This message is the 365th.
A year's worth of messages - possibly making this blog one year old or maybe a decade old (in blog time). It is a cute milestone. Part of me thinks I should take a photo of it. What an atavistic impulse.
So many things are on autopilot now that I sometimes wonder if the ship gets as bored as I do. We're scheduled for a refueling and cargo transfer stop at the 711116 hub soon. I'm checking the mirror to make sure I'm presentable, but I can't remember if I'm meant to have hair or not. The transmission lag means it is not worth checking the feeds yet either.
Last time I got a case of the jitters and scurried back to the ship after about 4 hours. It was just too weird to be around people and eating food other than Stilton. Oh yeah, the mouse, a slow set of moves got it convinced that the ship was longer and wider than it really is, and using the only remaining advantage of opposable thumbs, I waited and waited and waited until it went into an airlock looking for the promised land, and I blew the hatch manually.
Likewise I then performed a hard start of the command systems, so at least I'm nominally back in control, but of course all of the tweaked settings and preferences and other niceties are missing. It just doesn't seem like home. It feels like my home was stolen and replaced with an exact replica, but all an inch to the left. I could just run a back-up, but now I'm looking out the window and wondering if I should just build them all up fresh. Maybe I'd like things to be different, but am just in the habit of *thinking* that I like them a certain way... like the hair thing, I'll wait and bit longer and see.
Showing posts with label Hair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hair. Show all posts
Friday, June 04, 2010
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Rumi Moment
Oh Rumi. Rumi, Rumi. What are we going to do with you?
Cats are funny (read "you wonder if you'll wake up whole") creatures to live with. Anyone who has lived with a cat will be nodding at that. They twist the truth, they re-write the code, they shed fucking hair everywhere. Seriously. Everywhere. A genetically modified for extra hair -shedding woolly mammoth could not shed as much hair as a domestic cat. Seriously. They've done tests. You want to know why so many shuttle missions failed? Cat hair in the intake valves. Really.
Despite all of this, you worry when the giant trolling food hoover doesn't show up for one of the meals that as the designated human I am obligated to provide. When he missed breakfast as well, I initiated DEFCON3. This is as high as you can go without seeing blood. Actually DEFCON3 really just involved checking under the house again and calling my mother so I had someone to talk aloud to as I reasoned through the last time I saw him and could that large dog roaming the street last night have gotten past the hair defences and 50 million razor sharp claws and actually have possibly hurt my missing puddy wuddykins?
A million million (is that a pentillion? No, it's a billion. What was a pentillion then? A billion billion? Huh. Have to ask the maths ref again.... anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, OK maybe 3) scenarios played through my sluggish and understaffed mind. I made a coffee and sat pondering life's imponderables on the couch (ie no thoughts at all, just waited for the coffee to kick the motor over). Riley watched. I could see he was weighing up the variables and figuring out if he was going to get a walk or not. He decided the odds weren't good and went back to bed, leaving me with a creeping sense of guilt that I had been judged a bad human and Rumi had simply decamped to better feeding and shedding grounds. I wrestled somewhat with my conscience. Tried again to figure out when I'd last seen him. Couldn't. Was it breakfast yesterday? Had he come in at all in the afternoon? What matter did this make? If a cat doesn't want to be found, you won't find it. I let the matter drop. There were things to be getting on with, after all, I was up at the crack of 10am and a day doesn't just get underway by itself.
Laundry is one of those household chores I like in that a machine actually does the hard work once you put the stuff in and press Go. There was enough for a whole load just from all the towels. Made toast, squinted, hung out wet things, stumbled to bathroom to open cupboard for actual clothes for washing and scared myself shitless when I reached in and it was warm. So help me for a split second I thought the Alien mother had laid eggs in there and I was about to have something horrendous force itself down my gullet and gestate in my abdomen until killing me for food. But no, I had woken Rumi. Not quite so different normally from Rumi really.
Which was how I knew things were pretty serious and he had been in that completely dark cupboard for a loooooong time. He stretched, gave a yawn, and strolled off with eyes almost completely devoid of irises. He ignored me. He made no snide comments. He made no showy exit. He walked around the house, he walked outside around the yard and came back, and asked for some breakfast. I felt very contrite, I served the special Chicken/Tuna combo he doesn't get very often. He ate a little to show there were no hard feelings, drank some water and sat on the back step. Not cleaning himself, not anything.
Eerie.
A tumbleweed rolled through the tableau.
Riley, quite pointedly, was no where to be seen.
Rumi came back inside and ate a little more of breakfast. He sat and turned to me.
"Here it comes" I thought "the reaming to end it all."
He looked me in the eye for a moment and said, "Don't let that happen again." and left to lay under the house until dinner.
"I won't. I promise." I said to his retreating tail and went to unblock the washing machine of cat hair.
Cats are funny (read "you wonder if you'll wake up whole") creatures to live with. Anyone who has lived with a cat will be nodding at that. They twist the truth, they re-write the code, they shed fucking hair everywhere. Seriously. Everywhere. A genetically modified for extra hair -shedding woolly mammoth could not shed as much hair as a domestic cat. Seriously. They've done tests. You want to know why so many shuttle missions failed? Cat hair in the intake valves. Really.
Despite all of this, you worry when the giant trolling food hoover doesn't show up for one of the meals that as the designated human I am obligated to provide. When he missed breakfast as well, I initiated DEFCON3. This is as high as you can go without seeing blood. Actually DEFCON3 really just involved checking under the house again and calling my mother so I had someone to talk aloud to as I reasoned through the last time I saw him and could that large dog roaming the street last night have gotten past the hair defences and 50 million razor sharp claws and actually have possibly hurt my missing puddy wuddykins?
A million million (is that a pentillion? No, it's a billion. What was a pentillion then? A billion billion? Huh. Have to ask the maths ref again.... anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, OK maybe 3) scenarios played through my sluggish and understaffed mind. I made a coffee and sat pondering life's imponderables on the couch (ie no thoughts at all, just waited for the coffee to kick the motor over). Riley watched. I could see he was weighing up the variables and figuring out if he was going to get a walk or not. He decided the odds weren't good and went back to bed, leaving me with a creeping sense of guilt that I had been judged a bad human and Rumi had simply decamped to better feeding and shedding grounds. I wrestled somewhat with my conscience. Tried again to figure out when I'd last seen him. Couldn't. Was it breakfast yesterday? Had he come in at all in the afternoon? What matter did this make? If a cat doesn't want to be found, you won't find it. I let the matter drop. There were things to be getting on with, after all, I was up at the crack of 10am and a day doesn't just get underway by itself.
Laundry is one of those household chores I like in that a machine actually does the hard work once you put the stuff in and press Go. There was enough for a whole load just from all the towels. Made toast, squinted, hung out wet things, stumbled to bathroom to open cupboard for actual clothes for washing and scared myself shitless when I reached in and it was warm. So help me for a split second I thought the Alien mother had laid eggs in there and I was about to have something horrendous force itself down my gullet and gestate in my abdomen until killing me for food. But no, I had woken Rumi. Not quite so different normally from Rumi really.
Which was how I knew things were pretty serious and he had been in that completely dark cupboard for a loooooong time. He stretched, gave a yawn, and strolled off with eyes almost completely devoid of irises. He ignored me. He made no snide comments. He made no showy exit. He walked around the house, he walked outside around the yard and came back, and asked for some breakfast. I felt very contrite, I served the special Chicken/Tuna combo he doesn't get very often. He ate a little to show there were no hard feelings, drank some water and sat on the back step. Not cleaning himself, not anything.
Eerie.
A tumbleweed rolled through the tableau.
Riley, quite pointedly, was no where to be seen.
Rumi came back inside and ate a little more of breakfast. He sat and turned to me.
"Here it comes" I thought "the reaming to end it all."
He looked me in the eye for a moment and said, "Don't let that happen again." and left to lay under the house until dinner.
"I won't. I promise." I said to his retreating tail and went to unblock the washing machine of cat hair.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
A Mediocre Daughter
The alarm went off at 7.30am this morning.
Why so early on a Sunday? You may well ask.
It was a misguided ploy to emotionally prepare myself for the 6.30am start tomorrow. It worked in that Rumi got fed and Riley and I went to the loo (not in the same place, obviously) but it didn't work insomuch as all of this was achieved in a mumbling stumble with eyes mostly closed and earplugs firmly in place so that we could all fall back onto the Heaven Mattress and slumber peacefully on for another 2 hours or so. I mean there's being conscientious about work, and then there's down-right silliness.
Last Day Blues
In atonement for this (pretty much expected) lapse and over the morning cuppa, I wrote out two lists - all the things for today and all the things for tomorrow when I'm back at work. As my little Sister's taken to saying "You need to bring your 'A' game." Ok, Game On.
Hence the two lists. They each were three quarters of an A4 page. Daunting. Even broken up into little steps and next actions - it still seemed too long. Then I noticed that the more little steps I used, the longer the freakin thing got - it's a zero-sum game. You can either have a really short snappy list with massively dense action lines, or nice sweet action lines of 15 or 20 minute tasks that you need one of those toilet-roll length scrolls to track. Nope, not today thanks. I'm still way mellow from spending time up at the farm.
Parents: You Get No Choice
I'd put off going to visit the folks. Sometimes it is easier to love people in the abstract than in actual smelly, moody, messy real life. But as Riley had gone home with them for a farm stay on NYE and I was missing him badly, it had to be done. Friday night I packed the car and headed up, and there was the most amazing sunset for the last 30mins of the drive. Really. I know they're on the taboo list for writing about so I'll just say it was operatic in scope and style and I had a near miss with an oncoming holden because I'd drifted towards the middle a little bit trying to soak it all up. That put me into a pretty chilled-out vibe (the sunset, not the holden). Mum had made a veggie pizza for me and Dad was already in his cups and $5G down in his imaginary friends poker game. It was cooler there and a cold breeze. Actually "breeze" is a bit of an understatement - the wind had pushed a branch through the laundry the day before I got there but after a few days at 40degrees, a bit of wind is no problem if it brings the temps under 30.
So anyway Dad cleaned up about three quarters of a bottle of whisky and mum and I cleaned him up playing "Frustration" (a card game where you have to complete sequential hands. This is the easy version - KA and I have a hard-ass version we play which we've dubbed "Cranky Pants"). Anyway the scores total came out at: Mum 2, J9 3, Dad 0. Unheard of. Much laughter and bagging-out of crap play was made.
Sadly Dad did not remember his crushing defeat the next morning, and refused to allow that it had come out that way. Mum and I had kept the score sheets for just such an eventuality, but he brushed these aside as fabrications. The power of the mind is a wonderful thing. Rather than dwell in the past, I gave him a haircut.
Made in China
I don't know if other people do this, but many members of my family have an aversion to hairdressers, so we have a bit of a DIY ethic for haircuts. Maybe its a White Trash thing. I don't know. Anyway, Dad had recently got himself some clippers (top shelf gear too - $12 he paid - new!) and didn't quite insist that I use them but whinged that I always cut his hair too short when I do it by hand. In a gesture of reconciliation for being a crap daughter generally and a moody bitch often, I consented. Well, you know the pleasure that can be had from holding a beautifully designed and constructed piece of technical or mechanical equipment? Something that seems a perfect amalgam of form and function? Right. Well these clippers are the exact opposite of that. I read the chinglish instructions - twice - and attempted to decipher the accompanying diagrams and then we were on. I fired them up and off we went. Enter the Clippers.
The Field of Engagement
My Dad has an almost spherical head and is pretty much bald. He has a Friar Tuck do - bald and shiny on top and a fringe of faded fine hair ringing his skull in line with his face. Dad likes to offset this feeble growth with what can only be described as a mammoth set of Fuck-Off Mutton Chops. These grow in the super-wiry white steel that now passes for his face hair and they stick out from his head much like Blinky Bill's ears. Needless to say, the clippers quailed at the job, but being of stout constitution I persevered at my Herculean task until it was completed. I then offered to run the Dragon Clippers of Death (albeit slowly and possibly painfully) over the acre of old-growth forest Dad keeps on his chest but this thoughtful gesture was rebuffed (somewhat rudely). Despite my concerns over the tools he looked pretty darn good at the end of this, but the really beautiful thing is that this entire procedure is always completed on the front porch so we can all enjoy the view and the "breeze". Oh yeah, farm folks do it casual.
In his own magnanimous act of reconciliation as I was leaving, Dad pressed upon me his two new prize DVDs - Dire Straights Live and Jethro Tull Live at Montreaux 2003 to watch and enjoy as best I may. Dad's not very good at initiating sharing, and he only got these last week - so it was a big gesture, and I couldn't refuse.
So today, instead of those do-gooder to-do lists, I've been pottering around doing craft and soaking up the vibes of Dad's tunes and you know, Jethro Tull can really rock a flute solo.
Why so early on a Sunday? You may well ask.
It was a misguided ploy to emotionally prepare myself for the 6.30am start tomorrow. It worked in that Rumi got fed and Riley and I went to the loo (not in the same place, obviously) but it didn't work insomuch as all of this was achieved in a mumbling stumble with eyes mostly closed and earplugs firmly in place so that we could all fall back onto the Heaven Mattress and slumber peacefully on for another 2 hours or so. I mean there's being conscientious about work, and then there's down-right silliness.
Last Day Blues
In atonement for this (pretty much expected) lapse and over the morning cuppa, I wrote out two lists - all the things for today and all the things for tomorrow when I'm back at work. As my little Sister's taken to saying "You need to bring your 'A' game." Ok, Game On.
Hence the two lists. They each were three quarters of an A4 page. Daunting. Even broken up into little steps and next actions - it still seemed too long. Then I noticed that the more little steps I used, the longer the freakin thing got - it's a zero-sum game. You can either have a really short snappy list with massively dense action lines, or nice sweet action lines of 15 or 20 minute tasks that you need one of those toilet-roll length scrolls to track. Nope, not today thanks. I'm still way mellow from spending time up at the farm.
Parents: You Get No Choice
I'd put off going to visit the folks. Sometimes it is easier to love people in the abstract than in actual smelly, moody, messy real life. But as Riley had gone home with them for a farm stay on NYE and I was missing him badly, it had to be done. Friday night I packed the car and headed up, and there was the most amazing sunset for the last 30mins of the drive. Really. I know they're on the taboo list for writing about so I'll just say it was operatic in scope and style and I had a near miss with an oncoming holden because I'd drifted towards the middle a little bit trying to soak it all up. That put me into a pretty chilled-out vibe (the sunset, not the holden). Mum had made a veggie pizza for me and Dad was already in his cups and $5G down in his imaginary friends poker game. It was cooler there and a cold breeze. Actually "breeze" is a bit of an understatement - the wind had pushed a branch through the laundry the day before I got there but after a few days at 40degrees, a bit of wind is no problem if it brings the temps under 30.
So anyway Dad cleaned up about three quarters of a bottle of whisky and mum and I cleaned him up playing "Frustration" (a card game where you have to complete sequential hands. This is the easy version - KA and I have a hard-ass version we play which we've dubbed "Cranky Pants"). Anyway the scores total came out at: Mum 2, J9 3, Dad 0. Unheard of. Much laughter and bagging-out of crap play was made.
Sadly Dad did not remember his crushing defeat the next morning, and refused to allow that it had come out that way. Mum and I had kept the score sheets for just such an eventuality, but he brushed these aside as fabrications. The power of the mind is a wonderful thing. Rather than dwell in the past, I gave him a haircut.
Made in China
I don't know if other people do this, but many members of my family have an aversion to hairdressers, so we have a bit of a DIY ethic for haircuts. Maybe its a White Trash thing. I don't know. Anyway, Dad had recently got himself some clippers (top shelf gear too - $12 he paid - new!) and didn't quite insist that I use them but whinged that I always cut his hair too short when I do it by hand. In a gesture of reconciliation for being a crap daughter generally and a moody bitch often, I consented. Well, you know the pleasure that can be had from holding a beautifully designed and constructed piece of technical or mechanical equipment? Something that seems a perfect amalgam of form and function? Right. Well these clippers are the exact opposite of that. I read the chinglish instructions - twice - and attempted to decipher the accompanying diagrams and then we were on. I fired them up and off we went. Enter the Clippers.
The Field of Engagement
My Dad has an almost spherical head and is pretty much bald. He has a Friar Tuck do - bald and shiny on top and a fringe of faded fine hair ringing his skull in line with his face. Dad likes to offset this feeble growth with what can only be described as a mammoth set of Fuck-Off Mutton Chops. These grow in the super-wiry white steel that now passes for his face hair and they stick out from his head much like Blinky Bill's ears. Needless to say, the clippers quailed at the job, but being of stout constitution I persevered at my Herculean task until it was completed. I then offered to run the Dragon Clippers of Death (albeit slowly and possibly painfully) over the acre of old-growth forest Dad keeps on his chest but this thoughtful gesture was rebuffed (somewhat rudely). Despite my concerns over the tools he looked pretty darn good at the end of this, but the really beautiful thing is that this entire procedure is always completed on the front porch so we can all enjoy the view and the "breeze". Oh yeah, farm folks do it casual.
In his own magnanimous act of reconciliation as I was leaving, Dad pressed upon me his two new prize DVDs - Dire Straights Live and Jethro Tull Live at Montreaux 2003 to watch and enjoy as best I may. Dad's not very good at initiating sharing, and he only got these last week - so it was a big gesture, and I couldn't refuse.
So today, instead of those do-gooder to-do lists, I've been pottering around doing craft and soaking up the vibes of Dad's tunes and you know, Jethro Tull can really rock a flute solo.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
The Idiot Files
You know it's been too long when you're not sure you can remember your password.
Of course, most mondays are like that for me going back to work. Actually i forgot my address the other day (after all, I've only lived here 9 months) and gave the one from 2 years ago. A natural mistake.
I always thought that people talking about "ageing" or "getting older" were sprouting shite. You know when someone you think is an otherwise rational person starts banging on about their knees or their back or whatever, and they give you that little half smile which seems to be saying "pity me and please join in here", well don't. Stay in denial as long as you can (or just stay 20something as long as you can - same thing really) and change the fracking subject. Otherwise, before you know it you'll be comparing meds and laughing about how you spent 20 minutes looking for your reading glasses and they were on your head the whole time. Hi-larious.
Really, just shoot me.
Except of course, that insidiously, it's happening to me. Me!!
I had a bingle with a trolley at work today. A completely innocent accident - I was reading and walking at the same time (a move for the experienced at the best of times) and a low-lying trundle heaped with boxes of printing was under my peripheral vision - KA-POW! My left foot went under the bed of it at full force and I went A over T and the sodding printing never budged (there's physics for you kids!). Holy snapping turtles it hurt! Someone with some sense put me into a chair and fetched a cold thing. It was a good 5 minutes before my eyes unglazed and I had to sit there for quite some time just breathing and trying not to cry (not from the pain, more from the aftershock). When I went to stand up - it still hurt, my knee hurt and I could feel a stiffness creeping up to my hip. My knee hurt!? WTF?! As I hobbled back to my desk with my icepack I thought about the number of times a word I know I know has eluded me lately. How I have to reach for simple spellings and that the other day I couldn't for the LIFE of me remember who the only ever Australian nobel laureate for literature was. How embarrassment! I hid it ok in that conversation, and it came back to me within about 4 hours or so, but still - more than a close call, it was a big blank empty whistling space in my head where once there had been knowledge.
It was a shock, I can tell you that. I have to admit it, I am growing dumber, and dumber. My light is dimming even more rapidly than my hair.
I entertained the thought recently (7 months ago now seems recent - when did that happen?) of dying my hair. Camouflaging all those wiry little white bastards with something enourmously funky like purple or primary red. In the end I decided not to, not so much because I wouldn't like to look better (I would, but then, why start now?) but more because I've always thought of my hair as a natural warning system for others. Anything in nature that is yellow or red is often hazardous to tangle with. Grey? Grey is not a colour that says "watch out" more possibly "wake up" (with the exception of Germaine Greer who is currently grey, and really, for the safety of all, should probably be dyed in red and yellow stripes over her entire body). I had hoped to grow into an eccentric older person with a sharp wit and a quick tongue, but at this rate I'll be happy not to have to wear a nappy and a helmet by the time I'm 40.
There's an image.
On that note, I think I'll run a bath and see if I can do the kids sudoku puzzle from the weekend paper, maybe work up to a clue or two from the crossword before the wardens come and change my nappy and put the lights out.
Of course, most mondays are like that for me going back to work. Actually i forgot my address the other day (after all, I've only lived here 9 months) and gave the one from 2 years ago. A natural mistake.
I always thought that people talking about "ageing" or "getting older" were sprouting shite. You know when someone you think is an otherwise rational person starts banging on about their knees or their back or whatever, and they give you that little half smile which seems to be saying "pity me and please join in here", well don't. Stay in denial as long as you can (or just stay 20something as long as you can - same thing really) and change the fracking subject. Otherwise, before you know it you'll be comparing meds and laughing about how you spent 20 minutes looking for your reading glasses and they were on your head the whole time. Hi-larious.
Really, just shoot me.
Except of course, that insidiously, it's happening to me. Me!!
I had a bingle with a trolley at work today. A completely innocent accident - I was reading and walking at the same time (a move for the experienced at the best of times) and a low-lying trundle heaped with boxes of printing was under my peripheral vision - KA-POW! My left foot went under the bed of it at full force and I went A over T and the sodding printing never budged (there's physics for you kids!). Holy snapping turtles it hurt! Someone with some sense put me into a chair and fetched a cold thing. It was a good 5 minutes before my eyes unglazed and I had to sit there for quite some time just breathing and trying not to cry (not from the pain, more from the aftershock). When I went to stand up - it still hurt, my knee hurt and I could feel a stiffness creeping up to my hip. My knee hurt!? WTF?! As I hobbled back to my desk with my icepack I thought about the number of times a word I know I know has eluded me lately. How I have to reach for simple spellings and that the other day I couldn't for the LIFE of me remember who the only ever Australian nobel laureate for literature was. How embarrassment! I hid it ok in that conversation, and it came back to me within about 4 hours or so, but still - more than a close call, it was a big blank empty whistling space in my head where once there had been knowledge.
It was a shock, I can tell you that. I have to admit it, I am growing dumber, and dumber. My light is dimming even more rapidly than my hair.
I entertained the thought recently (7 months ago now seems recent - when did that happen?) of dying my hair. Camouflaging all those wiry little white bastards with something enourmously funky like purple or primary red. In the end I decided not to, not so much because I wouldn't like to look better (I would, but then, why start now?) but more because I've always thought of my hair as a natural warning system for others. Anything in nature that is yellow or red is often hazardous to tangle with. Grey? Grey is not a colour that says "watch out" more possibly "wake up" (with the exception of Germaine Greer who is currently grey, and really, for the safety of all, should probably be dyed in red and yellow stripes over her entire body). I had hoped to grow into an eccentric older person with a sharp wit and a quick tongue, but at this rate I'll be happy not to have to wear a nappy and a helmet by the time I'm 40.
There's an image.
On that note, I think I'll run a bath and see if I can do the kids sudoku puzzle from the weekend paper, maybe work up to a clue or two from the crossword before the wardens come and change my nappy and put the lights out.
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