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Posts Tagged ‘personal’

Friends don’t let friends

July 25, 2010 1 comment

get away with saying “Friends don’t let friends…” as a way of discouraging friends from doing things that are inadvisable.

John:  “I’m hungry.  I think I’ll eat a rock.”
Jane:  “Friends don’t let friends eat rocks.”
John:  *eats rock* 
John:  *dies*
Jane:  *shakes head with a smirk of self-righteousness*

Where is this coming from? I’m seeing it a lot on Facebook and not only is it ridiculous, it makes me feel really old. And friendless, because nobody has said it to me.

Not really, I’d probably throw a stapler at your face if you said it to me.

Note:  The above hypothetical conversation between John and Jane may well have been my most uninspired ever in the history of everything and probably didn’t get my point across at all but it was amusing to me.

Loneliness and desensitisation

July 23, 2010 1 comment

The Cub has had back-to-back shows these last couple of weeks, it’s been almost like living with a boarder.  Well, not really.  Not at all, now that I think about it.  He’s marvellous, don’t get me wrong.  We’ve been heading to work together most mornings and he has been home every night but the quality time has been really sluggish from both sides.  It’s par for the course and after this weekend, it will pass and we won’t have to worry about shows until April next year.  It’s been a time to reflect, steal his clothes to wear as layers to work, as well as a wonderful time to over-eat without the guilt.  I have discovered a sweet-tooth secondary to work stress, joy of joys.  Mostly at night after The Kid’s in bed, it’s lonely.  Just a bit.

With a house that could well be tidied (it’s Friday night, c’mon!), I was reminded me of a hobby I was intending to take up but forgot about, what with bills and fees coming out of, well, everywhere.  I was going to collect all the R-rated movies I could, watch them, and slowly desensitize myself to the apparent horrors of (un)reality as shown on film.  To what end, I don’t quite know. Other than an empty wallet.

I was reminded because, commenting flippantly with a reference to Laddergoat on a friend’s Facebook profile, a friend of his (who I did not know before tonight) messaged me to talk about gaming and has since evolved into film.  Tonight, he’s watching The Woodsman and his high recommendation (a film buff with over 2000 in his possession, apparently) is Martyrs.  He seems okay for the Internet.  Hey, it’s not MySpace and I’m not 14 years of age.

Edit:  Just looked up the review for Martyrs.  Yikes!  I am genuinely intrigued. Check it out!

Movies I’ve been planning on acquiring have varied genres and topics and I have been motivated almost solely on the R-rating on the spine of the cover.   As it stands, my personal collection is pretty rad and heavily R-rated but I must embiggen it further! 

Buy me this book plskthx.

My biggest challenge has been finding a copy of the book “Christiane F. – Wir Kinder vom Bahnhof Zoo” and then watching the film.  The film isn’t hard to find, it’s in the World Movies section of Borders… which is owned by Hillsong Church?  Or is that Gloria Jeans Coffee they own?  Either way, I’m still astounded at the amount of gay comedy porn available in their range a stone’s throw away from the children’s book section.  Anyway, I was told by a couple of second-hand bookstore owners that Christiane F., while they remember vividly as a strong and stay-with-you-forever story, never have it in stock.  Apparently, it was banned from publishing here in Australia and eBay is my best bet but to set aside some money and patience to fight for a copy.  Balls to that, even if books > film adaptations.

Other movies include Viva La Muerte (I’ve yet to build the gumption to watch real animal slaughter.  Apocalpyse Now doesn’t count, I didn’t realise the first time I watched that the caribou was really slaughtered for the movie), Insomnia, Breaking The Waves, My Life As A Dog, Sympathy For Mr Vengeance, Sukiyaki Western Django, Shogun Assassin, Law Of Desire, Machine Girl, Tokyo Gore Police, Lady Snowblood, Kika, I Will Walk Like A Crazy Horse, 15, Eugenie De Sade, La Sconosciuta, Le Souffle Au Coeur, Freeway, London To Brighton and Descent. 

I figure that everyday life is horrific enough.  I’ll let you know if I find any of the ones that I’ve struggled to find and same if come across anything truly shocking.  I think my threshold is pretty high and my only fear (except horror – I can’t do horror!) that seems to translate easily enough on film is spiritual emptiness, a complete and convincing lack of empathy, and anything to do with personal void.  And the infinite nature of space.  God damn you, 2001: A Space Odyssey!

Ratings aside, are there any obscure movies you’d care to share here and why are they worth watching?  Any terrible movies you’d like to suggest?  Don’t worry about Guest House Paradiso or Drop Dead Fred, I’m well aware of their supreme awfulness.  Give me a diversion, lest this personal thesis get weird.

Pessed.

I’m reading the latest issue of MO, a peer-reviewed medical journal that we receive regularly in our practice.  As I have a nervous habit of reading anything available to me while I’m outside with my coffee and cigarette (yes, I know), it wasn’t long before I found myself reading a clinical review on Female Urinary Incontinence. 

Riveting. 

Actually, it was.  As someone who has had one child already with a view to more in the distant(ish) future, I really only thought that urinary incontinence was secondary to bearing children and nobody else.  Save the elderly, where anatomical regression seems to be par for the course.  Pelvic Floor Muscle Training (PFMT), Bladder Training and Oestrogen Therapy seem to be first-line management techniques and, if that doesn’t work, then you look at second-line which would involve either a specialist referral or Tension-Free Vaginal Tape (TVT), Vaginal Pessaries and Botulinum Toxin Treatment.

Pessaries!

Pessaries, for all your pessing needs.

 
I decided, halfway through, to look at the references because the treatments seemed to be escalating rapidly in horrific names.  Tension-free isn’t what I’d be feeling if I had to go to a doctor for urinary frequency and/or incontinence, amirite?  Anyway, I found reference to an intravaginal device called the “Contiform”.  Apparently, it comes in four sizes.  Four sizes.  Small, medium, large and… gross?

That’s all I really want to write about this, because I have a load of chores to do before I get on with the rest of my day.  I’ve wasted this crisp winter morning watching Dropkick Murphys and Grandaddy film clips and checking out Jason Lytle’s website, and playing some MW2 while The Kid was sleeping in. 

I need to pee, but I’m sure I can hold it if I need to.  Win!

Oh hey, you’re okay.

July 12, 2010 1 comment

I’ve been checking out some blogs here on WordPress and aside from the hate mongering that seems to be prevalent (woo, Freedom of Speech!), there are some pretty impressive bloggers out there.  I would link but I’ve only really been peeking so I’ve no real right in linking at this point.  There are so many categories and sub-categories that people tag their posts in so I’m going to be completely general and list the ones I have seen frequently.

It’s good to see that the bleeding hearts-type blogs are still around.  Make-ups, break-ups, malicious intent and sobbing into the keyboard surrounded by the what-if crap of dreams gone bad.  Girlfriends cheating on boyfriends who are cheating on their wives who are paying personal investigators who post the clips on YouTube without the clients knowing.  You know I’ve been there, done that.  Well not to that extent, but you know, the over-personal dash.  Sometimes I wonder why I bothered at all as it’s largely served to bolster my ever-increasing anxiety and insecurity about my writing.  I don’t really know where this blog is going to go these days so I’ll settle for idle musing for now.  And observation.  I like to watch.  I like to watch you bleed, mwuahahaha!

There are those who write about my third or fourth love, food.  Few have been exceptional where either their cooking skills, photography skills or a clever combination of both have rivalled those in popular cookbooks.  Some have been flat-out catastrophic but hilarious, photos of goals and photos of actual “finished” dishes resembling more of a Pro Hart vomitus than anything intended.  Most would put Cake Wrecks to shame.  I’m secretly envious of their courage to post such horrible foodstuffs online and put their name to it, a part of me secretly wants to try their food, and a larger part of me wants them to try again and get it right for the glory of faceless textual applause.

There’s plenty of the self-righteous religious right which seems to ignore the separation of Church and State and ties in fluidly with the aforementioned racist blogs, thinly veiled as disgust at the current Obama administration.  It’s not worth mentioning really, as it only gives credence to unfunny irrational thought.

There are those who seem to have a special interest topic and brood disturbingly over them.   Murderers, knitting and pets seem to be popular subjects here.  Commenting feels intrusive.  So does heavy mouth breathing.  I limit both whilst reading these types of blogs.

Finally, there are the people who love to rant.  I miss ranting, but I feel I don’t have the energy for a flat-out ragefest anymore.  Is that sad?  A part of me misses hating everything but there’s a nicer new part that enjoys the little things.  Having said that, there are a lot of jerks out there.  Some of them are funny and share their fury online in blog form.  Some of them are the ones who have breathless, veiny, high blood-pressure-y nonsensical diatribes about them. 

Keep writing, guys.  I’ll try to, too.  Your vitriol and enthusiasm make my day.

Fruit mince lie!

July 11, 2010 2 comments

I’ve decided it’s time to bake an apple crumble.  The Cub has an exhibition to host in Darling Harbour this week and The Kid is with her dad and grandma during the school holidays so there’s no real point right now unless you’d like to come over sometime over the next weekend?  Just don’t be creepy like this dude.

I’ve always been more into meat pies than I have been fruit pies or, worse still, fruit mince pies.  While I love pie crusts when done right, I do not feel I will ever have the confidence to bake a pie from scratch.  Nor do I have a nifty little window sill with gingham curtains and an outside flowerbox in which to cool said pie, so I’m not considering it.  Thinking of pies that aren’t savoury in nature makes me uncomfortable, as I feel that the fruit (mince?) pie is largely Amercian and only serves to give me false hope when I’m invited over for pie.

Apple crumble, however, is doable.  I like soft apples.  I like crumble.  Wait, what?

Unrelated observation:  There are a LOT of flagrantly racist WordPress blogs out there now, huh?

Mummaflippin’ Sandwich Day!

July 11, 2010 1 comment

As mentioned before, I took a sideways promotion at work.  Essentially, I do all the troubleshooting with my boss, get to wear the stupid red Fire Warden baseball cap whenever the alarm goes off (with disturbing frequency, it seems), and listen to woebegone stories of Workers Compensation patients.

I heard through the grapevine (being the accounts lady with whom I share an office) that the boys (owners of the practice) are out of their recession slump.  Our chairs are sagged with the hydraulics gone and need urgent attention as we look like bedraggled semi-corporate Whack-A-Moles sitting in our seats.  We need to call someone in to repair some carpet work near the photocopier so that we’re not tripping over it daily, running the risk of falling face-first into the corners of our desks.  The practice needs to employ two highschool students to do the menial tasks so that the fully qualified can attend to in-house triage or, at least, hire one more staff member with a view to full-time work.  I desperately need more hours to pay the ever-increasing bills but shit, everyone needs that.  I’ve made some loose plans through work to go into study which is what I’ve wanted to do since the day I left home but haven’t had the opportunity.  Now that The Kid is older and a little more independent, I find my time opening up to the point where study can actually be a possibility.  Unfortunately, the guys at work cannot pay for me to study at this point but I’ve heard that if I hang around for another 5 – 10 years (WTF), they can re-assess their finances.  It looks bleak, seeing as I’m also the Personal Assistant to one of the partners of the practice, the one going through a malicious divorce and is shuffling practice money around to survive, so I know exactly where the money sits for both the immediate and long-term future of the practice.  Gah. 

So what do I ask for above all else?  A Sandwich Day.

I knew this was a risk to take, as it didn’t just mean sandwiches.  See, a few years ago, there was an almighty exodus in our practice where two essential workers had had enough and, prior to their explosive exit interviews, the owners attempted to quell the fires by hosting a sandwich day.  Catering was organised and sandwiches as far as the eye could see were placed in our not-right-now-but-spare-at-the-time dental surgery.  Gourmet sandwiches overflowing with grilled seasonal vegetables, lazy tongues of meat poking out of bready blankets and spicy sauces.  The downside was that the two people who had threatened to leave were the ones who had missed out by poor shift organisation, a practice free-for-all which had other departments scabbing food in their pockets and an even poorer attempt by the bosses to “surprise” the staff by leaving the catering delivery time open.  It was immediately delicious but overly awkward.

I wasn’t really thinking Big Picture when I asked for a Sandwich Day, more that my stomach had called warfare of the gastroeosophageal refluxy kind at the time of the meeting in which I decided to raise the issue.  My immediate boss said that she’d take it to the boys. 

One week later:  Surprise pay rise.  Whaaa??  I asked about my Sandwich Day and made it very clear the pay rise cannot be reneged.  Suckers.

One week later:  Sandwich Day plans.  I check the catering website and organise an emergency meeting to discuss staff food intolerances and allergies.  It emerges that I am welcome to eat sandwiches if I can put up with excessive flatulence all around and/or prepare to work pretty much alone as most will end up recovering in our treatment beds.  Everyone is gluten intolerant beyond digestive enzymes supplied by our Dispensary.  The caterers do not provide a gluten-free option.  I am sad.

UNTIL I FIND THAT THERE ARE ANTIPASTO AND GOURMET MEAT PLATTERS AVAILABLE.

The photo above is the closest visual depiction of the joy I feel about the alternative.

Pay increase and a free feed on a day where all relevant staff have a couple hours overlap and I have an office to retreat to in the event that all the joy of the modern world overwhelms me?! 

This is what I’ve worked all these years for.  Study can wait another five, right?

On Solitude

July 5, 2010 2 comments

I remember my blood congealing underneath my skin as my phone went off, a dumb buzz in my clammy hands.  I looked up at the rotund window-washer swinging gloriously back and forth atop the domed gravel bank, an engorged horsefly drunk on a dumpy grey horse’s arse. 

Late, you know how it is, I’m sorry and blah…

No worries, I said, because there’s a guy washing windows up high and I want to see him fall off or at least lose his bucket.

You wore chinos because your grandmother said that’s what gentlemen wore.  I asked you how she was and you said she was long dead.  We talked about doggybag alfoil swans and then you said you needed a fellow idiot to deconstruct Kant.  We laughed heartily and became fast friends.   

I hear you occasionally when boughs break in the valley and wonder what you read these days.

Egg cartons lined your walls when you had vague dreams of being successful, a beaten up Korg stunning against the mural of a blurry Macleay Street outside, decades of vomit and faded glitter streaking bins and parking spots that cost hundreds of thousands.  I hate the city because the hum becomes a din becomes something bigger that eats you alive. 

I swung myself back in from your balcony ledge, a lame horsefly drowsy on nicotine.  Ash blew back into your lounge and I covered it with De Montaigne as you played back a mis-dialled answering machine message from three weeks prior where an Indian woman crooned for eight minutes straight in a dialect that we both knew then was going to outlive us.