This is a blank canvas. Please feel free to post holiday greetings, thoughts about Joan and friends of Joan, and questions.
If you have any questions, 'Ask Joan' and I will return and answer it. Questions may include psychoanalysis, relationship theories, environmental philosophising, quandries, and plain silliness (mr joel...).
This morning, I rang the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra's group booking service. I wanted to make some changes. The customer service representative was very professional. He listened carefully to my changes and made the alterations with minimum fuss.
| MSO person:
| That's in then. I've put the changes in and someone will call your group about seating arrangements soon.
|
| Joan:
| That's great, thanks.
|
| MSO person:
| Let me say that I noticed you've sent all nineteen photocopies of student IDs. I am very impressed! Student IDs are usually what we have to chase up.
|
| Joan:
| (pleased) Thank you! It was a bit of an operation. I had to set up a website to record payments, IDs and everything!
|
| MSO person:
| Oh, that's a good idea! Very useful.
|
| Joan:
| (even more chuffed) I'm glad you appreciate it. |
I have many hours of flying to look forward to. I want to spend those hours revisiting a hobby that I used to enjoy -- recreational reading!
Currently, I have two books in my reading buffer -- Economia by Geoff Davies and Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. Economia is an environmental critique of economic theory. Catch-22 is, of course, the defining satire of human war. I wanted to bring both onto the aeroplane with me but Damjan suggested that maybe in my travel-induced haze I might appreciate some some 'lighter' reading material -- lighter in every sense of the word.
So today I went to the library. I was there to photocopy Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody for my brother, who has found that he simply cannot do without his manuscript for the three months that he is overseas. Ha! I told you so, Jason!
While I was there, I browsed through the fiction shelves for the first time in at least a year. It was so hard to choose books! My criteria for travelling reading are:
Yesterday, I went to a party and met a girl who was like me but magnified by about twenty times. She had the same interests and passions. She knew at least as much as I did about sustainability. She was confident, friendly and chatty -- REALLY chatty. She hopped from topic to topic at whim. Her default responses were: "Nice!", "It was soooo awesome!", "She's the most brilliant friend!"
I sat there listening to her waxing eloquent about everything she was involved in, every person she had met, every country she had been to, all the wonderful random things that had happened to her. Every time the conversation slowed down, all I had to do was prod her slightly and off she went.
"Do you like savoury foods or sweets better?" I'd say.
"Oh! Everytime I cook meat, I have to put at least three spoonfuls of honey on it! You have to try it. It's the most delicious thing! The honey just caramalises over the red meat and..."
(Baiting her yet again) "Have you ever found a country or a people that you really connected to?"
"Yes and no. Sometimes, I thought I did. I'd be really comfortable in a place but I find that your needs change as you go through life..."
I was quite content to let her contribute most of the substance of the conversation. As I listened to her, I also realised this: The perceived value of your judgement requires variability of opinion. If you're enthusiastic about everything, and everything is 'awesome' then you your opinions are less credible. Surely not everything can be brilliant and fantastic. People will start thinking that you're either exaggerating or on happy chemicals.
You may have noticed that I've upped the posting frequency recently. The reason is that I'm giving you material before I go away. I'm going on a three week holiday to California, USA and Taipei, Taiwan.
We're going to California to visit my brother in San Francisco, then taking two weeks to travel around the state. Two weeks is not enough. California seems packed enough to be a country in itself!
All my life, my parents have been raving about Taiwan, which is where they went to university, where they met, got married and where we were born. I imagine that if I raised my children in another country, I'd also rave about Australia. In fact, I am amazed my parents have stayed away from Taiwan for this long. We haven't been back since we arrived in Australia 19 years ago.
We're leaving on Wednesday so from then on, you get to skip the 'Reading Joan's blog' step of your internet initiation ritual for a few weeks.
I have almost finished packing. I have a large suitcase. I've taken Damjan's advice on loading up on t-shirts. I made the mistake of not taking any t-shirts to skiing.
"Joan, that's silly," Damo said in that wise voice of his. "T-shirts are the staple of any wardrobe."
One day, I will be a world-weary traveller, able to travel with nothing but a knapsack but until then, I will trundle on behind me my bright blue luggage.
We were at Thara's housewarming and he laid down the challenge. "A prize to the first person to find the one happy face on my property!"
Damjan pointed to my perpetual grin. "I found it!"
"No," Thara scolded. "A real smiley face."
"I found it!" said Michael. He gestured to a sticker of John Howard stuck on one of the milk crates that supported Thara's coffee table. The milk crate coffee table features in every impoverished university student's household.
Thara just rolled his eyes.
Our hunt was distracted as the cheese platter and dips came out. Mmm, Tia Maria Tim Tams...
A few hours later, Thara reminded us that the prize was still up for grabs.
"Come on, Joanna," I announced. "Let's find that smiley face!" Joanna and I are the Dynamic Duo. We are an experienced ransacking-of-boy's-house partnership. We had practiced in Daniel's apartment, after all.
Julian, the International Man of Mystery, joined us to form the Intrepid Trio.
We searched each room systematically, pulling out drawers, peeking in toasters, checking under toilet lids. We even opened up the margerine container on the hunch that Thara had carved a face into the soft yellowness. In the parts of the house without working lightbulbs, we appropriated a torch to continue the search. Thara became alarmed at our thoroughness.
"Hey Thara!" Joanna called. "Can we ransack your room?" We were being very thoughtful.
"Yeah..." came the cautious reply. "Waaait. Don't look in the wardrobe. Or the laundry basket. Or that pile. Aargh, never mind! It's not in my room! Just go away!"
We couldn't find it anywhere in the house.
"Looks like we'll have to go outside," I reasoned. Joanna sighed and climbed into her white platform shoes. I put on my more sensible black leather sandals.
We flashed the torch around the newly-tamed backyard. As we yanked open the shed, Julian said pleasantly, "Be careful of spiders." Shriek.
At some point, the bottom of my right foot was bitten by an insect and swelled up so that it felt like I was walking on a mini yoga ball.
We stomped through the house and exploded out into the front yard. Flash, flash, flash. Where was that face?
"There it is!!" I pointed at the lawn. A giant classic smiley face had been trampled into the grass. It was the cutest crop circle ever to be seen. The Intrepid Trio had done it!
Thara emerged from the house like a Grand Master of Ceremonies.
"Congratulations," he intoned. "You have found the Happy Face. You can now choose any prize and it shall be yours."
"Group conference!" The three of us huddled and whispered for thirty seconds. Then we turned around.
"Your laptop!"
"Oh, come on guys! No!"
"One of your housemate's paintings. The one worth $2000."
"Something I can actually give you, puh-leeze!"
....[thinking]...[thinking]...
"A packet of Tim Tams that never runs out!"
Thara finally revealed his own Happy Face. He marched into the house, opened the fridge, pulled out the last packet of Tim Tams and flung it towards us.
Mmm, Tia Maria...
I am lonely in anticipation of feeling lonely next year.
The world changes a bit next year. I start full time work and will make new friends. I'm not worried about making friends; it's losing old ones that makes me sad in anticipation of being sad.
Next year, two of my closest friends are going overseas for a long time. Kate will be working elsewhere. My other close friends are still at university, living in the uni world while I'm acclimatising to the working adult world. I find this much scarier than going from high school to university.
Another Suitcase in Another Hall from Evita, Andrew Lloyd Webber
So what happens now?I will be very busy next year -- working, hip hop, tutoring... Maybe I'll be too busy to feel any lack.
(Another suitcase in another hall)
So what happens now?
(Take your picture off another wall)
Where am I going to?
(You'll get by, you always have before)
Where am I going to?
The Annual Work Filing Festival is complete. I'm really excited about the idea of getting an inbox for my room. You know, those document trays that you can stack on top of each other. I'll label one 'Urgent', another 'Less Urgent', then maybe 'Ancient History'. I love storage solutions! (This explains why I can wander around for hours in Ikea and Officworks.)
Recently, I've spent time examining other people's bedrooms. You can learn a lot about people's interests, activities and personalities from their bedrooms. In fact, I wrote about this for a Year 10 English folio piece. It was 'The Great Bedroom Theory'.
Maybe I will create a bedroom meme.
| Dominant colour | Pink (not my fault but too lazy to repaint)
|
| Floor | Carpet, peachish
|
| Ceiling | White. Hanging light of pathetic wattage.
|
| Bed | Single
|
| Other furniture | Huge wooden desk, polished and stained my me and dad
No chairs (I don't actually study in my room) A step ladder, so that I can reach the top shelves of my wardrobe Small bookcase Chest of drawers CD player |
| Wardrobe | Built into the wall, sliding mirror doors
|
| On my walls | Maps
Framed photos of lightning Collage of high school photos Black and white photo of me in period dress Windchimes |
| On my bookshelf | Non-fiction books about environmentalism, economics, skating, food and restaurants, engineering
Hardly any fiction -- some fantasy and science-fiction Lots of humour -- the Far Side, Worst Case Scenario Handbook |
| Music | Film soundtracks
Dance music Many burned CDs |
| State | Right now, neat and organised.
Usually, clothes hung around everywhere, piles of paper on the desk. |
I spent the day yesterday helping out on the final day of maths camp. It is a ten day camp for 25 of the brightest Year 10s and 11s in the country. The training helps them with competitions like the International Maths Olympiad.
Damjan takes lectures and runs many maths competitions. I often get 'volunteered' to help with marking and gofering. Hanging out with hyper, talented, geeky young people is fun, although I spend all my time feeling intellectually inadequate. For example, during one problem session, the teams of juniors solved up to 22 problems. I managed three, and that's with the help of one of the lecturers.
That's okay, though. I am quite proud of the small works that I am able to do. I like to think that with (much more) training, I might be good at maths problem solving too. Not necessarily, though. I've had many years of music training and I still wouldn't call myself a musician. I believe my brother, who was far more slack about his music, is more musically gifted than I am.
I have now gathered around myself a group of friends who have had special training in maths, sports and music. They've been to camps, international competitions, particpated in musical productions... and they rave about how fantastic it all was. I look back on my high school days and can't find any equivalent achievement. I didn't devote myself to a particular goal. Instead, I flitted between public speaking, debating, music and dancing. I didn't "own" any of these. My achievements and enjoyment of these feel small compared to the highs people experienced from science camps and music concerts. I often think I missed out on life-changing experiences.
Oh, I didn't fail at being a teenager. I loved high school and I know there are people out there who did far less than I did. Even if I did 'miss out', I'm making up for it with the fun I'm having now.
I will content myself with being a Joan of all trades, master of none.
Addendum at 17 December 2004 12:24 AM: Helping out at maths camp was nothing but fun because I got to use a phat camera and gave out junk food and people loved me.
We tried to go swing dancing yesterday. We showed up to a the venue and it was dark. Hmm, they must have closed for the summer.
Instead of wasting time looking sheepish, we shrugged, thought of the $18 we had just saved and went for a walk at the beach. It was nice. Windy. Good sunset.
Today, I get to play at maths camp!
We were at that wonderful park that I described on National Picnic Day. It was a mini-reunion for my high school friends. There were about fifteen of us sprawled over my picnic rug, eating miscellaneous food and chatting.
About 100 metres from our picnic, a group had set up a large white marquee. It looked like a corporate function -- who else could afford to hire caterers and a jumping castle? It looked like great fun. Adults and kids teamed up to play tug-o-war, three-legged races and egg-in-spoon races.
"Oh, look!" Gurpreet exclaimed. "They're going to have a sack race!"
We watched as the kids grabbed their sacks and hopped in.
"I wonder if you have to hop in the sack or if you can walk?" Gurpreet mused.
A parent waved a flag and the race began. Kids clutched onto their bags and bounced towards the finish line. Suddenly, one boy zoomed ahead of the struggling pack. I was amazed. How could he go so fast?
We looked down and saw his little feet propelling him from under the sack. That wasn't a sack! The boy had wrapped hessian around his waist and was running towards the finish line!
Have you seen the 1992 movie, Strictly Ballroom? It's a mockumentary about the cat-fighting, gossip and egos that dominate the dancesport scene.
He stole his partner from Anton, you know.Perhaps you thought it was over the top. I'm not a competitive ballroom or Latin dancer but I've seen the same bitchiness in the theatrical dance scene.
That's the same dress as last competition...
Ha! How can you do a fan in samba?
It's heel, ball, toe-flat, ONE eh ah ay, TWO eh HOLD ay! Duh!
Whoa, she's really let herself go since you know what.
Doesn't she know that she's meant to rub in that fake tan?
Hey! That collision was deliberate!
That's not hip hop, that's jazz! Why don't these people enter the right event?Why the negativity? I'm sure it's because at competitions we have to wait around for hours and hours between events. And when you're bored, surrounded by people with whom you share only one common interest (dancing) and it's competitive, what else are you going to talk about?
Those costumes are a bit raunchy for 12 year olds, aren't they?
That's the fourth time I've seen that item. BORING.
She's Louisa's arch rival.
They are so not under thirteen. That team should be disqualified!
That song is awful, what were they thinking?
In Jason's absence, I seem to have taken his place. I come home late and hop on the computer. I chat to friends on MSN/ICQ/IRC.
My parents might be confused. Maybe I should turn back into Joan now! ;)
I have been introduced to two new terms that I like very much.
Conversation Initiators are people who feel comfortable in propelling conversations by asking questions and introducing new topics.
Conversation Reactors enjoy providing thoughtful replies to questions and extending existing topics.
An ideal situation occurs when an Initiator and Reactor are conversing while wandering around aimlessly. Amazing conversations abound when you have two Initiators on a driving trip together. However, if you have two Reactors together (especially on the phone), you run the risk of awkward silences unless the two people are close friends.
Interestingly, there is a continuum with Reactor at one end and Initiator on the other. If a Conversation Reactor (let's call her Magnolia) finds herself with with Jacaranda, who is even more Reactor-like, then Magnolia may feel obligated to take on the Initiator's role. As this does not come naturally to Magnolia, it may all become extremely stressful. How can you concentrate on meaningful conversation when you are scrambling to think of the next topic before this one dies its natural death?
If Magnolia is a sensitive soul, she will feel even more distressed because she feels that she is overwhelming Jacaranda with meaningless waffle. These feelings are not limited to Reactors. I would classify myself as a Conversation Initiator. I have often suffered anti-Joanness because I feel like I am imposing on more Reactory-type people (other bouts of anti-Joan are triggered by me being stupid).
I have been wondering whether or not Conversation Initiators also have Reactor skills of listening. The verdict is: not necessarily. Don't we all know people who steamroll through conversations?
I think that most people have a natural tendency towards being Reactors or Initiators (and it varies with company). It is useful and desirable to have both skills and this is largely learned through experience. I hope I have achieved some balance between the two facets.
It would be interesting to find out:
I had a very vivid, logical and consistent dream last night.
Our spaceship was crash landing into an unchartered planet. I remember the ship free falling through the atmosphere. When it came closer to the planet's surface, we found that the planet was magnetic and the ship was pulled in. As we stepped out of the ship, our steel boots were attracted to the ground too.
Some natives of the planet came out to meet us. They looked human and spoke English. They were very friendly and invited us to settle into the population. When we said that we would try to get back to our planet, they looked doubtful. We compared star charts and calculated that Earth was many light years away. So we agreed to stay for the time being.
The planet was highly developed, with no unmodified ecosystems. I remember Kate, one of my fellow astronauts, was despondent because as an environmental engineer, there was no career for her on this planet.
There was only one patch of nature left -- a grassy pasture, which was the focus of an annual festival. We had landed just as the festival was beginning. The festival included markets, shows and competitions. One of the major events was a dance competition. I wandered around the carnival stalls, watching people practice for the dance competition. Most people were doing variations of break dancing, hip hop and jazz dance.
In the middle of it all, I heard the familiar strains of Britney Spears's "Oops! I did it again." I followed the sounds and saw a young brunette on stage singing the pop song. I knew that this could not be possible -- we were an alien planet! I read the advertising on the stage and discovered that Britney Spears's record company had somehow found its way to this planet and was manufacturing pop stars in the way it knows best. It was a comforting familiarity.
I watched three particular boys doing break dancing. They noticed me watching.
Later, everyone was gathered in a big hall, much like an Olympic gymnasium. The call for dance competition entries came over the broadcast system. What the hell, I thought, Might as well enter. I walked up to the registration booth. When the lady asked for the entry fee, I bit my lip and pulled out some Australian dollars.
I'm sorry, she said apologetically. Our money doesn't look like that.
I was about to walk away when one of the break dancers I was watching before (the one in the red tank top) came up beside me and offered some silver coins to pay for my entry fee. I smiled gratefully. These aliens were all so nice!
I walked back to the stands with my new friend.
My dream ended before the competition began. Darn, eh.
I feel lost.
There are many things I could be doing but I don't want to do them. It's not that they're boring tasks but they don't fill this vacuum.
It could possibly be loneliness except that's silly. I just spent yesterday with some of my favourite people. This morning, I was in a whirlwind of hip hop exams. I've also been helping my parents cook dinner.
But it sure does feel like a mild case of loneliness. This is why I feel the urge to blog even though I have nothing to say. Blogging is a loneliness alleviating agent.
Today was one of those good random days I often have. James, Vera and I drove about an hour out of Melbourne to check out a camp facility. We're organising a dance camp for two university dance clubs. I'm fairly sure this is the first time our clubs have ever done this so it is an exciting, groundbreaking venture.
We're all extremely impressed. The camp is luxurious compared to what both clubs are used to. The rooms have ensuite bathrooms, the grounds are green and well-maintained, there's a campfire site, trampolines and a flying fox.
What sealed the deal for us was the recreation hall. As soon as we walked in, Vera emitted a squeak of pleasure. I nodded appreciatively. James sort of raised his eyebrows and smiled. The hall was paved in something even better than gold -- shiny polished wooden floorboards. A most perfect dancing space. No longer would we have to settle for cramped rooms, rough wooden planks or even concrete. It was like we had died and gone to heaven.
Oh, we were willing to pay a premium for such glorious facilities. Amazingly, though, the price we are being asked for is much less than at our old camps. There is no cloud to this silver lining. Let us all slap each other on the back in a hearty, congratulatory manner!
I am extremely happy. I have the results for my final semester of engineering. Our university usually SMSes the results to us. I do well so it's always a nice surprise when my phone goes "da da da da da da dum", I check and look, results! Of course, many of my friends don't do as well so they don't enjoy the text messages as much as I do.
It's is a gimmick, of course. There's nothing at all difficult about checking your results on the internet. Imagine when people used to have to wait for snail mail! The internet is lightning in comparison. Text messages are just overkill. But this is coming from a person who paid $900 for a PDA, which does the job of a $10 diary.
Our beloved university educators are currently on strike. They refuse to release results by text message. In fact, they sent me a text message to tell me this. "Please check your e-mail," they texted. Well. I'm glad I'm not paying for this completely unnecessary service (at least not directly)!
At the risk of alienating all the normal people who read my blog, I will tell you why I am happy. I got five high distinctions this semester. This means that I have made it through the Bachelor of Environmental Engineering with straight HDs. (I have gotten distinctions before but had them transferred to my Chinese diploma. Good thing too, don't want nasty distinctions blemishing my record!)
I really, really expected to get at least two distinctions this semester.
"Hey, I reckon I'll get some distinctions this semester!"I enjoy boggling people.
"Really? That's good."
"No..."
(pause while thinking) "You mean, it's bad? You've never gotten lower than a high distinction??"
"Teehee."
Oh, oh, this is so exciting. I'm having a five-way conversation with friends over MSN. We're even slipping some business in between the fun. I can't believe I ever mocked instant messaging.
Other things that have made me happy this evening:
Kate called me yesterday morning and we arranged to go to Queen Victoria Market. This is unusually spontaneous for me. I normally plan my outings at least a day in advance, however summer holidays have brought out the Wild Teenager in me :)
I didn't intend to buy anything. When I am confronted with many choices, I often become overwhelmed and retreat into my hold-money-tightly shell. That's why I'm not much of a shopper. Yesterday, though, the Wild Teenager made me buy:
Source: Grist weekly digest 23 November 2004
ON YOUR MARK, GET SET, KYOTO!
Kyoto gets a kick-off date
After nearly seven years of doubt and often rancorous debate, the Kyoto Protocol has an official start date: Feb. 16, 2005, at which point the treaty will become binding. The 90-day countdown period began last week, thanks to the handover of official documents from Russia to the U.N. at a ceremony in Nairobi, declaring its ratification. Only four industrialized countries now remain outside the treaty: the U.S., Australia, and global powerhouses Liechtenstein and Monaco. The U.S. bailed on the treaty shortly after George W. Bush came to office in 2001, claiming it represented too great a burden on the economy, and that it was unfair, imposing specific targets only on developed countries and not on rapidly developing (and polluting) countries like China and India. Despite U.S. intransigence, many U.S. companies are pushing to meet Kyoto targets anyway, leery of losing their ability to operate factories in signatory countries.
Straight to the source at Terra Daily, Agence France-Presse, 18 Nov 2004
You know what makes it all worthwhile?
When you steal students from other teachers.
It's not competitive, really, but how can I not feel a bit satisfied when students attend my class to make up a missed lesson and decide to stay?
"Okay everyone! I worked you hard today -- good job! I'll see you all next week. New people, come talk to me before you leave."
(People mingle, gather up their jumpers and drink bottles. "Bye Joan! Bye Joan!")
"So, how did you find it?"
"Yeah, it was good!"
"I really like the music."
"Good, good. What about the pace? Was it too fast? Too slow?"
"It was about right. A bit fast in parts."
"Don't worry, after a few lessons, your brain will adapt and you'll start absorbing moves much better. It's part of the dance training. In the mean time, I'll slow down a little. How's that?"
Nods.
"What about you two? You're not beginners. I've seen you in Monica's class before. How was that compared to Monica?"
"Waay better!"
"Yeah, I liked it a lot."
"It's because I don't make you do sit-ups, right? I've heard about her sit-ups."
Laughs.
"We'll be back next week, definitely. Seeya Joan!"
"Bye, guys!"
*soft snicker*
There were five of us in the car, on our way to a party. It seemed like a good time to introduce a groundbreaking social theory.
The vast generalisation was this.
In general, women experience more guilt than men. They feel guilty about breaking rules, neglecting duties, disloyal thoughts... Men don't usually suffer in this way. Any feelings of disquiet and self-disgust are fleeting.
Women will share their guilt and commiserate with each other. In this way, guilt is passed on like hot potatoes (or neutrons from uranium-235). Eventually, the guilt is passed to a man and he will absorb it. Hooray, the chain reaction has been halted!
Conclusion: Men are the control rods of society. Without them, society will dissolve into a blubbering mass of guilt and self-recrimination.
Blogging during holidays is much more difficult than I expected -- too many parties and dance events are cramping my style :)
Yesterday, I danced almost non-stop at a Christmas dance social. It was very, very fun. The quality of leads (male dancers usually, not always) makes me feel like a kid in a candy store (oh dear, am I going to regret writing that?) The only downer was I didn't road test my skirt before going out dancing. It flew up too high so I had to hold back on my favourite swing spins. I'm not an exhibitionist! Not that type, anyway.
At midnight, we showed up at a 21st party. Good food, good company. I recoiled at my first taste of whisky. It was awful.
At 3 AM, I tugged on Damjan and asked to go home (thanks for driving, James). I was worried because I had to teach piano at 9 AM then dance all day at a competition. I am non-functional on less than six hours of sleep.
It's worked out all right, though. This morning as I was eating breakfast, my piano student's mum called and cancelled the lesson.
"Sorry for the very late notice, Joan. Joanne's just woken up with gastroenteritis. I don't think we can have our lesson today."
"That's okay." I could barely contain my excitement. I happily slurped up my muesli and went back to bed.
Today, the company I will be working for next year held an introduction session for its graduate employees. There were 25 of us, chosen from more than 500 applicants. I felt pretty special.
It is an international engineering consultancy based in Australia and wholly owned by its employees. Sustainable development is incorporated in its core work. The people are intelligent, good-humoured and friendly. The work environment is bright, modern and open. We employees get paid to do interesting, varied and important work. For example, the company does environmental clean-up in the Pacific Islands. It developed a transportation strategy for Beijing. It did the groundwork for the Melbourne Commonwealth Games Village. It is contributing to the architectural redevelopment of Melbourne University. Hey, while I was working there last summer I wrote the first draft of Western Australia's new environmental risk assessment policy! It's exciting being part of something big like this.
I can't imagine anything better, really. I feel very lucky to have this job.
I'm even luckier because I get another two months holiday before I start work :)
Yesterday, the whole family was helping my brother finalise his packing. Three months of supplies had to fit into two suitcases.
"I think that's it," Jason said finally as we zipped up the big bag.
"Let's see how much it weighs." Dad went to the bathroom to get the scales. We watched as the dial swung wildly, then slowly oscillated to a stop.
"27 kilograms," I reported. "Jason, what's the weight limit?"
"30 kilograms," he said, his eyes still on the dial. He had an odd look on his face. Abruptly, he left the room. I looked at dad. Where was he going?
Jason came back carrying his little blanket. "I'm taking Blankie," he announced.
Mum gasped. "Don't be silly! Everyone will laugh at you!" He shrugged, unzipped the bag again and carefully folded the well-worn blanket on top of his suit.
"Jason, it's more dangerous to take Blankie overseas than to leave it here," I warned.
"I know," he said patiently. "But I want it there when I'm in San Francisco." He sounded quite determined. This was the little blanket that I had used when I was a baby. Jason inherited it when he was born and it has been with him almost every night since.
When the bag was secured, only the barest bulge at the side hinted at its precious cargo. We all stood back and nodded in satisfaction. It was done.
My brother Jason has started a blog to record his adventures as a computer science intern in San Francisco. You can find it at http://jaseko.blogspot.com.
I just saw an odd thing. I came home late. The streets were dark and still. Suddenly, there was a middle-aged tubby man running uphill past our court. It was not a jogging pace -- he was running like his life depended on it. We live on a fairly extreme sort of hill. It's not a hill that you can recreationally sprint up.
I waited, expecting him to be followed by knife-wielding bandits. But nothing.
"Joan, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, Megan."
"Could we use your house on Sunday? I'd like to organise a picnic, then afterward gather at your house so we can dance in your big rumpus room."
(long pause)
(cautiously) "Um... Am I invited?"
(incredulously) "Of course!" (like, duh)
(phew!) "Okay then!"
There is a huge park near my house. It has rolling grass hills, trees, a lake, well-maintained walking and riding tracks, picnic tables, barbecues, and is home to all sorts of wildlife. It's a perfect place for a picnic on a sunny Sunday afternoon. In high spirits, the five of us piled into Vera's car and drove to the park.
As we drove through the park entrance, we laughed because the gate was plastered with signs -- "Tiger's 8th birthday picnic this way" and so on. We trundled along towards the carpark and were amazed at the number of people who had set up camp. Some of the picnics looked like full military operations, with specialist chairs and regulation-issue picnic rugs. Smoke rose from dozens of barbecues dotting the landscape.
"I've never seen the park so full before!"
"Will we find a space?"
"Don't worry this park is huge. We'll drive a bit further."
We drove by another picnic, another BBQ, a group of kids playing frisbee, three people racing each other on scooters, a cricket game, a soccer match, a massive white marquee, a jumping castle...
"SHEESH, this is ridiculous! It's not even like this during Carols by Candlelight!"
Unbelievably, the further into the park we drove, the more crowded it became. Cars overflowed the marked parking spaces and were double parked. There was no way we could find a space.
"What are we going to do?"
We looked at each other helplessly.
"Give me the map," I said finally. "It's time to randomly find another park."
Ten minutes later, we found ourselves picnicking on the perfectly manicured lawns at the art gallery. The people sipping cappuccinos in the gallery cafe probably thought we were weird.
Haha, tough luck you artsy people. You don't get no wontons.
On November 1st, I wrote a short story on this blog called 'Taking it for granted'. It was about an unnamed woman in the middle of perhaps dying in a car accident. Between moments, though, she is transported into a blank world and someone we might assume to be God winds back the clock for her.
The crux of the story is this: Everyone has three chances to hit CTRL-Z on their life. If you wish for it passionately enough, then you appear before God (or someone I imagine is like the Architect from The Matrix) and he gives you a choice. "Do you want to use one of your lifelines to undo this episode of your life?"
Whatever you decide, all memory of this decision is wiped. You continue your life, oblivious, taking for granted all the goodness that you had almost lost. However, the memories return the next time your desperation drives you before God. You end up with a catalogue of situations that show very clearly what you consider to be important in your life. The irony is, of course, that back in your earthly existence you have no opportunity to use this incredible self-understanding.
The most boggling thing to contemplate is, "How would you use your lifelines if you knew you only had three?" So you say something devastating and hurtful to your friend. Would you take it back? You accidentally set the house on fire. Would you take it back? You lose your mother's most beloved heirloom necklace. Would you take it back? Someone discovers that you cheated in your Year 12 exam. Would you take it back?
In my story, the woman chose to use her lifelines on her career dreams, love and survival. Those are the most important things I can think of. But even then, unless you were dying, how could you be sure? Is he the one for you? Maybe you were never meant to be a doctor.
And then to die, go to Heaven (or wherever) and realise that you didn't use any of your lifelines because you had held onto them too tightly. Or to spend your last one, burdened with the realisation that you had squandered the other two.
Well. That's a lot of philosophy to pack into a 213 word story. The story is not as random as you may think. I've been telling myself this story for about three years. I tell it every time I feel like something terrible has happened. Three years ago, I was in a car accident. I was extremely shaken and upset, angry that I had lost my car, angry at my stupidity. People say, "It could have been worse." Maybe it was. Maybe until I used up one of my lifelines, the accident had left me a quadriplegic. And maybe it was important enough for me to use one of my precious chances. I remind myself not to take my good life for granted.
"What's the difference between geek and nerd?" Vera muses.
It is a subject that is reconsidered every year.
"Oh, there's definitely a difference," Megan assures her.
"Yeah, well, Damjan told me off once for calling him a geek. 'I'm not a geek! I'm a nerd. Get it right!' "
"Well," I say, "I'm a square."
"What's a square?"
"Someone who's a bit old-fashioned, follows the rules. Is a bit conservative, always punctual..." I do a double-take.
"That doesn't sound like you, Joan..." Vera says doubtfully.
"Yeah. Are you sure, Joan?"
"Goodness." I am flabbergasted. "I'm not like that anymore!"
"Did you call yourself a square in high school?"
"I used to be... Golly, I've changed!"
I used to be scared of escalators. It was the whole "Oh, no not again! Be careful... Timing, timing, step on it...now! Aargh, missed it!" thing. As a six-year-old, shopping trips were terrifying.
I did, however, love travelators.
Yesterday I received 18 e-mails. I sent 15.
My brother complains that I'm obsessed with my e-mail. I tell him, "I like my e-mail like you like your MSN and ICQ." It's quite true. I often have conversations with people over e-mail, exchanging two sentences at a time. This means that I will send an e-mail, leave for ten or fifteen minutes (to eat, to dance, to tidy my room) then check if I have any new e-mails. Frightfully inefficient. Why don't I just login to ICQ?
I don't know. I guess I hate the inane conversations people seem to have over Messenger/ICQ.
SupI suppose you could have the same pointless, uncrafted conversations by e-mail. Maybe it depends on the person.
nothin. Whatcha doin
Waiting for my towel to dry. then Ill go have a shwer
cool
Wanna see taxi tomoz
yeah...hear its ok
k
This morning, I walked on a trail that I haven't visited in perhaps a year. It's a windy bush track, quite narrow and runs alongside a large creek (or stream, if you'd prefer). It's been raining heavily these past few days so while I was walking, some of my brainpower was devoted to navigating around puddles, over fallen trees and smelling the freshly upturned earth. Something smelled wonderful, like fruit and flowers.
After a while, I noticed that all the long grasses were lying flat and parallel. Being the hydrologist that I am, I quickly deduced that the grasses had been flattened by water rushing over them. My eyes followed the direction the grass was pointing and sure enough, all grasses led to the lowest drainage line. Even as the path turned and twisted, the grasses and fallen branches all aligned themselves toward the creek. It was fantastic. Nature had drawn its own velocity vectors.
At uni, I often struggled with drawing streamlines over a map ("Must be perpendicular to the equipotential lines, must be parallel, create even squares, consider boundary conditions...") but here they were all were, displayed for the world to see -- and surely 100% correct. If my flownets don't match up with Nature's, well, guess who got it wrong?
I finally emerged from the track and reached the bridge over the creek. Normally, as you approach the creek you are welcomed by a quiet roar of water rushing over rocks and into the banks. Sometimes though, like today, you can hear no water. It is dead quiet. This doesn't mean the creek is dry; even the smallest trickle will make itself heard. It is actually the opposite -- the creek is so full that the slow deep water serenely sails over obstructions.
Whenever my mum and I come across the creek in its fullness, she tells me, "A half full barrel makes the most noise." This is one of my favourite Chinese proverbs. Can you guess what it means?
It means that of the people you meet, the most boastful, most ostentatious often feel the most inadequate inside.
I only started going to the symphony, ballet and opera two years ago. Before tonight, I felt like an amateur. That is, I only began clapping when everyone else clapped. Oh, the shame if one should accidentally clap between movements!
Today, however, I graduated to Audience Snobbery. I went to see the Guangzhou Ballet perform at the Regent Theatre. The ballet was generally good, some very nice bits but that is not the point of this account.
The point is this -- It was the most terrible audience that I have ever had to suffer. Obviously, the people there were mostly first-timers. Shocking. And it wasn't even that they clapped in the wrong places. There were children all over the place and they kept running around and bouncing on their booster cushions. People crackled open plastic-wrapped snacks. Crackle, crackle, crackle, it was awful. And there were people sitting in front of me and they stretched their arms right into the air during the performance. The nerve! The rudeness of it! Coughing, murmuring, people wandering around playing God knows musical chairs, others waving around glaring white mobile phone screens, it was all there.
The last straw was when two little girls behind me started counting the ballerinas coming onto the stage. "One, two... There's another one. Fifteen. Oooh, sixteen, eighteennineteen... No, no, it's eighteen! Another three... That makes, um, um, twenty-one..." I could not endure it any longer so I turn around. "Excuse me, could you please be quiet?"
Waven, sitting beside me, sighed in relief and nodded her approval.
During the interval, Jon started laughing. "This is so not a ballet audience. It feels more like a sports match. Every time the dancers do something that looks a bit tricky, people cheer and woohoo! You'd never get that at the Australian Ballet. I keep expecting someone to yell, 'YEAH! You go, girl!' Ahahaha... So not a ballet audience."
*roll eyes* Too right. Clueless. Absolutely clueless.
Signed,
Ms. Joan
BEnvEng, DipLang(Chinese), BSnob
It's a sunny and warm! I'm going to the beach now. I'm wearing my favourite pants. They're bright yellow. One day, I will get matching shoes and I can walk around singing, "I'm walking on sunshine...Whoooa!"
Meng sent me an email directly related to yesterday's post.
Read full post.
hey,
I was doing house keeping.
guess what. I found the notes from psy, on the wingmen theory,here it is.. u might find it a good laugh. brings back old memory, when I was a young and crazy psyco-engineer :)
PSY1022 - Psychology B
this is a mission
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to go out with your friends and meet new female acquaintances to add to your repertoire of potential "friends."
Of course, by the end of the night, you are a few hundred dollars poorer, you've accelerated your own liver failure (from all the alcohol you drank), your lungs are a shade darker, and you still didn't get to escort that beautiful woman back to her place (you didn't even get her number). It's another familiar failed Saturday night.
Maybe it's time to reconsider your whole pickup strategy. If it hasn't worked for you and your friends in the past, then it's time to try a new strategy: The Player's Strategy.
the wall
In general, most men fail to meet women for 2 reasons:
the first problem is that they travel in packs but go on the hunt solo. What do I mean by this? When it concerns meeting women, men tend to separate from the squadron to wander helplessly towards the female pack, only to hit a wall and be shot down and humiliated.
The second factor that adds to the squadron failure is the pathetic expectation that "if I stand around long enough, maybe something will happen." Most men will sit or stand around all night holding a beer, and watch women dance without doing anything. At the end of the night, they're disappointed because they did not meet any women.
Of course not. In order to meet women, you have to approach them and start a conversation. If you can't talk because the music is too loud, then invite them to dance with you.
The only way to actually meet women in nightclubs is to follow the ways of jet fighter pilots. Men have to learn to fight in squadrons. By sticking together, we increase our chances of having a Successful Pickup Saturday Night (SPSN).
social group structure
Look into the eyes of a pilot. In his stare you will see, among other things, great intelligence. It is precisely this intelligence that makes the fighter a great pilot. When pilots fight, the members of the squad gather together. Survival depends on cooperation. Each member works to care for, defend and protect his fellow members.
This is the same attitude that men must adopt. By working together, we can accomplish a lot more than if we continue to hunt solitarily. In order to achieve these goals, there are specific roles that one must take on. When hunting, you have to prepare yourself according to 3 main roles: the Kamikaze Pilot, the Wing Commander and the Wingman.
the kamikaze pilot
The Kamikaze Pilot has a girlfriend, is engaged or is already married. His main duty is to initiate the "seek-and-attract" plan. Because he is already dating, he won't care if he gets shot down. He will also convey more confidence, and women will be more attracted to him.
These people have nothing to lose. To them, flying kamikaze is "just talking." The key here is having them save the "I have a wife/girlfriend" part for the end of the conversation.
the wing commander
The Wing Commander engages the primary target. Anyone can be a Wing Commander. In order to become one, you simply have to spot a woman that you are interested in and get the squadron ready for action.
the wingmen
The Wingmen serve as decoys; they take one for the team, engage the secondary target, and jump on the grenade and generally keep someone else occupied while the Wing Commander engages the primary target. The best suited wingmen are:
# Good-looking friends who don't know they're hot. But be careful, these are the wingmen that can accidentally blow you right out of the sky.
# Ugly friends are perfect for the mission. They are fun and cool but lost the lottery on looks.
However, it is better to have no wingmen at all than bad wingmen. The type of people that make bad wingmen are:
# The drunk guys -- they will usually crash and burn, and nip your wings on their way down. Instead of backing you up, they'll give all your naughty secrets away.
# The boring geeks -- There is nothing worse than having to turn around and bail out your own wingmen.
the opposite sex
Attractive women seek out attractive female friends, but to make themselves feel even more attractive, there is always one member of the group that is not as hot. The hitch? The attractive members of the group require that if men approach them, they have to find a match for the least attractive friend as well. The following best describes the female targets:
# The Girl-goyle: The least attractive member of the female group. The target that the Kamikaze Pilot seeks out and destroys.
# The Primary Target: Usually the best-looking female of the group. She is the one whom the Wing Commander seeks to "engage" in combat.
# The Secondary Target: Known as "Bogeys," but also known as the "friend that drove us here," the "we have to get up early" girl, the "we have to leave now" girl, or finally, the "if you think you're going home with her, you're sadly mistaken" girl. These girls range in beauty from hot and sweet, to average looking. These Bogey Pilots are engaged by the Wingmen.
rules of engagement
As I mentioned before, the first thing you have to do is be aggressive. Don't just stand around and wait for something to happen because it never will. As soon as you enter the dance club, you have to seek out your primary target. Once you've located her, it's time to spring into action.
The first move you must make is to gather your squadron together. Because you located your woman first, you become the Wing Commander. The next step is for the Kamikaze Pilot to move in and start a conversation with the Girl-goyle of the group. The purpose of this step is to infiltrate and set up contact with the female group. If no Kamikaze Pilot is available, then one of the Wingmen has to act as the Kamikaze Pilot (chosen by drawing straws prior to entering the club).
Having the Kamikaze Pilot (single or married guy) talk to the least attractive girl serves 2 purposes; the first is to eliminate her by sacrificing himself to a conversation with her for the whole night (she does not know that he is married or dating). The second purpose of talking to the least attractive friend is so that the prettier friends won't have to be so concerned with finding the Girl-goyle friend a match.
You see, most women avoid talking to men because they feel guilty about leaving their least good-looking friend by themselves -- the Kamikaze Pilot takes care of that.
Once the Kamikaze Pilot is properly introduced to the female group, it is time for the Wing Commander to spring into action. His role is to walk by the Kamikaze Pilot and let the Kamikaze Pilot introduce him to the gang. The Kamikaze will first introduce the Wing Commander to the primary target, and then to the other friends. After greeting all of the friends, the Wing Commander shows his interest by talking back to the primary target.
The legendary Wingmen wait in the shadows of the club. They always appear on cue and rarely fail at their assigned duties. The Wingmen move once they observe that the secondary targets are showing signs of impatience, or even try to interrupt the Wing Commander. The Wingmen's job is to keep the secondary targets distracted.
Sometimes, the Wingmen have to take more than one secondary target at a time. You can never predict how the mission will turn out. Sometimes the Wingmen do better than the Wing Commander. Sometimes, the Wing Commander gets shot down. Other times, your wingers get shot down and you have to abort the mission because you blew your cover.
There is one important code that is followed by all members of the squadron: If the Wing Commander panics and is too afraid to continue his mission, then the fastest Wingman takes over as the Wing Commander. This is done to keep the squadron alive by encouraging the Wing Commander to fulfill his duties.
enjoy the moment
The next time you go out with your friends, change things around and make things a little more fun. Instead of just standing around with a beer in your hands, play a game and make the whole experience fun. But remember: united we stand, divided we fall.
"Joan, I feel sorry for some of my electrical eng friends, you know." Meng shakes his head.
"Why, Meng?"
"Well, some of them went from boys high schools straight into electrical engineering -- and it's like going into another boys school. I'm all right because I do psychology as well but a lot of my friends are really scared of girls! Like, when a girl comes up and asks for help with a problem, they'd get all confused and shy."
"That's no good, Meng. They should join dancesport."
"Nah, they're not sociable, like me. Because I do psychology and all, they like to ask me for help. Have you heard of the Wingman Theory?"
"No..."
"In first year, one of my friends really liked a girl but it was hard for him to talk to her because she was always surrounded by a gaggle of her girlfriends. So we electrical engineers coordinated a campaign to give him a chance. We planned it! We had a briefing and we modelled our strategy using toy cars. The target girl was a Ferrari, her best friend was the Volkswagon..."
"Hahaha, really?? What happened?"
"Well, we were the Wingmen, you know? As the group of girls walked into the lecture theatre, we swooped. We all took a girl each and drew them away from the target girl, so she ended up walking into the theatre by herself. My friend finally got to talk to her."
"Heehee! That's crazy!"
"Yeah, yeah. We had one of the guys positioned at the top of the lecture theatre to watch the campaign so he could..."
"Report back?"
"Yeah. There was a debriefing afterward." Meng sighs. "It actually didn't work too well. You see, it just looked really weird, this one girl walking into the theatre and then followed by a whole group of people. It just looked weird."
"A learning experience, then?"
"Yeah..."
Yesterday was the first time in a while that my whole family was at home. Let's see what happened...
Mum
Mum watched as I scooped freshly made fruit salad from the big silver bowl to my mug. Mmm, more mango... As soon as I put the lid back, mum whipped the bowl open again and looked at me reproachfully. "Joan, you left a hole in the fruit salad again!"
She picked up the ladle and nudged some watermelon, pear and apple back into the depression.
Dad
"Joan! Have a look at this."
I wandered over to my dad sitting in front of the computer. "What's up, dad?"
"I'm thinking of buying shares in this company. IBA just announced a takeover bid for HCN." He clicked and pulled up a chart. "Look at that!" We both marvelled at the single day vertical rise of HCN's share price. "We've missed the boat on that one, of course, but IBA might still be a good prospect..."
Click, click and we soon had a graph for IBA's six-month performance. "Oh," dad sounded disappointed. "It looks like the price has already risen."
"Dad, you have to think of the future potential, not the past performance. Remember when I bought WOW? You said that if you had seen how much the price had already risen, you would never have bought it. But look how much I've made on it!"
Dad nodded thoughtfully. "That's true. Okay, I'll do some more research." And he happily continued clicking.
Jason
"Joan! Joan! I have an exam tomorrow. Do you have a pencil I can borrow?"
"Yes, take the grey pacer. *Sigh* I've lost my yellow pacer. It's my favourite."
"I'll need an eraser and pacer leads, too."
I handed them over.
"Thanks!" and he dashed back to his room to respond to an ICQ message.
Five minutes later, he came back in with his school bag and a sheepish smile on his face.
"Er, Joan? Remember the last time I had an exam? Well, I borrowed some stuff then."
He laid out the grey pacer, combination pen/pencil eraser and box of HB leads I had just lent him, reached into his bag and pulled out a yellow pacer, my favourite eraser and a box of 2B leads.
I looked at him and started laughing. "All right, Jason. Which set do you want?"
"Um." He compared them critically. "I'll take them both, just in case."
In my description on the right of this blog, I say that I'm a "dancer". I'm wondering how that crept up on me. I've only been a "dancer" for two years. Even though I've done some sort of dancing for more than ten years, it was always an hour here, an hour there -- not enough to define oneself as a dancer, the same way as occasionally painting doesn't make one an artist. It is quite presumptuous of me to even say such a thing because I don't have the strict discipline or special skill of a dancer.
7 to 8 years old - Ballet
When I was seven, I went through what every small girl goes through -- the year of ballet lessons. Some rare individuals never grow out of it (Joanna), some do and then get back into it (Ai), some take the most incredibly roundabout route but somehow get there (Daniel and Fiona). I joined a ballet class after school at my primary school. I gave it up after a year and one performance of the Nutcracker because:
"Welcome, Joan! Before you begin your life, please create your character. You have 30 creation points. Type HELP if you would like to learn more about the attributes."
help"There are six basic attributes that apply to all abilities you develop during life.Strength: ***
Agility: ******
Intelligence: ********
Health: ****
Charm: *******
Wisdom: **
yes"Joan has been created."
Yesterday I
Have you ever played 'The Sims'? A most frustrating game. I don't know how anyone could stand it for very long. Every time I became enthusiastic about achieving a goal, the damned Sim would start waving at me. "Nameyoootratyah! Ainawaroo," which translates into, "I'm hungry/bored/unhappy with my surroundings! I don't want to study cooking."
You stupid Sim! If you don't study, you'll set the kitchen on fire again then we'll have to pay to fix it. We'll never get that new television with 7 fun points. If we just get that television, you'll never be bored again. And then we can start getting somewhere in this game. I think sub-consciously I always thought, "Slacker. If something needs to be done, just do it. Stop whining."
Now to the point of this blog entry -- I think I've become a Sim. I'm lonely! I'm bored! How can I study? Uh-uh. Not doing a thing until I GET SOME FUN.
It's crazy. It's Life imitating Game. Oh. Wait. The Sims is imitating life. It's Life imitating Game imitating Life!
...
Yay! An e-mail from Damjan! *reads voraciously*
Mmm, yeah, that boosted the SOCIAL bar. Now I can now study :)
Even as the shattered glass rushed towards her, even as her every pore and every opening filled with the acridness of burning rubber, she had time to pray. "Oh God, oh God, no, not now. Please, not like this, please, just this once, just this once. I promise, I won't ask again. Oh, God."
And then she had to blink because it was so white and bright. She looked down. She must have been standing on something but as she lifted her eyes, there were no lines to follow -- no perspective, no shadows.
"Hello, again."
She regarded him and replied. "Hello."
"Are you sure this is what you want? It would be the last time."
Suddenly, she remembered that fourteen years ago, she had failed the entrance exam to medical school. A drunken one-night stand five years ago had destroyed her marriage. The bitterness, the guilt, the desperation were as real as the operation she performed this morning and last night's eleventh anniversary dinner with Michael.
"I've... I've asked before."
"Everyone does. Everyone has three chances."
"This is my last one."
"Is it worth it?"
Her mind still echoed with the enormity of screeching and shattering.
"Yes. Take it back."
She glanced up at the mirror, flicked the indicator and turned left.
Disaster! We've almost run out of scrap paper. I thought it'd never happen but I've reached the bottom of the pile, written all over the back of my Year 9 Social Sciences worksheets. Will I endure until the pile is replenished during the Annual Work Filing Festival?
Until then, I am eager to accept all donations of unwanted single-sided scrap paper. Eligible donations include:
Economic Left/Right: -2.50
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -4.92
See my score graphically.
I am an Liberal Leftist, which means that I believe in central planning (to some extent) and the value of the individual. Other Liberal Leftists include Gandhi, the Dalai Lama and Nelson Mandela. Sounds like I'm in good company but I honestly thought I'd be closer to the economic right. I love the elegance of markets! In fact, while studying for my economics exam on Wednesday, I giggle at the witticisms in my economics text book!
I am the opposite of George W. Bush, John Howard and Ariel Sharon, who advocate authoritarianism and deregulated market economies.
I would like to know how you score on the Political Compass. Have a go?
P.S. Ooh! Ooh! Check out where your favourite composers are on the Political Compass!
I went for a walk at around 1:30 this afternoon. On a whim, I asked Jason if he wanted to come. I didn't expect him to say yes. He doesn't often come walking with me or my mum. He had just woken up and his hair was standing up like a cockatoo's crest. But he said yes, hold on, I'll get changed. And I said, okay, it's warm, you'd better wear short sleeves.
So we spent the next hour wandering around our neighbourhood. I live in a nice place for walking. The houses have pretty gardens, there are parks nearby and the footpath goes up and down. The up-and-downness is not so good for skating or riding but it makes for interesting walking.
Jason is on the cusp of making some decisions. I like making decisions. I like to research, weigh up the pros and cons, scenariocise the various options with my vivid imagination. Jason doesn't like decisions as much, especially when he doesn't know what he wants.
He will be going to California at the end of November to work for three months as a computer science intern. He doesn't know what he wants to do after that. His options are:
On Saturday, I ate lots of cake. In a backlash, I decided to go without junk food for as long as I could. None of this "moderation" business; it was cold turkey or nothing.
I resisted Kate's temptations. I withstood mum urging me to eat her newly baked coconut rolls. I ignored the many treats scattered throughout the house. Today, though, my resolution was spectacularly smashed.
I went to a trivia competition at which we were showered with chips, soft drink, chocolate and lollies (aka sweets). I thought, "This is all right. I can handle this. No worries." But then the peanut M&Ms arrived. I love peanut M&Ms. I love them and have them so rarely that I sieze every opportunity to eat them in the expectation that I won't be able to eat them for a long time.
(Some background for you all -- there is no chocolate at my house. Ever. We just don't buy it and that's the way I like it.)
One M&M, two M&M, three M&M, four.
Five M&M, six M&M, seven M&M, more.
Crunch, crunch.
And then it was downhill after that. I ate some chips. I didn't drink any soft drink. I have been off soft drink ever since someone told me eight years ago that every bubble in soft drink destroys one of the alveoli in my lungs.
I will resume my no-junk regime tomorrow. I'm not on a diet, I just find it interesting to test my resolve. I figure some people's weaknesses are cigarettes, gambling, heroin, moisturiser. Mine are peanut M&Ms.
I'm testing out a bracelet. I think it's silver plated but I'm not sure. I will find out soon. The only metals I can wear without a skin reaction are gold and silver. You might say my skin has refined taste but it's also happy to wear plastic jewellery.
I'm feeling a bit down. I've just watched 'The OC' for the first time. So much angst. Marisa pines after Ryan. Teresa dreams of Ryan. Eddie loves Teresa. Ryan doesn't know who he likes. Summer likes Seth. Seth likes Summer... or maybe he likes Anna. And so on. How do I manage to remember these names?
Ah, love. So many things can go wrong. In fact, it's a miracle that anything ever goes right. Think about it. Out of all the people out there in the world, what are the odds that the person you like will like you back? Aren't there some people who are more attractive than others? Doesn't everyone like the intelligent, pleasant, beautiful people? Does that mean the attractive people get the pick of the lot and the dredges of society are stuck with each other?
I don't know. What do you think? Do you look around and see all the "good" people together? Okay, so there's probably more than one definition of "good".
I have a friend who believes in fate and "the one", even though she acknowledges that the belief is full of holes. She thinks that what is meant to be is meant to be, that people fit together.
My idea is quite different. I don't believe that people are meant for each other. I think that people have initial compatabilities, a natural tendency to get along, feed off each other, be attracted to each other. But the initial compatability is not the deciding factor. You can grow into each other. I think of it like two jigsaw pieces. Some pieces will fit well together immediately. Others might have the generally correct shape but in time, you can jiggle the pieces about, nudge the pieces until you get a reasonable fit. It does take more work but the fit might end up being better than if the pieces fit okay in the first place but no work was put into it.
Some consequences of my theory are:
I went to see Damjan, James, Megan perform in a music concert yesterday. I felt proud that I had such talented friends. I was particularly impressed by the Handbell Ensemble. Each person looks after a few bells, representing different notes. No one carries the tune -- it's up to the team as a whole to perform in time. Wow! What concentration required! It was amazing and a lovely sound, too.
After the concert, we went to Brunswick Street and had cakes and savouries. I really enjoy these nights out with friends. They always come to reluctant ends (the nights, I mean, not my friends).
I spent from 12 PM to 9 PM today at our dance concert. It was tiring but very fun. I chatted with friends, danced backstage and outside, was completely psychotically manically silly the whole day. I did six items but the main two were "Ghostbusters" and "Rave". The audienced loved Ghostbusters. We start off backing into the stage, terrified and whimpering but then we jump up, whip around and show our Ghostbusters logo at the back. Everyone LAUGHS. It's awesome (as Ajay would say). We got enthusiastic applause at the end. What a great routine (Hooray Liz!).
Rave was FUN, FUN, FUN. The stage is blacked out. When the *doof* *doof* music starts, we have glow sticks and we punch them into the air in time with the beat. "Doof! Doof! Doof! Hey boy. Doof! Doof! Doof! Hey girl. Doof! Doof! Doof! Superstar DJ. Doof! Doof! Doof! HERE WE GO!" and it's just crazy and sparkly and fast after that. Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Big fish, little fish!
I wore a wig of shiny, colourful tinsel. Attention. Love it.
I was saved from a dreary, productive Friday night of studying by, of all things, a university seminar. The Engineering Faculty had organised for its final year students a two course meal, wine, coffee and chocolate. The premise was that we uncouth engineers would learn the business ettiquette of dining out. Our guru for the evening was Stephen Downes, whose restaurant reviews I read every Tuesday because I've outgrown the Learn section in the Herald Sun.
What a lovely night it was! Surrounded by my friends, I enjoyed a glass of wine and gradually learned how to wrap my wide-eyed unworldly self in layers of cool, capable sophistication. You see, it's the only way we can compete against those French engineers, who are both brilliant and charming.
The evening began with Mr Downes having us visualise our first encounter with the Terror Cocktails. He stood before us, suited up in black with pink camels on his tie.
"Everyone has a drink? Good. First thing's first. How do we hold our glasses?"
I smiled to myself as I stood confidently, my feet thirty centimetres apart, shoulders back. Ha! I had this down pat.
He continued. "We don't do what many women often do, and that is the twee double hand hold of the glass..."
I blinked and slowly dropped my left hand from the glass.
"Which hand do we hold the glass in? ... Our left of course, because people don't like to shake a frosty right hand."
Um. I shifted the glass from my right had to the left.
"And we don't just hang the glass down by our sides. Keep it up at just below your chest."
Utterly deflated, I jerked the glass up from my side. Oh, the uncouthness of me!
As the evening progressed, I learned how to mingle, order appropriately at restaurants, basic table manners and wine matching, the art of table conversation, how to be a good host and put people at ease... 'Twas all brilliant and useful. We all had a good giggle at our artlessness.
By the end of the night, I was satisfied. I'm going to be a Super Woman Powerhouse of the business world! I am armed and ready! I exude savoir vivre!
"At the end of the meal," Mr Downes announced, "Whatever you do, don't refold your napkin. It's not like the restaurant is going to use it again!"
As everyone laughed heartily, I bit my lip, quickly reached over and scrunched the neatly refolded napkin in front of me.
We were lounging around in the sunshine, relieved that the last assignment had been handed in. Horror stories of late nights were shared all round.
Sally related this particular incident:
It's crazy what we go through. I was in the computer lab and saw some poor fellow staring blearily at the screen. He had been there since I walked in two hours ago. Finally, he turned around to his friend and said thickly, "I think it's done."
Sympathetically, I asked, "Wow, how long have you been here?"
He looked at me blankly, then slowly said, "Two days."
I looked at the pile of empty Coke bottles around him and believed it!
I'm alive! And awake too, even with four hours sleep.
I flatter myself in believing that you will be glad to know that all 80+ pages of work turned out acceptably. Gosh, I had a hell of a time printing. I try to do the right thing and print double sided but what a headache. If you have multiple Microsoft Word 'sections', it's virtually impossible to get Word to print the page you want. "Page 2? Which page 2? Oh, I'll just print a random page 2, how about that?"
Yesterday, I had economics until 9 PM, then I planned to rush home to finish my project. As is our custom, it was my turn to drive Kate to her car at the end of the night. We had a nice chat on that two minute trip to the other side of uni, up the three levels of parking, then pulling up next to her car. She started rummaging through her bag for her car keys. Hmm, not there. Time to pull things out of her bag in a steady unpanicked way. Soon everything was on the ground -- still no keys. It's our last resort, but we peek into her car. There they were, dangling in the ignition behind Locked Door Number 1. Aiya.
Kate called RACV for roadside assistance. They said they would be there in ten to thirty minutes. Kate urged me to go home to do my work (uncharacteristically, Kate had finished her project one whole day early!) but you can't leave a girl waiting outside a locked car at 9 PM in the middle of the third storey of a carpark! Of course I stayed. We spent the next twenty minutes walking in clockwise circuits around the carpark. This initially disturbed me out because I'm used to skating and dancing anti-clockwise but being the adaptable person I am, I soon got the hang of it.
The next ten minutes, we spent locked up in my car because some boys drove up and started "loitering".
At 9:30 PM, the yellow mini-truck arrived and the nice RACV man gave Kate and I some tips about breaking into a car. Instead of fiddling with the door lock, the RACV man drove a wedge into the back window frame, popped the glass open, got a curved rod and managed to wind down the window. After that, it was a simple matter of reaching in and opening the back door, then opening the front door and getting the keys out. Hurrah! We were most impressed. But one question remained -- What would he have done if the car had power windows?
Worried. Yesterday, sat down:
Time needed to complete thesis - 20 hours
Time available - 19 hours
...Probably do-able. Not much sleep, though.
Then. Woke up. Turned on computer. Opened file I haven't worked on since Saturday. All work - GONE. GONE. GONE.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH
Frantic. Disbelieving. How can this be happening? Check. GROAN GROAN GROAN.
Come on, Joan. Deal with it. It's done. Just do it. Just do it. Make it BETTER than before.
Okay, okay. Okay. Right.
GROAN.
All right, dealt with it. Start again. Concentrate. Knuckle down.
I've caught up now. Ten hours of work done in four hours. Plans screwed up, though. I'll let you know what happens.
P.S. For those of you interested, it was my own fault. I have a massive worksheet of figures about energy use. It's the basis of my environmental design. I copied it to another worksheet so that I could do statistical analysis on it. I deleted rows, summed things, got rid of irrelevant columns, changed the data order. Then I went back to my original file of data and realised that I had moved not copied the spreadsheet. All the data was gone, hours and hours of research and assumptions. I tried to re-jig an old version of the file (only one day older but so much was missing) but it was too hard to make the figures the same. I ended up having to start again with new assumptions and change all the figures in my report.
My report is fifty pages long now. I reckon there are another thirty to go...
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