The triumph of the bargain hunter (also a lady of leisure)

I realise now that I've been shopping for preggy clothes in the wrong places. The first shops I went to have turned out to be the most expensive so far, and today I found two shops which are far less taxing on my credit card. Best of all, one of those shops has a discount outlet at Dressmart, which means that I found a pair of maternity jeans for twenty five measly dollars. Twenty five measly dollars! Just to give you an indication of how excitingly cheap that is, these jeans are more than one hundred dollars cheaper than the pair I've been wearing up till now. Even the non-discount price was half of what I paid for the ones I've been wearing. This kind of thing always makes me feel such an idiot for not having shopped around in the first place. It's also made me kinda happy to have found the right places to shop.

I think I'm experiencing a form of empty nest syndrome. Now that I'm working three days a week and not studying any more, I have lots more time to do other things. But I spent a whole year being too busy to do anything other than work and study, so I'm really not used to having all this free time. Today I slept in, did the laundry, went shopping for clothes and read blogs. Later I'll watch last night's episode of The Guardian and when the boy gets home from work this evening we'll watch some episodes of Firefly (thanks for lending us the DVDs, Make Tea Not War - what a pal!). I really meant to be more constructive with my time, like working on my travel diary scrapbook and reading books about stuff which I want to learn without actually signing up for any courses (mythology, art history, philosophy). But the time I get around to doing these things I might be already knee-deep in baby poo. I hope not.

An embarrassing incident involving cherry tomatoes

I was sitting there on a bench in a crowded and trendy street, munching on my home-made cheese 'n' lettuce 'n' tomato roll. They were cherry tomatoes, sweet and juicy and placed in the sandwich in halves.

It was the third or fourth bite that did it - tomato guts squirted all over my face, my chest and my lap. Who would have thought that such little fruit could contain so many seeds? Or that those seeds would be so hard to remove? They sure are sticky little buggers. Wiping had no effect at all on my clothes, so I had to pick them out of my top and skirt one at a time. It really took a long time, because I just kept finding more and more. I even found one under my left boob - how could it have got there? I'm sure I risked looking as though I was having a quick fondle in public; I had no choice but to manhandle them in order to ensure there weren't any more.

So that's another thing to add to my list of lunch ingredients to beware of; the other one is corn in your toasted sandwich - those kernels are hot.


p.s. in case you needed to know, tomato juice left in your clothing is completely visible to the naked eye.

A telltale heart

Today the boy accompanied me to my second appointment with the midwife. Never again will I agree to an evening appointment - we got there at 5.15pm for a 5.20 appointment, and had to amuse ourselves with months-old Women's Weekly magazines until 6pm. And me with my out-of-control hayfever, too.

Once we got to go in, I felt I should try to take up as much of her time as possible, because after all that's what all the other couples must have done, eh? (It's irrational I know, and I can't blame it on the pregnancy hormones either).

There wasn't a weigh-in, which surprised me because it's mentioned in the prenatal section in all the books. It's probably just as well though, since it's easier to think I've put on a kilo than to find out for sure that I've put on three.

Then came the really exciting part. We got to hear my baby's heartbeat for the first time. It was so much better than looking at the blob in my first scan, because it was so much more recognizable. Foetal heartbeats must be pretty quick, because this one sounded like he/she was having a workout.

This was the moment when it really struck home that there's a little life there in my burgeoning belly.

A dentist I can relate to

My mother really wanted to have someone look at her set of dentures, and being the kind of woman she is, she also wanted to try a new dentist. I had to call every dentist in town who had a Chinese-looking surname, and ask the receptionist whether he or she could speak Cantonese. If only it were as simple as looking through all the Wongs in the white pages.

We did find one; in fact one whose father used to be one of my mother's neighbours. The new dentist was cheerful and patient (perhaps knowing you can charge sixty bucks for fifteen minutes work will do that), and apparently was quite accustomed to dealing with the foibles of elderly Chinese people i.e. people who, decades ago, thought nothing of getting all of their own teeth replaced with falsies just because you could; people who would rather suffer gum disease followed by loss of teeth rather than pay for regular check-ups; people who will turn the simplest task into living hell for their offspring who has to be there to translate. The dentist knew which course of action would appeal to my mother the most, because it's what all his elderly Chinese patients prefer i.e. a quick and reasonably priced fix.

The way he talked about his dad and his elderly relatives, I felt "I can sooo relate to this". I could've stayed and shared elderly parent anecdotes with him all afternoon, except I wouldn't have been able to afford his time.

I was a bit grumpy when I realised I would have to drive over to my mum's in the morning in order to pick up her dentures and drop them off at the dentist's for fixing - she gets to eat properly tonight but tomorrow's lunch will have to be gummed. Then I got worried that the grumpiness was another sign that I'm turning into my mother, so I stopped.

From the sea

Here's a name which both the boy and I liked: Morgan.

It's Welsh, which is good because the boy has Welsh origins.
It's suitable for either sex (though according to one website, it's a girl's name and according to another, it's a boy's name.
Morgan means "bright dweller from the sea", which is good, because hopefully the little one will be bright, and we do live close to the sea.

But wait, there's more.

According to this site, Morgan will grow up to
"...have great self-confidence and a charming personality which attracts many friends and admirers. Your innate sense of personal power and ability to lead are ideally suited to positions of authority. Being so versatile and seeing the big picture your ambitions are high and much is usually expected of you. With patience and tenacity you will certainly fulfill the great potential you have for success."

I have to admit a slight disappointment in not finding any magical references in the name though. I know of the name as that of the Arthurian sorceress, Morgan le Fay, but apparently she was invented much later than than original name.

But wait...there's still more...
I tried out that last link to find out what my own name says about me:
"Very much the individual you have enormous energy and vision and must find a suitable use for your talents. You have great potential for success in business if you can guard against indecision and worry. Your generous nature means that you are never short of friends and with cooperation your relationships can be very rewarding. Perseverance and firm decision making will ensure you achieve your objectives."

(I have to say that it is certainly absolutely correct about my "indecision and worry".)

another post about clothes, plus some thoughts on baby names

Last night I had a good look at the maternity clothes which my brother's partner had saved up for me. Some of it looked pretty promising, but the shorts were depressingly large - depressing because she seemed so sure I'd actually fit into them one day. Well it looks like I'm going to be okay for really big shirts and skirts, though the search for suitable swimwear continues. Next week I'll have a look at K-Mart and see if I can't get something large in lycra.

Whilst waiting for the boy to finish browsing in the computer games shop, I had a look in the nearby bookshop and chanced upon something I thought I'd never see - a magazine called Cosmopolitan Pregnancy. Along with the week-by-week gestation countdown and beauty tips to go with "the glow", there were a lots of pages of fashion. It was just like the normal Cosmo, but without the sex tips (I guess it's assumed you must be getting some already).

Since Jon brought up the question of a name for the bun in my oven, I've been thinking about boys' and girls' names. I quite like "Lilith" if it's a girl, though it wouldn't exactly roll off my mother's tongue (or that of anyone else who can only pronounce English with a strong Cantonese accent). The boy likes tree names like "Willow" and "Rowan", because to him trees have a magical meaning. (I supposed that "Pohutokawa" and "Cabbabge Tree" would be out of the question, and I was right.) As for boys' names, we couldn't agree on a single one (sorry Jon).

A friend of mine sent me the link to a page which has some truly fascinating (yet somehow extremely unappealing) names, here. Perhaps it can be viewed as a list of name to be avoided like the proverbial plague.

cruel tv stations

The Guardian is one of my favourite tv shows, but TVNZ have decided to shift it from it's usual 8.30pm timeslot to 11.30pm. That's even later than the timeslot for Firefly. And the show they are putting in it's place is the boring outback soap opera McLeod's Daughters, about a bunch of attractive young women in the outback and the men they love...(suppressing a snort and a yawn).

With Firefly, we got around the fact that programing our VCR doesn't always work by asking (very nicely, with bribes) to borrow the entire series on DVD from some friends. But there's not much chance that our mostly-SF/Fantasy-friendly friends will have The Guardian on DVD. I will have to be more forceful about getting the boy to remember to put the VCR recorder on, on Thursday nights.

I'm so pissed off I might even send TVNZ a letter to complain.

But on the other hand...I did enjoy Lost, even though we completely missed the pilot episode. Although it did seem a bit like Survivor without the prize. And what's this about a plane leaving from Sydney being mostly full of Americans? And if it is mostly full of Americans, how come there's only one fat person in the whole show?

neither glutton-free nor fat-free

Today I got to attend a board meeting; apart from the board members who came in from all over the country, most of the people at my office were there. Being a newbie, it was a day of listening and trying to remember people's names, rather than one in which I could actually contribute anything useful.

Lunch and morning and afternoon teas were provided; a boon for a snacker like myself who also can't turn down free food. It was a bit unlucky that I couldn't eat most of the lunch offerings though - I had to pass up the various cold meats (for fear of the dreaded listeria) and my egg allergy stopped me from trying the quiche. I had to make do with tons of salad and very generous portions of hokey-pokey ice cream and fruit salad. The cakes and fresh fruit in the afternoon was so nice that I wished I was one of those uninhibited people who just do whatever the hell they want without worrying what others think of them. But I'm not, so I didn't gorge myself, or sneak food away in my pocket. And to top off this veritable foodfest, the meeting went on so long that I didn't get around to getting my walk in. I hope baby doesn't mind that his mum's been a glutenous slob today.

Happy Chinese New Year

I already have my greeting card to give to Mum, who will no doubt have a red packet full of cash to give me in return (I'm sure one reason why Chinese parents are keen to marry off their offspring is to avoid having to give them lucky money indefinitely). It's surely a sign of the times when you can buy Chinese New Year greeting cards at the local bookshop, eh? I mean - this city doesn't even have a Chinatown.

It's really quite a low-key festival (that is, as celebrated by Chinese as opposed to those white folks' "celebrating diverse cultures" tourist traps) compared to Hong Kong. You're supposed to have a ton of food lying around for all the visitors you're going to get, and you're also supposed to spend as much time as possible visiting other families and eating their food. In my family it's limited to having a bit of dinner (which has been postponed till Friday) and giving out lucky money. Nothing too stressful...

...which apparently it is in China. Some poor people had to do their own cleaning for a whole day because their maid took the day off.

What's happened to my knees?

I had a fruitless search through the local preggie-wear shop for a light summer dress - there's a summer sale on but of course if it's in my size then either I don't want it or someone else just bought the last one. I also went into one of the large second-hand clothes shops, but no luck there either. Second-hand shopping really takes a lot more patience than I ever have when I'm looking for something in particular.

In this kind of heat, and with this much difficulty in finding something that fits right and doesn't make me look like one of Trinny and Susannah's fashion criminals, it's no wonder that some women resort to tents and kaftans. I can almost feel the desperation coming on.

Hopefully my brother's partner will have some preggie gear saved by which I can borrow. She's a different height and a different colouring, but most preggie stuff I've seen is black anyway and I can just promise not to shorten anything permanently (she has enough three-quarter length pants).

In the meantime I finally found an old sundress which I bought years ago. It's too short really, but it's cool to wear and should be fine as long as I don't wear it out in public. I really don't remember my knees looking quite to pudgy in it though. I sincerely hope that, whether it's fat or water retention, it's temporary.

Does anyone else think Cherie Blair looks freakishly similar to Sharon Osbourne?

procrastinations

Tonight's is my last class, maybe even my last ever class if I don't get enthused about re-starting the study next year. All the same, I still have a ton of really boring readings, full of unfeasibly large words, to get through before it's really over and I can truly call my workless days free. There's also the very last assignment to finish and hand in on Wednesday night.

And that is why I've spent last night and today watching Fahrenheit 9/11 (especially depressing to watch post-Bush's re-election), vacuuming, reading a glossy women's magazine, finishing a Buffy novel (The wisdom of war - a good read if you're a Buffy fan), reading blogs and walking around like I've got a hangover (I haven't of course - I'm just groggy from the heat'n'humidity).

The boy told me that your brain shrinks in pregnancy because your body's energy is going straight to the baby. This explains an awful lot.

a Chinese New Year surrogate

Chinese New Year is a much bigger deal these days, at least among the non-Chinese. For the last few years it's been marked by food and craft stalls, a parade and entertainment. I don't usually bother attending these events, seeing as they're merely commercially-oriented and aimed at the white folks. We did go out last night to watch the fireworks though, just 'cos I love watching fireworks. The spectacle lasted about half an hour, which is actually a really long time (especially if you're standing up). There were fireworks which produced heart shapes and spirals, fireworks which looked like a swarm of mosquitos and lots of noise and smoke. In fact there was so much smoke, and so little wind to blow it away, that afterwards the whole of the city centre was enveloped in the stuff. It's how I'd imagine San Francisco to look like on one of it's famous foggy days.

Meanwhile, our planned family New Year dinner has been canned because my brother and his family have pulled out. His mother-in-law is in town and somehow this means that they will be far too busy to celebrate what I thought was quite an important day for my mother. Whatever.

Oh yeah, and I just realised that the boy is a Rooster. I'd better find out whether Roosters and Dragons are compatible.

My abdomen is not public property, and other thoughts

The other day, someone I'd only met for the second time ever (and who'd just found out I was pregnant) wanted to touch my tummy. No bloody way. He wasn't my doctor or my midwife so I really don't see what right he had to to feel my bump. I leaped away, just out of his reach, and chided him in (I hope) a jokey manner.

I wasn't quite so quick this morning when my gym trainer came by to see how the mum-to-be was doing. She was lightning fast, this one, and wouldn't have gotten away with it if she weren't a middle-aged woman.

Hey, it's my stomach, people. You wouldn't dare do it if I weren't expecting, would you?

At the pool I often see women bring their young sons into the women's changing room. This is fair enough if they're aged four or younger I suppose. But I wonder whether any men have been game enough to take their young daughters with them to the men's changing room? Somehow it sounds a lot more threatening, eh?

I've found that the library in town has put it's collection of Buffy and Angel novels all together. This is great, because they're written by various people so this makes them so much easier to find. Thank you, ** Library. After next Wednesday I will be totally free of library school concerns (at least until I'm ready to go back), so my free time will soon be filled with Buffyverse tales.

I've only tried four Buffy/Angel titles so far, but I've noticed that some writers sure are better at writing them than others. Christopher Golden and Nancy Holder go to the top of the class, Scott and Denise Ciencin will require another workshop on how to write an interesting story.

I can't believe it

Oh my Gawd....I just checked the blog stats and I had 306 views yesterday. This is a huge jump from forty or so only a week ago. I swear I haven't used the word "sex" in any post for ages - oops.

Thank the gods I have double-fold eyelids!

If the boy weren't so good with sending me tidbits now and then, I wouldn't have many links to bring to your attention. He's surpassed himself today, with a lesson in Japanese on how to give your eyes a Western look. With the clever application of a bit of glue, you too can avoid the cost of getting blepharoplasty (that's if you have the classic Asian single-fold lids, which I don't).

You'll need Macromedia Flash to see this wee movie, but I really recommend you watch it (and turn on your speakers if you can understand Japanese). It made me go "Eeeerrrrgggghhhh!"

Hello, I live in an oven

As though to punish us all for complaining about the crappy weather all the way through December (and most of January), lately it's been so hot I don't even want to go outside. But I usually do anyway on the days I'm at work, because the office isn't air-conditioned and we have to make do with a single fan which my manager brought in from home and a few windows which can be opened a few inches each. What makes it harder to put up with is knowing that I mustn't let my body temperature get high for long or I will "cook the baby" (those are the exact words spoken by the gym instructor who gave me a preggy programme).

I suffered a bit on the walk home too, because I had neglected to bring my hemp sunhat - the sunhat which makes the boy look like a dopehead (handsome though he is) and which squishes very conveniently into my small bag.

I must stop complaining. No doubt it will bring on a severe cold snap which breaks all records for the last fifty years or something. I'll go swimming - just as soon as I get myself a swimsuit which fits my expanded body and yet still makes me look like a movie star (yeah, right).

Or maybe I'll go get some ice cream.

The end of The Office

It took several weeks of watching only when the boy was out or busy, but I did it - I have finished watching the complete Series One and Two of The Office. Fortunately, I have never worked with anyone as annoying as Gareth (I think) and I've never had to kow-tow to a manager as pitifully unfunny as David Brent. This probably why I thoroughly enjoyed the show, while the boy couldn't watch it without emitting groans of recognition.

I hadn't managed to see the second series while it was first broadcast on television so it was a complete surprise to see Dawn and Tim get together. That scene in the taxi when Dawn opened up her Secret Santa gift, and it's a set of oil paints from Tim - it made me go all teary. Although...that might have been the hormones.

And shockingly enough, even the Brentmeister finds a girlfriend. A woman who is both physically attractive and nice actually finds him funny and wants to see him again. Surely that's a message of hope for even the saddest loser.

I haven't yet played the David Brent music CD. It may have to wait until I find a way to secretly put a small - but effective - speaker in the Noisy Neighbour's house. It's a revenge thing.

Why it's no good comparing yourself with other people

The Information Management department at university hosted one of it's end-of-trimester pizza lunches today (that means free food and drink), and for the first time since I've been a student there I could actually attend.

One of my fellow students is knocked up too, and due about week after me. I was rather jealous to discover that she's maintained her slim figure, in contrast to the sudden explosion in my own physical size. She hasn't got an increased girth like I do, but our bumps are about the same size.

Afterwards I met up with one of my old work-mates from my IT days (it's turning out to be a sociable week for me); she confided that she and her hubby have been trying to conceive for around eight months now. Far from feeling better about myself though (it tooks us five months), this news only made me feel concerned for her.

So there you have it - people who seem better off than me make me feel worse, and so to people who seem worse off.

There's just no pleasing me.

This is why we need movie intermissions

The boy and I went to the movies yesterday, as it was too hot to go for a walk. I've been wanting to see Finding Neverland for ages now, but the boy was in the mood for a laugh so we chose to watch Team America instead.

It was true to the Southpark style of humour, although nothing in this movie could beat the Saddam/Satan romance in Southpark, the movie.

I really should have known that it would be a mistake to take a super-size drink into the movie with me, but I did it anyway. I slipped away at the beginning of what I expected to be a tender love scene between Lisa and the actor hero, thinking I'd just miss a bit of cheesy smooching. Apparently what I missed was a puppet montage of every porno sex scene I've never watched (and that's all of them).

Team America isn't good enough for me to want to see it twice, but now I'm really disappointed to have missed out on what could have been a moment of hilarity to rival the Santa-having-sex-in-the-dressing-room scene in Bad Santa.

a chicken run

Ever since my mum found out I was pregnant, she's been careful of how much shopping she gives me to carry. Normally, on a Sunday morning I'd take her to the produce market where she'd buy about half a dozen table hens (she REALLY likes chicken) and enough fresh vegetables to last her for the week. Nowadays, she still buys at least as much but now she makes me carry the stuff to my car over five or six trips. As far as she's concerned, she's helping me to avoid the heavy lifting while at the same time increasing the amount of exercise I do.

This week she wanted the poultry stallholder to save her some live chickens for next week. I nearly translated the whole request for her before remembering what a horrible pain in the arse it is to transport live chickens. And in my condition, too. I argued loudly and convincingly; I reminded her of how hard it is to carry a box full of scared fowl, held at arm's length to avoid the poo. I told her that there wouldn't be any room in the boot for both a bunch of beasts intent on escaping AND several bags of produce. Then I stamped my foot and went all red in the face and flatout refused. That worked.

Shopping for tents

Now that I'm too big for my normal clothes, though not oddly-shaped enough to justify wearing tents and mumus , I've been in a bit of a dilemma as to how I should dress myself. Basically there is one skirt, one pair of track pants, one pair of full length trousers and sever al tops which fit me, and that's it.

So I decided to check out the preggie clothes, just in case they have stuff that I can wear starting from now. I had visions of pants with big frontal pouches in my head as I went down the road to the local Baby Star shop. The prices were the main eye-opener. Sure, I expected a few designer items which only women with money to burn would purchase - but I was hoping for the K-Mart versions too, and there weren't any.

Fortunately there was a pre-loved rack and a sale bin.

Carefully avoiding the giant-sized nursing bras, I flicked through the (mainly black) tops and bottoms until I found a pair of capris, a pair of spangly denims (not my usual taste, but perhaps the hormones picked 'em) and a singlet-shorts all-in-one (again with the hormones?). My new super-stretchy and comfy gear cost me a total of forty-nine little buckaroos, surely a bargain when the full-priced capris cost twice that much.

I've always found the idea of wearing someone else's pre-sweated clothing slightly unattractive, but it is after all only a temporary wardrobe. Mind you, these'll make great fat-day clothes, post-baby.

doing lunch and strolling

It's really been a long time since I've been able to lunch with friends during the week. My last job was so far away from town that only friends visiting from overseas would bother to drop in to have lunch with me in my neck of the woods. Now I have two days per week in which I am free to lunch, and in a couple of weeks' time I won't have study to distract me. I'm so looking forward to being more socially busy.

Even getting to walk home from walk makes me happy. On a hot sunny day, going home now means working on my tan, getting fresh air and exercise, and saving a bus fare. In contrast, going home on a hot sunny day used to mean sitting in a hot, stuffy car for up to an hour.

On my walk home today I came across a group of Semi-clad Teenage Girls. This particular sub-culture is guaranteed to turn the heads of males, whether they are schoolboys or middle-aged builders with bum cleavage. Not that I disapprove - simply that next to Semi-clad Teenage Girls I feel old and frumpy, especially now. A glimmer of hope lies in the high probability that they will grow up to be old tarts.

The fear, the tiredness and the sleep deprivation (and that's just the first trimester)

Thanks to everyone who left me nice messages about my impending motherhood. Such positive feedback only encourages me to go into the gory details (so if you're bored by what follows then you only have yourselves to blame)...

I'm due in early August, which means that if I gamely work through until the baby is ready to pop out then I'll just qualify for the state-paid maternity leave (hooray). It'll be a Rooster; perhaps mini-me will grow up to run a restaurant.

The worse things so far have been:
1. Eating uncontrollably - one week it was a box of chocolates, the next it was several days' worth of leftover Christmas turkey. This, combined with an appropriately toned-down gym programme, has meant that I am already too fat for most of my trousers and skirts.
2. Frequently feeling over-heated, dehydrated and way too mentally busy to sleep at night.
3. The first scan. I was warned about the discomfort of having to arrive at the clinic with a full bladder, but I didn't realise it would feel like a white folks' equivalent of ancient Chinese water-torture (which is probably a Japanese invention - the Cantonese would simply nag you to death). I will never forget the severe pressure which my pelvic floor muscles were under, while the clinician pressed the scan-thing into my just-about-ready-to-burst bladder. My bladder still has not forgiven me.

Also, it's meant that I won't be enrolling in any library studies courses this year. I'm going to have enough to worry about. So, at least for a while, this is not going to be the blog of a librarian-in-training, but rather the blog of a lady-in-waiting.

I'm excited and happy. But I still find those full-frontal birth pictures more than a little scary.

Mini-me, maybe

So, you might be wondering how my first day at my new job went.

The people are nice, the work is interesting and the location is close to several good cafes and clothes shops. It is pretty stuffy in the office, though, and it was hard to fight the urge to squirt water all over my head just to get cool.

Oh, yeah - I also had to tell my new boss some awkward news. I'm pregnant.

Go Wayne!

Apparently the latest work from my ex-photography tutor (back in my short-lived art-student days) is causing a bit of strife with the local Jewish community. Sure, there are swastikas in his works, but he's right in the fact that, before the Nazis appropriated it, it was a Hindu symbol of peace. When I was in Bali years ago there were still hotels named after this symbol, and these guys sure as hell weren't Nazi sympathisers or anti-Zionists. He probably couldn't have chosen a better example to illustrate his statement about the mis-appropriation of cultural symbols.

I haven't seen the exhibition mentioned, but I have seen some of his other works and this I know for sure. Wayne Youle is a stirrer.

My creative neighbourhood

The boy and I ventured over the road to a house party last night. It was a very un-wild affair, which is what you expect when the hosts, and most of the guests, haven't seen thirty in a long time. Nevertheless, we both had lots of fun. I got to catch up old friends, including one who is three months away from being a dad for the first time and another who seems to be playing the field at the ripe old age of 43. The boy got to meet the hosts for the first time even though they've been living mere metres away for a couple of years now.

It turned out that the boy and E. share an interest in poetry. While the boy had a couple of poems published back in the UK, E. is wondering how to get his own poems out in the world. His wife is also artistic - she's a photographer.

There're quite a few artistic people living around my street. H. next door was a playwright and is now a cyberformer (on-line performance using chatroom software); J. across the road makes wearable art; next door is her is an abstract painter; then there was T. who I only got to know at her leaving party - she'd sold her house and moved to Wanganui to study art full-time. And I'm a creative blogger :-)

The end of the world might be nigher than I'd like to think

There was another earthquake early this morning, this time strong enough to make me whip off the bed covers and make for the bedroom door. The house stopped shaking as soon as I got there, but I've started to worry. There were apparently nine of the buggers on Wednesday - nine shakes in nine hours - are we on our way to The Big One after all? Even the boy was concerned enough to tell me that if there's another one like that today I'm to call him so he'll know I'm okay. I myself am concerned enough to call my mum and reminded her what she's supposed to do (crouch under the dining table, or stand under a door frame - but not too close to windows), though I'm sure she'd either forget in the panic or just forget 'cos she's old and forgetful.

Perhaps that's why I'm finding it especially hard to get going on my assignment this morning. Okay, probably not.

Tremors

That fact that I live on a faultline is easy to put to the back of my mind. Despite frequent reminders on television to Be Prepared, we still haven't gotten about to fastening all our large moveable objects so that they don't fall on us in the next big quake.

There was a series of quakes last night, some strong enough to make me consider ducking under the door frame (but not quite). It brought to mind a couple of earthquake stories from the past.

When I was in my teens, there was a big quake strong enough to make the coffee table (on which my brother and I were playing mini-table tennis) skid from one end of the lounge to the other.

Another time, still in my youth, the whole house shook so hard I really thought it was going to be the big one. And I was in the worse possible position for such an event. I was sitting on the toilet. I was agnostic then as well as now, but I prayed to God not to let me die with my pants around my ankles.

Several years ago, there was an earthquake while I was at work. The only person in the vicinity who didn't notice was an effervescent workmate who was jumping up and down in frustration (really).

It's not that I'm completely unprepared for the big, overdue earthquake-which-will-sink-the-North-Island. I still have my emergency box from the Year 2000 scare.

Silly stuff

I've just finished watching Zoolander for the umpteenth time; it's the best thing to do when trying to avoid doing any study. Choice picks for scenes to distract the mind are:
1. Derek and his male model flatmates having fun at the petrol station - a major piss-take of every Coke ad you ever seen in which hordes of beautiful young people have incredible fun (with added the explosion)
3. Derek after a hard day's work at the coal mine where his father and two brothers work, and the huge mound of used cotton pads after he's done cleaning the coal off his face
4. The walk-off between rival Derek and Hansel - the darker side of male modelling
5. Derek at the secret day spa, where he gets an unusually enjoyable massage from a strangely shaped woman
6. Derek and Hansel using their makeup know-how to disguise themselves as an intense yound black man and a cross-eyed Indian gentleman (I think) respectively

And as though life couldn't imitate art, there are sillier things in the US military it seems. Some of the strategies brain-stormed within the walls of the Pentagon include inventing an aphrodisiac to turn the enemy soldiers into raving homosexuals...

a frolic at the beach

Being the gorgeous day that it is, today seemed the perfect day to venture out to one of the nearby beaches. First we had to make a shopping trip to replace our mop (so that the boy would finally have no excuse to put off cleaning the kitchen floor), buy a new cover for the ironing board (so that ironing clothes would result in removing creases and not creating extra ones) and a large saw (to cut away the branches from Noisy Neighbour's tree, which are crowding out my poor wee lemon tree). Chores done, it was down to the nearest beach to get our feet wet in the surf.

The wind sure was up. The walk down to the water's edge was like a stroll past a row of sandblasters. But once we got there, it was just what I wanted - warm water lapping over my bare feet, with the occasional threat of getting the bottom of my trousers wet.

No chance of going in above the ankles though - the water around here is absolutely freezing all year 'round.

It's a beautiful day but I still hate my Noisy Neighbours

The neighbours on one side of us are cool, interesting, friendly and considerate. The neighbours on the other side of us are loud, inconsiderate and boorish. The Noisy Neighbours out there now with their equally boorish friends, laughing like imbeciles. They're smoking so much that the stink of it travels the ten metres around the corner and into my study if I open the window. Their radio is on loudly - it's almost tolerable when it's music, but surely the advertisments don't have to be at full blast do they? Grumble grumble...

The last day

It was quite timely, that my boss had scheduled our first team lunch since I've been working at the library, on my last day of work. In my absence, the rest of the team had voted to go to a local trendy cafe (even in this relatively un-trendy city, there are trendy cafes - well, at least two). This place was so trendy it had outdoor tables which weren't on the footpath.

I'd had my heart set on a warm Thai beef salad - something protein-y and salad-y. They didn't have any, but the vegetarian paninis were quite nice. So was the spider (a frothy concoction barely mixing ice-cream and cola), which took me back to my childhood when ice creams were five cents and you could buy two sweets for one cent.

It was a scorching hot day. Temperature-wise it only somewhere between 24 and 29 degrees Celsius, but around these ozone-less parts that's enough to fry even an olive-skinned local in ten minutes. Fortunately I was well-covered by a t-shirt, but my co-worker in the sundress is going to have a very uncomfortable hot shower tonight.

I was allowed to scoot off an hour early, on the understanding that this was to enable me to say my goodbyes to everyone. I'd actually only intended to say goodbye to whomever I saw on my way out, but I felt obliged to do the rounds and was rewarded by bear hugs and the kind of nice things people always say to you when they know they'll never have to lay eyes on you again (really folks, it's been nice). Then it was time to go to the art supplies shop and spend my gift voucher.

Buying paints, canvases and stuff didn't appeal because I knew I wasn't going to get around to using them; they'd just sit next to the paints and canvases I already have, indefinitely. So I decided to get some scrapbooking gear and use it to turn my travel diaries into a book.

After buying custom-cut book covers, acid-free plastic sleeves, special glue and acid-free photo stick-y things, I had enough credit left over to purchase some yummy dark red handmade paper with diamond-y bits on it (very India)- to cover the cover - and a greeting card with a photo of spices on it (also very India). Now that I have it at home, I almost can't wait to get stuck in. But first there're those pesky MLIS assignments to start and finish.

The post-Firefly pre-last-work-day morning tea

Even though my last day at work is tomorrow, my morning tea was this morning (no, I didn't schedule a doctor's appointment on my last day at work on purpose).

The last woman who resigned received a voucher for a facial as her leaving gift; exactly what she'd wanted. I wondered whether anyone at work knew me well enough to get me something as appropriate. Well, I got a voucher for an art supplies shop. This is great, even though I haven't painted for almost a year now - but it's redeemable only in that one shop which is near the library (and very far from home - too far to go if I didn't already work in the area). I'll just have to go shopping before I get to work tomorrow - I may be quite late in, but the boss will understand.

At lunchtime, a group of us were sitting around talking about what kind of library we'd like to work in. T. thought that I'd prefer to be in an academic library because I seemed to her to be the kind of person who gets annoyed with "dumb people asking dumb questions". I was shocked that I was so transparent.

TV3 is screening the Firefly series at long last. At 11pm on a week night. I made the boy program the VCR to record it (because I can't make the VCR do anything), and we watched it last night. It's very different from BtVS and Angel, but the humour is kinda familiar. I liked it.

The last bus run ever

The gods smiled on me this week by ensuring that, not only would I only have to drive the library bus once, but I would be accompanied by a workmate whom I count on to do all the heavy lifting for me.

In the post-Violet bus roster, said workmate will be taking over my Wednesday afternoon bus run. So just to make sure that he knew about all the quirky customers (the frail, the smelly, the child-like and the grumpy), he was assigned to come with me this afternoon. He was very obliging; it took only a minimum of manipulation to get him to do all the driving, most of the checking in and out of books and, of course, the carrying of three large crates heaped full of hardback books.

It was a really warm day for a change, and it was just as well that I had a full bottle of water with me. Apart from squirting some of it on my head when the heat got oppressive, I drank the whole lot and didn't even need to pee for four hours. I joked that, if I had a better figure I would be driving the bus in a bikini. M. replied that he didn't know what the city's chief PR man would make of that. I thought that M might've been secretly glad that I wasn't about to strip down to my underwear despite my un-model-like shape.

One of my regular customers, on hearing that I was leaving my job, promptly went home and returned with a little present for me. A box of mini-Moro bars and packet of cinnamon cookies. I should leave more often.

Three days to go

After this week, no more will I have to burn forty-odd bucks worth of petrol each week, just getting to work and back; no more will I be expected to pick up after other people's kids, or shelf-check (that's making sure every single book is in Dewey order) the messiest of shelves in the children's library; no more will I have to be nice to the grumpy Maori woman who demands much but never thanks me (and who keeps on walking out even when she sets off the security gate alarm); no more will I need to find family sagas for all the old ladies at the old folks' home; no more will I have to pretend that I'm interested in encouraging kids to read (if they wanna read, let 'em - if they don't, I don't care).

Sure, I'll miss some of my workmates; I'll miss the patrons who are genuinely nice and grateful for my assistance; I'll miss earning enough to enable me to buy new clothes occasionally.

But if they make me do a speech at morning-tea, I'm not going to pretend that I'll be sad to go. Oh, no.

Nepalese dinner party

A friend of mine and her sister are back from Thailand - both survivors of the Boxing Day tsunami - we were invited to have dinner with them and their friends at a local Nepalese restaurant.

R had on a complete silk Vietname outfit, which went surprisingly well with her dreadlocks. She's also just finished her PhD, so there were plenty of silly requests from the table to check out their respective rashes.

The food served in this place is truly mountainous. I'm usually quite a piggy when I eat out, but my mains defeated me - I can't recall what the name of it was, but there was a heaped plate fish (surely not a traditional Nepalese menu option), rice, veges, Chinese parsley or coriander or something, potatoes...I probably was only a third of the way through it before giving up.

The boy was happily reminiscing about England - specifically Swindon, don't ask me why - with the couple opposite us. He even managed to throw in a tidbit about his past life as a bad boy - something about driving through Paris in a TVR with a Dutch blonde...

It was a lovely evening (sigh).

After the hols

Incredibly, I managed to not only wake up in time to get to work punctually, but I actually work up before the alarm. Isn't one's body clock amazing?

I may even still be awake when I do my on-line distance class tonight, after I get home. It's one of those classes where you can't get away with just turning up and staying out of all the discussions, so that's going to be a challenge.

What's going on in my head today

We're babysitting tonight, for my brother and his partner. They don't have a DVD player, but apparently they're leaving us something on video. I won't be telling the boy that they're also leaving us a bottle of wine (which he will scoff) and the game Civilisation on their computer.

One of those niggling questions which aren't at all important but which bother me anyway - when Darla (of BtVS and Angel) was first turned into a vampire by the Master, she was dying of a syphilitic heart condition. Being really ill and all, she wasn't at all pretty to look at and surely her blood would have tasted a bit off too. So why the hell did he choose to turn her?

I spent about an hour going through some crinkled clothes which I haven't worn since last summer. Thinking there'd be no point in ironing any item which didn't fit me any more, I tried them on first. I ended up with very little to iron.

It sure is hard to go to the gym if you haven't been for about two weeks.

I had another laundry mishap. I have a towel which is pretty much falling to pieces but I won't throw it away because I have so few towels. Every time I put it in the washing maching, the rest of the load ends up covered in little pink fluff balls. It is just about impossible to remove all the little pink fluff balls from a polar fleece jacket. Somehow, I am too stingy to spend ten bucks on a new towel (thus minimising future laundry fluff) but not too stingy to spend ten bucks on a second-hand Buffy novel.

He's very sorry

I got a call from the police a couple of days ago, relating to the case of The Little Shit. They said I could choose to hear an apology for his nasty behaviour if I wanted, or else ask for an apology in writing. Having no wish to ever set eyes on the kid again, I chose the latter.

And this morning, it arrived. Enclosed in an envelope which also contained a cover letter from the police youth liason officer, was a short, handwritten letter from the little criminal. It's dated December 25th, which would be significant except for the fact that he and his family are probably Muslim and don't celebrate Christmas.

"Dear Lady", he writes, "I am writing to telly you that I am very sorry...". The next two sentences tell me he's sorry, and he's also written "p.s. I am very sorry".

I almost forgive him.

Those evil red shorts

I don't know why I didn't chuck them out years ago, those cheap red three-quarter pants which I later cut-down into long shorts. They never fit that well, although being a bit on the loose side rather than a bit on the tight side probably made a difference. The thing is, I almost never wear shorts any more anyway, due to my paranoid fear of skin cancer (you know - Southern hemisphere summer + ozone hole = big time UV).

And I have a really big reason to get rid of them, too. They leak red colour every single time I put them in the washing machine. This was not been a problem at first, because almost none of my clothes are white (there's a reason for that, and it's got something to do with the likelihood of spilling coffee over oneself).

Unfortunately, my evil red shorts are a real problem now, because the boy has taken a liking to wearing white t-shirts. He only complained a little when, one Saturday, I presented him with two pairs of pink socks. He started to get a little irritated when I turned his red and white shirt into a red and pink shirt. When I turned his worn-once-only ninety-dollar black and white shirt into a - you guessed it - black and pink shirt, the boy announced he would do his laundry from now on (not that I'd hold him to it - I'm still waiting for him to mop the kitchen floor, which he hasn't done for three months).

I shouldn't blame the shorts, really. It's my own fault for forgetting, after owning them for maybe four years, that they tend to share their rosiness. All the same, I'm going to throw them out...just as soon as they finish drying on the line. And my New Year's Resolution is to always properly sort the laundry.

An unlucky year to get married

Apparently, because the Chinese New Year doesn't start until after lichun, which marks the beginning of spring (in China anyway), couples in China a rushing to get married in the next few days while it's still the Year of the Monkey.

Hmmm...so 2005 (the Year of the Rooster) is going to be a quiet year for marriage celebrants and honeymoon suites then.

Getting born in the Year of the Rooster (which starts February 9, the day after my last assignment is due in - yay) isn't unnecessarily unlucky though. According to this site, Rooster people are

"hard-working and definite about their decisions. Roosters are not afraid to speak their minds and can therefore sometimes come across as boastful. They make good restaurant owners and world travellers."

So if you're going to be the proud parent of a Rooster, you won't have to worry about your little darling growing up to be a dole-bludging layabout who can't make their minds up or say what they think. Congratulations.

Back to productivity

My break is coming to a close, with deadlines of two as-yet-unstarted assignments looming, so it's time to crank my intellect into gear again. It's been out of action for a seemingly huge stretch of time (DVD-watching is no brain strain), and of course being sick tends to limit my thoughts to the objective of obtaining comfort-food. But all that will have to change starting from today.

For today is officially After The New Year, which means that my Art of the Book lecturer might actually answer all the questions that students have sent her via email and the discussion list. It also means that I can get hold of a university reference librarian at long last, to help me find past theses on NZ Chinese print culture and possibly some examples of past LIS research proposals. And it means that, now that the government offices are open again, I can go to the National Library to look at their entire collection of NZ Chinese newspapers and newsletters.

In other words, I can start work on my assignments. I have a little over five weeks to produce a 2500-word research proposal (though I haven't done the course on research methods yet, and have never done a thesis of any sort), and a 1000-word review of an on-line exhibition (whatever that is), so - no more excuses.

Is that stress I feel creeping up behind me?

Things I do when I'm sick and at home

In the last couple of days when I've been relatively incapacitated with a pulled back muscle,a cold and accompanying high temperatures, these are the things I have tended to do:

* Feel sorry for myself
* Snack because I feel sorry for myself, and bored
* Watch DVDs (but not soap operas), or re-runs of Moonlighting if I'm lucky
* Read - I've actually run out of books to read, so I'm reading some of the boy's books e.g. Laurell Hamilton's Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series
* Consume a lot of hot drinks, as a lower-calorie subsitute for Grainwaves, non-dairy ice cream and toast (oh yeah, and to keep the fluids intake up)
* Surf the 'Net and blog
* Wander restlessly from room to room, wanting to go for a walk but staying indoors because I look like shit
* Leaf through old glossy magazines and staring at the pictures of food
* Touch my face to determine whether I've got a high temperature, and wonder whether that means I'm burning enough energy to justify eating more toast

At this point, normal life just sounds like an effective way to distract myself from overeating doesn't it?

Long lost friends

I'm always pleasantly surprised to hear from people whom I haven't been in touch with for ages. I can get a bit slack about keeping contact because I become preoccupied with the day-to-day business of working, studying, sleeping and eating.

An old friend rang me up yesterday whom I hadn't spoken to for at least a year. It turned out she'd just got back from nine months backpacking around Asia and Central and South America. The last time I saw her, she'd been away three years - by then I'd already felt that our friendship had pretty much died from lack of contact. Also, my own backpacking days were over so what were we going to talk about anyway?

Well, soon I'm going to have to listen enviously while she tells me of her latest adventures abroad, with only years-old reminicences of my own to offer.

Someone please tell me this is a joke site

I came across a website promoting body modification for pets i.e. Bonsai Kittens. It's surely a big hoax, to give instructions on how to seal very young kittens into large glass jars (apparently it's easy when their bones are still soft and malleable), but geez - there are some weird people out there...

As if it weren't bad enough being sick during the holidays...

During the night, I found that every movement I made caused a sharp pain somewhere on the left side of my back. It hurt when I tried to change sleeping positions, cough or even breathe deeply. It hurt when I got out of bed to go to the toilet, and it hurt when I got back into bed. Unfortunately, the boy was sleeping so well that he was immune to my pitiful cries of pain. I had to wait until early this morning, and actually tell him in words that something was wrong.

Actually, I was convinced that I was suffering from pleurisy - not because it's fairly uncommon ailment which I don't get to hear about often, but because I've had it before (on my birthday a few years back, to be specific).

The boy tried massaging the pain away, but it didn't seem to work; I had him convinced it was pleurisy too. So, amidst more cries of pain (getting in the car, trying to shut the passenger door, reaching for the seatbelt), we set off for the After Hours Medical Centre (it is a public holiday after all).

I don't know if he used any funny acronyms in his notes about me, but, in his very soothing bedside manner, the doctor diagnosed my problem as being a pulled muscle.

So the bad news is, I have to rely on Paracetamol for pain relief but nothing to quickly fix it, while every urge to cough brings an anticipation of tortuous pain; the good news is ...um...that at least I'm not going to die from it.

Doctor Slang

A library school pal sent me this link to an article about doctor slang, which is truly too funny to ignore.

I showed it to the boy, who pointed out that TUBE was not on the list (Totally Unnecessary Breast Examination).

The trouble with big secrets

The trouble with big secrets is that you can't tell them to anyone - of course. And if it's big, then it's going to be on your mind a lot; you try seeing people every day and not telling them all about something that's occupying all your thoughts, or blogging every night without mentioning it because someone you actually know will probably read it. I suppose that's what paper journals are for, but they really don't have the same effect as telling a living person, even if that person lives on the other side of the world and has never met you.

Obviously, I should be going somewhere with this. But that would be telling.

A year is not a very long time

No doubt just about every journal-blogger will be writing a "Looking back at 2004" post, but I have New Zealand time on my side - perhaps I could be one of the first...

In 2004:

- I started library school
- I became licensed to drive a bus
- My income increased so much that I was now able to buy myself clothes sometimes
- The boy told me it would be nice to have kids together
- We went on our first holiday together for longer than a weekend
- I saw my first real, live whale
- I gained a niece
- My blog got mentioned in the newspaper, and it looked like people were actually reading it on a regular basis
- Finally, after many applications and interviews, I got a new job close to home

Bloody hell. I haven't managed a very exciting list, have I?

Snottiness

Geez, what a time to get a cold. We've had Summer for exactly four days, and now I have a cold.

I should have taken heed when I woke up in the middle of the night, three nights in a row, with a really dry mouth. That feeling I had, as though there was a brick in my stomach, should've warned me. But, no - I didn't realise until I'd sneezed several times and felt the lining of my osophaegus attempt to rise up through my throat and exit through my nostrils.

It's really annoying because it means I probably won't be out for New Year's Eve. Just think what a tragedy this would have been for me if I were still single i.e. have no-one to stay at home with tonight...

Sloth is bliss

Aaaah...slothfulness...sleeping in, taking a long time to have breakfast, watching television and DVDs, reading and going for walks - these have been the mainstays of the last few days for me. I'm loving it.

The days go by more slowly because I'm not rushing around trying to do stuff, but no so slowly as to bore me. So, yay! - I still have another eleven days of being a total slob and it feels like a long time...

Perhaps I'll get around to playing with the pastel-by-numbers landscape which someone gave me for my birthday months ago. Or I might get on with reviewing and writing up my India travel diaries. Or go to the library and get tons of books out, just to read for fun.

The fact that I should be working on assignments, and that classes start up again on January 5th (according to the prospectus), hasn't affected my newly-slothful habits at all.

superheroes with beer bellies and big bums

We went to see The Incredibles last night. (It was a couple-y thing - the boy and I, his friend and his friend's wife. Until recently I never did couple-y things of course, although I was often been the fifth wheel at dinner parties.)

Packed with stereotypes it may have been (the shy teenage daughter, a shrinking violet called Violet; the slightly Homer-esque father; the all-nurturing mum; the mischievous son...), but it was very funny. I liked that Mr Incredible had a beer gut, and that Elastigirl had little boobs and big hips. Frozone's wife may sound like a caricature out of Oprah, but she got the funniest line. And the age-old English distrust of red-haired people is put to use too, for the villain is a carrot-top.

This was way better than those film versions of comic book super heroes, probably because it wasn't trying to take two-dimensional characters and give them complex personalities. But perhaps I'm only saying that because I have no interest in comic books either.

Buffy novels vs The Da Vinci Code

I finally got around to reading Immortal (by Christopher Golden and Nancy Holder), the Buffy novel which my manager picked up from the library book sale, and gave me.

Up until now I've been avoiding the novels, instead reading only the scholarly non-fiction books about the TV series, thinking that surely the novels would be poor substitutes for the TV episodes. But I'm going to have to amend my opinion. I really enjoyed Immortal; the dialogue was believably Buffy-like, the story was exciting and the main villain was interesting. This doesn't mean I'm going to go out and buy them all - there must be a hundred Buffy and Angel novels, and not all written by these two authors - but it does give me more choice next time I go to the library (as a customer) for some leisure reading. And in 2005, I have promised myself more time for leisure reading.

I certainly can't be as positive about Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code. It's just a boring thriller. An un-thriller. For a start, the first (and only? I'm only a quarter of the way through the book) murder victim is shot in, or close to his stomach. He must be in agony. He's dying. Yet he manages to crawl up and down the gallery in the Louvre, hide keys behind paintings, scrawl anagrams on the floor with his own blood and arrange his body to resemble the man in Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man - before he dies. Yeah, right.

The weather

After moaning about the crap so-called summer we're having over here, I suppose the environmental gods could be a lot meaner. At least we aren't being engulfed by a massive tsunami. I just received an email today, from a friend who's visiting family in Thailand. They were actually on the beach when it happened - being told by security guys to get off the beach; seeing the big waves in the distance before breaking into a run; finding cover behind their hotel and being glad they missed out on a beachfront bungalow...And some of them were out on a dive trip at the time too - it's amazing they made it back to shore safely.

Meanwhile, back home we're experiencing our first warm, sunny, non-galeforce day in maybe two or three weeks. The last time we had a day this nice, I was spewing because our inconsiderate neighbours were still partying full-blast. (I'm an old fogey who likes her peace and quiet, especially when its only 9am). The boy and I went into town for lunch and a walkaround, and it was all I could do to stop myself from complaining that it was way too hot! That's what happens when you get used to wintry summers...

3am thoughts

The boy woke me up with his slightly-too-loud long-distance phone calls to his family in the UK, so here I am looking to the 'Net to keep me entertained until I'm ready for sleep again...

The turkey was a huge success - my sister-out-of-law did a great first-time job in roasting it, and the flesh was as tender and succulent as the poultry advertisements would have you believe.

My nephew had managed to open all of his presents (as well as some that weren't for him) well before we arrived mid-afternoon; the lounge floor was covered in little dinosaurs, books, colouring-in books, an inflatable snakes'n'ladders game and lots more. I'm sure that the addition of more dinosaurs and books from the boy and I will be lost in the heap by tomorrow.

My brother and his partner gave us an alarm clock with a picture of Mao Tse-tung on the face; wind it up and his arm waves back and forth, clutching his little red book. Cute.

Secret Santa
At most places where I have worked, the workmates have played Secret Santa. You draw a name out of a hat, and then spend around $5 on a present for that person - it has to be anonymous, of course. It's a good idea which really works best when the participants know each other fairly well. Well, in my case, it's been an opportunity to find out how little people know about me. The last Secret Santa gift I received was a set of tea-light candles. One of my workmates got a can of builders' bums. Why couldn't I get something funny and silly like a can of bums?

Christmas dinners

Our library Christmas dinner was last night, timed to start just as the council's drinkies ended. There was a ton of food at the drinks, and the restaurant dinner was American-size (that means too much for an average person to eat without exploding). By 9pm the post-binge doziness had set in, and I had to drive home in a glutinous stupor.

Meanwhile, the humungous serves 10-11 turkey is quietly defrosting in the fridge, awaiting a damned good roasting in my brother's oven. I thought it was a bloody good deal - I supply some raw food while someone else cooks it for us.

Back when my brother and I were living at home, Christmas Day used to be a pretty boring occasion. There'd be a ton of food at lunch or dinner, followed by the two of us exchanging presents - Mum didn't believe in giving presents. In fact, Mum has never given us presents (unless you count re-wrapping a box of chocolates gifted to us and re-addressing them to someone else). I can't blame her religion because she's been a regular church-goer for several years. In fact, when she gave me a red packet with money in it for my fortieth, I was astounded. Mmmm...perhaps that's the Christian influence.

Anyway, more than the food and the prezzies, what I'm looking forward to is two whole weeks of sleep-ins.

My haircut

Never get an impromptu haircut, especially if:

1. you don't know for sure what you want
2. you're very trusting, and it's a new hairdresser
3. you've been drinking

I hadn't been drinking, but the first two points were certainly true for me this morning. For months now, my hair has been too long for my body size and shape; on hot days the extra head cover made me feel over-heated.

I'd been looking out for cheap presents for the library's Secret Santa thing, when I came across the Cut'n'Go hair salon. Now, I've been there once before and was very happy with the results that time - perhaps because I'd only asked for a trim of about an inch all around. This time around I asked for above-the-shoulder hair. Then I said I wanted a bob. Obviously the hairdresser had particular ideas about how short a bob should be. About three inches shorter than my idea.

Back at work, the feedback was mostly positive. I, however, thought she had gone too far. You could put me in a Mao suit and I'd look like I'd just got off the boat from China - about forty years ago. In fact, I distinctly recognise my haircut in a family photo from long ago; one in which a ten-year-old little girl had just had a classic Chinese bowl-cut. I expressed these fears to one of the librarians, and was a bit put out when she nodded in agreement. She wasn't supposed to do that.

Oh well, at least it'll grow out.

Does this make me Lorne Green?

Commander Adama


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(found at Imperfect Pedant)

A little bit more Asia in NZ

What a nice gesture to international students unfamiliar with sit-down toilets. Auckland University are converting some of their loos into the squat variety. Personally, I wouldn't object as long as I get to choose. Sometimes one is just not dressed ideally for squatting. Skirts and flat shoes, no problem. Long, wide-leg pants and high-heels, maybe not.

Having experienced such facilities on my travels, I'd certainly agree that it's much more hygenic if one's bum doesn't have to touch anything which has already been sat on by another bum. (My short legs make it difficult for me to execute that manoeuvre I've heard about amongst other women - that one where you have your feet on the ground and yet still avoid resting your bum on the toilet seat.)

It's also a good exercise in flexibility, I've been told.

Square eyes

We kind of went overboard on the DVD-buying this weekend. With The Shining (not the Stanley Kubrick version), The Singing Detective, Angel Season Three and Buffy Season Four Part Two still to view, you'd think that we'd have no reason to go out and purchase more.

But the collection has now been bolstered up to include The Return of the King (special extended DVD), a trio of trendy action movies (for the boy's mystery Christmas present), Band of Brothers (which I had to get once the boy told me that was what he really wanted for Christmas) and The Office (both seasons, and only because I told the boy that's what I really want for Christmas).

I've utterly lacked motivation to study this weekend, mostly because I've been thinking about the latest assignment and I don't even know where to start (I have to write a research proposal, but first I have to pick a publishing house and find out everything about it in order to define a problem which the research would solve). So I've been watching a lot of original Star Trek, Angel and Return of the King.

You know, it's not true that I'd be bored without a full-time job.

Counting down

Today was the last time I would work on a Saturday - after today no more travelling for ninety minutes, just to work for 2-3 hours. From now on, every Saturday is my own (as long as I can avoid it becoming an additional shop-with-Mum day).

- Only one more week of work until my two-week Christmas and New Year break.
- Only three more weeks until my leaving do.
- Only four more weeks until the end of my much-regretted MLIS course.

Bad Chinese food - the cons of growing up with great cooking.

Tonight was one of those nights when the boy prefers ordering home-delivered fast food, to cooking up something nice and wholesome pour moi. We had one of those nights already this week, so I wasn't keen on pizza again even when it's devilishly good. So Chinese it was. I've had a bit of experience with Chinese food in my lifetime, so I tend to avoid paying money to eat it. This makes it all the worse when the only Chinese restaurant nearby which does home deliveries, is not very good. (In fact, there are only two Chinese restaurants in town which I'd heartily recommend and neither of them do takeaways.)

Even I, a non-cook, can do a decent vegetable stirfry in which none of the ingredients taste like raw grass. The roast duck and pancakes were edible though.

An addendum

Now that it's official, I'd like to just add a word of advice for anyone out there who is looking to leave their job for a better one - use Murphy's Law.

Things only started to get rolling (getting interviews and stuff), when I did something to prove I meant to stick around for the long term - I brought my own personal coffee mug to work.

I don't know why I didn't think of it much earlier, but it works. For example, I only lost interest in karate after I spent all my study money for the semester on an imported book by the master; I only lost my obsession for yoga after I purchased a super-deluxe yoga mat for at-home practice; I only stopped painting with a passion after I made my first (and only) sale.

Think about it. Murphy's Law can work for you too.

Tying up loose ends

Yesterday the police came over to pick up on the whole "Little Shit" affair.

They've served the kid (or was it his parents?) with a protection order, which means he isn't allowed into the library for twelve months. He was passed onto the Youth Affairs people, who are arranging a group session meant for him, his family, and his victim (that's me). Apparently if The Little Shit has to confront the person he hurt, he's more likely to realise that what he did was wrong. However, I won't be working at this place by then, and am not particularly interesting in travelling all this way just to meet the nasty little boy. I don't care about him, and I don't want to be involved in his rehabilition. I realise that I may eat my words one day in the future if The Little Shit, all grown up, attacks someone with more ferocity, all because he missed out on an early moral lesson. I don't care; it's time to move on.

I'm outa here

I resigned today. That's the big news - I hope it was worth waiting for. (Were you shaking with anticipation, Darth?)

My last day is on January 14th, which means that I have two weeks and two days left to work at my current place (because of the time off I've booked over Christmas).

The new job:
The new job starts a week later, as an Information Officer. Not strictly a library job, I'll be spending my time maintaining their databases, making content changes to their website, doing the computer back-ups and helping with mail-outs of information material to branches all over the country.

The best parts of the new job are:
1) it's twenty hours a week, which means I can finish my MLIS sooner and still have free weekends (and I won't have to work weekends or evenings any more)
2) it's close to home so I can walk home from work in half an hour (and save about $30 in petrol money every week)
3) no more smelly people and messy children to be nice to

And the worst things about leaving the present job are:
1) no more blog posts about smelly patrons and messy children
2) feeling a little guilty about leaving because, due to Christmas and New Year coming right up, my employers have little time to get a replacement
3) knowing that my team mates will have to pick up the slack and take over the bus-driving duties

I was so relieved to finally be able to tell my boss - I'd accepted the job offer last week but we only had on paper and signed this morning - now I get to blab about this to everyone.

Come back in ten hours

I'll have big news (big for me anyway).

going over the line

We had a little glass-painting session this morning, for kids on the summer reading programme. Outlines of sea creatures, pirates and ships were already outlined in black acrylic paint, on the external windows of the children's area - all the kids had to do was pick a colour and paint within the outlines. It was all going swimmingly well, with us adult supervisors possibly having more fun than the kids were (yes, we had a go too).

A well-sized two-year-old, whose sisters were hard at work on a penguin and a pirate respectively, also got in on the act. At this point I have to add that two-year-olds probably don't even have a concept of what a line is, let alone the idea of putting blobs of bright colour within designated areas.

Our unofficial children's librarian let him have his way with the orange paint, all praise and encouragement as his loaded brush went in all directions. I actually couldn't watch - it might be the rule-obeying part of my personality, I dunno.

Should we wipe it off, and keep the window looking halfway attractive, or leave it on so that our budding action-painter has the satisfaction of seeing his work appreciated? I'm voting for the former.

Vanity - the eighth Deadly?

I had this idea several weeks ago to make an enormous Christmas card, from the library staff to the library patrons. Letting my mind wander outside the square it normally resides in, I imagined little photos of seasonally-dressed staff members as doors in an advent calender. Okay, that didn't happen.

But a couple of weeks ago the idea was resurrected, albeit simplified. That's why, over the past few days, I've been taking pictures of startled library folk wearing silly headgear (take your pick - Santa hat, antlers or mini-Santa figure).

Some people really had to be bullied into submission - one refused to ruin her fresh hairdo, another deleted several attempts until a suitably attractive picture was taken and two team leaders preferred to cover their faces with the props. One or two posed willingly but not smilingly. Even the women whom the camera loves (the bitches) were difficult.

I, on the other hand, absolutely knew from experience that I would look like I'd just finished a heavy physical workout after too little sleep. And had forgotton to bring some much-needed face powder. But you can bet that my well-oiled mug will be on that Chrissy card, and that I didn't bother to get re-takes...

old white guys and young Asian women

The very thought of it creeps me out.

When I was an innocent undergraduate, living at home and therefore lacking in that famous student-style social life, I used to see this guy hanging around the library. He must've been about fifty, all white-haired and crinkly-skinned, though he assured me he was a bona fide student. I was a lonely wee soul in those days, so I chatted to him whenever I saw him. He never asked me out, thank gawd, but later on I found out that he made a habit of selectively chatting to the younger female Asian students. Years later, when I was working, I found out from a Chinese guy friend that his younger sister actually lived with that old guy for a while.

And now it seems I have an old-white-guy stalker. I take my mum to the open-air produce market every Sunday morning, and I keep seeing this one guy looking at me. I spoke to him once - he started a conversation and my customer service habit made it impossible for me not to reply - and ever since then, I'd spot him noticing me. He'd wind his way around the fruit and vege crates to get to where I was standing, while I'd pretend not to see him as I wandered in the opposite direction.

It just reminds me of that time I was in Thailand, when I was walking behind a tall, middle-aged white guy holding hands with a very young-looking Thai girl (us Asians look young for our age, I know - but even so, she can't have been more than twelve).
I hoped like crazy that he was just a friend of her parents', taking her out for a platonic ice-cream...

The origins of "dooce"

Thanks bizgirl, for showing me the way to the answer to that difficult question "What is the origin of the word dooce?". Dooce was the nickname of the first known blogger to get fired for blogging about work. It was her nickname because she kept mistyping dude in her emails.

The Seven Deadly Sins - ish

I’m a bit of a sinner. Fortunately I’m agnostic, so I can rest easy knowing that I’m not going to spend my afterlife in some nasty, sulphurous inferno – ‘cos there is no afterlife and no inferno. What follows is going to be my own take on the Seven Deadlies, as I feel about them right now. Feel free to tell me your own.

Lust: It must be Spring, because – apart from the four-seasons-in-one-day weather we’ve been experiencing – the boy has been rather frisky lately; it’s like when we first moved in together.

Greed: Someone gave me a Whitcoulls discount voucher on Thursday, which runs out tomorrow (Sunday). I don’t need to get anything from there – only last weekend I bought myself a copy of Trinny and Susannah’s What You Wear Can Change Your Life. Yet I spent an hour in the shop looking for something to save 25% on.

Gluttony: I love food. It must be part of being Cantonese, since the culture uses the giving and eating of food to symbolise love, respect and prosperity, among other things. One reason I gave up running was because the activity has to be preceded by two full hours in which you mustn’t eat anything at all. Also, my diet doesn’t match my ethical ideals; I’d be vegetarian but I really, really like eating meat.

Envy: All my life, I’ve envied people for being taller, thinner, prettier, richer, more easy-going, more popular, more intelligent or happier than me. But that doesn’t mean I’d willingly swap my life for somebody else’s. There are aspects of my life which are really good and which I worked hard for.

Sloth: The need to do less has been the driving force of my last five years. The fact that I’ve ended up in a full-time job which is 45-50 minutes drive from home, and spend ten hours a week studying for a library degree, may lead you to believe I’m a workaholic. I’m not – I just lost my real focus when I found my career focus.

Pride: Last year I did a course with the Open Polytech (using Open University materials), and I mostly got A’s. This year I started my MLIS and seemed to doing really well still. I was damned proud of myself. And then came the fall. I’m a poor book Historian.

Anger: Little things make me angry – people leaving rubbish all over the library, knowing someone else will tidy up; having to breathe someone else’s tobacco smoke; having to drive with the sun in my eyes or behind a slow-coach driver. Big stuff makes me even angrier – people thinking its okay to treat other people like shit; people being cruel to animals; stupid political decisions.

What's your Chinese mythological being?

You are Xuan Wu!

Mythological background: Because the turtle has a
thick, solid shell that serves as protection -
this animal is associated with stability. You
enjoy intellectual pursuits.
Also, in Feng Shui (the Chinese myths behind
choosing a house), the black turtle's solidity
is used to protect from cold northern winds.


Which Chinese Mythological Being Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

A turtle, huh? Turtle tastes like beef (just being Cantonese).

What's that word for it?

There's a word for it, but I can't remember what it is. It's when you get disciplined by your employer for blogging about your job, on the job. It hasn't happened to me yet, but we all got an email today about appropriate use of the Internet in work time.

Time on the Information Desk, when it's quiet, is the best time to check out blogs, TradeMe and anything else interesting on the 'Net. But our manager says that "they" can tell who's been surfing for non-work purposes and how much time we're spending doing it. That means I've got to somehow fit the recreational 'Net surfing into my lunch hour - time better spent eating lunch, reading or sitting in the sun. (Okay, I suppose I can just wait till I get home.)

Apparently "they" will audit staff members with high Internet usage, and one of my workmates has already been slapped on the wrist. I hope all those librarian blogs I read aren't mistaken for personal sites! (gasp!)

In a time-warp

At one of the old-folks homes where I parked the library bus today, an elderly woman came on board looking ever-so-slightly intense. She opened her mouth to speak. I leaned forward to hear her. "Could you please help me get in touch with my parents?". Only twenty minutes before I'd promised to find a book on dowsing for another library patron, so I assumed this lady was interested in communicating with the spirit world.

So I asked her whether she meant séances and stuff like that. Nope. It turned out she really wanted to let her parents know where she was staying. Assuming she didn't have Nừmenorian ancestry, I assumed she must be having that "second childhood" I've heard about regarding oldies. So I gave her a bit of paper to write down her parents' names and phone number, promising to let them know. It's just good customer service, eh?

Hooked online and sunk

What disappointment I felt when I got home yesterday to be told that our friendly ISP and cable company had experienced some sort of power outage, meaning that both our television reception and our internet were out of action. I'd been all ready to get home and blog my heart out; now I had to make do with Angel DVDs (okay, it wasn't that bad really). It just goes to show how much I depend on my cyber-jollies...

So I got my grade on that assignment
I shouldn't have been too surprised. After all, this course has a reputation for tough marking and a heavy workload. Plus, I knew that my presentation stank like a thousand-year-old egg in last week's rice gruel. All the same, it was a shock to see that symbol, C+, right under my name. It was just as well that my annotated bibliography, the other half of the assignment, scored a little better; the overall grade was almost respectable. All afternoon I felt a little sick in my stomach, and it wasn't due to the dust blown up from the super-powered fans drying out the library's carpet. I was just getting used to getting As and Bs, that's all.

A Big Fat Turkey

I had a few Flybuys points, the result of dedicated credit card use, so I was ripe for reward-picking. Although the big push for using such a loyalty card is that you can get cheap or free flights, I've never used it this way. In the past I've gotten free movie passes, magazine subscriptions and even a dinner set. And now we have a size 5 frozen turkey.

Did you know that a size 5 turkey is about ten times as large as a size 5 chicken? I certainly didn't. I'm not sure our oven is big enough to cook it.

But - why?

Here's an explicitly-illustrated article on how to give your rat an enema. At the end, there are pictures to show you the poos which should result from your tender lovin' labours. (Found at memepool.)

Books Ahoy!

Books Ahoy happens to be the name of our library's Summer Reading Programme, but that's not what I'm going to write about here. We have an aluminium dinghy in front of the circulation desk to go with the SRP theme, but this morning it could have been useful - because overnight, there was a bit of a flood at the library.

The storm over the twenty four hours which ended early this morning, was pretty powerful - gusts of over 100km/hr and plenty of precipitation to go with it. It meant that my relatives' last day in town would be spent indoors, cooking and dozing. Fortunately for me, the roof has held tight over several storms including this one; the weather was an opportunity to snuggle down and feel safe, not a scene from a disaster movie.

In a typical move from the weather gods, the cyclone-ish conditions of the weekend have died down and it's currently lovely and sunny. I'm now back at work of course.

How's it hanging?

I read an interesting article today about a survey of German men buying condoms in the wrong size. It says that most men don't bother to measure themselves first, and just get the Extra Large size - no surprises there. The surprise is towards the end of the article, when it quotes these statistics:

"only 18 per cent wore the right size, with nearly half squeezing into condoms that were too small and 34 per cent trying to use those that were too big."

Surely this means that, far from overestimating the sizes of their respective tackle, a large proportion were in fact underestimating themselves...

Another restaurant fight - torn between two elders

Last night we all went out for dinner again - nine adults and 2 kiddies. One of my aunts had already explained to me that she was going to pay for dinner; she assured me that it was expected, and made it clear that neither my brother nor I were supposed to give her any opposition.

My mum took me aside shortly after, to tell me that - at all costs - I was not to let my aunt pay for dinner. I was to pretend to go along with it, then openly disobey my aunt's wishes by throwing down my credit card just in time.

Shortly after that, my uncle whispered in my ear that it had been agreed among himself, my aunt and my mother, that he and my aunt would pay for dinner. Getting in their way would earn his displeasure.

Figuring that my aunts and uncle will be gone in a couple of days, but my mum will be around to nag me indefinitely, I knew which path to take.

It came down to my uncle sneaking off, ostensibly to use the men's room; my realisation that the men's room was in the other direction and that the race must surely be on; and crawling around three other diners to catch up. I succeeded in waving down the manageress before my uncle did, but not before he'd grabbed my arm and told me how disappointed he was. He was very convincing - I felt really guilty for not let him get his way - but luckily my brother was just there to keep me on track. With my free hand, I threw my Visa down and blocked my uncle's handfuls of bills. I countered his expressions of indignations with my only defense - that I was only following orders.

The only thing missing from this all-Chinese show of hospitality was the Cantonese shouting match.

Party of Nerds *

The boy's work Christmas function was really fun, but first I had to sit politely through about an hour of in-jokes and Geek-of-the-year presentations. Modelled on the Academy Awards, the trophies were little gold-painted Barbie ripoffs from the Two Dollar Shop. A nice touch, I thought.

Thankfully, it wasn't that long before the buffet was served. Having learned from past experience, I knew this time not to fill my plate up too soon. (Last time I did this, I ended up layering portions of hot food on top of the salads and cold meats. I don't know who was more embarrassed for me - me or my boy. Mind you, I would've been even more embarrassed if I had been seen to finish it all.)

On the way I commiserated with a couple of other IT-wives, about the frozen smiles during the no-doubt hilarious tales of the programmer who had to do a major hack whilst stoned or whatever (I'm not sure, I think I was dozing when they told that one). I was a wee bit jealous of the female employees, who were not only model-thin but clearly had salaries which enabled them to buy actual designer clothing.

One IT-wife I chatted with is in marketing/communications. I mentioned my interest in writing, she mentioned how hard it is to find copywriters in this country. She told me to send her samples of brochures I'd written for the library. I had a vision of her reading my work, and of my credibility disappearing with every word. Best to keep it as just a dream for now, methinks.

* They're mostly nice blokes actually. Especially J., who really is quite nerdy but took the trouble to learn to dance because everyone knows it increases a guy's attractiveness factor enormously.

I'm with yer boss

I'm going to the boy's work Christmas function tonight. It's a costume dress-up affair, and the boy can't wait to get his pirate costume. He's going as Captain Jack Sparrow, otherwise known as Johnny Depp - this is either because he wants an excuse to get really drunk ("I'm in character!"), or because he believes I have a crush on Johnny Depp (I don't - believe it or not, I just like his choice in movies).

Being a much less photogenic sort, I've declined the opportunity to pretend to be someone famous, tall and glamourous - I'm going as myself but more expensively-dressed than usual. Probably in trousers too.

In the boy's past work functions, I'd be talking to one of the staff and when I casually mentioned who my date was, that person would find an excuse to leave and mingle with someone else. Apparently it's because the boy is an extra-scary senior manager and no-one wants to be accused to trying to chat up his woman. Well, that's what he tells me anyway.

Last Christmas it was a barbeque the boy ate a bad sausage and missed the gastranomic delights of home-cooked festive meals for over two weeks. I hope he's more fortunate this year.

You must be mistaken

For some reason, the elderly are much more likely to think I'm not from New Zealand, despite my assertive Kiwi accent, than other people.

Just yesterday, an otherwise-lovely senior citizen asked me what I had planned for the Christmas period - would I be going home to China for the holiday?

I gave her a blank look, but she didn't get the hint. I tried something more blatant, like telling her I was born here; moreover, so was my older brother, and my mum has been in New Zealand for over fifty years (much longer than your average skin-head).

Every now and then I get someone (with no ill intentions, mind) referring to me as "you people". It always turns into a monologue about how much they like Chinese food.

Just as well those people don't matter.

Oh, rigid am I ?

This quiz was kinda appropriate, since I just spent the last four weeks researching an assignment on the type and type design of a book called The Kama Sutra for Cats.


Roman Capitals- You have a proud and noble bearing,
and are of ancient pedigree, but you tend to be
very rigid and set in your ways.


What Calligraphy Hand Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla



Found at Meme Freak

Bah Humbug

Grumpiness is not an unusual mood for me, and if you've been hanging around either myself or this blog for a little while you'll know this is true. Well, I'm grumpy right now and here's why:

The folks at Mr Tran's, the sandwich shop near my work, made me a filled rolled with Cantonese-style barbeque pork filling. Yummy Chinese-y food. Why on earth then, did they feel compelled to add raw tomato, hard-boiled egg and grated cheese to the filling? Grated cheese and barbeque pork??

Another case of a mis-placed Asian ingredient - the library bus was parked outside an old-folks' home when I went in to return some things of theirs. On the way out, I noticed an elderly Asian woman - obviously a non-English speaker because of her age, her old-fashioned bob, her village-style clothes and the fact she was set apart from everyone else - sitting in the common room. She looked lonely and out of place in that way that someone does when they are surrounded by strangers. It made me really sad.

It was a lovely hot day today. It was certainly the wrong day to forget to take my water bottle onto the bus with me.

The drive home was hot too. As my car has no air-con, I have to wind the window right down and turn the fan right up. This has unpleasant results when the vehicle in front of me is spewing nasty, smelly diesel fumes.

I thought I'd drive to the pool in town today, instead of the one just past my house. Unfortunately, everyone in the city decided to drive to the same part of town. I couldn't get a park when I got there, and still took half and hour to get out of there.

When I got home, I still had to do the washing up before the boy would cook for me.