels like a little lost puppy, with many places to go, but with no real home.
I’m feeling quite torn and confused after our almost 2 hour Skype chat. I feel deeply sorry for her, and I even shed some tears of my own about my life in amongst her tear-stained face. We were a couple of massive sooks on a sunny Tuesday afternoon.
And, although my question of why she hasn’t made contact with me in ages has sort of been answered, in another way it kind of hasn’t. Although she said she tends to bottle things up, she mentioned how she’s been speaking to another close friend of hers, and I couldn’t help thinking ‘who contacted who?’ It’s very likely that the ‘other’ friend contacted Blonde, but I’m kind of wondering, festering slowly over the annoying chance that Blonde went to her… and then I must ask – why didn’t she come to me?
I know it’s a lot of ‘what ifs?’ but there’s the other annoying thing, the part where she didn’t mention, or take note ofthe fact that I was quite worried about her these last few months. Either she is oblivious to it, or doesn’t care that I was looking for her. I know she’s had a lot on, I get it; however I had this really overwhelming emotion come over me when we were talking, and I thought to myself ‘I’ve been listening to everyone this year, from their happiness, to mostly their crap and problems and issues with life, and now it’s time for me. What about me?’
What about me. That has been circling my head for a couple of days now. I need someone to listen to me as well. I need someone to care. I need someone to ask if I’m doing alright. I’m a person with real needs and emotions too.
The day after our Skype chat I noticed she had sent me an email which I hadn’t seen at the time. She said she was going to bed. Having not seen this, I’d logged onto Skype and she had told me she’d get out of bed when I messaged her. I just thought she was resting there… that shit me too. Here we are, we haven’t spoken in yonks, I’m worried about her, and she can’t stay up for a bit to talk to her ‘close’ friend? I can’t say bestie anymore…
I know she cares… but I just have to wonder. I wonder if I’ve invested more into this friendship than she has, and I feel that is apparent from her failure to acknowledge my concern, in her absence of reaching out to me in her hard time, and in the fact that she was still crying over Red. That makes me sad too; but I’m here. There is someone who cares. I don’t know if she’s seeing that, or if I’m looking into things too much.
I can’t talk to her for a while now. As hard as it is, and as much as I wanted her to know I'm thinking of her, I need to distance at this point in time. As much as I learnt the other day, I feel like I know that much less about our friendship. And the not-knowing hurts.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
My Daily Horoscope
Today reads:
The creative impulse in you should be high today, Miss S., and you might decide to try your hand at writing. You may have a particular subject in mind to write about.
Um, do you know me? This is me, EVERYDAY.
You could also take a class in a subject that interests you, or actually do a little research on your own. You might even consider some long-distance travel for the purpose of learning as much as for pleasure.
I travel for both, thanks. And do you have the tickets for me while you’re there?
The sky’s the limit. Go for it!
Thanks! I will!
The creative impulse in you should be high today, Miss S., and you might decide to try your hand at writing. You may have a particular subject in mind to write about.
Um, do you know me? This is me, EVERYDAY.
You could also take a class in a subject that interests you, or actually do a little research on your own. You might even consider some long-distance travel for the purpose of learning as much as for pleasure.
I travel for both, thanks. And do you have the tickets for me while you’re there?
The sky’s the limit. Go for it!
Thanks! I will!
Red vs. Blonde
I am currently on par with tones of burgundy in my hair, and in my late teen years there was always some streak of blonde, or multiple streaks of platinum running through my locks to make it fair.
This however, is not a post about hair colour. Rather it has to do with two of my closest buddies.
Red.
Blonde.
I love them both dearly. Red, I have known almost all my life. Even when we weren’t best friends before our high school days, we knew each other and even hung out for a short period of time in primary school. Friends for over 20 years, besties for about 15. That’s an impressive stat.
Blonde I’ve known for a bit less. Her I’ve known for 13 years, since high school, but it was in our post high school years that we grew even closer. I guess I’d say she’s been my ‘other’ bestie for about 7 years. Still a good feat.
I never say Blonde’s my bestie in front of Red. Nor do I say it about Red, in front of Blonde, though Blonde has heard it plenty out of Red’s mouth. The furthest I’ve gone, to speak about the other to the one I’m with, is to say “my closest friends.” But I’ve never said ‘best.’
Up until maybe a year ago, and especially in our early 20s, when Blonde was still living in the country, we were VERY VERY tight. The three of us. It was a constant ball. I always felt I was a good blend of the two. Red is more conservative in some respects, and I mean that only in the sense of not being so rude, not so out there with the sexual innuendos. No swearing, she’s good and kind and sweet to all people. She’ll bend over backwards for you, and is always smiling, always positive, cheerful and good-natured.
This is not to say she is boring or uninteresting in anyway, as most people think with ‘nice’ people (strike that – I hate the word ‘nice’). We’ve had the biggest laughs together Red and I. We share the same goofy, silly humour, generally the same taste in music, and have the same zest for life, constantly inspiring and motivating each other to reach higher, to achieve our wildest most unimaginable dreams. Because we know they’re not unimaginable. We know we can make them come true.
Blonde on the other hand, is quite… crazy. She has a very addictive personality: people just want to be around her. She is refreshing, in that she says whatever she’s thinking, does things without inhibition, and talks and talks until the cows come home. I have the utmost respect for her, because unlike ‘other’ motor-mouths who fail to realise that other people exist in their presence, when I speak, Blonde stops, and listens. She REALLY listens.
Blonde can sometimes be forgetful. She’ll forget your birthday; she’ll say she’s coming over, but then call 2 hours later and say, ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry (because she can see through her sensory x-ray long-distance vision that I’m turning purple) but I’m coming now!’ And because of her happy-go-lucky persona, you always forgive her.
I like being a combo of the two of them, and that probably shows why I get along so well with them both. I think I’m sweet and kind like Red, willing to do a lot for my closest friends and family; yet like Blonde, I can be a bit rude, be a bit rash when the moment permits. I have a healthy dose of her wild side, yet a substantial portion of Red’s considerate-ness at the same time. Thoughtful yet crazy, I think.
They’re kind of the two extremes, yet we ALWAYS got along. Got along. One of my favourite memories, proof of how I’m a bit of both personalities, was when we went shopping together a while back, and Red upon looking at a kind of see-through top to try on, asked the shop assistant “do you have a singlet so I can put it on under this?” The guy started to look around, upon which Blonde jokingly said “no Red, you try it on like that so we see your boobs,” quite loudly, so the shop assistant could hear (he was gay by the way). As Blonde laughed out loud, and I giggled compulsively, Red turned to Blonde, shot her a dark look and said angrily “Blonde! That’s rude, don’t be so loud!”
Although that’s a fave memory, maybe that’s not the best example of the three of us. Maybe I use that example because that’s when I noticed things started to change. By that stage, it wasn’t 3 musketeers. It was 2. Or the ‘other’ 2. Never 3. I was always part of the 2. And by that time, from that incident, I started to realise I was leaning on the side of Blonde a bit more.
It almost hurts me to write this. I love them both so much. I wish the crap that had happened never did: not that anything, any event as such happened; it was just a slow removal, a non-revealing of information, non-sharing of life experiences, a waning of contact that led to the slow parting of Red and Blonde.
I don’t think Red would think they’ve parted. In true Red style, and though I love her for her positivity, her focus on that thing only leaves her with a bit of a dream-like, rose-coloured glasses view of everything. She doesn’t realise Blonde is shitty with her. She doesn’t realise she could have involved her more in her wedding. She doesn’t realise she hasn’t put into the friendship – she just thinks because she’s been busy, that Blonde understands.
It’s not just that. There are a few more nitty-gritty issues, things that got in the way and screwed things up. Other friends, partners.
Blonde sees it though. Blonde is hurt. And Blonde tells me all about it. Told me all about it.
Sigh.
I’m a bit stuck you see. I love both these girls. They fulfil parts of me, in completely different ways, and I’m the luckiest, most freaking blessed girl to have people like this in my life. Add to that my sister, who really, truly is (not biased, no joke) the best, most fantastic sister in the world – and I know it’s true because all my friends love her, even those who have sisters, wish they had her as one instead – and in the words of another friend, I feel like I’m shitting rainbows in the girlfriend department. I’m set.
Back in the day when we used to spend time together, Red, Blonde and I, it was magnificent. I actually can’t find an adjective appropriate enough to describe the time spent together. Explosive? Thrilling? Meaningful? Deep? Out of this world? If I was lesbian, I would probably have an affair with both of them, let’s just say that’s how much I love them.
And that’s the problem. I’d have an affair with both of them.
It would be so good, every time was the best time. Lately though, with the absence of both of them, simultaneously in my life, and with all of life’s changes… I’m missing those times. Thinking of it now, God I’m missing those times. SO BAD.
With all the shit and crap, doom and gloom and with all of life’s frustrations that have been so prevalent not just lately, but on and off for the past year, I’m missing that… and one of them more in particular.
Blonde.
Maybe it’s because the grass is greener. Blonde is overseas, I haven’t seen her in about 5 months, and I haven’t spoken to her in about the same time. No joke. Instead I’ve been busy with Red, and helping her plan her wedding.
And with all that’s been going on lately, I had a massive pang of sadness hit me last week. I miss Blonde. I need her. I need to talk to her. I want to know where she is.
Some best friend huh?
Blonde works overseas, and was going on holiday in that region a while ago. Up until just before my birthday, I knew what country she was in. I’d tried to call her before she left for her holiday, but her phone wasn’t working. She said she’d Skype me, but in true Blonde fashion, she never did. When she didn’t call me for my birthday, I was a bit sad: she makes an effort to remember my birthday, and I know she wouldn’t have forgotten it, despite how scatter-brained she can be at times.
I realised she wasn’t posting on facebook, AT ALL. In fact she still hasn’t. I’ve contacted her sister twice to ask about Blonde: once her sister said she was overseas and her normal phone wasn’t working; and most recently when I asked again, she mentioned Blonde was travelling to a conference. Well that sounds like she’s back at work. So why hasn’t she called me?
I’ve been a bit stubborn. I wanted to talk to Blonde earlier this year to tell her the exciting news that I’d finished my book. But when she didn’t call for my birthday I felt a bit rejected, honestly I did. Up until recently I was like ‘stuff her, she should call me, she should know I’ve been chasing her.’ But then I was like ‘does she?’ If she hasn’t updated her facebook, she wouldn’t see the messages left there. Her sister may not even be telling her (she can be the jealous type) and I even had a dream about her, where someone told me she had been shot, and all I saw of her was her top with a hole in it.
That made me worried. I started to doubt my stubbornness, and wonder whether I should just woman up and call her. If it’s your friend, you forgive them I say. Not just that, but you don’t know what’s been happening. You don’t know their side of the story. For all I know something bad has happened and she hasn’t been able to call. But her sister would have told me, surely…
But then again the other day I saw she ‘liked’ something on facebook – even though she hasn’t put anything on her page. So she IS around. But where IS she? I wonder whether she is avoiding us all, maybe because she doesn’t want to go to Red’s wedding. Maybe this is all in protest, in not having been chosen to be a part of the bridal party, in not having been chosen to be included AT ALL.
It’s just so confusing, and so frustrating. And so sad. I don’t know what to do. I miss her, and it’s actually HER that I miss. Despite my love for both of them, I actually need to speak to Blonde. With all that’s been going on, I feel I need to let my feelings out, and that Blonde is the right person to talk to. To air my grievances with. Red would listen I know, but she’d be all, “look on the bright side, be positive,” and I actually don’t need that. I want someone to listen, and to say “that’s shit.”
That’s Blonde. I need her matter-of-fact, listen without trying to make you feel better point of view. I just need the realism of life.
Maybe I just need to try call her again. Now.
This however, is not a post about hair colour. Rather it has to do with two of my closest buddies.
Red.
Blonde.
I love them both dearly. Red, I have known almost all my life. Even when we weren’t best friends before our high school days, we knew each other and even hung out for a short period of time in primary school. Friends for over 20 years, besties for about 15. That’s an impressive stat.
Blonde I’ve known for a bit less. Her I’ve known for 13 years, since high school, but it was in our post high school years that we grew even closer. I guess I’d say she’s been my ‘other’ bestie for about 7 years. Still a good feat.
I never say Blonde’s my bestie in front of Red. Nor do I say it about Red, in front of Blonde, though Blonde has heard it plenty out of Red’s mouth. The furthest I’ve gone, to speak about the other to the one I’m with, is to say “my closest friends.” But I’ve never said ‘best.’
Up until maybe a year ago, and especially in our early 20s, when Blonde was still living in the country, we were VERY VERY tight. The three of us. It was a constant ball. I always felt I was a good blend of the two. Red is more conservative in some respects, and I mean that only in the sense of not being so rude, not so out there with the sexual innuendos. No swearing, she’s good and kind and sweet to all people. She’ll bend over backwards for you, and is always smiling, always positive, cheerful and good-natured.
This is not to say she is boring or uninteresting in anyway, as most people think with ‘nice’ people (strike that – I hate the word ‘nice’). We’ve had the biggest laughs together Red and I. We share the same goofy, silly humour, generally the same taste in music, and have the same zest for life, constantly inspiring and motivating each other to reach higher, to achieve our wildest most unimaginable dreams. Because we know they’re not unimaginable. We know we can make them come true.
Blonde on the other hand, is quite… crazy. She has a very addictive personality: people just want to be around her. She is refreshing, in that she says whatever she’s thinking, does things without inhibition, and talks and talks until the cows come home. I have the utmost respect for her, because unlike ‘other’ motor-mouths who fail to realise that other people exist in their presence, when I speak, Blonde stops, and listens. She REALLY listens.
Blonde can sometimes be forgetful. She’ll forget your birthday; she’ll say she’s coming over, but then call 2 hours later and say, ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry (because she can see through her sensory x-ray long-distance vision that I’m turning purple) but I’m coming now!’ And because of her happy-go-lucky persona, you always forgive her.
I like being a combo of the two of them, and that probably shows why I get along so well with them both. I think I’m sweet and kind like Red, willing to do a lot for my closest friends and family; yet like Blonde, I can be a bit rude, be a bit rash when the moment permits. I have a healthy dose of her wild side, yet a substantial portion of Red’s considerate-ness at the same time. Thoughtful yet crazy, I think.
They’re kind of the two extremes, yet we ALWAYS got along. Got along. One of my favourite memories, proof of how I’m a bit of both personalities, was when we went shopping together a while back, and Red upon looking at a kind of see-through top to try on, asked the shop assistant “do you have a singlet so I can put it on under this?” The guy started to look around, upon which Blonde jokingly said “no Red, you try it on like that so we see your boobs,” quite loudly, so the shop assistant could hear (he was gay by the way). As Blonde laughed out loud, and I giggled compulsively, Red turned to Blonde, shot her a dark look and said angrily “Blonde! That’s rude, don’t be so loud!”
Although that’s a fave memory, maybe that’s not the best example of the three of us. Maybe I use that example because that’s when I noticed things started to change. By that stage, it wasn’t 3 musketeers. It was 2. Or the ‘other’ 2. Never 3. I was always part of the 2. And by that time, from that incident, I started to realise I was leaning on the side of Blonde a bit more.
It almost hurts me to write this. I love them both so much. I wish the crap that had happened never did: not that anything, any event as such happened; it was just a slow removal, a non-revealing of information, non-sharing of life experiences, a waning of contact that led to the slow parting of Red and Blonde.
I don’t think Red would think they’ve parted. In true Red style, and though I love her for her positivity, her focus on that thing only leaves her with a bit of a dream-like, rose-coloured glasses view of everything. She doesn’t realise Blonde is shitty with her. She doesn’t realise she could have involved her more in her wedding. She doesn’t realise she hasn’t put into the friendship – she just thinks because she’s been busy, that Blonde understands.
It’s not just that. There are a few more nitty-gritty issues, things that got in the way and screwed things up. Other friends, partners.
Blonde sees it though. Blonde is hurt. And Blonde tells me all about it. Told me all about it.
Sigh.
I’m a bit stuck you see. I love both these girls. They fulfil parts of me, in completely different ways, and I’m the luckiest, most freaking blessed girl to have people like this in my life. Add to that my sister, who really, truly is (not biased, no joke) the best, most fantastic sister in the world – and I know it’s true because all my friends love her, even those who have sisters, wish they had her as one instead – and in the words of another friend, I feel like I’m shitting rainbows in the girlfriend department. I’m set.
Back in the day when we used to spend time together, Red, Blonde and I, it was magnificent. I actually can’t find an adjective appropriate enough to describe the time spent together. Explosive? Thrilling? Meaningful? Deep? Out of this world? If I was lesbian, I would probably have an affair with both of them, let’s just say that’s how much I love them.
And that’s the problem. I’d have an affair with both of them.
It would be so good, every time was the best time. Lately though, with the absence of both of them, simultaneously in my life, and with all of life’s changes… I’m missing those times. Thinking of it now, God I’m missing those times. SO BAD.
With all the shit and crap, doom and gloom and with all of life’s frustrations that have been so prevalent not just lately, but on and off for the past year, I’m missing that… and one of them more in particular.
Blonde.
Maybe it’s because the grass is greener. Blonde is overseas, I haven’t seen her in about 5 months, and I haven’t spoken to her in about the same time. No joke. Instead I’ve been busy with Red, and helping her plan her wedding.
And with all that’s been going on lately, I had a massive pang of sadness hit me last week. I miss Blonde. I need her. I need to talk to her. I want to know where she is.
Some best friend huh?
Blonde works overseas, and was going on holiday in that region a while ago. Up until just before my birthday, I knew what country she was in. I’d tried to call her before she left for her holiday, but her phone wasn’t working. She said she’d Skype me, but in true Blonde fashion, she never did. When she didn’t call me for my birthday, I was a bit sad: she makes an effort to remember my birthday, and I know she wouldn’t have forgotten it, despite how scatter-brained she can be at times.
I realised she wasn’t posting on facebook, AT ALL. In fact she still hasn’t. I’ve contacted her sister twice to ask about Blonde: once her sister said she was overseas and her normal phone wasn’t working; and most recently when I asked again, she mentioned Blonde was travelling to a conference. Well that sounds like she’s back at work. So why hasn’t she called me?
I’ve been a bit stubborn. I wanted to talk to Blonde earlier this year to tell her the exciting news that I’d finished my book. But when she didn’t call for my birthday I felt a bit rejected, honestly I did. Up until recently I was like ‘stuff her, she should call me, she should know I’ve been chasing her.’ But then I was like ‘does she?’ If she hasn’t updated her facebook, she wouldn’t see the messages left there. Her sister may not even be telling her (she can be the jealous type) and I even had a dream about her, where someone told me she had been shot, and all I saw of her was her top with a hole in it.
That made me worried. I started to doubt my stubbornness, and wonder whether I should just woman up and call her. If it’s your friend, you forgive them I say. Not just that, but you don’t know what’s been happening. You don’t know their side of the story. For all I know something bad has happened and she hasn’t been able to call. But her sister would have told me, surely…
But then again the other day I saw she ‘liked’ something on facebook – even though she hasn’t put anything on her page. So she IS around. But where IS she? I wonder whether she is avoiding us all, maybe because she doesn’t want to go to Red’s wedding. Maybe this is all in protest, in not having been chosen to be a part of the bridal party, in not having been chosen to be included AT ALL.
It’s just so confusing, and so frustrating. And so sad. I don’t know what to do. I miss her, and it’s actually HER that I miss. Despite my love for both of them, I actually need to speak to Blonde. With all that’s been going on, I feel I need to let my feelings out, and that Blonde is the right person to talk to. To air my grievances with. Red would listen I know, but she’d be all, “look on the bright side, be positive,” and I actually don’t need that. I want someone to listen, and to say “that’s shit.”
That’s Blonde. I need her matter-of-fact, listen without trying to make you feel better point of view. I just need the realism of life.
Maybe I just need to try call her again. Now.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Nightmare on Sydney Road
Humans are a truly odd race. We strive for ideal lives, aspire to the best in everything, and seek constant perfection in a clearly imperfect world. Our world is flawed indeed. We are a perverse race. We watch the despair and destruction shown to us by the news every day, our ears perk up at the slightest information of someone’s dramas and unhappiness, and we slow down to observe the wreckages that are smashed-up cars on the freeway.
Sometimes we’re lucky and the nightmares we view are far removed from us, as if we are watching them on a television screen or at the movie theatre. We are made a distant observer by our not-knowing the person involved, and ignorance to the situation at hand, unable to really comprehend the pain and anguish that the ‘other’ must be feeling. It becomes a real life play, but one that we can easily turn away from: from our computer screens, our radios and our tvs.
Although we may appear a confused and twisted race, we are nonetheless less perverse than some. Some are so sick and bitter, that their actions are hard to understand from a living point of view. It’s because these people’s motives and actions are so warped, so different and hostile from anything we’ve ever experienced, that we can only understand them from a ‘movie’ point of view. It can only be something out of a movie, we say. But unfortunately in many cases, it is not. It is real, and we are living it, living next door to and walking by these people every single day.
My predilection for horror movies and scary stories has been around for as long as I can remember. From my Mum and Dad’s stories about the mystery that surrounded them when they were young, I have always had a strong fascination for the unknown. I would watch ‘Australian’s Most Wanted,’ and ‘The Extraordinary,’ and then take flying, running-up leaps into my bed, in fear that standing too close to the foot of it would result in some unknown stranger/creature, grabbing me and taking me away to an unknown land of horror.
Stranger. Creature. Kind of one and the same when you think of what they can do.
This fascination has endured my whole life, and though I consider myself turned ‘soft’ with age, seemingly unable to watch a movie at the cinemas without covering my eyes at any footage of dark corridors, ominous shadows and rising, pitching, leading-to-something inevitable music, I am still drawn into this dark world. Angel remains one of my favourite shows of all time; I’m reading Dracula at the moment: yet it scares me. Maybe it’s the adrenaline that comes with the fear; maybe it’s the search for continuous drama. The thrill that comes after the fact is so terrifying at times, and yet I keep going back for more.
As much as these things both scare and thrill me, I’ve been fortunate: I don’t have nightmares, as such. I add these two words because I never dream about witches, ghosts, vampires or anything that’s really after me: as such. I add these two words again, in contradiction to the above, because lately, things have changed.
Sydney Road has changed. Melbourne and its people, and the characters in it, are showing their true dark colours. And its seeping into my dreams at night.
Up until just weeks ago, I didn’t really have vivid nightmares. My earliest recollection of one was probably when I was about 11 years old, of a weird animal-like creature chasing me into my house, and I remember in the dream furiously trying to get my key into the front door and open the door before IT could get to me. My neighbour was with me, and I remember it chased her down the street to her house too.
Days later when I went to her house, I discovered she had had her appendix removed. Upon review of my earlier dream, and with the information that I had been in hospital recently with the intent to get my appendix out, but it hadn’t happened due to certain recent pubescent ‘discoveries,’ I was able to deduce that this creature had ‘gotten’ her, so to speak, but not me. I was able to escape the appendix fairies.
Ever since then I’ve paid a massive amount of attention to my dreams.
If I ever had a bad dream, it was more of an eerie feeling, rather than anything actually happening. A weird lady would be cackling at me, or someone would be watching me. But there was never any fight, struggle, chase, or horrifying monster coming to get me from the shadows.
But you don’t need to dream about it for it to be real. Sometimes the monsters manifest and come for you in real life.
Last week, when the news came out that a Melbourne woman, 29 year old Jill Meagher, had been reported missing by her husband in the inner-northern suburbs of Melbourne after Friday night work drinks, the news spread quickly. Her media-related job helped the case get a lot of notice – from what I heard people she worked with kept giving the story a lot of attention. Her family set up a facebook page to find her, and being on social media, it took off.
She went missing after leaving a bar in Brunswick early Saturday morning: it was just after 1:30pm, certainly not too late by any stretch of the imagination, definitely not for the weekend. Coupled with that fact, she was walking down Sydney Road which is a pretty main road, on her way home – and home was about a 5 minute walk away.
Those were her last known whereabouts.
I heard about the case last weekend, but it wasn’t until I saw her husband on the news on Monday morning that my heart crumpled. He was so distraught, so sad, so upset; he was absolutely shattered. I couldn’t help but think of me and my own husband, and I just felt his pain, right there and then, as he hoped and prayed for any information, for her safe return, for her to come back home.
As the case received more attention, there was a sudden discovery. Police had found her handbag in a nearby laneway, in an area they had previously searched through on the weekend. This told them that possibly it had been planted there, to throw police off the assumed kidnappers trail. Unfortunately, this led the line of enquiry back to her husband, and through repeated questions and an investigative period of over 6 hours at the home he shared with his missing wife, the police came out with a definite “he is NOT a suspect.”
As much as the evidence of them spending so long at her house suggested at it being the other, something inside of me, and of the way her husband had been so pleading on the news, told me he was not the culprit. Family members and friends of the victim are always the first to be interrogated in any tragedy that befalls them, so it was no surprise that her husband would be receiving that kind of scrutiny. We’ve seen it before in other cases: years ago a man was crying out for the safe return of his pregnant wife and young daughter on the news, and days later it was discovered that HE had in fact buried them both. Sad but true, but this is where the investigations usually, firstly lead. I was so glad to see the attention moving to find the real, actual abductor.
When CCTV footage emerged of a man walking up and down Sydney Road, talking to a woman who turned out to be Jill, the investigation and the media response to it turned up a gear. Everyone was talking about it. They still are. I still get goosebumps just thinking about it all. It was only days ago that I was watching the footage at work, the cameras from a boutique store on that road that captured the footpath outside. It showed a man in a blue hoodie walk past the shop headed left, then moments later backtrack and pass to the right. It is believed that before coming onto the CCTV camera, he passed her before we can actually see, and passed the camera. Then he comes back, and comes across her before she reaches the shop. However we soon see them talking in front of it. It’s my belief that perhaps he went up ahead to see if there were any people around, to see if the coast was clear. In fact, there were. The footage shows several people walk past minutes before the hooded man and Jill come into view.
As they come into view again, from the right, it shows him talking to her, and her hovering somewhat behind. She has her mobile in hand, as if about to use it. They move to the left of screen – he is out of the field of vision, but we can still see her, lingering, almost unsure of what to do. They then move off camera, and it is assumed she followed after him.
When talking to a colleague at work about this footage, she told me some theories have emerged online about this hoodie man being the same person who has tried several times to abduct and rape other women around Melbourne. The story used by this man to reel in his victims is to say that they are being followed by someone else, and he is there to help. Although it hasn’t come out what they were talking about, her hesitation shows some degree of confusion as to what he is telling her.
As days turned into more days, hope of finding her alive dimmed. As positive as I am, I know that an investigation like this is dependent on hours rather than days to find the victim. Still, something inside of me hoped and prayed that she was alright, however dim the possibility and the chance of finding her alive seemed to be.
I’ve had nightmares lately. A couple of weeks ago I had a dream about being in a haunted house with my husband, and having intense pressure weighted down on me by an unknown force – turning out to be the ghost who haunted that house. Other times I’ve woken up in a fright because of a feeling that someone is in the room, due to an eerie, weird dream I’ve had. Sometimes it just has to be a scary place, like the haunted house I dreamt about. That’s all it takes.
A couple of nights ago I woke to tell Hubbie “someone’s at the door.” I had heard knocking in the middle of the night, I was sure of it. But he assured me it was only a dream.
Nights later I dreamt of someone pushing me hard in the back. It was an intense, focused push, like a finger digging into my back. In my dream, it was Hubbie coming back from the toilet and pushing me, but when I woke up, screaming out “ahh!” I woke him up beside me. He was facing away from me, and yet the sensation of having someone push me from behind remained, like the feeling of sunburn hours after being outdoors for too long. It lingered, and that troubled me.
I didn’t know where all these dreams were coming from.
Last night, my nightmares escalated. It was night time, I was home alone and in the kitchen, and I could hear someone knocking loudly on our back sliding door. The stranger was yelling that he was going to come in if I didn’t let him in. In realising he wasn’t joking and he could perhaps be dangerous, I crept to the front door, let myself out into the darkness, and began bolting down the street. I kept looking back but there was no one to be seen. I kept running, thinking how I would run to the comfort and security of my parent’s house, but it was at this time that I started to wake up.
It seemed I’d woken up just before my alarm was to go off. I was so scared I didn’t want to get out of bed. But I eventually convinced myself that it was safe to do so, getting up, knowing I’d be late to work if I didn’t.
I listened to the radio with a keen ear on the way, knowing, hoping that surely, there would have been some development in the Jill Meagher case. It had been reported late last night that police had arrested a man after a day of questioning, but nothing had been confirmed as yet, as to whether he was the hooded man in the CCTV footage, or someone else knowing and/or responsible for her disappearance.
It was with great shock, sadness and also relief when I heard the news come through on the hour. Yes, he was the hooded man. Yes, he had been charged and arrested for her disappearance. And yes, they had found her… but not as everyone had hoped they would find her. He had led the police to her body overnight.
The few of us that were here at work crowded around the breaking news broadcasting over the TV, watching in curiosity and sadness the story that had captured the attentions of a city for the past week. I felt somewhat gratified that he had been captured: justice had prevailed, and the police had done a remarkable job of finding the man following a huge media campaign and awareness of what had happened. However it was too late, and knowing that it was probably too late even before her husband reported her missing the day after, was a sore realisation.
It’s a sad Friday morning in Melbourne. Both mine and my friends FB statuses display the sadness that this horrifying ordeal has come to. In the workplace it’s the most talked about conversation, and on the news it’s the feature story of every bulletin. Type in her name on the net, and endless searches about the case and the hooded man’s subsequent arrest abound.
And what have we learnt? What has this told us? That women shouldn’t EVER walk alone… in a world of equal opportunity and fair trial, what does it mean when a woman can’t walk home, 5 minutes to the comfort and safety of her home on a public street? What does it mean when this happens to a girl who lives in a busy neighbourhood, in a suburb you frequent, to a girl of your age, who has only been married as long as you have, and who works at a media organisation similar to yours? Who worked. What does that mean for me, for all women, for the entire city?
My imagination never let me stay secure and in a place of comfort before… I’d always look over my shoulder in my dark morning walk to work, quickly jump in and out of the car when it was night time, and turn on all the house lights as I made my way to the bathroom. I was paranoid and jumpy, just because of my upbringing, because of my preferred choice of entertainment… solely without any real reason for being, other than what I read and saw, what was fiction. Though when fiction becomes reality, and you truly have a reason to be scared… what then? Do you become a hermit, locked in your house, fearful of what’s beyond the safety of your own walls? What if what is dark and disturbing comes to you, as is the case of so many other real-life horror stories?
Thank goodness that damned cursed excuse for being is behind bars. May he be prosecuted, castrated, and all the limbs on his body slowly pulled apart, one by one, until all that remains is a big bloody mess. The universal law of Karma will ensure he gets that, and so much more. He’s hasn’t just hurt Jill, he hasn’t just hurt her family: he’s hurt an entire city.
In time, of course, our wounds will heal. Women will temporarily be on the lookout for odd-looking people, for these night creatures; they’ll travel in pairs, drive each other home with no chance of leaving them to walk alone, and avoid all conversation with randoms.
Time will heal, and with time, we’ll forget. We’re able to, because although it has happened to us, it hasn’t happened to us. As sad as it is, it will remain in the city’s subconscious… and like all things there, it will wane into a distant memory, almost forgotten, something that happened long ago.
And that is a sad thing, because things like these should never be forgotten. We should keep the memories in our minds, because with ignorance comes danger. Paranoia is a small price to pay for safety.
And that is a sober thought in the end. That the actions of a few twisted individuals of society should ruin the well-intentions of the rest of us. No one is safe anymore, and no one is allowed to ask for help, or be nice to anyone.
Like my dream, we can all run away. We can run away from the danger in our minds, push it far away, and pray for the stranger not to follow. We can do it, because all it is for us is a thought in our minds.
Jill sadly, cannot run away. She couldn’t. Her husband and her family can’t run away from it either, for it will remain a walking nightmare for them for the rest of their lives. I pray for them, and hope that they can take some comfort in knowing that justice will on some level be served.
R.I.P. Jill Meagher.
Sometimes we’re lucky and the nightmares we view are far removed from us, as if we are watching them on a television screen or at the movie theatre. We are made a distant observer by our not-knowing the person involved, and ignorance to the situation at hand, unable to really comprehend the pain and anguish that the ‘other’ must be feeling. It becomes a real life play, but one that we can easily turn away from: from our computer screens, our radios and our tvs.
Although we may appear a confused and twisted race, we are nonetheless less perverse than some. Some are so sick and bitter, that their actions are hard to understand from a living point of view. It’s because these people’s motives and actions are so warped, so different and hostile from anything we’ve ever experienced, that we can only understand them from a ‘movie’ point of view. It can only be something out of a movie, we say. But unfortunately in many cases, it is not. It is real, and we are living it, living next door to and walking by these people every single day.
My predilection for horror movies and scary stories has been around for as long as I can remember. From my Mum and Dad’s stories about the mystery that surrounded them when they were young, I have always had a strong fascination for the unknown. I would watch ‘Australian’s Most Wanted,’ and ‘The Extraordinary,’ and then take flying, running-up leaps into my bed, in fear that standing too close to the foot of it would result in some unknown stranger/creature, grabbing me and taking me away to an unknown land of horror.
Stranger. Creature. Kind of one and the same when you think of what they can do.
This fascination has endured my whole life, and though I consider myself turned ‘soft’ with age, seemingly unable to watch a movie at the cinemas without covering my eyes at any footage of dark corridors, ominous shadows and rising, pitching, leading-to-something inevitable music, I am still drawn into this dark world. Angel remains one of my favourite shows of all time; I’m reading Dracula at the moment: yet it scares me. Maybe it’s the adrenaline that comes with the fear; maybe it’s the search for continuous drama. The thrill that comes after the fact is so terrifying at times, and yet I keep going back for more.
As much as these things both scare and thrill me, I’ve been fortunate: I don’t have nightmares, as such. I add these two words because I never dream about witches, ghosts, vampires or anything that’s really after me: as such. I add these two words again, in contradiction to the above, because lately, things have changed.
Sydney Road has changed. Melbourne and its people, and the characters in it, are showing their true dark colours. And its seeping into my dreams at night.
Up until just weeks ago, I didn’t really have vivid nightmares. My earliest recollection of one was probably when I was about 11 years old, of a weird animal-like creature chasing me into my house, and I remember in the dream furiously trying to get my key into the front door and open the door before IT could get to me. My neighbour was with me, and I remember it chased her down the street to her house too.
Days later when I went to her house, I discovered she had had her appendix removed. Upon review of my earlier dream, and with the information that I had been in hospital recently with the intent to get my appendix out, but it hadn’t happened due to certain recent pubescent ‘discoveries,’ I was able to deduce that this creature had ‘gotten’ her, so to speak, but not me. I was able to escape the appendix fairies.
Ever since then I’ve paid a massive amount of attention to my dreams.
If I ever had a bad dream, it was more of an eerie feeling, rather than anything actually happening. A weird lady would be cackling at me, or someone would be watching me. But there was never any fight, struggle, chase, or horrifying monster coming to get me from the shadows.
But you don’t need to dream about it for it to be real. Sometimes the monsters manifest and come for you in real life.
Last week, when the news came out that a Melbourne woman, 29 year old Jill Meagher, had been reported missing by her husband in the inner-northern suburbs of Melbourne after Friday night work drinks, the news spread quickly. Her media-related job helped the case get a lot of notice – from what I heard people she worked with kept giving the story a lot of attention. Her family set up a facebook page to find her, and being on social media, it took off.
She went missing after leaving a bar in Brunswick early Saturday morning: it was just after 1:30pm, certainly not too late by any stretch of the imagination, definitely not for the weekend. Coupled with that fact, she was walking down Sydney Road which is a pretty main road, on her way home – and home was about a 5 minute walk away.
Those were her last known whereabouts.
I heard about the case last weekend, but it wasn’t until I saw her husband on the news on Monday morning that my heart crumpled. He was so distraught, so sad, so upset; he was absolutely shattered. I couldn’t help but think of me and my own husband, and I just felt his pain, right there and then, as he hoped and prayed for any information, for her safe return, for her to come back home.
As the case received more attention, there was a sudden discovery. Police had found her handbag in a nearby laneway, in an area they had previously searched through on the weekend. This told them that possibly it had been planted there, to throw police off the assumed kidnappers trail. Unfortunately, this led the line of enquiry back to her husband, and through repeated questions and an investigative period of over 6 hours at the home he shared with his missing wife, the police came out with a definite “he is NOT a suspect.”
As much as the evidence of them spending so long at her house suggested at it being the other, something inside of me, and of the way her husband had been so pleading on the news, told me he was not the culprit. Family members and friends of the victim are always the first to be interrogated in any tragedy that befalls them, so it was no surprise that her husband would be receiving that kind of scrutiny. We’ve seen it before in other cases: years ago a man was crying out for the safe return of his pregnant wife and young daughter on the news, and days later it was discovered that HE had in fact buried them both. Sad but true, but this is where the investigations usually, firstly lead. I was so glad to see the attention moving to find the real, actual abductor.
When CCTV footage emerged of a man walking up and down Sydney Road, talking to a woman who turned out to be Jill, the investigation and the media response to it turned up a gear. Everyone was talking about it. They still are. I still get goosebumps just thinking about it all. It was only days ago that I was watching the footage at work, the cameras from a boutique store on that road that captured the footpath outside. It showed a man in a blue hoodie walk past the shop headed left, then moments later backtrack and pass to the right. It is believed that before coming onto the CCTV camera, he passed her before we can actually see, and passed the camera. Then he comes back, and comes across her before she reaches the shop. However we soon see them talking in front of it. It’s my belief that perhaps he went up ahead to see if there were any people around, to see if the coast was clear. In fact, there were. The footage shows several people walk past minutes before the hooded man and Jill come into view.
As they come into view again, from the right, it shows him talking to her, and her hovering somewhat behind. She has her mobile in hand, as if about to use it. They move to the left of screen – he is out of the field of vision, but we can still see her, lingering, almost unsure of what to do. They then move off camera, and it is assumed she followed after him.
When talking to a colleague at work about this footage, she told me some theories have emerged online about this hoodie man being the same person who has tried several times to abduct and rape other women around Melbourne. The story used by this man to reel in his victims is to say that they are being followed by someone else, and he is there to help. Although it hasn’t come out what they were talking about, her hesitation shows some degree of confusion as to what he is telling her.
As days turned into more days, hope of finding her alive dimmed. As positive as I am, I know that an investigation like this is dependent on hours rather than days to find the victim. Still, something inside of me hoped and prayed that she was alright, however dim the possibility and the chance of finding her alive seemed to be.
I’ve had nightmares lately. A couple of weeks ago I had a dream about being in a haunted house with my husband, and having intense pressure weighted down on me by an unknown force – turning out to be the ghost who haunted that house. Other times I’ve woken up in a fright because of a feeling that someone is in the room, due to an eerie, weird dream I’ve had. Sometimes it just has to be a scary place, like the haunted house I dreamt about. That’s all it takes.
A couple of nights ago I woke to tell Hubbie “someone’s at the door.” I had heard knocking in the middle of the night, I was sure of it. But he assured me it was only a dream.
Nights later I dreamt of someone pushing me hard in the back. It was an intense, focused push, like a finger digging into my back. In my dream, it was Hubbie coming back from the toilet and pushing me, but when I woke up, screaming out “ahh!” I woke him up beside me. He was facing away from me, and yet the sensation of having someone push me from behind remained, like the feeling of sunburn hours after being outdoors for too long. It lingered, and that troubled me.
I didn’t know where all these dreams were coming from.
Last night, my nightmares escalated. It was night time, I was home alone and in the kitchen, and I could hear someone knocking loudly on our back sliding door. The stranger was yelling that he was going to come in if I didn’t let him in. In realising he wasn’t joking and he could perhaps be dangerous, I crept to the front door, let myself out into the darkness, and began bolting down the street. I kept looking back but there was no one to be seen. I kept running, thinking how I would run to the comfort and security of my parent’s house, but it was at this time that I started to wake up.
It seemed I’d woken up just before my alarm was to go off. I was so scared I didn’t want to get out of bed. But I eventually convinced myself that it was safe to do so, getting up, knowing I’d be late to work if I didn’t.
I listened to the radio with a keen ear on the way, knowing, hoping that surely, there would have been some development in the Jill Meagher case. It had been reported late last night that police had arrested a man after a day of questioning, but nothing had been confirmed as yet, as to whether he was the hooded man in the CCTV footage, or someone else knowing and/or responsible for her disappearance.
It was with great shock, sadness and also relief when I heard the news come through on the hour. Yes, he was the hooded man. Yes, he had been charged and arrested for her disappearance. And yes, they had found her… but not as everyone had hoped they would find her. He had led the police to her body overnight.
The few of us that were here at work crowded around the breaking news broadcasting over the TV, watching in curiosity and sadness the story that had captured the attentions of a city for the past week. I felt somewhat gratified that he had been captured: justice had prevailed, and the police had done a remarkable job of finding the man following a huge media campaign and awareness of what had happened. However it was too late, and knowing that it was probably too late even before her husband reported her missing the day after, was a sore realisation.
It’s a sad Friday morning in Melbourne. Both mine and my friends FB statuses display the sadness that this horrifying ordeal has come to. In the workplace it’s the most talked about conversation, and on the news it’s the feature story of every bulletin. Type in her name on the net, and endless searches about the case and the hooded man’s subsequent arrest abound.
And what have we learnt? What has this told us? That women shouldn’t EVER walk alone… in a world of equal opportunity and fair trial, what does it mean when a woman can’t walk home, 5 minutes to the comfort and safety of her home on a public street? What does it mean when this happens to a girl who lives in a busy neighbourhood, in a suburb you frequent, to a girl of your age, who has only been married as long as you have, and who works at a media organisation similar to yours? Who worked. What does that mean for me, for all women, for the entire city?
My imagination never let me stay secure and in a place of comfort before… I’d always look over my shoulder in my dark morning walk to work, quickly jump in and out of the car when it was night time, and turn on all the house lights as I made my way to the bathroom. I was paranoid and jumpy, just because of my upbringing, because of my preferred choice of entertainment… solely without any real reason for being, other than what I read and saw, what was fiction. Though when fiction becomes reality, and you truly have a reason to be scared… what then? Do you become a hermit, locked in your house, fearful of what’s beyond the safety of your own walls? What if what is dark and disturbing comes to you, as is the case of so many other real-life horror stories?
Thank goodness that damned cursed excuse for being is behind bars. May he be prosecuted, castrated, and all the limbs on his body slowly pulled apart, one by one, until all that remains is a big bloody mess. The universal law of Karma will ensure he gets that, and so much more. He’s hasn’t just hurt Jill, he hasn’t just hurt her family: he’s hurt an entire city.
In time, of course, our wounds will heal. Women will temporarily be on the lookout for odd-looking people, for these night creatures; they’ll travel in pairs, drive each other home with no chance of leaving them to walk alone, and avoid all conversation with randoms.
Time will heal, and with time, we’ll forget. We’re able to, because although it has happened to us, it hasn’t happened to us. As sad as it is, it will remain in the city’s subconscious… and like all things there, it will wane into a distant memory, almost forgotten, something that happened long ago.
And that is a sad thing, because things like these should never be forgotten. We should keep the memories in our minds, because with ignorance comes danger. Paranoia is a small price to pay for safety.
And that is a sober thought in the end. That the actions of a few twisted individuals of society should ruin the well-intentions of the rest of us. No one is safe anymore, and no one is allowed to ask for help, or be nice to anyone.
Like my dream, we can all run away. We can run away from the danger in our minds, push it far away, and pray for the stranger not to follow. We can do it, because all it is for us is a thought in our minds.
Jill sadly, cannot run away. She couldn’t. Her husband and her family can’t run away from it either, for it will remain a walking nightmare for them for the rest of their lives. I pray for them, and hope that they can take some comfort in knowing that justice will on some level be served.
R.I.P. Jill Meagher.
Friday, September 21, 2012
A letter to my boss
To my boss,
In recent days you have sent to our department a multitude of emails. The main point of all these emails is along these lines:
“there have been several mistakes discovered by other shit-faced departments in regards to our highly over-worked department, to which I now have to respond because I don’t have the guts to tell them where to go, or to actually acknowledge on some humble level that all of you actually work heaps and I undervalue your efforts greatly.”
(Of course she didn’t say that whole part, rather the first 6 words, the rest is wishful thinking)
“I would like to mention again not so kindly in CAPS, and break it down for you in an anyone-can-understand-this-even-kids-you-stupid-mofos numbered list, hoping that for once you will actually read this email and I will know if you haven’t because I’m sending a read receipt with it, SUCK.”
(Obviously, I’m over-exaggerating again, but I know what she REALLY wants to say…)
“1. Check fucking everything that you work on, down to the numbers, the print, in fact, spend about an hour checking you are working on the right thing before you even start to work.
2. Along with checking the sun has come out for the day and staring at the screen idiotically for hours on end, just in case, I’d like to re-iterate that you all have sooooo much work to do, so I’d like you to become magicians and find a way to check EVERYTHING on your computer screens, and hey even throw in an organisation routine for your desk for a little bit more pizazz and extra brownie points, but try and do it in the quickest time possible. So check, but skimp on the perfectionism. Got it?
3. Here are the things I want you to check, and I’ve broken it down for you in easy-to-read, itty-bitty points, ARSES:
- Check your screen is the correct width
- Check your screen is the correct height
- Check that your mouse is positioned perfectly 180 degrees to your screen, and at a 90 degree angle to your keyboard. (Your hand must always hover above the mouse, never rest.)
- Auto correct your screen every 5 minutes. If you fail to check in any 5 minute interval, increase the checking times five for your next check.
- Check all numbers on your screen go in sequential order. If not, re-start your computer and try again, repeating all steps above.
Continue this useless checking all day. Yet I want you to do all your work plus more, in about 5 minutes flat per project, because that’s really how quick you should be working. Good, you got that.
Finally, if at any stage you don’t know what to do, simply swivel your back-breaking chairs around and around for 5 times clockwise, then 5 times anti-clockwise, and then repeat all the steps above. If this makes you have to go toilet, don’t. the longer you hold it, the longer you will be rewarded.
This will ensure you are properly efficient and effective in all manners of work required.”
Why, thanks boss . Here is my reply.
A few interesting points I’d like to point out. We are a department predisposed to ‘attention to detail,’ (we’ll try ignore the fact you want us to do the likes of fine tuning an engine in 0.2 seconds). Considering we do a shitload amount of work of various job descriptions (many of them not ours), and churn out tens of hundreds of ‘projects,’ sometimes per day, it is interesting to note how we tend to get things right 99.9999999% of the time, I mean, in the greater scheme of things. Just saying. You know from a ‘positive’ perspective.
In any box of crayons there is always a couple broken ones. Instead of verbally bashing those of us who actually work (never mind me with my constant journaling – I am efficient thanks) why not pick on those who say, for example, um, constantly call in sick, constantly come to work late and then leave, stare at the screen aimlessly and just generally whinge and bitch and moan. Instead on focusing on those of us who actually do work, why not look at the ones who just surf the net, constantly email their overseas friends, the ones who are here, but never REALLY here? Why not send a department-wide email pointing them out, huh? That would be INTERESTING. Especially for YOUR boss to read…
Another good thing to mention. Next time you send out one of those kick-us-up-our-arses emails for apparently just doing our job, why don’t you spend that same day actually doing YOUR job, boss, so that when I walk past your desk I don’t find you:
a) Online shopping for clothes
b) Booking flights
c) Reading about gerbils
Just saying. The ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach doesn’t really suit you. Like the colour green. Ugh. Don’t go there, really.
Sincerely,
Miss S (and the rest of us that actually work – which today is everyone seated around me, except for me right now.
Right, I’m getting back to it).
In recent days you have sent to our department a multitude of emails. The main point of all these emails is along these lines:
“there have been several mistakes discovered by other shit-faced departments in regards to our highly over-worked department, to which I now have to respond because I don’t have the guts to tell them where to go, or to actually acknowledge on some humble level that all of you actually work heaps and I undervalue your efforts greatly.”
(Of course she didn’t say that whole part, rather the first 6 words, the rest is wishful thinking)
“I would like to mention again not so kindly in CAPS, and break it down for you in an anyone-can-understand-this-even-kids-you-stupid-mofos numbered list, hoping that for once you will actually read this email and I will know if you haven’t because I’m sending a read receipt with it, SUCK.”
(Obviously, I’m over-exaggerating again, but I know what she REALLY wants to say…)
“1. Check fucking everything that you work on, down to the numbers, the print, in fact, spend about an hour checking you are working on the right thing before you even start to work.
2. Along with checking the sun has come out for the day and staring at the screen idiotically for hours on end, just in case, I’d like to re-iterate that you all have sooooo much work to do, so I’d like you to become magicians and find a way to check EVERYTHING on your computer screens, and hey even throw in an organisation routine for your desk for a little bit more pizazz and extra brownie points, but try and do it in the quickest time possible. So check, but skimp on the perfectionism. Got it?
3. Here are the things I want you to check, and I’ve broken it down for you in easy-to-read, itty-bitty points, ARSES:
- Check your screen is the correct width
- Check your screen is the correct height
- Check that your mouse is positioned perfectly 180 degrees to your screen, and at a 90 degree angle to your keyboard. (Your hand must always hover above the mouse, never rest.)
- Auto correct your screen every 5 minutes. If you fail to check in any 5 minute interval, increase the checking times five for your next check.
- Check all numbers on your screen go in sequential order. If not, re-start your computer and try again, repeating all steps above.
Continue this useless checking all day. Yet I want you to do all your work plus more, in about 5 minutes flat per project, because that’s really how quick you should be working. Good, you got that.
Finally, if at any stage you don’t know what to do, simply swivel your back-breaking chairs around and around for 5 times clockwise, then 5 times anti-clockwise, and then repeat all the steps above. If this makes you have to go toilet, don’t. the longer you hold it, the longer you will be rewarded.
This will ensure you are properly efficient and effective in all manners of work required.”
Why, thanks boss . Here is my reply.
A few interesting points I’d like to point out. We are a department predisposed to ‘attention to detail,’ (we’ll try ignore the fact you want us to do the likes of fine tuning an engine in 0.2 seconds). Considering we do a shitload amount of work of various job descriptions (many of them not ours), and churn out tens of hundreds of ‘projects,’ sometimes per day, it is interesting to note how we tend to get things right 99.9999999% of the time, I mean, in the greater scheme of things. Just saying. You know from a ‘positive’ perspective.
In any box of crayons there is always a couple broken ones. Instead of verbally bashing those of us who actually work (never mind me with my constant journaling – I am efficient thanks) why not pick on those who say, for example, um, constantly call in sick, constantly come to work late and then leave, stare at the screen aimlessly and just generally whinge and bitch and moan. Instead on focusing on those of us who actually do work, why not look at the ones who just surf the net, constantly email their overseas friends, the ones who are here, but never REALLY here? Why not send a department-wide email pointing them out, huh? That would be INTERESTING. Especially for YOUR boss to read…
Another good thing to mention. Next time you send out one of those kick-us-up-our-arses emails for apparently just doing our job, why don’t you spend that same day actually doing YOUR job, boss, so that when I walk past your desk I don’t find you:
a) Online shopping for clothes
b) Booking flights
c) Reading about gerbils
Just saying. The ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach doesn’t really suit you. Like the colour green. Ugh. Don’t go there, really.
Sincerely,
Miss S (and the rest of us that actually work – which today is everyone seated around me, except for me right now.
Right, I’m getting back to it).
Coffee makes me go freaking insane
(Sing along to UB40s ‘Red Red Wine’)
Rich, dark, coffeeeeeee
Goes to my headddddd
Makes me believe that I
Can conquer the worldddddddd…
This is so true. It is Friday morning, I have my coffee sitting at my right, conveniently next to my mouse so that instead of getting back to work I can just reach out and take in some warm and inviting goodness instead. Puh, work. On a Friday? Whatever.
Coffee is natural, coffee is fun, coffee is best when it’s ‘One on One.’
Ok so I’m quoting George now, but really coffee IS natural, and it IS fun! And for the other, well of course…
I’m rambling now, I know. I’m psycho like this. I believe my Friday morning coffee increases my focus and heightens my work efficiency by about 40%. A shame that the only work I do is actually not work, instead my various writing projects.
(I have this post, I have another post in the back of my mind, and I have another journal post to write… ahh! The words are coming at me and I have to get them down!)
Yes. I believe my word frequency increases by approximately 30% after a feel-good caffeine kick-start. I have no research to support these statistics, only my mad mind estimating.
Despite all this extra efficiency and keen alertness, I couldn’t for the life of me work out a math riddle this morning. And my simple equations, I freaking know, my friend:
A work colleague asked me to buy him a muffin from the café where I buy my cappuccino from. My regular coffee is $3.40. He gave me $5.00. When I bought the muffin and coffee, the guy said he’d give me the special price (of course) of $5.00. First I thought, ‘just the muffin?’ until I realised he meant BOTH, combined. That IS special.
So my task was to calculate the muffin price, right, to give my work colleague the correct change back. So $5.00 - $3.40 (being the price of my muffin, so far so good) = $1.60. No! $3.40 being the price of my coffee, damn it!
Ok so if his muffin cost $1.60, $5.00-$1.60=…$3.40. Fuck me. I gave him $1.60. I couldn’t freaking work out the equation standing there half an hour ago with my coffee warming my head. I mean my hand. (Argh) On paper it makes sense…
Ahh! I didn’t even do that right. I gave him $3.60, not $1.60. See? Even then I overpaid him 20 cents. Whatever man, whatever…
I’m so fucking confused right now. Even putting it on paper doesn’t make much sense.
See what coffee does? It makes me right, like all good, and makes me forget my math’s shit…
(The above were two obvious deliberate spelling/grammar mistakes, like duh, like as if I would ever… :) )
Rich, dark, coffeeeeeee
Goes to my headddddd
Makes me believe that I
Can conquer the worldddddddd…
This is so true. It is Friday morning, I have my coffee sitting at my right, conveniently next to my mouse so that instead of getting back to work I can just reach out and take in some warm and inviting goodness instead. Puh, work. On a Friday? Whatever.
Coffee is natural, coffee is fun, coffee is best when it’s ‘One on One.’
Ok so I’m quoting George now, but really coffee IS natural, and it IS fun! And for the other, well of course…
I’m rambling now, I know. I’m psycho like this. I believe my Friday morning coffee increases my focus and heightens my work efficiency by about 40%. A shame that the only work I do is actually not work, instead my various writing projects.
(I have this post, I have another post in the back of my mind, and I have another journal post to write… ahh! The words are coming at me and I have to get them down!)
Yes. I believe my word frequency increases by approximately 30% after a feel-good caffeine kick-start. I have no research to support these statistics, only my mad mind estimating.
Despite all this extra efficiency and keen alertness, I couldn’t for the life of me work out a math riddle this morning. And my simple equations, I freaking know, my friend:
A work colleague asked me to buy him a muffin from the café where I buy my cappuccino from. My regular coffee is $3.40. He gave me $5.00. When I bought the muffin and coffee, the guy said he’d give me the special price (of course) of $5.00. First I thought, ‘just the muffin?’ until I realised he meant BOTH, combined. That IS special.
So my task was to calculate the muffin price, right, to give my work colleague the correct change back. So $5.00 - $3.40 (being the price of my muffin, so far so good) = $1.60. No! $3.40 being the price of my coffee, damn it!
Ok so if his muffin cost $1.60, $5.00-$1.60=…$3.40. Fuck me. I gave him $1.60. I couldn’t freaking work out the equation standing there half an hour ago with my coffee warming my head. I mean my hand. (Argh) On paper it makes sense…
Ahh! I didn’t even do that right. I gave him $3.60, not $1.60. See? Even then I overpaid him 20 cents. Whatever man, whatever…
I’m so fucking confused right now. Even putting it on paper doesn’t make much sense.
See what coffee does? It makes me right, like all good, and makes me forget my math’s shit…
(The above were two obvious deliberate spelling/grammar mistakes, like duh, like as if I would ever… :) )
Friday, August 31, 2012
:/
I had to try and refrain from naming the title of this post ‘Ha ha.’ It seems the Murphy’s law fairies are particularly aware of my blogger habits, and so whenever I take especial glee in a holiday, nice weather or having heaps of time (I think a previous post was called ‘Beating Time’) they rain shit and gloom upon me until I have anything but a smile on my face.
Hence the above expression.
Therefore, this post will be written in the most even-tempered of manners.
I have a few points of general ‘fond’ feelings today.
Firstly, it is Friday. This day of the week takes my heart to accelerated heights and gives me thoughts of a fantasy-like nature.
Secondly, it is the last day of Winter. Hence, tomorrow the animals begin to nest, amongst other natural-occurring and temperature-improving happenings that infer a more pleasing time of year. (Hold back throwing arms in air, hold back throwing arms in air…)
Thirdly, I have a 3-day weekend. This is most satisfactory to my life situation, and gives me time to – tee hee – NO. Stop that. It is very pleasurable.
Lastly, this morning I believed it to be Thursday, if only for 5 seconds. This sensation is on par with waking on a Saturday morning, thinking it to be a workday, and then discovering with gladness that it is not. This too, is encouragingly good.
These 4 points give me an above average level of ease. This is nice. This is most delightful.
Lovely.
Hence the above expression.
Therefore, this post will be written in the most even-tempered of manners.
I have a few points of general ‘fond’ feelings today.
Firstly, it is Friday. This day of the week takes my heart to accelerated heights and gives me thoughts of a fantasy-like nature.
Secondly, it is the last day of Winter. Hence, tomorrow the animals begin to nest, amongst other natural-occurring and temperature-improving happenings that infer a more pleasing time of year. (Hold back throwing arms in air, hold back throwing arms in air…)
Thirdly, I have a 3-day weekend. This is most satisfactory to my life situation, and gives me time to – tee hee – NO. Stop that. It is very pleasurable.
Lastly, this morning I believed it to be Thursday, if only for 5 seconds. This sensation is on par with waking on a Saturday morning, thinking it to be a workday, and then discovering with gladness that it is not. This too, is encouragingly good.
These 4 points give me an above average level of ease. This is nice. This is most delightful.
Lovely.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
I'm so weird
This is a completely random post.
I woke up at about 4am this morning to discover I had no top on. It took me a bit to get my head around it – it would have been longer had it not happened the week before, only then I vaguely had the recollection of having ripped it off me in my half-asleep stupor. Only this time I couldn’t remember anything. And I would have had to actually sit upright to get it off of me with the layers of sheets and blankets on top.
So as I fished around for my top in the darkness, I mumbled to Hubbie, “I took my top off,” and he was like “sleep, just sleep.” And then somehow he said to me that I’d been snoring, and he had to nudge me to make me stop. I was like “what? seriously?” Apparently he was. He even imitated the noise I was making. I was like “far out.” As much as he shit stirs he wouldn’t do so in the middle of our sleeping.
I don’t snore. I sleep-talk. However now it appears I’m waking him up from my night noises. And apparently now I’m also in the habit of dis-robing, and I find that funny considering I could have just taken the covers off.
Weird.
I woke up at about 4am this morning to discover I had no top on. It took me a bit to get my head around it – it would have been longer had it not happened the week before, only then I vaguely had the recollection of having ripped it off me in my half-asleep stupor. Only this time I couldn’t remember anything. And I would have had to actually sit upright to get it off of me with the layers of sheets and blankets on top.
So as I fished around for my top in the darkness, I mumbled to Hubbie, “I took my top off,” and he was like “sleep, just sleep.” And then somehow he said to me that I’d been snoring, and he had to nudge me to make me stop. I was like “what? seriously?” Apparently he was. He even imitated the noise I was making. I was like “far out.” As much as he shit stirs he wouldn’t do so in the middle of our sleeping.
I don’t snore. I sleep-talk. However now it appears I’m waking him up from my night noises. And apparently now I’m also in the habit of dis-robing, and I find that funny considering I could have just taken the covers off.
Weird.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Monday Morning Brilliance at its absolute Mother F&^@ing best
I’ve just come back in to work after 2 weeks of glorious and relaxant mind-altering leave, to THIS:
Annoying prick (who I refuse to grant with an esteemed Miss S. blogger nickname because I hate to even think about let alone speak, or write about him) is up to me within minutes before I’ve even logged in and started previewing my 600 + emails, whining about fixing his shit work which he is incapable of even attempting to learn after his 20 years here.
Fellow no-show boy has called in sick. Notified via email.
And here I find myself doing work and fixing other people’s business before I’ve had a chance to finish my coffee.
How things don’t change.
But it’s ok, as Tony Montana says. It’s ok.
“Back to reality, if only temporarily, because everyone deserves to live their permanent fantasies...”
Annoying prick (who I refuse to grant with an esteemed Miss S. blogger nickname because I hate to even think about let alone speak, or write about him) is up to me within minutes before I’ve even logged in and started previewing my 600 + emails, whining about fixing his shit work which he is incapable of even attempting to learn after his 20 years here.
Fellow no-show boy has called in sick. Notified via email.
And here I find myself doing work and fixing other people’s business before I’ve had a chance to finish my coffee.
How things don’t change.
But it’s ok, as Tony Montana says. It’s ok.
“Back to reality, if only temporarily, because everyone deserves to live their permanent fantasies...”
Monday, July 30, 2012
Imagination can drive you to Insanity
I’ve come to a very unhealthy conclusion. My imagination is both my greatest strength as it is my Achilles heel.
I haven’t been writing creatively (as in story book writing) for a couple of weeks, as I try to leave my work alone, letting it stew in my head as I continue to get slow trickling feedback on my book via the few people who are actually reading it (more on that later). Apart from my blogging and other journaling, this removal from writing and thinking about my characters, the absence of being in their world and constantly thinking up inventive ways to make the work interesting, has given me TOO MUCH TIME TO THINK. Waaayyyyy too much time. And it’s not good. Not good at all.
Shit happens when I think too much. I over-analyse. I create bullshit scenarios in my head that aren’t true. I imagine how much better my life can be, when there is actually no problems in it (minus Motor-Mouth – there’s a name you haven’t heard in a while – but I’m just learning how to completely ignore her shit so all is relatively good there).
Just last week, I was talking to Densley on our morning coffee walk, and he mentioned a FB status of mine where I mentioned something about finding myself. He said to me “why would you be upset? You’ve got everything anyone could want in life!”
He completely stumped me there. Both for his frankness, and for apparently knowing me, or perceiving my life better than I was doing myself. I replied with a smile “maybe one day we can talk about it, I’ll tell you then.” Of course I was referring to my book, my upsets over work, and other projects Hubbie and I have going on in our personal life at home, but I didn’t wanna tell him that, as it’s all very private right now.
Yet I felt such a sudden awareness, a selfishness overcome me with his words, and I had to think “am I creating elephants out of ants as I usually do?” Am I really upset for no good reason at all?
It’s my freaking head. I need to write. I’ve had so many creative stories running through me for over a year now, that upon completion and failing to continue to use that now-trained part of my brain, I’m finding myself looking to create dramas and angst in my own life, when there is no reason to. There is no need to, but try telling the overused part of my head that, the part that like your mother wants to cook for you even when you have moved out of home.
The findings? Well I need to try and stop thinking, or start channelling these creativities into my next book, before I completely screw up my life and everything in it with my magical fixed-ness to unbroken things. I have sent off an email today to a prospective agent (everyone is prospective to me) hoping that they will like what I tell them about my story and ask to see some at the very least of my manuscript. I’m putting off checking my email for a response for as long as possible, trying not to get far ahead of myself. Maybe I should be putting my energies into writing up a good synopsis. Yet the thought terrifies me. Shudder.
On a partially connected note, I have been completely blown away by my sister’s response to my story. She is one of the busiest people I know, and I’m grateful just for the fact that she has agreed to look at it. But no, she’s gone further. She’s already read 3 chapters and is constantly giving me chapter by chapter feedback, despite her unyielding manic family schedule. And she likes it, she actually likes it, and no, she wouldn’t lie to me.
My sister is giving me what I thought Red would. As besties, Red and I have been inspiring each other about our respective passions for over a year now. It took her a week to actually pick up my manuscript and start reading from the day I actually gave it to her (she messaged me on Friday night when she said she turned the first page) yet I haven’t heard a thing from her since. I absolutely refuse to message her and ask what she thinks, in a kind of fear of what she’ll say, but I also feel it’s not up to me to say anything. I just can’t believe she hasn’t: this is so unlike her. I completely expected her to be all like “it’s good” if not “I love it!” but nothing. Is it that shit? Has she been busy? Did she start reading and then have to stop, and doesn’t want to give feedback on the first chapter until she’s finished it? But she would have messaged me that that was what’s happening! That’s the confusing thing!
It’s been going round and around in my head all weekend, and even Hubbie agrees it’s weird of her not to messaged me by now. She’s not the jealous type, and she has been so supportive through all of this, excited for me, telling me “I can’t wait to read it Miss S.!” And now… NOTHING! Nothing at all! I’m sticking to my guns and refusing to message her, and I will hold out for a long time (until I need to get my hair coloured which will be about a week and a half from now so until then I can’t message her…)
My sister and Red have had a complete role reversal. I didn’t expect my Sis to give me as much feedback as she has, and to be so enthusiastic as she has been because of how busy she is, and yet she has. At least I’m getting SOME positive feedback…
And then my other bestie, Blonde – I don’t even KNOW where in the world she is. I love her to bits, but I think she’s travelling somewhere in Europe, and I don’t know where or for how long. I want to tell her about finishing my book and catch up on her life, and she’s virtually in-contactable. (Apparently that’s not a word, but screw it).
Both my besties are MIA. And I have a head full of imagination to contend with. Just great.
I haven’t been writing creatively (as in story book writing) for a couple of weeks, as I try to leave my work alone, letting it stew in my head as I continue to get slow trickling feedback on my book via the few people who are actually reading it (more on that later). Apart from my blogging and other journaling, this removal from writing and thinking about my characters, the absence of being in their world and constantly thinking up inventive ways to make the work interesting, has given me TOO MUCH TIME TO THINK. Waaayyyyy too much time. And it’s not good. Not good at all.
Shit happens when I think too much. I over-analyse. I create bullshit scenarios in my head that aren’t true. I imagine how much better my life can be, when there is actually no problems in it (minus Motor-Mouth – there’s a name you haven’t heard in a while – but I’m just learning how to completely ignore her shit so all is relatively good there).
Just last week, I was talking to Densley on our morning coffee walk, and he mentioned a FB status of mine where I mentioned something about finding myself. He said to me “why would you be upset? You’ve got everything anyone could want in life!”
He completely stumped me there. Both for his frankness, and for apparently knowing me, or perceiving my life better than I was doing myself. I replied with a smile “maybe one day we can talk about it, I’ll tell you then.” Of course I was referring to my book, my upsets over work, and other projects Hubbie and I have going on in our personal life at home, but I didn’t wanna tell him that, as it’s all very private right now.
Yet I felt such a sudden awareness, a selfishness overcome me with his words, and I had to think “am I creating elephants out of ants as I usually do?” Am I really upset for no good reason at all?
It’s my freaking head. I need to write. I’ve had so many creative stories running through me for over a year now, that upon completion and failing to continue to use that now-trained part of my brain, I’m finding myself looking to create dramas and angst in my own life, when there is no reason to. There is no need to, but try telling the overused part of my head that, the part that like your mother wants to cook for you even when you have moved out of home.
The findings? Well I need to try and stop thinking, or start channelling these creativities into my next book, before I completely screw up my life and everything in it with my magical fixed-ness to unbroken things. I have sent off an email today to a prospective agent (everyone is prospective to me) hoping that they will like what I tell them about my story and ask to see some at the very least of my manuscript. I’m putting off checking my email for a response for as long as possible, trying not to get far ahead of myself. Maybe I should be putting my energies into writing up a good synopsis. Yet the thought terrifies me. Shudder.
On a partially connected note, I have been completely blown away by my sister’s response to my story. She is one of the busiest people I know, and I’m grateful just for the fact that she has agreed to look at it. But no, she’s gone further. She’s already read 3 chapters and is constantly giving me chapter by chapter feedback, despite her unyielding manic family schedule. And she likes it, she actually likes it, and no, she wouldn’t lie to me.
My sister is giving me what I thought Red would. As besties, Red and I have been inspiring each other about our respective passions for over a year now. It took her a week to actually pick up my manuscript and start reading from the day I actually gave it to her (she messaged me on Friday night when she said she turned the first page) yet I haven’t heard a thing from her since. I absolutely refuse to message her and ask what she thinks, in a kind of fear of what she’ll say, but I also feel it’s not up to me to say anything. I just can’t believe she hasn’t: this is so unlike her. I completely expected her to be all like “it’s good” if not “I love it!” but nothing. Is it that shit? Has she been busy? Did she start reading and then have to stop, and doesn’t want to give feedback on the first chapter until she’s finished it? But she would have messaged me that that was what’s happening! That’s the confusing thing!
It’s been going round and around in my head all weekend, and even Hubbie agrees it’s weird of her not to messaged me by now. She’s not the jealous type, and she has been so supportive through all of this, excited for me, telling me “I can’t wait to read it Miss S.!” And now… NOTHING! Nothing at all! I’m sticking to my guns and refusing to message her, and I will hold out for a long time (until I need to get my hair coloured which will be about a week and a half from now so until then I can’t message her…)
My sister and Red have had a complete role reversal. I didn’t expect my Sis to give me as much feedback as she has, and to be so enthusiastic as she has been because of how busy she is, and yet she has. At least I’m getting SOME positive feedback…
And then my other bestie, Blonde – I don’t even KNOW where in the world she is. I love her to bits, but I think she’s travelling somewhere in Europe, and I don’t know where or for how long. I want to tell her about finishing my book and catch up on her life, and she’s virtually in-contactable. (Apparently that’s not a word, but screw it).
Both my besties are MIA. And I have a head full of imagination to contend with. Just great.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
R-E-S-P-E-C-T sings Aretha, I sing…
A-P-P-R-E-C-I-A-T-I-O-N.
Well they’re kind of the same difference aren’t they? They both have the letters R, E, P, C, and T in them. Ooh make a new word, it spells CREPT.
But no, I’m not thinking of creeping. Appreciation is the key. It’s something I’ve been thinking of a lot lately. I hate jumping on these negatively geared bandwagons when it comes to my current work, but honestly, it’s so hard not to.
My boss had to go on sick leave like a gazillion months ago. Before you say anything, I AM sensitive to her situation, but the way the powers-that-be handled it, I am most definitely not.
Then her little man, let’s call him the second in charge, 2IC if you may, went on leave himself for over a month. That left the reigns to myself and the rest of the team, and without blowing my own horn here, let’s face it, I and I alone was the one thrown with the crap and responsibility of taking-care-of-business duties.
As with last year, when the same boss was on sick leave, and the same 2IC went on leave (it was only a week then, but I was petrified of failing somehow in my job the entire long 5 days) I had pretty much no assistance or guidance THE ENTIRE TIME. The team were of course brilliant. Sometimes they pissed me off, but only when I had to practically spoon-feed some to the point of “when I send an email saying do A, please do A, rather than X which is what you’re doing now. Or else I’ll cut off your hands.” (I really did think of sending an email about dislodging hands, no joke).
But otherwise when I asked, they helped, which was great, seeing as no one else helped me. My boss’s boss (who I’ve previously referred to in this blog as the grand-daddy boss – ew) wasn’t on leave though, as with last year when we had the same circumstance. And once again, he completely blended into the background to just sit and watch everything unfold.
You might say ‘but you need to speak up.’ On the ONE occasion this time that I asked him something, he responded very coldly, and I reminded myself to never ask him a question again. It was about whether I was required to attend a certain meeting. These meetings are pure bullshit, and just an excuse to step out of the work area and do NOTHING, as most work meetings are, right?
I thought I could stop attending, because our boss who was on sick leave was now participating in these meetings via phone conference. And seeing I was attending in her absence, and now she no longer was absent… I thought I’d give it a shot to see I could be given the kind privilege of being excused and doing some actual work with so many people in our department on leave and sick leave.
But no. I was told I should still attend. Very briskly if I might add. I thought this quite irritating, and also very amusing in some offended way of mine. He barely acknowledges me in the meetings and around the workplace. I felt this made even more apparent yesterday when he walked by me to deliberately talk to some other team members, advising them of some technical issues we’re having. He was addressing them, when I was right to his side.
I don’t believe he does it deliberately, but I do believe he has no fucking idea how to speak to women who are straight. I’m sorry to offend anyone out there, and I’m definitely not going to stereotype and project this to all gay men, because I know some who actually can speak to women normally, but this grand-daddy has no female-sensitive bone in his body.
No problems talking to the gay guys. Hey, give them a pat on the back, laugh and find excuses to talk, even organise your gay parties for gay-only employees and decorate your house with penises and other phallic instruments, because hey, that’s not considered unethical in any way or workplace sexual harassment especially when you tell these gay men they have to come because you’ve changed the date of the party so they can come.
No, not weird at all.
Even the lesbian chicks. Yeah, they’re cool, they get it. They like chicks, but it’s different, you don’t have to compete with them, true grand-daddy?
But the straight girls? Heaven help me work out why he can’t speak to me, especially when I’m married, and he’s told me he wants me to step up and become my boss’s right-hand person. I’m the best fucking worker he’ll ever lose when I say sayonara to this place and embark on my fantastic passion-fuelled writing career, and he won’t even realise it until I walk into his office and say “do you have a minute?”
I don’t mean this to become an issue on sexual orientation. I know there are people out there who don’t base their work relationships and friendships on a person’s preference to how they wish to live their life – hell I don’t, some of the people I best get along with are gay/lesbian. But unfortunately, and I’m not the only one to see this around here too, grand-daddy does. Whether he is in acknowledgement of his preferential treatment or not, I don’t know, but it’s still not fair.
I know had I been a lesbian, or a gay male, or even just male, he would have been doting all over me while I was in charge. He would have made sure I was ok, checked in to see how I was going, and offered advice in some troubling situations (and there were many). Instead he barked orders at me the few times he did realise I was there, and completely ignored me the rest of the time, to the point that I believed if I didn’t turn up to work, he wouldn’t even know, because apparently, I’M INVISIBLE.
But of course, in accordance with Murphy’s Law, the mofo would have realised, and I would have gotten in trouble, of course. Because I’m straight.
It makes me feel sad, because everything I do at work is to the best of my abilities. I don’t want to brag, but I’m a great worker: I care about my work, and I’m a perfectionist. I know I plan on leaving this place (how sweet that day will be) but while I’m here, I would like to be acknowledged. Appreciated. Respected. I didn’t really expect an all-round pay-rise, but hey, maybe a pay rise/bonus during the time I was in charge would have been really good. It would have made me feel that my contribution here is worthwhile, that I am noticed. But nope nothing. And you know what? Even my team thinks I should have gotten a pay rise. Quite a few of them have told me that individually, and it’s even good knowing that SOMEONE – albeit not the guy who gives out the cash, but still – thinks I’m worthy.
No money though. Not even so much as a thank you from my boss who came back from sick leave. I understand she has her own stuff to deal with, being sick and all, but all I would have wanted was a thank you. Instead I got a joking thank you about her now going to the dreaded meetings instead of me, and I think her joke was in response to an angry status I put on my FB about the importance of appreciation. I don’t care if she thinks I’m having a dig at work, at grand-daddy, at her even. Because I am having a dig. And what they did was just wrong, wrong, wrong.
When I’m running my own business, I’ll never treat my employees this disrespectfully. I’ll say, please, thank you, and appreciate them for every day of work they do. And give them days off for their birthdays.
That’s the problem with big corporations you see. They get so big, that they can’t see the ants at the bottom turning the massive wheel. They don’t even care when they ‘accidentally’ step on them with their humongous boots in the process…
Well they’re kind of the same difference aren’t they? They both have the letters R, E, P, C, and T in them. Ooh make a new word, it spells CREPT.
But no, I’m not thinking of creeping. Appreciation is the key. It’s something I’ve been thinking of a lot lately. I hate jumping on these negatively geared bandwagons when it comes to my current work, but honestly, it’s so hard not to.
My boss had to go on sick leave like a gazillion months ago. Before you say anything, I AM sensitive to her situation, but the way the powers-that-be handled it, I am most definitely not.
Then her little man, let’s call him the second in charge, 2IC if you may, went on leave himself for over a month. That left the reigns to myself and the rest of the team, and without blowing my own horn here, let’s face it, I and I alone was the one thrown with the crap and responsibility of taking-care-of-business duties.
As with last year, when the same boss was on sick leave, and the same 2IC went on leave (it was only a week then, but I was petrified of failing somehow in my job the entire long 5 days) I had pretty much no assistance or guidance THE ENTIRE TIME. The team were of course brilliant. Sometimes they pissed me off, but only when I had to practically spoon-feed some to the point of “when I send an email saying do A, please do A, rather than X which is what you’re doing now. Or else I’ll cut off your hands.” (I really did think of sending an email about dislodging hands, no joke).
But otherwise when I asked, they helped, which was great, seeing as no one else helped me. My boss’s boss (who I’ve previously referred to in this blog as the grand-daddy boss – ew) wasn’t on leave though, as with last year when we had the same circumstance. And once again, he completely blended into the background to just sit and watch everything unfold.
You might say ‘but you need to speak up.’ On the ONE occasion this time that I asked him something, he responded very coldly, and I reminded myself to never ask him a question again. It was about whether I was required to attend a certain meeting. These meetings are pure bullshit, and just an excuse to step out of the work area and do NOTHING, as most work meetings are, right?
I thought I could stop attending, because our boss who was on sick leave was now participating in these meetings via phone conference. And seeing I was attending in her absence, and now she no longer was absent… I thought I’d give it a shot to see I could be given the kind privilege of being excused and doing some actual work with so many people in our department on leave and sick leave.
But no. I was told I should still attend. Very briskly if I might add. I thought this quite irritating, and also very amusing in some offended way of mine. He barely acknowledges me in the meetings and around the workplace. I felt this made even more apparent yesterday when he walked by me to deliberately talk to some other team members, advising them of some technical issues we’re having. He was addressing them, when I was right to his side.
I don’t believe he does it deliberately, but I do believe he has no fucking idea how to speak to women who are straight. I’m sorry to offend anyone out there, and I’m definitely not going to stereotype and project this to all gay men, because I know some who actually can speak to women normally, but this grand-daddy has no female-sensitive bone in his body.
No problems talking to the gay guys. Hey, give them a pat on the back, laugh and find excuses to talk, even organise your gay parties for gay-only employees and decorate your house with penises and other phallic instruments, because hey, that’s not considered unethical in any way or workplace sexual harassment especially when you tell these gay men they have to come because you’ve changed the date of the party so they can come.
No, not weird at all.
Even the lesbian chicks. Yeah, they’re cool, they get it. They like chicks, but it’s different, you don’t have to compete with them, true grand-daddy?
But the straight girls? Heaven help me work out why he can’t speak to me, especially when I’m married, and he’s told me he wants me to step up and become my boss’s right-hand person. I’m the best fucking worker he’ll ever lose when I say sayonara to this place and embark on my fantastic passion-fuelled writing career, and he won’t even realise it until I walk into his office and say “do you have a minute?”
I don’t mean this to become an issue on sexual orientation. I know there are people out there who don’t base their work relationships and friendships on a person’s preference to how they wish to live their life – hell I don’t, some of the people I best get along with are gay/lesbian. But unfortunately, and I’m not the only one to see this around here too, grand-daddy does. Whether he is in acknowledgement of his preferential treatment or not, I don’t know, but it’s still not fair.
I know had I been a lesbian, or a gay male, or even just male, he would have been doting all over me while I was in charge. He would have made sure I was ok, checked in to see how I was going, and offered advice in some troubling situations (and there were many). Instead he barked orders at me the few times he did realise I was there, and completely ignored me the rest of the time, to the point that I believed if I didn’t turn up to work, he wouldn’t even know, because apparently, I’M INVISIBLE.
But of course, in accordance with Murphy’s Law, the mofo would have realised, and I would have gotten in trouble, of course. Because I’m straight.
It makes me feel sad, because everything I do at work is to the best of my abilities. I don’t want to brag, but I’m a great worker: I care about my work, and I’m a perfectionist. I know I plan on leaving this place (how sweet that day will be) but while I’m here, I would like to be acknowledged. Appreciated. Respected. I didn’t really expect an all-round pay-rise, but hey, maybe a pay rise/bonus during the time I was in charge would have been really good. It would have made me feel that my contribution here is worthwhile, that I am noticed. But nope nothing. And you know what? Even my team thinks I should have gotten a pay rise. Quite a few of them have told me that individually, and it’s even good knowing that SOMEONE – albeit not the guy who gives out the cash, but still – thinks I’m worthy.
No money though. Not even so much as a thank you from my boss who came back from sick leave. I understand she has her own stuff to deal with, being sick and all, but all I would have wanted was a thank you. Instead I got a joking thank you about her now going to the dreaded meetings instead of me, and I think her joke was in response to an angry status I put on my FB about the importance of appreciation. I don’t care if she thinks I’m having a dig at work, at grand-daddy, at her even. Because I am having a dig. And what they did was just wrong, wrong, wrong.
When I’m running my own business, I’ll never treat my employees this disrespectfully. I’ll say, please, thank you, and appreciate them for every day of work they do. And give them days off for their birthdays.
That’s the problem with big corporations you see. They get so big, that they can’t see the ants at the bottom turning the massive wheel. They don’t even care when they ‘accidentally’ step on them with their humongous boots in the process…
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Every freaking shade of grey possible.
I’ve been under the humungous naïve preconception that the writing of my book was going to be the hardest work out of all hard-works in the entire process to publication. Hence my highly premature and over-excited recent posts. Well look, I’m allowed to celebrate that part, it is exciting. But I just thought the greatest toil and turmoil was over…
How wrong I was.
My purchase of, subsequent thinking-of-when-to-read, followed by my starting-to-read Fifty Shades of Grey, has coincided with the research of all things that will get me on the road to getting published.
As I stared at the book on the coffee table, thinking I should read it when I finish my King one, I was in the midst of looking into agents/publishing houses/solicited manuscripts vs. unsolicited manuscripts: and I didn’t feel good about what I was reading at all.
Then I would go back to staring at the Grey book, and the thought of it made me sick. I couldn’t work it out. Why was the thought of reading it making me feel wrong, unhappy, unwell, repulsed even? It had nothing to do with the content of the book – hell I thoroughly enjoy sex and think it an exceptionally vital part of life. It wasn’t that, I was very well aware of the content, as advised by Blonde.
No, it was something else. When I was reading Twilight, I was thinking of writing, thinking of what to write and where to start, however I still allowed myself to be absorbed in the story and become captivated, even a bit obsessed by it.
This time, I’ve started reading Grey following the completion of my story. Following Hubbie having read the 1st four pages of it, and having Mum read the entire thing (in one go, see previous post). Also following the fear of seeing it in hard copy, following the antagonism of realising I can edit more of it, and following Hubbie telling me “look, I don’t read, but there’s a lot of explaining in here…” … following from comments like that, intense DOUBT creeping in.
I was so consumed in the world of my book for such a long time. Hearing about Grey's author supposedly earning 1 million a week for her series, hearing about the book continuously on the radio, and having people I know read and like it, and recommend me to like it, has left me feeling…
Crap. Sick. A bit jealous? Gosh I hate that emotion. And a little part of me is scared. Terrified even.
Why?
Because I don’t want to get obsessed about another’s work… even though finishing chapter 3 of Grey last night I feel I well and truly am on my way. Getting obsessed in another's world, when I should be in my own… does it mean my world’s not good enough? Who will be enthralled by the world I’ve created, when so many are currently consumed by Grey?
Ahhhh! I hate the way I’m thinking! I HATE IT! But unfortunately, I can’t stop the feelings.
I coach myself. I say “Miss S., you can’t compare your book to Grey. It’s a completely different genre.”
“Miss S., there are no limitations in this world, only the ones you impose on yourself. There are enough authors and stories to go around.”
“Miss S., you don’t over explain. It’s called establishing. Hubbie would know that if he read books.”
But none of those arguments hold any weight. I know that because the same sick, heavy feeling remains. Unmoving, just sitting, THERE, in the pit of my stomach.
Deep breath.
Throwing oil on the flame is the fact that apparently:
Many publishers don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts.
Many agents only accept writers with a contract (which you get through a publisher) or writers who have been published before.
And the ugly circle of being screwed in the middle with no place to go begins.
I have neither of the above. The only light I get from the above info - which I gained from another blog - (which in its sum was actually quite positive about the publishing process, inspiring hope and all) was the operative word in both statements. Most. There are publishers that accept unsolicited manuscripts, and there are agents that are looking for new, raw, undiscovered talent. And every undiscovered writer in Australia wants to be that one needle in the haystack, that unpolished gem that’s found by a hard-nosed and passionate agent/publisher.
I’m part of that passionate (desperate almost, even?) bunch of undiscovered writers that wants to be published. Fuck yeah I am. I’m freaking shitty with myself now for even writing the previous doubt-inducing, sad, woeful sentences that came before this.
Mofos, I will do this. I will succeed. Yes there is work to be done, research to be had. Yes there are no rainbows shooting out of my book to catch the expectant and hopeful eye of some passing agent/publisher. But if they’re not shooting now, I will make them shoot, and shoot far and wide they will.
And I refuse to belittle myself with jealousy games. I will read ALL 3 Fifty Shades books, and I know I will enjoy it. I will not reduce myself to stupidity because I had a momentary moment of feeling threatened. I’m NOT threatened: Grey writer deserves the success, the attention, and the money. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.
She WON’T be the last. Because I’m coming mother-fuckers.
How wrong I was.
My purchase of, subsequent thinking-of-when-to-read, followed by my starting-to-read Fifty Shades of Grey, has coincided with the research of all things that will get me on the road to getting published.
As I stared at the book on the coffee table, thinking I should read it when I finish my King one, I was in the midst of looking into agents/publishing houses/solicited manuscripts vs. unsolicited manuscripts: and I didn’t feel good about what I was reading at all.
Then I would go back to staring at the Grey book, and the thought of it made me sick. I couldn’t work it out. Why was the thought of reading it making me feel wrong, unhappy, unwell, repulsed even? It had nothing to do with the content of the book – hell I thoroughly enjoy sex and think it an exceptionally vital part of life. It wasn’t that, I was very well aware of the content, as advised by Blonde.
No, it was something else. When I was reading Twilight, I was thinking of writing, thinking of what to write and where to start, however I still allowed myself to be absorbed in the story and become captivated, even a bit obsessed by it.
This time, I’ve started reading Grey following the completion of my story. Following Hubbie having read the 1st four pages of it, and having Mum read the entire thing (in one go, see previous post). Also following the fear of seeing it in hard copy, following the antagonism of realising I can edit more of it, and following Hubbie telling me “look, I don’t read, but there’s a lot of explaining in here…” … following from comments like that, intense DOUBT creeping in.
I was so consumed in the world of my book for such a long time. Hearing about Grey's author supposedly earning 1 million a week for her series, hearing about the book continuously on the radio, and having people I know read and like it, and recommend me to like it, has left me feeling…
Crap. Sick. A bit jealous? Gosh I hate that emotion. And a little part of me is scared. Terrified even.
Why?
Because I don’t want to get obsessed about another’s work… even though finishing chapter 3 of Grey last night I feel I well and truly am on my way. Getting obsessed in another's world, when I should be in my own… does it mean my world’s not good enough? Who will be enthralled by the world I’ve created, when so many are currently consumed by Grey?
Ahhhh! I hate the way I’m thinking! I HATE IT! But unfortunately, I can’t stop the feelings.
I coach myself. I say “Miss S., you can’t compare your book to Grey. It’s a completely different genre.”
“Miss S., there are no limitations in this world, only the ones you impose on yourself. There are enough authors and stories to go around.”
“Miss S., you don’t over explain. It’s called establishing. Hubbie would know that if he read books.”
But none of those arguments hold any weight. I know that because the same sick, heavy feeling remains. Unmoving, just sitting, THERE, in the pit of my stomach.
Deep breath.
Throwing oil on the flame is the fact that apparently:
Many publishers don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts.
Many agents only accept writers with a contract (which you get through a publisher) or writers who have been published before.
And the ugly circle of being screwed in the middle with no place to go begins.
I have neither of the above. The only light I get from the above info - which I gained from another blog - (which in its sum was actually quite positive about the publishing process, inspiring hope and all) was the operative word in both statements. Most. There are publishers that accept unsolicited manuscripts, and there are agents that are looking for new, raw, undiscovered talent. And every undiscovered writer in Australia wants to be that one needle in the haystack, that unpolished gem that’s found by a hard-nosed and passionate agent/publisher.
I’m part of that passionate (desperate almost, even?) bunch of undiscovered writers that wants to be published. Fuck yeah I am. I’m freaking shitty with myself now for even writing the previous doubt-inducing, sad, woeful sentences that came before this.
Mofos, I will do this. I will succeed. Yes there is work to be done, research to be had. Yes there are no rainbows shooting out of my book to catch the expectant and hopeful eye of some passing agent/publisher. But if they’re not shooting now, I will make them shoot, and shoot far and wide they will.
And I refuse to belittle myself with jealousy games. I will read ALL 3 Fifty Shades books, and I know I will enjoy it. I will not reduce myself to stupidity because I had a momentary moment of feeling threatened. I’m NOT threatened: Grey writer deserves the success, the attention, and the money. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.
She WON’T be the last. Because I’m coming mother-fuckers.
A conversation with Mum – Part 2
(The following happened yesterday. One week after the first conversation with her; 1 DAY, read me, 1 DAY, no less, and definitely no more, after I gave her my actual manuscript to read over.)
Mum gets into my car.
“I told your Dad I’d go in with you.”
“Oh yeah.”
“I read the book.”
“You read it?”
“Yeah.”
“All of it?”
“Yeah.”
“The whole thing? The whole book?” I’m wondering if she means she read one chapter, simultaneously thinking if she did read the whole book, how in the hell did she get through 240 pages in one day?
“Yeah – I did it in two parts though. Half-way through I got up to make a tea, I was sitting in the chair, the sun was coming through the window…”
As if it’s the most natural and normal thing in the world.
My Mum freaking rocks.
Mum gets into my car.
“I told your Dad I’d go in with you.”
“Oh yeah.”
“I read the book.”
“You read it?”
“Yeah.”
“All of it?”
“Yeah.”
“The whole thing? The whole book?” I’m wondering if she means she read one chapter, simultaneously thinking if she did read the whole book, how in the hell did she get through 240 pages in one day?
“Yeah – I did it in two parts though. Half-way through I got up to make a tea, I was sitting in the chair, the sun was coming through the window…”
As if it’s the most natural and normal thing in the world.
My Mum freaking rocks.
A conversation with Mum – Part 1
Ring Ring.
Ring Ring.
“Hello, (insert media dep’t here) Miss S. speaking.”
“Miss S., this is your mama.”
“Oh hi Mum.”
[Insert small chat about work, Hubbie, and just general randomness]
Slight pause.
“Oh, I finished my book. Printed it for Hubbie yesterday.”
“Good. Now you’re done. Leave it for now, you’ve done plenty.”
Trying to suppress my amusement.
“Mum, I kind of want to do this for a living. So I will write another book, and more, when I know what’s happening with this one.”
“Ok, ok.”
LOLOL.
Ring Ring.
“Hello, (insert media dep’t here) Miss S. speaking.”
“Miss S., this is your mama.”
“Oh hi Mum.”
[Insert small chat about work, Hubbie, and just general randomness]
Slight pause.
“Oh, I finished my book. Printed it for Hubbie yesterday.”
“Good. Now you’re done. Leave it for now, you’ve done plenty.”
Trying to suppress my amusement.
“Mum, I kind of want to do this for a living. So I will write another book, and more, when I know what’s happening with this one.”
“Ok, ok.”
LOLOL.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Half a ream, and a full ink and a half cartridge later…
… and 275 pages came out of my printer last night. Well actually 277, including the front cover and the… ‘other’ bit. No actually, it was definitely more, because when the ink started running out I had to cancel the print job, so I had a couple of scratchy looking pages that I had to re-print…
So let’s just say 280+.
It took a while let me tell you. I don’t have the newest printer, but those pages were coming out fast, and I was trying to make sure they dried (very slightly) whilst keeping them in order, which kept me constantly checking page after page. In total it took up 45 minutes of my time.
Stapling all the chapters together was like ‘wow.’ First seeing my work, my words on actual paper… it was weird. I don’t know how to describe it. It was just different. I this weird sense of ‘this is it?’
When I finally handed the bundled papers to Hubbie, I was feeling ecstatic, nervous, happy and very emotional. Emotional evident from the fact that after I gave it to him I burst out into tears, turning into a crying, sobbing mess.
Even handing it over… it was so odd. I’ve been wanting to do it for so long, to finish the story and have someone I love tell me what they think. But I had this sense of not wanting to give it. Whether because it’s been MY story for so long, and now it becomes someone else’s… whether it’s because I feel it’s a part of me, and it’s like I’m giving away a part of myself… or maybe because I’m just bloody nervous about the critiques I’ll get.
I think it’s a combination of all these things.
Hubbie did lighten the mood though. When I gave it to him he was like “What? It’s ALL this? This is one book?”
LOLOL. I’m chuckling to myself now just remembering his reaction.
He thought all the different stapled parts which I’d sectioned to create the chapters was actually ONE COPY EACH, and that I’d made several copies to give to family and friends.
“No, this is one book. You think I’ve been working for over a year on just this?” I flipped through the pages of one chapter, roughly 20 pages worth.
“Far. It’s massive.”
“You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to…” (as all good wives do I set the test, the challenge…)
“I want to.” (and he passed with flying colours).
I’m going to make a document where there is slightly smaller font though, because it ended up looking bigger than I expected on page. And there were so many bloody pages! I’ll use this doc to print further copies for my sister, Red, my Mum if she wants to read it…
I need to get me some more paper and ink.
So let’s just say 280+.
It took a while let me tell you. I don’t have the newest printer, but those pages were coming out fast, and I was trying to make sure they dried (very slightly) whilst keeping them in order, which kept me constantly checking page after page. In total it took up 45 minutes of my time.
Stapling all the chapters together was like ‘wow.’ First seeing my work, my words on actual paper… it was weird. I don’t know how to describe it. It was just different. I this weird sense of ‘this is it?’
When I finally handed the bundled papers to Hubbie, I was feeling ecstatic, nervous, happy and very emotional. Emotional evident from the fact that after I gave it to him I burst out into tears, turning into a crying, sobbing mess.
Even handing it over… it was so odd. I’ve been wanting to do it for so long, to finish the story and have someone I love tell me what they think. But I had this sense of not wanting to give it. Whether because it’s been MY story for so long, and now it becomes someone else’s… whether it’s because I feel it’s a part of me, and it’s like I’m giving away a part of myself… or maybe because I’m just bloody nervous about the critiques I’ll get.
I think it’s a combination of all these things.
Hubbie did lighten the mood though. When I gave it to him he was like “What? It’s ALL this? This is one book?”
LOLOL. I’m chuckling to myself now just remembering his reaction.
He thought all the different stapled parts which I’d sectioned to create the chapters was actually ONE COPY EACH, and that I’d made several copies to give to family and friends.
“No, this is one book. You think I’ve been working for over a year on just this?” I flipped through the pages of one chapter, roughly 20 pages worth.
“Far. It’s massive.”
“You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to…” (as all good wives do I set the test, the challenge…)
“I want to.” (and he passed with flying colours).
I’m going to make a document where there is slightly smaller font though, because it ended up looking bigger than I expected on page. And there were so many bloody pages! I’ll use this doc to print further copies for my sister, Red, my Mum if she wants to read it…
I need to get me some more paper and ink.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Happiness Is…. #10
Happiness is….
Finishing my book! Need I say more? Oh yes, yes, yes, I’ve finished!
:-D :-D :-D
No one has read it yet, but even so I just need to stew in this moment of completion. Please let me sit here in happiness. It feels so good…
(fist pump!)
I actually did it!
Finishing my book! Need I say more? Oh yes, yes, yes, I’ve finished!
:-D :-D :-D
No one has read it yet, but even so I just need to stew in this moment of completion. Please let me sit here in happiness. It feels so good…
(fist pump!)
I actually did it!
I'm the missing Pointer sister…
Too right I am. I’m not sure if I’m the 3rd, or 4th, or even the 5th member (I believe they have had a number of various sisters part of their group at various times), but for popularities sake, let’s go with when they were at their peak. That would make me the 4th member then.
And I’m so excited.
It’s Monday, and I have a couple of hours ‘til I finish work. I can’t wait. I can’t wait to pack my bags here, I can’t wait to make the 15 minute walk to the car park. I can’t wait to drive home, singing and smiling to myself in the car. I can’t wait to prepare dinner, then eat it, and share catch-up conversation with Hubbie on his day today.
I can’t wait to give him a big huh, and a great big passionate kiss. I can’t wait for all of those things.
But one thing I can’t wait for most: I can’t wait to start print on my official finished copy of my book.
:-D :-D :-D
Last night I made the last minor additions. There are some things I had to very briefly research today, but it was so quick, that I don’t really have to add anything to the story, I just need to check one thing, and then press the P button.
:-D :-D :-D
I am soooo excited. I’m giddy, nervous, jumpy and happy. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, the moment when I can say to myself “I’ve done the best I can” and hand over a copy of it to someone I love to be critiqued. That thought makes me sick, as it does happy. I’m ready for it, and I can’t believe the day has come, 1 year and 4 months after starting the book, almost 2 years since having the idea of actually writing a book pop into my mind.
It’s such an arduous, mentally-draining process, and I loved it all. It was inspiring, it was thrilling, and I was amazed at how at times the book seemed to write itself. It was a magical, suspenseful, invigorating experience, and I can’t wait to start it all again.
This is only the beginning.
The thought of handing over my work, my pain, my toil, my passion…
I think I might just start crying tonight from happiness…
:-D
And I’m so excited.
It’s Monday, and I have a couple of hours ‘til I finish work. I can’t wait. I can’t wait to pack my bags here, I can’t wait to make the 15 minute walk to the car park. I can’t wait to drive home, singing and smiling to myself in the car. I can’t wait to prepare dinner, then eat it, and share catch-up conversation with Hubbie on his day today.
I can’t wait to give him a big huh, and a great big passionate kiss. I can’t wait for all of those things.
But one thing I can’t wait for most: I can’t wait to start print on my official finished copy of my book.
:-D :-D :-D
Last night I made the last minor additions. There are some things I had to very briefly research today, but it was so quick, that I don’t really have to add anything to the story, I just need to check one thing, and then press the P button.
:-D :-D :-D
I am soooo excited. I’m giddy, nervous, jumpy and happy. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, the moment when I can say to myself “I’ve done the best I can” and hand over a copy of it to someone I love to be critiqued. That thought makes me sick, as it does happy. I’m ready for it, and I can’t believe the day has come, 1 year and 4 months after starting the book, almost 2 years since having the idea of actually writing a book pop into my mind.
It’s such an arduous, mentally-draining process, and I loved it all. It was inspiring, it was thrilling, and I was amazed at how at times the book seemed to write itself. It was a magical, suspenseful, invigorating experience, and I can’t wait to start it all again.
This is only the beginning.
The thought of handing over my work, my pain, my toil, my passion…
I think I might just start crying tonight from happiness…
:-D
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
My continual – no, my CONTINUOUS obsession with the man formerly known as Zack Morris
In writing my story, I’ve been very obsessed over the correct use of words of late, (of course, I AM a writer): using the correct tense, grammar… I do want it to be perfect when I send it to publishers. And one of my recent obsessions was over the use of the terms continual and continuous.
Continual suggests something ongoing with interruptions over a long period of time, whereas continuous means a long duration without interruption.
Now that I’ve given you my prologue, back to my main point. I don’t know if I’ve written about this before in my 140 + posts; as you can imagine it’s hard to keep track when you get to that number.
I don’t even know exactly how many posts I’ve done – just guessing from my work email over here (:))
But about a half hour ago I finished watching a TV movie, called The Princess and the Marine. And I was very pleasantly surprised to find Mark Paul Gosselaar, and his name, come up first in the opening credits.
My fascination and love for Zack (sigh) began in a galaxy, far, far away… hold on wrong story. My fascination with Zack began, let’s count… shit about 20 years ago. Does that show my age? No, I believe it was 18 years ago.
Running home from school and eating in front of the TV was an everyday ritual for me, and when I discovered a new after-school show at 4pm, called Saved by the Bell, I was well and truly SOLD. I loved it. I loved the characters, the storylines. I loved the friendships, the sometimes serious, yet eventually light-hearted way they solved their problems. I thought Jessie was funny. I thought it’d be great to have a wardrobe like Lisa’s. I thought A.C Slater was cute. I thought Screech was goofy and weird. I wanted to BE Kelly Kapowski – so gorgeous, friendly and loved by everyone. And I wanted to be with Zack Morris.
Sorry, again. I wanted to BE with Zack Morris.
Sigh. I’m getting all giddy just thinking about it.
And so started my fascination. It wasn’t just a cute, dote-on-him crush thing: it was something FAR more than that.
Up until that point I had liked a couple of guys at school (yes I started young) – not that anything actually happened. But I did notice the opposite sex IN THAT WAY, when I was the ripe young age of 5. So by about 10, when I started to obsess over SBTB (that’s how us old-school 80s kids speak, you know?) I wasn’t new to the whole crush thing. Even so, Zack Morris became, from that moment on, my staple, my benchmark, say it my dream, of THE perfect guy.
I swear. It wasn’t a really conscious thing, but I found myself being drawn to those kinds of characters in my life, for years to come. And I still am. Whether they were in the media (like Pacey from Dawson’s, I LOVE Pacey from Dawson’s) or guys from school, and eventually, ahem, like my HUSBAND (!) Zack Morris’ character made a huge impact on what I wanted in a mate.
Maybe it was the cheeky humour. The outrageous confidence. The prankster qualities that always got him into trouble. His boyish good looks (well that definitely helped, thank you Mark ). Maybe it was how he was a ladies man – we all know as women that we love a challenge, we want to tame that wild boy. Or maybe it was his undying loyalty to his one and only first love, Kelly.
***SPOILER ALERT!***
If you haven’t seen the very end of SBTB, and by end I mean AFTER they go off to Uni, you would be pleased to know that Zack and Kelly did FINALLY get married in a special TV movie. YAY! :-D
All is good in the world.
***SPOILER ALERT OVER – COMMENCE READING***
Over the years, as SBTB dropped off the screens, I fell into infatuation with other boys, both on-screen and in real life. I guess I kind of forgot about Zack as other guys just took centre stage.
For example, two men I have repeatedly (other than my hubbie) spoken about here is David Boreanaz, and then more recently Bryan Greenberg. Well they are just hot aren’t they. You can’t deny it. David is older now, yes, which means Bryan has taken centre stage in the number 1 spot, clearly going by the looks category. And over the years that I’ve seen MPG in TV movies and other series, I’ve thought to myself “eh, you looked better.”
Beat me up, I know. I’m being a bit cruel. But he was just so cute and adorable. And then he turned into a man. And sometimes the man, doesn’t live up to the boy. I still appreciated him, and I completely recognised that he was just older. Hey, we’re all gonna get older, so will I, and although I hope like hell I’m hot at 40, I’m sure I still won’t look the way I did when I was 16.
BUT!
But. The TV movie I just saw, the princess marine one? (Well he’s not a princess marine but you know what I mean)
I started off like “right, yep, Mark is pretty good looking here, yep.”
The movie was shot in 2001, so a while ago. Still, he looked good.
And then I let myself start watching it and get sucked in.
I swear, Mark was BORN for these kinds of roles. Maybe it’s because he is really like that. And if he is there is a serious problem here… it means he’s even more perfect than I previously thought. He’s a marine in the movie, on duty in Bahrain, a Muslim country, when he falls in love with a Muslim girl there, and she for him. But she’s not just a girl, you see, she’s a princess.
And there’s the catch:)
It was a great movie. Watching Mark (Jason Johnson) jump hurdles and get into all kinds of illegal behaviour just so he and his future bride could escape to the U.S (yes bride, he proposed in a shopping centre – it was actually very sweet and romantic!) made me tingle in nice ways all over. That devoted, loyal, loving “I’ll do anything for you” look in his eyes was there, and I found myself going back to that 10 year old girl I used to know… and I melted. And as I watched, he grew more, and more, and MORE attractive.
Sigh.
This movie was actually based on a true story. This story did happen in real life – unfortunately, the real life princess and the marine ended up divorcing in 2004, I think. (I almost wish I didn’t find that on IMDB – it’s slightly ruining my Mark-story images right now).
But I just couldn’t help thinking. I couldn’t help getting excited over Zack Morris all over again.
It made me realise. My love for him never stopped; it was never interrupted. It was always there in the background, waiting to be re-discovered, again and again, like an old friend you haven’t seen in years, or the house you grew up in, where you hold all your life-changing and cherished memories. It’ll always go back to Zack. No matter what his age, or whether he’s doing movies or not, it’ll always be him. Because it started with him, and it’s because of him, that I fell in love with the hilarious, gorgeous, friendly, very silly, and completely loyal and dedicated (and very cheeky) man that is my husband.
So for that Zack, I thank you. You are the constant in my life. YOU are continuous…
Continual suggests something ongoing with interruptions over a long period of time, whereas continuous means a long duration without interruption.
Now that I’ve given you my prologue, back to my main point. I don’t know if I’ve written about this before in my 140 + posts; as you can imagine it’s hard to keep track when you get to that number.
I don’t even know exactly how many posts I’ve done – just guessing from my work email over here (:))
But about a half hour ago I finished watching a TV movie, called The Princess and the Marine. And I was very pleasantly surprised to find Mark Paul Gosselaar, and his name, come up first in the opening credits.
My fascination and love for Zack (sigh) began in a galaxy, far, far away… hold on wrong story. My fascination with Zack began, let’s count… shit about 20 years ago. Does that show my age? No, I believe it was 18 years ago.
Running home from school and eating in front of the TV was an everyday ritual for me, and when I discovered a new after-school show at 4pm, called Saved by the Bell, I was well and truly SOLD. I loved it. I loved the characters, the storylines. I loved the friendships, the sometimes serious, yet eventually light-hearted way they solved their problems. I thought Jessie was funny. I thought it’d be great to have a wardrobe like Lisa’s. I thought A.C Slater was cute. I thought Screech was goofy and weird. I wanted to BE Kelly Kapowski – so gorgeous, friendly and loved by everyone. And I wanted to be with Zack Morris.
Sorry, again. I wanted to BE with Zack Morris.
Sigh. I’m getting all giddy just thinking about it.
And so started my fascination. It wasn’t just a cute, dote-on-him crush thing: it was something FAR more than that.
Up until that point I had liked a couple of guys at school (yes I started young) – not that anything actually happened. But I did notice the opposite sex IN THAT WAY, when I was the ripe young age of 5. So by about 10, when I started to obsess over SBTB (that’s how us old-school 80s kids speak, you know?) I wasn’t new to the whole crush thing. Even so, Zack Morris became, from that moment on, my staple, my benchmark, say it my dream, of THE perfect guy.
I swear. It wasn’t a really conscious thing, but I found myself being drawn to those kinds of characters in my life, for years to come. And I still am. Whether they were in the media (like Pacey from Dawson’s, I LOVE Pacey from Dawson’s) or guys from school, and eventually, ahem, like my HUSBAND (!) Zack Morris’ character made a huge impact on what I wanted in a mate.
Maybe it was the cheeky humour. The outrageous confidence. The prankster qualities that always got him into trouble. His boyish good looks (well that definitely helped, thank you Mark ). Maybe it was how he was a ladies man – we all know as women that we love a challenge, we want to tame that wild boy. Or maybe it was his undying loyalty to his one and only first love, Kelly.
***SPOILER ALERT!***
If you haven’t seen the very end of SBTB, and by end I mean AFTER they go off to Uni, you would be pleased to know that Zack and Kelly did FINALLY get married in a special TV movie. YAY! :-D
All is good in the world.
***SPOILER ALERT OVER – COMMENCE READING***
Over the years, as SBTB dropped off the screens, I fell into infatuation with other boys, both on-screen and in real life. I guess I kind of forgot about Zack as other guys just took centre stage.
For example, two men I have repeatedly (other than my hubbie) spoken about here is David Boreanaz, and then more recently Bryan Greenberg. Well they are just hot aren’t they. You can’t deny it. David is older now, yes, which means Bryan has taken centre stage in the number 1 spot, clearly going by the looks category. And over the years that I’ve seen MPG in TV movies and other series, I’ve thought to myself “eh, you looked better.”
Beat me up, I know. I’m being a bit cruel. But he was just so cute and adorable. And then he turned into a man. And sometimes the man, doesn’t live up to the boy. I still appreciated him, and I completely recognised that he was just older. Hey, we’re all gonna get older, so will I, and although I hope like hell I’m hot at 40, I’m sure I still won’t look the way I did when I was 16.
BUT!
But. The TV movie I just saw, the princess marine one? (Well he’s not a princess marine but you know what I mean)
I started off like “right, yep, Mark is pretty good looking here, yep.”
The movie was shot in 2001, so a while ago. Still, he looked good.
And then I let myself start watching it and get sucked in.
I swear, Mark was BORN for these kinds of roles. Maybe it’s because he is really like that. And if he is there is a serious problem here… it means he’s even more perfect than I previously thought. He’s a marine in the movie, on duty in Bahrain, a Muslim country, when he falls in love with a Muslim girl there, and she for him. But she’s not just a girl, you see, she’s a princess.
And there’s the catch:)
It was a great movie. Watching Mark (Jason Johnson) jump hurdles and get into all kinds of illegal behaviour just so he and his future bride could escape to the U.S (yes bride, he proposed in a shopping centre – it was actually very sweet and romantic!) made me tingle in nice ways all over. That devoted, loyal, loving “I’ll do anything for you” look in his eyes was there, and I found myself going back to that 10 year old girl I used to know… and I melted. And as I watched, he grew more, and more, and MORE attractive.
Sigh.
This movie was actually based on a true story. This story did happen in real life – unfortunately, the real life princess and the marine ended up divorcing in 2004, I think. (I almost wish I didn’t find that on IMDB – it’s slightly ruining my Mark-story images right now).
But I just couldn’t help thinking. I couldn’t help getting excited over Zack Morris all over again.
It made me realise. My love for him never stopped; it was never interrupted. It was always there in the background, waiting to be re-discovered, again and again, like an old friend you haven’t seen in years, or the house you grew up in, where you hold all your life-changing and cherished memories. It’ll always go back to Zack. No matter what his age, or whether he’s doing movies or not, it’ll always be him. Because it started with him, and it’s because of him, that I fell in love with the hilarious, gorgeous, friendly, very silly, and completely loyal and dedicated (and very cheeky) man that is my husband.
So for that Zack, I thank you. You are the constant in my life. YOU are continuous…
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