The Unexplained

There are some mysteries in life that I will never understand. Why some women have perfect hair. Why Collingwood Football team is universally hated by all other clubs. Why exactly chocolate tastes so good - although that's one I'm happy to just accept at face value. My six months or so away from blogging has thrown up some of these questions, so I thought I'd explore them here as a way of getting back into the swing of things after so long away. So here it is. My top five things that I will never be able to adequately explain. 1. Why I attract fickle men. And then I don't. Sounds straight forward, yes? I'm quite capable of getting the attention of a certain type of man, it seems. And then I lose it. Abruptly. For instance, I've been messaging a seemingly nice guy for most of this month. He's a teacher, seems to have his head screwed on the right way and gave all the indications of being almost uncomfortably keen, given that we have never been on a date. We had things all locked in for last Saturday. Friday morning, afternoon and evening texts were being exchanged. He'd caught a cold and wasn't sure he was going to be able to make it for Saturday but said he'd let me know. And he did, Cancelling our date with a very cutesy text. And he hasn't been heard from since. So either it's a terrible case of man flu that he's suffering with - not impossible, I guess - or something else is going on. It's sounding eerily familiar. One of the first guys I dated, Army Boy, suggested that we organize a holiday, and hinted that he'd like it if I took the initiative a little more in our long distance relationship (we met in Melbourne when he was on leave, then he had to go back to Townesville) and call him myself more often. And then we never spoke again. In fact, even his mother and grand mother, who both knew my mother well, took a long time get back in touch. All ties severed, and I still have no idea why. Then in London there was the talker. All systems go, him very keen, then he went out for work drinks on a Friday night. It wasn't quite as abrupt here, because we spent a very awkward Saturday together, mostly with him either lugging my stuff - I was moving house - or sleeping off his hang over. The first warning was that he no longer wanted to hold hands. Then he changed the planned Thursday night dinner to drinks and dumped me. I have ideas about what went wrong there, a certain colleague of his perhaps being involved, but no confirmation. And all the warning I had was a reluctance to hold hands. What is about me that can inspire almost stalkerish attention one minute, then have men running away the next? Anyone with clues, please, feel free to enlighten me. 2. There is apparently something about writing a blog that is great for my mental health. I've noticed it myself, and there have been other comments from various people who don't know that I blog, that the past six months have seen a definite slide in my attitude to various things. I've noticed myself that my temper, always a doubtful property when I'm in the comfort of my own home, has been much more easily triggered. That's part of the motivation for getting back here. But it's a chicken or the egg scenario, as I'm not sure if the mood is caused by a lack of blogging, or if the lack of blogging causes the mood. I'm guessing this little experiment will test the theory. All I know for sure is that I've spent parts of the past six months in a fairly dark place. Here's hoping for a little more sunshine. 3. Why is the grass always greener? Of late I've been thinking back pretty fondly on my time in London. I know that the rose tinted glasses are firmly in place, but I'm missing mucky old England. Much the same way that I missed Oz when I was over in London. I seem to have created a conundrum for myself, where both are home, and at the same time neither one is. I don't think I could move away from my family again, but I miss the lifestyle over there. Even as I realize that it wouldn't be the same if I went back again. People have moved on, the mood has shifted, and things are not as they were. But then again, they're not ideal here either. And I can't work out if it's genuinely a yen for the Old Dart or if I'm just having an anywhere-but-here/now thing due to the dark place I mentioned in point 2. And it's not just locatnal. Whatever work I'm doing, I wish I was doing something else, as well. Right now, I'm daydreaming about heading over to the UK to study. Nothing that could be generally useful in life, but rather something that I think would fascinate me, at least on some levels. Something that I may actually be passionate about (yes, that reared its ugly head again today, when I was told in my performance review at work that I was lacking passion. Instant flashback to uni tutor telling me he'd never seen anyone less passionate than me...) sure, the literary thing fired the mental synapses. I still love it, but can't see myself in a career. Can't see myself in this other career either. But I still find the idea fascinating. I want to study the history of clothing, and perhaps even tie it in with museum and curatorial studies. I'm realist enough to know its not going to happen, but it's the daydream of choice at the moment. When I'm not figuring out how on earth to get my fledging company a little higher off the ground. 4. Nope, that's it. Why is it that as soon as you say you're going to be using a particular number of things, you fall short of the stated figure? I could always go back and adjust the original number, of cours...but no. Much more fun tis way!

15 minutes

It's funny the things that can get you annoyed. Sometimes it's big things - outrage at social injustice, laws that allow on the spot fines for swearing, stripping the powers from the equal opportunities commission, arguing against a carbon tax that could help slow environmental degradation. Sometimes it's pettiness - that newspapers and magazines feel compelled to devote so many column inches to people who just happen to have won the genetic lottery. Today, apparently, it's the completely insignificant that is getting my goat.

I'm on the final stretch of the assignment run. The last one is due tomorrow, and I'm within sight of the finish line. It's so close that I allowed myself a break to watch some TV - Winners and Losers an amusing little comedy/drama about the lives of four women who win the lottery. It was supposed to start at 9, an annoying enough time to start a show in a land where hourly shows start on the half hour or thereabouts, but manageable. Or it is when Channel 7 don't run so far over time that the show is 15 minutes late. And all because of Australia's Got Talent. Australia apparently has so much talent that it can't be edited to a reasonable time slot. It's not like the show is live, folks. They're quite happy to edit other programs so they can cram in more and more ads, but this one they stretch out to make sure there is enough time to repeat the bloody phone numbers for voting lines over and over again.

So here I am, sitting on the couch again (it's a common theme lately, and clearly I've been doing it too much because my back is feeling like it's about to give up again) and silently building up an impotent rage. Because what can I do about that fact that a TV network decides not to follow it's own programming guide? And then it hits me just how pointless the whole thing is anyway, given that it doesn't affect anyone in a life and death way, and I get angry at myself for being too caught up in something so insignificant, and the cycle repeats ad nauseum until my head explodes, or I find my way onto my blog to blow off steam. I think I might just be sufficiently calm to get back to writing about teaching humanities in secondary schools...Although it's on Channel 7's head if something along these lines creeps into the section on civics and citizenship, because Australia may have talent, but Channel 7's programming department is lacking severely in the clock department.

Best in class

I've been working on my main skill base over the past few days, focusing on the areas where I'm strongest. The result? I have confirmed that I am even better at procrastination than I thought. But on the plus side, I'm also going to be a little better organised and stronger out of this particular bout. Because I've not only tidied my sewing table enough to mean only a couple of things have to be moved if the urge to create comes upon me (and during a procrastination binge, that has been known to happen), I've also re-arranged the furniture in my bedroom so that things kind of work better, apart from one awkward corner (far better than the whole wall of awkward that I had before). I've purged my wardrobe, my chest of drawers, I've sorted my vintage pattern collection, I've gone to a vintage fair, I've attempted - unsuccessfully - to see The Hangover 2, and successfully wandered to my brother's for a refresher viewing of the first one.

About the only thing I haven't yet managed is the dishes (that's my next task) and the actual study I'm supposed to be doing. I think I've finally reached professional levels in my procrastination. I've hit my peak, and I'm debating upping the ante again, by deferring next semester while I re-evaluate how much I want to study for at least 2 years more to go and spend my days somewhere that may or may not suit me. How enthused I am at using my entire allowance of annual leave for the next three years on practical experience rounds. Or whether I should just take the advice of my brother's girlfriend and get into the clothing thing a little further, since, as she observed, I'm clearly quite passionate about it.

Yes, that's right, I'm apparently passionate about something other than books. So perhaps I'm studying the wrong thing. Perhaps I don't actually need to study at all, and have all the skills I need. But whatever I decide, I have about 5 hours to pull together my next assignment for submission if I fancy keeping my options open about this particular path. And I can't face it. So instead, I'm off to clean the pan I used to make pancakes earlier today (yes, I'm studying, so all semblance of a healthy diet has gone out the window, even if I haven't achieved any actual study).

So, that's another 20 minutes wasted. Clearly, I excel at this whole thing. If only I had something that would lead me to study as procrastination...

The curse of suburbia

I live in the burbs, always have and probably always will, truth to tell. For the most part, it's not as bad a place to live as the intelligentsia would have us believe, provided it's approached with right attitude and a good set of neighbours. Growing up, I was pretty lucky. We only ever had one bad lot, the ones who would call the police to get our games of street cricket moved on, the ones we used to collect dog poo to leave on their doorstep, that sort of relationship. My new flat, well, things are a little different.

For the more part, I put up with my noisy immediate neighbour. I don't think he has any idea of just how loud he is, to be honest, and the elderly downstairs neighbours are probably too deaf to notice. As long as he keeps to a dull roar, I can usually deal with him. And his music. And his excessively loud-talking friends. And his stomping up and down the stairs at all hours. It's fine. You get that when you live in flats. I don't like it, but I deal with it. The problem neighbour here, I've never actually seen them; they're not an immediate neighbour, there's a house between them and me. But oh my god have I heard them.

They have a dog. I think it must be a puppy. Again, never seen, only heard. Because they don't tell it to shut up when it sets up with continuous barking at night. All night. It sets off all the yappy neighbourhood dogs. I'm guessing that they're telling it to shut up and let them get some sleep. I know one day I will be out on my balcony telling it that, if this keeps up. That was last night. Today, worse, if anything. It seems that the return of good weather has brought out the lawn mowers. Fair enough, I have no objection to mowing the lawn. It has to be done, and I'd rather they did that and kept the seeds under control so they don't make me sneeze. They did it this morning. Then, based on the sound of things, they did it again this afternoon. Then they had some sort of motorised thing going that I can only assume was doing the edges. Except they must have really sucked at using it, because they did it again. And then again. And once more. Then just once more, because they'd obviously missed a bit. In all, I think they fired it up about 6 times. And each time they did, I couldn't hear anything that I had going on in my flat. No music, no TV, no thinking. And I need to think. Because I'm still writing a thesis here.

In fact, they're out there again. I think they must have moved to the front of their house, because it's a bit fainter. It's not drowning out the sound of trams or traffic, birds, my stereo, my brain. It's just sounding a little like a dentist's drill now.

They clearly don't realise the risk they're taking. I've been studying for days straight, only moving away from the laptop to get on the wii fit and work out some of the kinks - I swear, if it wasn't for all the crap I eat while studying, I'd be fit as by the time this is done. But crap I am eating, drinking, inhaling. It's so bad, I actually craved vegetables last night. I'm hopped up on a combination of sugar and caffeine that I'm sure could trigger a heart attack in a lesser mortal. And now there's people messing with me. I'm hoping that either I get the thesis finished (pfft, like that's going to happen this side of 3am) or they turn off the bloody whipper snipper. Otherwise, I've got a fairly good idea that a local medical team will be performing a gardening tool extraction procedure later today, and it won't be from me. It's taken all my self-restraint not to litter this post with swear words. Don't think I've got enough left to deal with much more.

The Whooshing of a Deadline

Douglas Adams once said that he loved deadlines. More specifically, he loved the "whooshing" sound they made as they flew by. I'm getting a closer acquaintance with the whoosh today. My thesis draft is due on Monday, yet here I am, writing another blog entry. Interesting fact; the number of blog entries I make correlates pretty closely with the number of things on my to-do list. There's an inverse relationship between blogging and the number of days left on a deadline, as well. But somehow, on a glorious sunny spring day in Melbourne, it seems especially harsh that I have to be cooped up inside and writing about Marxism. I know, it's self inflicted. I'm not asking for sympathy. I have a feeling I wouldn't get much anyway. I'm just having a moan. Anything to keep me from examining the question of women as consumers/consumables. Yes, sounds entertaining, doesn't it.

It never ceases to amaze me just how many ways there are to procrastinate, if you really put your mind to it. I read somewhere that many perfectionists procrastinated, because they were afraid that nothing they could do would be up to standards, so it's better not to try. I must be the ultimate perfectionist, because I'm notorious for putting things off to the last second. At least this time I won't have someone nearby telling me I look dead when I surface after a weekend of no sleep. L is still safely in London, and nobody else here would tell me so bluntly except my Nana. Sorry Nana, no visits until my sleep pattern returns to normal.

All of which adds up to the fact that I should be doing something else. Anything to do with my thesis, actually, as long as it has a direct relationship. So what am I doing instead? Blogging. Playing online solitaire. Wandering through dating websites. Hell, I'm even considering housework right now, so desperate am I to avoid putting pen to paper - or hands to keyboard, at least. Maybe make a cake. Pathetic, isn't it. Meanwhile, the whoosh is getting louder...

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

So, it's been a while since I blogged. Many months, in fact. Long enough for me to have re-established myself in Melbourne and thrown myself back into working, studying, and all from the comfort of my own couch. Long enough for me to realise just how unhealthy study can be.

It's all very well when you're young and have an active metabolism to live the student lifestyle. But I'm not sure whether it's down to juggling full-time work and full-time thesis writing, but something is missing this semester. I think it's called a waistline. Sitting around while I research and write several thousand words*, mainlining coke straight from the bottle to keep my energy levels up, with a jar of Nutella and a spoon beside me for "solid fuel" breaks, I have come to realise that my study habits will kill me if I keep it up. I'm back to being sleep deprived and somewhat grumpy. I have 2 days worth of dishes piled up on the kitchen bench - I have no flatmates here to pester me into cleaning them, which is good and bad; I also have another 4 days worth in the cupboard to use before I am forced to do something about it, so I think it's mostly bad, from that front.

And what do I have to show for it? A deeper understanding of the relationship between chick lit and what went before it? Perhaps. The realisation that feminism can go round and round in circles without achieving anything other than an increasingly dense collection of theory that has little or no application in a real world still riddled with inequality? Of course. A caffeine/sugar habit and will see me getting withdrawal once again when I cut back to a regular person's intake? Undoubtedly. A new high score in Spider Solitaire. A steadily increasing BMI and a lowered ability to actually move my arse off the couch. A sudden inclination to blog once again. Beyond that, I'm not sure. Then again, I'm staring down the barrel of missing a deadline, so I'm bound to have some second thoughts about the whole process, given that I can see a month ahead with little or no sleep. Seems I have taken something away from this process. My poor time management in London was not down to the number of invitations to do interesting things. It was actually because I suck at organisation. Huh. Who woulda thunk it?

*Researching and writing of thesis may not have actually been taking place during the time spent on couch. Or, in fact, at all in any time over the past 2 weeks, with the exception of last night.

More than a tweet, less than a blog

I'm just jumping on to distract myself from what I ought to be doing, which is finishing various writing tasks. Just to give some idea of what I'm up to, here's a couple of stats for you...

Word count on 5000 word essay due in about an hour's time that I've been working on for the last two weeks: 1931
Word count on day one NaNoWriMo novel-in-a-month-insanity: 1862
Phone calls from guy on Match that I swapped numbers with on Thursday: 2, plus a couple of texts.
Face to face meetings with guy from Match that I swapped numbers with on Thursday: 0, although that is likely to change on Wednesday
Level of worry that he may in fact turn out to be less the nice guy he seemed when he first called, more like annoyingly clingy stalker type: Excessively high
Hours of sleep last week, not counting this morning's accidental forget-to-set-alarm debacle: Approximately 14
Statistics I have left to offer: 0
Amount of life I've wasted playing Spider Solitaire instead of writing 5000 word essay due in about an hour: 1879354 hours. Or at least it seems that way when I look at how much work I still have to do.

So, what with the novel-writing insane plan I have running at the moment, and the fact that my life is about to shift into overdrive (yes, I'm allowed out of the house without feeling guilty next week AND I've just been paid...double whammy), I'm thinking the posts might be easing up over the next month. Maybe. Fair warning!

Not noteworthy, but needy

I'm still supposed to be doing study so, of course, I'm back cruising the internet. I wandered into the 'blogs of note' section of the blogger site. And it prompted me to ask something. I've been blogging, on and off (more on than off for the past six months or so) since 2006. Three years worth of my thoughts, observations and avoidance issues. And somehow, in all that time, I've never once been even considered, as far as I know, as being a blog of note. Sure, I have readers. there's three of you out there somewhere who come along and read my posts. Well, I know where two of you are but I'm assuming there's a third because there are more visits than can be accounted for by you two (you know who you are). So I get the odd visitor who reads my musings. I've even had a comment or two. Not many, sure, but comments. And I go out there and read other people's things. And what gets me is that those blogs of note? I'm certain some of them aren't as interesting as my collection of angry rants and random neuroses. 

Once, in a similar fit of boredom to what I'm having today, I read some blog advice pages. They suggested that you should have a theme to get people along to your site. I do have a theme. It's me, and all the crap that I think. I know it's crap, it's random, it's often poorly put together (this IS a blog people, it's more like a diary than a newspaper column after all), but it IS about me. All of it. Well, no, not all of it, obviously, there are are some parts which are about people I know. But I'm in there somewhere. That's my theme. 

So how do you do it? How do you get to become a blog of note? I want to be there, on that list of ordinary blogs. Surely 3 and a bit years ought to be enough time? I want my recognition and I want it now.

And if you were picturing a three year old face down on the floor banging fists and feet, you had a fairly close approximation to my state of mind. Apologies for the rant. I've been getting by on four hours of sleep for a week now and I'm not as young as I was when I used to keep this up for a month during my architecture studies. And even then I went slightly batty as a result. Or maybe it's the sugar coursing through my veins to keep me awake. Whatever it is, I'm sure all will be fixed once I finish this essay I'm writing and get back to regular sleeping and diet patterns. That and not feeling guilty every time I leave my desk.

Regular programming will resume shortly.