No, it does not mean it’s all dark, brooding and mysterious.
Merely unduly affected by localised atmospheric conditions.
It’s going to rain tonight without a doubt.
My hair is presently in uber-curl mode.
And I’ve run out of counterbalancing lotions.
I’m stuck with a big black dandelion on my head.
Scary.
Sigh.

In the park this morning I am lying on a mat on a cricket pitch doing leg raises. (Don’t ask me why, Adam told me to do it and I did.) Over to my left a small dog with a large Sprite bottle in her mouth scuttles across my field of vision. “My you’ve got a big bottle”, I say to her, absently.
The person to my immediate left (also lying on a mat on a cricket pitch doing leg raises because Adam told her to) looks at me, affronted, “I’ve got a what?”
“Huh?” I manage, confused.
“I do not have a big bottom”, she replies.
Laughs.
“That’s not at all what I meant.” (And even if I did I have way too much of a sense of self-preservation to ever verbalise it!)

Segue to the office.

Boss: (in relation to a hearing we are organising) “Everyone hates the Germans.”
Co-worker and self: “Oh, right, ok.”
I think to self, “Maybe it’s something Monty Pythonesque and I’ve just missed the reference completely. Hmmm. Don’t know. Still, new at job. Just keep smiling.”
My co-worker comes out with, “Some Germans are really pushy on the bush walking tracks, you know?”
Boss: “Oh, right, ok.”
Co-worker: “Yes, they are.”
Moments pass where we all attempt to glean some meaning from the previous comments.
Co-worker and self in unison: “Oh, you said ‘adjournments’.”
Boss: “Yes. I can’t understand why you’re talking about Germans. My daughter-in-law is German you know?”
“But we thought you said ‘Germans’ not ‘adjournments’…..”
Never mind.

Today I got a look. One of those inter-generational, ‘I don’t understand you, you crazy old person’ looks. Sigh. It’s all about the mobile phones. And the text messages. Until today, I didn’t know how to send one. Actually I had sent one before. From my ex-workmate’s phone. Accidently informing the recipient that we were “in Ringworm” (I meant Ringwood). A mistake easily made, I would offer in my defence. Anyway, it’s not really germane to today’s events. I wasn’t paying enough attention to the process to remember the steps.
So, I had to send a message to a person regarding a work issue and they had requested that any contact be made via SMS. Fine. But I don’t know how to send an SMS. “Do you?” I ask my cubicle mate. “No”, she says. “I don’t know either”, volunteers my boss from the office next door, before I even get a chance to ask. Hmmmm, some quick PD in SMSing needed to be arranged for our entire section. Bring in the ‘young person’.
“Don’t you have a mobile phone?” she asks.
“No”, I reply.
“But how do you talk to your friends?”
“I use one of those,” I say, indicating ye olde fashioned land line.
“But what if you’re running late, how do you let them know?” Looks at me, puzzled.
“They wait,” I say. (And complain bitterly and at length later.) BUT they still wait. (Actually when discussing this later we decided I should have replied something along the lines of “I make my horse go faster”. But never mind.)
Then comes the look. It was withering. It clearly stated that I was ill equipped to cope in the modern world. That I was old, weird and possibly lived under a rock. Following on from the LOOK came a big sigh. “These people must be humoured,” it said. “But I don’t know why I bother.”
However, one quick lesson later and I subsequently successfully sent my first fully self composed SMS. (Even if I did have to be talked out of beginning it with “Dear XXXX” and signing off with a “Yours sincerely”. As my boss pointed out – “Even I know SMSes need to be short and to the point!”)

We have finally taken delivery of the first installment of Prozac for the dog. I hate making dogs take medication at the best of times. They always seem to spit whatever it is they’re supposed to be taking out and I have to go crawling around trying to rescue half masticated, saliva coated pills only to try the whole process all over again until it goes down and stays down. Yerk!
This time the unpleasant process has been complicated by the instruction that the dose should be 3/4 of one of the little white happy pills per day. First we have to cut them up and then we have to manage the whole fractions business. I’m confused already. This had better be making a difference. Still if the (parts of) pills make her 3/4 more happy – or 3/4 less anxious for that matter – it should be worth the effort (and the maths).

I’m two days into my new job.
I’m playing with the grown ups now.
There are no charades at lunch time. 🙁
There is no staff lolly jar. 🙁
I looked in the fridge and there aren’t any zooper doopers. 🙁

But there is … a dishwasher!!* 🙂
Hooray!

* Heh, heh, heh. That’s just for you Mr Michael.

The last day of my first ever real job is nearly over.
The last (nearly) six years have been good and bad (but more good than bad), and exhilarating and frustrating (but more exhilarating than frustrating) and I’ve both looked forward to coming to work and dreaded it on occasion (but mostly looked forward to it).
Thank you to the many people who have made the stay in one place more than worthwhile.
In particular to Jacqualine, Kathy, Miriam, Richard, Trish, Yulia and Michael, my thanks for being such warm-hearted and generous workmates.
And to Georgina – I hope you love it as much as I have done. I think we have both been really lucky to begin our working lives in a place which, despite its flaws, has done much to bring sunshine into my life anyway.

Go to party? Party. Party. Party.

Stay home. Drink Baileys. Play scrabble?

Dilemma.

Whatever you do, enjoy!

Be safe.

And may 2004 bring everything your heart desires!

Last weekend was a two barbeque weekend. As a part of my contribution to the first barbeque I volunteered to bring a cake. It was all a bit last minute so I dashed down to my favourite bakery on Smith St to secure just the right comestible. Ah, yes. A chocolate mud cake. Flourless at that. Size: large. Into the box it went and then back with me to my workplace. At the day’s end the cake took a tram ride with me into the city to purchase (1) a present for my housemate (the reason for the second barbeque) and (2) something very pink from ‘Morning Glory’ for a certain nine year old I know. And all the while delicately balancing the increasingly weighty cake box as the shopping bags piled higher. By the time I reached Melbourne Central Station I must have been looking slightly harried. “What’ve ya got in yer box?” asks one gent. “It’s a cake. Largish. And heavyish now,” say I. “Have a seat love,” he generously offers. I gratefully sink onto the seat. Settle bags around me and take a quick peek to check that the cake remains in one piece. It is. Starting to look a bit melty around the edges though.
Soon comes the train to Footscray. Assemble packages. Clutch the cake box a little more securely and prepare to get self onto train without losing anything vital. Successfully achieved. But no seats. Steel self to remain upstanding with cake box and parcels until destination reached. Getting really heavy now.
Tap on shoulder. “Here, have a seat”, she says. “No really, it’s OK (martyr to cause),” say I. “There’s a spare seat. I’ll move.” she says. I turn and there is indeed a seat for me and a seat for the cake box. “What’s in the box?” “It’s a cake. Chocolate. Largish. And heavy. Miraculously, still in one piece.” “Ah,” she says, “have a piece for me”. ‘You bet,” I say. And I did. Thanks to the kindness of stangers a lowly chocolate cake in a box navigated from Collingwood to it’s eventual destination in Newport – and none the worse for wear (at least until it was time for a cup of tea and a piece of cake!)

Just finishing off the last of my Christmas cards. (So if you haven’t got one yet, they’re on their way. Promise.)
I usually like to send cards which have some kind of purpose in addition to spreading around the Christmas cheer eg. proceeds from this year’s lot go to the Breast Cancer Foundation.
They are very nice cards – replete with sparkly stuff to add to their Christmassyness.
The sparkly stuff has gone everywhere. My jeans are pretty sparkly. My shirt has managed to become a bit sparkly too. There are sparkles on my shoes.
And I’ve just returned from a trip to the post office and the bank to find, as I looked in the bathroom mirror, that I’ve also succeeded in getting sparkly stuff all over my face too. I shimmer. I thought that teller was looking at me funny. Humphff. In a moment of desperation I must have rubbed my face in my hands – spreading Christmas cheer and sparkles from ear to ear.
Sheesh. I’m a walking Christmas decoration.

A few months ago my workplace was broken in to by the world’s most courteous thieves. They were very neat and they took nothing. (Why bother?)
Anyway this necessitated contact with the coppers who duely arrived, asked questions and took away a glass louvre window pane in an attempt to find some finger prints.
Yesterday I answered the doorbell to someone from the Collingwood police. Ooooh, maybe they have news? It’s been several months – they must have gleaned a lot of information from that window pane. But no – apparently it was a dud.
Covered in fingerprint powder (just so we could be assured it didn’t just sit on a shelf for three months) and sealed in an evidence bag the noncompliant pane was summarily returned to us to do with as we will.
It will forever remain a mystery as to who broke in and why they did it.
I somehow thought it might all be a bit more exciting. Pretty exciting job for the poor hot looking copper who had the task of returning the window pane on a rather unpleasant afternoon. I bet that’s why she signed up to join the force!