Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Emotional baggage

It's that time of year again. The bit where I pack up my life and move house. I've done it so many years in a row now that it seems like second nature. I'm packing boxes, it must be September. And this time there are so many more boxes to move.

It's funny, though, because there are a couple of boxes that were never unpacked after the last move. They have stayed, intact, in the bottom of my wardrobe. No doubt they will do the same thing in the new place. Although perhaps not the wardrobe, given that it's somewhat smaller than the present model. But somewhere, out of sight, these boxes will sit until my next move.

They are memory boxes. One is filled with my childhood. Toys, dolls, bits of paper. It stays there against the day that somewhere in the future, I will have children of my own and will want to show them what it was like for me to grow up.

I remember being fascinated when my own mother pulled out her last link with childhood, a doll whose eyes no longer opened, whose hair was made of moulded plastic a slightly different shade to the head it was part of. Looking back now, it's a little sad that this was the only link she had kept to her childhood. Her girlhood moved house with her at the end of last year, a small blue suitcase that held nothing from the time after she was married. A few letters from the time when my father was working in a country town; odds and ends that held some value for her.

My own version of this case is in the second box that moves with me, untouched. It's a plastic crate filled with the random bits I have collected in my travels. Tickets to shows, exhibitions, on trains and planes; programs, photos, trinkets. It all means something to me now, evokes some memory of a time, place or person. In a few years, it is sure to mean less and, if I ever open it, I will probably feel the need to get rid of most of it, much like I did with almost all of the reminders of my school years when I finally cleared the bottom of my childhood wardrobe. But for now it stays in one piece, the baggage that I carry forward into the new house.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

Swooping season

The sun was shining brightly and for once the wind had stopped howling in the valley. It was a quiet day. Apart from the insane pecking and fluttering of a lone magpie lark. They're not the brightest of birds, and this one - I'm sure it's the same one - is a frequent visitor to the office I work in. He has been working his way around all the windows and doors, attempting to scare away the other bird he sees reflected back at him. A year on, and he's still doing battle with himself several times a day. He's obviously stubborn beyond mere human understanding.

In so many ways this bird, pecking away at the glass, fluttering to try and make himself seem bigger and more important, is representative of the residents of the estate I work on. In fact, I think they should take him as their mascot. We're in the process of commissioning artwork, a series of totem poles to be erected near a major pathway. Birds will feature pretty strongly. I'm putting forward the mud lark as my suggestion. The only other bird that could even be considered is the greedy sea gull, who appear to have become confused enough to think that the lake is a small inland sea. They are greedy, noisy, and leave a mess behind for me to clean up after them. But they still have more brains than the mud lark.

I stand by my first verdict. If you have to choose a bird to represent our residents, it has to be one of the most stupid, petty, stubbornly aggressive birds in the country. The magpie lark it is.

Thursday, September 01, 2011

Raging Bullsh*t

I feel the need for a rant. Much the same way that I felt the need to yell at slow drivers, slow pedestrians, stupid people and anyone who happened to get in my way on the way home from work. If I'd thought it would have changed anything, I would even have contemplated yelling at people at work, like the guy who drives me insane at the best of times, but burst out laughing for no apparent reason when I was the only person nearby.

Most of all, I would have gone to the guy in human resources who manages payroll, and I would have given him a memorable bollocking for screwing up my bonus payment - or hopefully screwing it up, because otherwise I'm getting taxed at a rate somewhere north of 50 cents in the dollar. I don't make that much money in the first place, but to lose half the bonus that is supposed to even the playing field a little, makes me see red, feel red, be red.

Yep. Once again, my lovely employers have short changed me. And this time it's not through anything stupid I may have miscalculated. After waiting patiently all day for the money to land in my bank account, I nearly fell off my chair when it did arrive. Less than half the figure I had been told as the before tax amount. When the rushing sound in my ears went down a little, I began to consider my options and do some calculations. And I'm out of there. One way or another, I'm leaving. It's all a question of how soon I can get my ducks in a row and skedaddle.

I'm sick of the crap conditions, the annoying people, the pathetic pay, and the fact that being in government means we are under constant scrutiny and don't even get to let our hair down with a decent Christmas party. I hate that I can spend a day in head office and the only person who talks to me is the guy beside me, who says hi when I sit down and bye when I leave, and my brother's girlfriend, who works upstairs. I. hate. my. job. It's reached the point where I'm angry and frustrated enough to do something about it, beyond ranting on my blog.

It might not have been so bad if I hadn't found out a few other things today. Like my brother's much less qualified girlfriend is on significantly more cash than me. Her colleague, who is in a role junior to mine, is also on more than me, although not much. Her bonus is almost $2000 more than mine, however. Anyone who didn't know would think that I don't work bloody hard dealing with the morons and fielding the front line enquiries, keeping things on an even keel and burying how much I dislike what I'm doing, having sold out almost every belief I assembled during all my years of study.

So come Monday, when she's back from leave, I'm asking my boss if she'll be a referee for me. Tomorrow, I'm stomping my way to pay roll and demanding the rest of my bonus. And now, I'm consoling myself with the thought of what takeaway I can pick up from somewhere close, even though I've already changed into comfy trackies and a hideous by cosy cardy. Hell, last time I checked KFC didn't have a dress code on the drive through. I'm going to be cruising job sites and marking out potentials. I've already updated my CV recently. And until I can start sending it out, I'm looking at vintage dresses. Yep. Junk food and shopping, soothing the savage beast within. Or they would be if my bonus hadn't been so pathetically small that I can't really afford to buy anything. Stupid bastards.