Girl
Today, I escaped to Canterbury with one of my oldest friends who is now finally here in London for a while.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Things
I should really learn to be a lot more ruthless in weeding stuff out, paring things down, keeping it spare. I need to learn how to discard things, not to have a kind of weird separation anxiety, thinking always of a just-in-case.
I have the chronic inability to part with stuff I have accumulated over the years. My train ticket stubs from my 2002 Easter Czech cycling trip, the signature purple carnets of the Parisian metro from winter of 2003, San Francisco-an maps and leaflets from my 2004 summer roadtrip. I keep them all because I want to always keep a piece of the places I've been to with me. In random moments when I come across them, usually when I'm digging through my mountains of belongings for something I require urgently, I would feel a rush of irritation at a random piece of scrap that is in my way. But as I pause to take a look at the offensive piece of debris, wondering why I haven't yet binned it, I realise that it is - that Czech map, that Parisian ticket stub, that Yellowstone National Park Guide - and for a magic moment, all irritation melts away. I smile, as I recall those moments - that fairy-tale road through a snowy pine forest in the undulating Czech countryside, sitting down by a random roadside to dig into cans of luncheon meat, the neverending little Czech towns with their ubiquitous little churches. Or I recall Mai and I squeezing through the Metro gates in Paris in order to save on carnets, the wintry cold Parisian streets and the winds whipping at my face, having sashimi on the Left Bank. And a wonderful "last summer", filled, in my mind, with gorgeous food, laughter, adventure, and many dreams-come-true. And in the midst of my daily numb rush, I pause for that heartbeat, to "stand and stare", and remember why is it I am alive. Why everything is worthwhile. So I will choose to store that bit of string, that scrap of paper, that little tag - all the small things that remind me where I have come from, what is important in life, and that life is not confined to whatever conditions I am stuck with for the moment. They are my instantaneous portals to a richer, happier world.
But the point was... that I really need to be more ruthless. I need to keep a grip on my life and not let the jungle creep in. Those things which have the weight of treasured memories should still be preserved - however, I have to learn to be far more selective in my sentiments.
As for the rest, I should learn to let go. I suspect that my desire to hoard stems from some childhood anxiety that has made me accumulate to get a sense of security.
It is late. I'd write more, but I am in a mix of muted fury (if there is such a thing) and plain sleep-headache irritation.
I have the chronic inability to part with stuff I have accumulated over the years. My train ticket stubs from my 2002 Easter Czech cycling trip, the signature purple carnets of the Parisian metro from winter of 2003, San Francisco-an maps and leaflets from my 2004 summer roadtrip. I keep them all because I want to always keep a piece of the places I've been to with me. In random moments when I come across them, usually when I'm digging through my mountains of belongings for something I require urgently, I would feel a rush of irritation at a random piece of scrap that is in my way. But as I pause to take a look at the offensive piece of debris, wondering why I haven't yet binned it, I realise that it is - that Czech map, that Parisian ticket stub, that Yellowstone National Park Guide - and for a magic moment, all irritation melts away. I smile, as I recall those moments - that fairy-tale road through a snowy pine forest in the undulating Czech countryside, sitting down by a random roadside to dig into cans of luncheon meat, the neverending little Czech towns with their ubiquitous little churches. Or I recall Mai and I squeezing through the Metro gates in Paris in order to save on carnets, the wintry cold Parisian streets and the winds whipping at my face, having sashimi on the Left Bank. And a wonderful "last summer", filled, in my mind, with gorgeous food, laughter, adventure, and many dreams-come-true. And in the midst of my daily numb rush, I pause for that heartbeat, to "stand and stare", and remember why is it I am alive. Why everything is worthwhile. So I will choose to store that bit of string, that scrap of paper, that little tag - all the small things that remind me where I have come from, what is important in life, and that life is not confined to whatever conditions I am stuck with for the moment. They are my instantaneous portals to a richer, happier world.
But the point was... that I really need to be more ruthless. I need to keep a grip on my life and not let the jungle creep in. Those things which have the weight of treasured memories should still be preserved - however, I have to learn to be far more selective in my sentiments.
As for the rest, I should learn to let go. I suspect that my desire to hoard stems from some childhood anxiety that has made me accumulate to get a sense of security.
It is late. I'd write more, but I am in a mix of muted fury (if there is such a thing) and plain sleep-headache irritation.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Funny snippet
On Sunday night -
Cabbie: "So do you often work on Sundays?"
Me: "Erm... well, it's my first Sunday so far."
... pause a beat...
Me: "But then, I've only been working for two weeks."
Cabbie: "So do you often work on Sundays?"
Me: "Erm... well, it's my first Sunday so far."
... pause a beat...
Me: "But then, I've only been working for two weeks."
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Here I am, 2 weeks down
Thank you Yufen and Siew Wei for emailing, for caring whether I'm alive or dead. You have no idea how it feels, coming back to my own laptop after the end of a long week, to see those emails. It makes all the difference in the world.
Yes, I'm alive. I've just been working somewhat long hours, even going in for 15 hours last Saturday, so I crash out as soon as I get home, and leave the house the soonest I can get ready in the morning.
This past Thursday, when one of my seniors told me to go home early because I had stayed late the night before, and I was almost comatose anyway from tiredness, I took his advice and left at 12.45am. When I realised that I was actually excited that I was leaving work early, I had to laugh, because my concept of work hours has clearly been warped by a mere two weeks of work.
It seems like I've been working for longer than 2 weeks though. It has only been 10 official working days. But when you add last Saturday in, yesterday's few hours, and today's couple of hours, it's longer than that in standard working hours' terms. I'm also dreading more work from another senior who left a voicemail on my Blackberry last night: "We (you - after all, He is out of the country.#) may have to work tomorrow. I'll give you a call."
The most important thing I think is to work for good people. When I was working for these two guys I liked, I would walk through fires and mountains for them. But when working for another guy who told me off for following his instructions to the letter ("Use your brain"), or for this other out-of-country senior who has a fearsome reputation, even the slightest bit of work makes me nervous. I actually feel myself twitching whenever the out-of-country guy calls me or says: "Hey, how are you doing?"
At work, most of the seniors don't actually care about your welfare. Even as innocuous a phrase as "How are you doing" becomes a gruesome beast in their mouths, because it is Invariably followed by some demand: "How are you doing. Have you updated the model?", "How are you doing. Could you do a newsround on XYZ company for me?", "How are you doing. How are you getting along with the work I gave you?", "How are you doing. Do you have time to do XYZ for me?"
The first few miserable days, I had nothing to do and was bored out of my skull. Then one day in particular, I was twitchy and nervous all day, I was actually unable to disguise the look of horror on my face whenever anyone stopped by at my desk.
In retrospect, it is pretty funny.
The best way to keep sane I think, is to always keep a sense of perspective, and always be able to sit back and have a laugh. The problem with my team is that it is huge, and there are few juniors. And it's difficult to have fun, chill and laugh, when there are so many serious faces around.
Note at 14:16 hours: one of my seniors has just called me in to check some numbers. My weekend is completely blown now. Cheers mate!
Yes, I'm alive. I've just been working somewhat long hours, even going in for 15 hours last Saturday, so I crash out as soon as I get home, and leave the house the soonest I can get ready in the morning.
This past Thursday, when one of my seniors told me to go home early because I had stayed late the night before, and I was almost comatose anyway from tiredness, I took his advice and left at 12.45am. When I realised that I was actually excited that I was leaving work early, I had to laugh, because my concept of work hours has clearly been warped by a mere two weeks of work.
It seems like I've been working for longer than 2 weeks though. It has only been 10 official working days. But when you add last Saturday in, yesterday's few hours, and today's couple of hours, it's longer than that in standard working hours' terms. I'm also dreading more work from another senior who left a voicemail on my Blackberry last night: "We (you - after all, He is out of the country.#) may have to work tomorrow. I'll give you a call."
The most important thing I think is to work for good people. When I was working for these two guys I liked, I would walk through fires and mountains for them. But when working for another guy who told me off for following his instructions to the letter ("Use your brain"), or for this other out-of-country senior who has a fearsome reputation, even the slightest bit of work makes me nervous. I actually feel myself twitching whenever the out-of-country guy calls me or says: "Hey, how are you doing?"
At work, most of the seniors don't actually care about your welfare. Even as innocuous a phrase as "How are you doing" becomes a gruesome beast in their mouths, because it is Invariably followed by some demand: "How are you doing. Have you updated the model?", "How are you doing. Could you do a newsround on XYZ company for me?", "How are you doing. How are you getting along with the work I gave you?", "How are you doing. Do you have time to do XYZ for me?"
The first few miserable days, I had nothing to do and was bored out of my skull. Then one day in particular, I was twitchy and nervous all day, I was actually unable to disguise the look of horror on my face whenever anyone stopped by at my desk.
In retrospect, it is pretty funny.
The best way to keep sane I think, is to always keep a sense of perspective, and always be able to sit back and have a laugh. The problem with my team is that it is huge, and there are few juniors. And it's difficult to have fun, chill and laugh, when there are so many serious faces around.
Note at 14:16 hours: one of my seniors has just called me in to check some numbers. My weekend is completely blown now. Cheers mate!
Monday, September 06, 2004
Day One
My first day was a jumble of emotions.
Excited to start work, uncertain as to where I was supposed to sit, antsy while waiting for what seemed an eternity to be assigned, happy to be handed work, eager to do the job, anxious to get it right, confused as to how to go about doing it, impatient in waiting for passwords and access to be sorted out, annoyed at the faulty printer.
Most of all, filled with wonder that finally, truly, really, unbelievably, I have actually started work.
The girl has her own lovely cubicle to be personalised, spaces to be filled. Aye her own paper tray, empty drawers, extension number, sexy flat screen monitor.
And so the story begins.
Excited to start work, uncertain as to where I was supposed to sit, antsy while waiting for what seemed an eternity to be assigned, happy to be handed work, eager to do the job, anxious to get it right, confused as to how to go about doing it, impatient in waiting for passwords and access to be sorted out, annoyed at the faulty printer.
Most of all, filled with wonder that finally, truly, really, unbelievably, I have actually started work.
The girl has her own lovely cubicle to be personalised, spaces to be filled. Aye her own paper tray, empty drawers, extension number, sexy flat screen monitor.
And so the story begins.
Friday, September 03, 2004
When in Rome, do as the Romans do
And so I did.
Having come to the realisation over the past few weeks that the physicality of my co-workers' interaction didn't mean much more than a little bit of fun, tonight, I decided to go with the flow. When my male colleagues pulled me in to dance with them, instead of backing away firmly but politely as I am wont to do, I decided to do a little bit of the bump-and-grind thing with them before extricating myself.
It wasn't too obscene. But it still feels a bit weird to be butt-to-groin with a co-worker, especially since I know for a fact that he has a girlfriend. I am rather aghast that he was dancing with me in the (to me) relatively intimate manner, and I wasn't sure that my act of dancing with him was at all the right thing to do. I know I would certainly be extremely upset with him if I were his girlfriend.
Probably the most scandalous things that happened tonight involved me. I was lifted single-handedly (I have to admit I'm impressed) by one guy twice, then later on literally swept off my feet by another guy who carried me in his arms briefly. It wasn't something I could have avoided though, since their actions were so sudden. As it is, I had already avoided being lifted across a table to a seat by a third guy earlier in the day, rather rudely ignoring his outstretched arms, and insisting on squeezing my way though independently. I think they must have been amused by my tiny size.
But given a chance to avoid being carried, would I have done so? The answer is: "No". I actually like being carried by guys.
But as of tonight, excluding family members, I have been carried/lifted/piggy-backed by a grand total of only five guys. I have french-kissed three boys, held four boys' hands, and have only had one boyfriend. I have never been picked up by a guy, never had a boy buy me drinks, and never given out my number to boys I have met for the first time, bar one, and that was because I needed to contact him to get the Diablo II CD from him (although only one boy has ever asked for number). Strangely enough, as a co-worker observed with shock, I don't pick up boys at parties, but pick up PC games instead. According to him, I am an embarassment, and have got my priorities all wrong. *lol* Tonight though, I had two people buys me drinks. Bizarrely enough, both of them were girls, one of whom I had met for the first time today: a friend of a friend of a friend.
For a girl who is not butt-ugly, clearly, I am a huge failure on the boy front. Whereas some girls have the magic gift of being perennially attached: they are like hot cakes, snapped up as soon they are single; I seem to have the magic gift of being perennially single, which is not a bad thing. The wonder of being single is that life is always exciting. There is eternally that prospect of that Great Love in every boy, and the possibility of a Romance around every corner. Of course, in my case, I have ignored the Actual, Realistic, Statistical PROBABILITY of actually realising that Great Love and Romance.
By pure statistics, the possibility of me getting a boyfriend has probably never been higher. For the first time, I am exposed to the biggest pool of boys in my entire lifetime, because they have been thrust upon me by my career choice. Historically though, I have known like a MAXIMUM of five guys at any one time, and they are always just good mates that I would never get together with. The best thing of all is that the pool of boys I am being exposed is actually of a decent standard, with some choice selections in there.
Unfortunately, for all their heart-breaking beauty, the boys might as well be machines as far as I am concerned. They are colleagues and therefore strictly off-limits. I will never be more than an asexual leper to the boys, and for all their proximity, they might as well be in another galaxy as far as I'm concerned.
Again, that isn't a bad thing, because boys just bring way too much pain and heartache.
Incidentally though, many of the good guys are taken. And at least three of them have gorgeous blonde girlfriends. So perhaps it's not the fact that I'm a colleague that makes me so unmarketable. ;-)
It is now 4am, and I really need to head off to bed. I have to wake up in three hours and have no real idea how I'm going to make it through the day of work. But apparently I have established a name for myself for sleeping in every class and most talks. Haha. So I should just live up to that (hard-earned) reputation.
Good morning, World!
Having come to the realisation over the past few weeks that the physicality of my co-workers' interaction didn't mean much more than a little bit of fun, tonight, I decided to go with the flow. When my male colleagues pulled me in to dance with them, instead of backing away firmly but politely as I am wont to do, I decided to do a little bit of the bump-and-grind thing with them before extricating myself.
It wasn't too obscene. But it still feels a bit weird to be butt-to-groin with a co-worker, especially since I know for a fact that he has a girlfriend. I am rather aghast that he was dancing with me in the (to me) relatively intimate manner, and I wasn't sure that my act of dancing with him was at all the right thing to do. I know I would certainly be extremely upset with him if I were his girlfriend.
Probably the most scandalous things that happened tonight involved me. I was lifted single-handedly (I have to admit I'm impressed) by one guy twice, then later on literally swept off my feet by another guy who carried me in his arms briefly. It wasn't something I could have avoided though, since their actions were so sudden. As it is, I had already avoided being lifted across a table to a seat by a third guy earlier in the day, rather rudely ignoring his outstretched arms, and insisting on squeezing my way though independently. I think they must have been amused by my tiny size.
But given a chance to avoid being carried, would I have done so? The answer is: "No". I actually like being carried by guys.
But as of tonight, excluding family members, I have been carried/lifted/piggy-backed by a grand total of only five guys. I have french-kissed three boys, held four boys' hands, and have only had one boyfriend. I have never been picked up by a guy, never had a boy buy me drinks, and never given out my number to boys I have met for the first time, bar one, and that was because I needed to contact him to get the Diablo II CD from him (although only one boy has ever asked for number). Strangely enough, as a co-worker observed with shock, I don't pick up boys at parties, but pick up PC games instead. According to him, I am an embarassment, and have got my priorities all wrong. *lol* Tonight though, I had two people buys me drinks. Bizarrely enough, both of them were girls, one of whom I had met for the first time today: a friend of a friend of a friend.
For a girl who is not butt-ugly, clearly, I am a huge failure on the boy front. Whereas some girls have the magic gift of being perennially attached: they are like hot cakes, snapped up as soon they are single; I seem to have the magic gift of being perennially single, which is not a bad thing. The wonder of being single is that life is always exciting. There is eternally that prospect of that Great Love in every boy, and the possibility of a Romance around every corner. Of course, in my case, I have ignored the Actual, Realistic, Statistical PROBABILITY of actually realising that Great Love and Romance.
By pure statistics, the possibility of me getting a boyfriend has probably never been higher. For the first time, I am exposed to the biggest pool of boys in my entire lifetime, because they have been thrust upon me by my career choice. Historically though, I have known like a MAXIMUM of five guys at any one time, and they are always just good mates that I would never get together with. The best thing of all is that the pool of boys I am being exposed is actually of a decent standard, with some choice selections in there.
Unfortunately, for all their heart-breaking beauty, the boys might as well be machines as far as I am concerned. They are colleagues and therefore strictly off-limits. I will never be more than an asexual leper to the boys, and for all their proximity, they might as well be in another galaxy as far as I'm concerned.
Again, that isn't a bad thing, because boys just bring way too much pain and heartache.
Incidentally though, many of the good guys are taken. And at least three of them have gorgeous blonde girlfriends. So perhaps it's not the fact that I'm a colleague that makes me so unmarketable. ;-)
It is now 4am, and I really need to head off to bed. I have to wake up in three hours and have no real idea how I'm going to make it through the day of work. But apparently I have established a name for myself for sleeping in every class and most talks. Haha. So I should just live up to that (hard-earned) reputation.
Good morning, World!
