I fear that I am becoming one of those people who gushes about how much they love their yoga class at every opportunity they get. But I do love it, even when just sitting there hurts in places I didn't know existed. I've tried to get into yoga at other times but it's never stuck. This time, it feels positively gluey. Perhaps it's the teachers, though one is so soft spoken and flexible that I can't quite hear her and when I try to imitate her moves, discover that my body does not do that. Perhaps it's the type of yoga - this is my first time with Iyengar yoga, having tried mainly Hatha in the past. Or perhaps it's that I let my body get into such a state of un-fit that anything feels restorative.
I rode home after class into a menacing grey sky with a fresh wind from the south at my back. I am now trying to coax said breeze into the house to cool everything down. Meteorologists are predicting that the drought will break this autumn - a colleague told me that one meteorologist is even giving a date for the break: 23rd of February. While I don't believe anyone can give a date for the end of a drought, I do believe that climatologists can look at the weaking El Nino conditions in the Pacific and correlate this to an increased chance of rainfall in southeastern Australia. This is great for the birds and the bees, but not so good for those of us who commute by bike.
On Sunday, Z and I drove across the city to watch The House of Flying Daggers in the botanic gardens. About halfway between home and park, an intense gusty wind rocketed the car. The temperature quickly dropped 14C (~25F) and it began to rain. Sure enough, the screening was canceled, though we did get to have a wonderful walk in the drizzle through the gardens. There's nothing like a cool breeze and rain after a weekend that spent most of the time over 100F. I am so very ready for winter.
The rapid change reminded me of watching a storm roll in across the ocean toward us while Z, Lumpkin and I were in the Perhentians, Malaysia. I've never seen anything like the clearly defined wall of cloud that approached us, massive and towering, like something out of The Day After Tomorrow. As we watched it approach, Z said that he didn't think it would rain on us. Ha! After the usual burst of wind heralding its arrival, the front let loose with such a downpour as to grey out the boats moored about 20m offshore.
While perhaps not quite so picturesque as a tropical island, Melbourne certainly has the stormy weather covered. How I love the thunder and lightening and aliveness to the air as the atmosphere roils. Now if it would just cool the fuck down.
February 21, 2007
February 16, 2007
Body meet Mind; Mind, this is Body
For the first time in an embarrassingly long time, I have taken up regular exercise. (Hooray me!) In addition to riding my bike to Uni, I've been taking a couple of classes (like yoga, pilates) a week. I also hope to start swimming regularly. The side effects that I've noticed include an increase in consumption of hydrating fluids, crepuscular muscular fatigue, and an augmentation of available diurnal energy. However, contrary to what previous studies have found, I have not enjoyed more restful nocturnal episodes. The other night I kept Z up with my tossing and turning; little did he know that I was fighting off dream-sharks. Last night he woke me up and said that I was doing that sit-up-while-rolling-over thing - repeatedly. Let's hope this researcher notices a temporal attenuation of this mildly deleterious side-effect.
As you can probably tell, I'm getting into the swing of this whole research thing. This morning, I went to a post-grad orientation. I find orientations to be such hit-or-miss events. Often, 99% of the information will be useless, but that 1% will be so valuable as to make the hours of boredom worth it. At other times, 100% is useless. Today was one of those rare orientations where about 80% was useful information. Among descriptions of various courses and services, I learned what happens if a student and supervisor fall in love. I have to thank whomever it was that asked that question for the outrageous laughter than ensued. I also learned that the completion rates for PhD's hovers around 50%. The professor who presented this information urged us to not be dismayed. Dismayed? I thought. Isn't that supposed to be a challenge? Just like being told that the number of women in the sciences drops off radically after the master's level. I guess my attitude is something like: Ha! Take that!
I've also recently begun to string together bits and pieces from the various topics that I'm interested in. At first I thought that I would have to make a decision to study one thing or another. I've begun to see how they might all slot together into a unified whole. This is very exciting in a very nerdy, scientific sort of way. Which is perfect, because I'm exciting in a very nerdy, scientific sort of way.
As you can probably tell, I'm getting into the swing of this whole research thing. This morning, I went to a post-grad orientation. I find orientations to be such hit-or-miss events. Often, 99% of the information will be useless, but that 1% will be so valuable as to make the hours of boredom worth it. At other times, 100% is useless. Today was one of those rare orientations where about 80% was useful information. Among descriptions of various courses and services, I learned what happens if a student and supervisor fall in love. I have to thank whomever it was that asked that question for the outrageous laughter than ensued. I also learned that the completion rates for PhD's hovers around 50%. The professor who presented this information urged us to not be dismayed. Dismayed? I thought. Isn't that supposed to be a challenge? Just like being told that the number of women in the sciences drops off radically after the master's level. I guess my attitude is something like: Ha! Take that!
I've also recently begun to string together bits and pieces from the various topics that I'm interested in. At first I thought that I would have to make a decision to study one thing or another. I've begun to see how they might all slot together into a unified whole. This is very exciting in a very nerdy, scientific sort of way. Which is perfect, because I'm exciting in a very nerdy, scientific sort of way.
January 30, 2007
How getting a PhD is like trying to get a truck out of deep sand
Today I had lunch with an old friend who's also a scientist, also a woman, and who also did her postgraduate work at Melbourne Uni. When she heard that I am feeling more than a little lost, she said that everyone feels this way at the beginning of a PhD program, particularly one without coursework. She thinks she did about 10% of her PhD in her first year (and about 80% in the final six months), which sounds about the same as my master's. At the beginning, there's so little guidance, so little structure. I suppose the main goal of this first year can be succinctly summarized: know more. So I'm reading and taking notes on what I'm reading and looking for more things to read and then reading them and taking notes and reading more. This process involves little action, little doing. And the more I read and learn, the more I realize how little I actually know. At the end of the day, it's all quite unsatisfying.
Which brings me to today's metaphor. This first part of a PhD feels a lot like trying to get a truck out of sand: lots of going nowhere interspersed with brief moments of movement that, ultimately, don't really get you anywhere either. And the whole time, your heart's beating fast enough to blow a rib because you're so afraid of being stuck in this place permanently. And you're trying all sorts of different approaches (reversing, rocking, sticks under the wheels, rocks under the wheels) but with a certain overtone of panic that makes it hard to give any one approach the time and attention it requires, all the while cycling between fear (How long before someone comes along?) and intense jubilation (The truck moved - it's going to wo--). After what feels like an eternity, you wear yourself out enough to calm down and commit to one approach. You dig several layers of rocks in under the tires and, miracle of all miracles, you manage to pop out of the hole you're in and you're rolling - you're rolling! - and you can't stop or turn around or do anything but drive steadily forwards until you're back on solid ground.
Not that I've ever been in this sort of situation.
Which brings me to today's metaphor. This first part of a PhD feels a lot like trying to get a truck out of sand: lots of going nowhere interspersed with brief moments of movement that, ultimately, don't really get you anywhere either. And the whole time, your heart's beating fast enough to blow a rib because you're so afraid of being stuck in this place permanently. And you're trying all sorts of different approaches (reversing, rocking, sticks under the wheels, rocks under the wheels) but with a certain overtone of panic that makes it hard to give any one approach the time and attention it requires, all the while cycling between fear (How long before someone comes along?) and intense jubilation (The truck moved - it's going to wo--). After what feels like an eternity, you wear yourself out enough to calm down and commit to one approach. You dig several layers of rocks in under the tires and, miracle of all miracles, you manage to pop out of the hole you're in and you're rolling - you're rolling! - and you can't stop or turn around or do anything but drive steadily forwards until you're back on solid ground.
Not that I've ever been in this sort of situation.
January 23, 2007
Day One
Things you want to know:
- The woman whose desk is next to mine studies kangaroo fertility - or more correctly, she studies kangaroo birth control. I kid you not; her dissertation involves dosing roos with hormones that are identical to the pill.
- My supervisor apologized for my office, which contains brand spanking new desks, a huge window, and my own file cabinet. He started to apologize for the desk chairs - which were not designed for use in the bowels of a dreary office building housing an underfunded government department in the 50's, do not come with wires to poke me in the bum, and do not list dangerously to port - but I cut him off. My office used to be in a trailer, I explained - a trailer that during one particular deluge, started to float. I kid you not.
- I remembered to wear pants.
Things you don't want to know:
- The basement houses a room of aquaria full of venomous marine creatures. Occasionally, the marine tech walks in to find undergrad's from other departments wandering around looking at the tanks. When he asks them what they're doing they usually say something like, "We heard this room was here, man, and we heard it was really cool." He's asked for locks to be installed on the door because there's only one thing worse than finding random students wandering through your lab: finding random students passed out in your lab.
- The same marine tech told me about a student taken by a shark a couple of years ago while at his dive safety stop. There was also a student who lost a leg. (I should not be blogging about this - the family is going to freak.) Both occurred in South Australia, and the leg loss occurred after the divers were spear fishing near a seal colony. I will not be diving in SA, nor will I be spear fishing near a seal colony - or really doing anything in the water near a seal colony. And I have already promised my husband that I will not let myself get taken by a shark.
- I remembered to wear pants.
- The woman whose desk is next to mine studies kangaroo fertility - or more correctly, she studies kangaroo birth control. I kid you not; her dissertation involves dosing roos with hormones that are identical to the pill.
- My supervisor apologized for my office, which contains brand spanking new desks, a huge window, and my own file cabinet. He started to apologize for the desk chairs - which were not designed for use in the bowels of a dreary office building housing an underfunded government department in the 50's, do not come with wires to poke me in the bum, and do not list dangerously to port - but I cut him off. My office used to be in a trailer, I explained - a trailer that during one particular deluge, started to float. I kid you not.
- I remembered to wear pants.
Things you don't want to know:
- The basement houses a room of aquaria full of venomous marine creatures. Occasionally, the marine tech walks in to find undergrad's from other departments wandering around looking at the tanks. When he asks them what they're doing they usually say something like, "We heard this room was here, man, and we heard it was really cool." He's asked for locks to be installed on the door because there's only one thing worse than finding random students wandering through your lab: finding random students passed out in your lab.
- The same marine tech told me about a student taken by a shark a couple of years ago while at his dive safety stop. There was also a student who lost a leg. (I should not be blogging about this - the family is going to freak.) Both occurred in South Australia, and the leg loss occurred after the divers were spear fishing near a seal colony. I will not be diving in SA, nor will I be spear fishing near a seal colony - or really doing anything in the water near a seal colony. And I have already promised my husband that I will not let myself get taken by a shark.
- I remembered to wear pants.
January 22, 2007
Early this morning I woke up with a jolt of panic: I was late for school. Except that school doesn't start until tomorrow - and here it's not called school, it's called Uni. My friend A keeps reminding me of that. She also corrects my pronunciation of the word "mobile" - as in, cell phone - to make sure that I enunciate the "ile" part of the word, which I tend to swallow making it MObl rather than moBILE.
This has nothing to do with anything much at all. There will be no pithy sentence that ties this together with the fact that we scored a dresser yesterday off a NY'er who lives around the corner and who advertised it on Craiglist, a service that I wish more people in Melbourne would use. I feel like I unpacked for the first time in a year and a half.
This also has nothing to do with the fact that I'm addicted to spider solitaire and that I will have to uninstall it this evening or risk never finishing my dissertation.
Which reminds me that I'm starting my dissertation tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be a doctoral student. And presumably, one day I will be a doctor. In case it wasn't completely obvious, this fills me with nervous, jittery excitement. I'm sure that tonight I'll have one of those dreams where I'm giving a presentation to my colleagues only to realize half way through that I'm not wearing any pants.
This has nothing to do with anything much at all. There will be no pithy sentence that ties this together with the fact that we scored a dresser yesterday off a NY'er who lives around the corner and who advertised it on Craiglist, a service that I wish more people in Melbourne would use. I feel like I unpacked for the first time in a year and a half.
This also has nothing to do with the fact that I'm addicted to spider solitaire and that I will have to uninstall it this evening or risk never finishing my dissertation.
Which reminds me that I'm starting my dissertation tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be a doctoral student. And presumably, one day I will be a doctor. In case it wasn't completely obvious, this fills me with nervous, jittery excitement. I'm sure that tonight I'll have one of those dreams where I'm giving a presentation to my colleagues only to realize half way through that I'm not wearing any pants.
January 17, 2007
Oh verr
I am done with my temp job. Let me hear a chorus of "Hallelujahs". Lumpkin suggested I steal a t-shirt on my way out the door, one that read "Foster's - Australian for Cow Urine". Lumpkin makes me laugh. There is only one thing I will miss from that job and he sat a few rows away from me. Boy was he nice to look at. But I am more than happy to give up eye candy and air conditioning for the glamorous life style of an underpaid, overworked grad student.
Other wonderful things in my day include the cool breeze wafting in through the back door. Stepping out of the office today, the air felt heavy as if it really wanted to rain but couldn't quite get over the habits formed by eight years of drought. Droughts are addictive.
Speaking of droughts, I arrived home yesterday (bearing ice cream) to find my large tomato plant wilting miserably in its pot, it's leaves shriveled and dry. I rushed to the rescue with a bowl of gray water (we recycle the dish water) and less than ten minutes later, the plant was back to its rabid splendor. I swear it grows half a foot a day. If you notice that I haven't posted in a while, send clippers and a machete.
And that's about the news from here. It is refreshingly cool. I have a five day weekend and then - ack! I start my PhD. Oh shit. I hadn't really been thinking about that. For every "oh verr" there's and "oh god".
Other wonderful things in my day include the cool breeze wafting in through the back door. Stepping out of the office today, the air felt heavy as if it really wanted to rain but couldn't quite get over the habits formed by eight years of drought. Droughts are addictive.
Speaking of droughts, I arrived home yesterday (bearing ice cream) to find my large tomato plant wilting miserably in its pot, it's leaves shriveled and dry. I rushed to the rescue with a bowl of gray water (we recycle the dish water) and less than ten minutes later, the plant was back to its rabid splendor. I swear it grows half a foot a day. If you notice that I haven't posted in a while, send clippers and a machete.
And that's about the news from here. It is refreshingly cool. I have a five day weekend and then - ack! I start my PhD. Oh shit. I hadn't really been thinking about that. For every "oh verr" there's and "oh god".
January 13, 2007
What's in a look
When you've lost all your clothes the phrase, "I have nothing to wear" takes on new meaning. I'm working hard to regenerate my wardrobe but it's a struggle. Part of my problem is that I don't want to look like everyone else. On the tram to and from work, I am surrounded by hoards of identically dressed women, none of whom have a style I want to even come close to emulating. Think: Marina chick in a southern Californian mall. On a good day, I'll see a couple of women wearing an outfit that I like, which makes for pretty slim pickin's inspiration-wise and complicates this whole fill-up-the-wardrobe thing. When I try to go shopping, I end up rejecting over 90% of the clothes most shops have on offer. It's all the same! It's all U-Glee! And then there's the fight against the urge to buy the safe clothes, the things that look good but bore me to tears.
After reading this article, I realized that what I'm actually struggling with is defining my own style. I have never - NEVER - been a style junkie, or a fashionista, or someone who can name more than three labels - and that's on a good day. My uniform until a few years ago was a t-shirt and jeans. Now I own heels and even occasionally wear them. Admitting that I do appreciate clothes and want to feel confident in what I'm wearing has been a big step for me. Actually leaving the safe comfort of t-shirts and jeans for clothes that are stylish and opinionated is one hell of a struggle.
One of the first steps is admitting that I like clothes. Hi, my name's Bartlebee and I like clothes. Having never been to AA, I'm not sure what comes next. Perhaps recognizing that fashion does matter, that what I wear does matter, and, most importantly, that it's ok that it matters. This part is a work in progress.
After reading this article, I realized that what I'm actually struggling with is defining my own style. I have never - NEVER - been a style junkie, or a fashionista, or someone who can name more than three labels - and that's on a good day. My uniform until a few years ago was a t-shirt and jeans. Now I own heels and even occasionally wear them. Admitting that I do appreciate clothes and want to feel confident in what I'm wearing has been a big step for me. Actually leaving the safe comfort of t-shirts and jeans for clothes that are stylish and opinionated is one hell of a struggle.
One of the first steps is admitting that I like clothes. Hi, my name's Bartlebee and I like clothes. Having never been to AA, I'm not sure what comes next. Perhaps recognizing that fashion does matter, that what I wear does matter, and, most importantly, that it's ok that it matters. This part is a work in progress.
If you like fish...
... here are two particularly novel ways to show your love. If you like music as well as the fishies, then try this lovely fish tank piano. If seeing a piano reminds you of the hours of practice that you were forced into by a mother who could tolerate your tantrums and still get her way, hours you would rather have spent in the bathroom, then perhaps this fish tank will be more
to your liking.
to your liking.
January 09, 2007
Proof that moving countries is hard even when you allegedly speak the language
Exhibit A: The following conversation, which ensued after I pulled my morning snack from my bag.
Colleague: Oooh! What’s that?
Me: A scone.
Colleague: But what’s wrong with it?
Me: What do you mean, what’s wrong with it? Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s a scone.
Colleague (poking scone): But it’s so flat.
Me: Aren't scones supposed to be flat?
Colleague: No they're not.
Me: They are in the States.
Colleague: They’re not over here.
Me: Then what do you call what I'm eating?
Colleague: I dunno. Is it a muesli slice?
Me: What’s a muesli slice?
Colleagues: A slice with muesli in it.
Me (under breath): Well that's helpful.
Colleague: That has muesli in it, doesn't it?
Me: No, just oats.
Colleague (looking at me like I'm a moron): Right. So, it has muesli in it.
Me: Yeah?
Colleagues: So it's a muesli slice.
Me: Of course. How could I be so silly? Why yes of course this is a muesli slice.
January 07, 2007
Bleak
My brother Lumpkin just sent me an email. He's sitting at home in his shorts with all the windows and skylights open. He lives in New York. It's January.
Stop and think about that for a moment.
On Christmas day, Melbourne and NY shared the same temperature. Middle of summer; middle of winter. I am starting to think that my Master's advisor may have been serious when he told all of his grad students to buy land in Manitoba.
I had a nightmare a few years ago in which The End had come. My friend KC and I were in a tent in the middle of an apocalyptic desert surrounded by blowing sand and searing sun, applying duct tape to the zippers to try and keep the toxic winds out. And then we huddled together, recalling images from our favourite hiking spots: the towering green freshness of the redwoods; browned California hills scattered with wildflowers and scraggly oaks; the glacier-smoothed granite of the Sierras. And we cried at the loss which was so much greater than our own lives. I woke up soaked in desolation.
I am still occasionally gripped by panic at the thought that the Earth is going to hell in a hand-basket. Or more correctly, that Homo sapiens is going down and taking most things with it. And then I get an email from my bro and I realize that this is actually happening. This is not some nightmare. This is not a thought to try to avoid in order to feel better. This Is Actually Happening. Will politicians wake up in time to avert the worst of it? I don't know. Can I do much more than I'm already doing? I don't know - we have green power, barely drive, vote for people who understand environmental issues, and shop with a conscience. Is it enough? I don't know. Do I feel hopeful? Rarely.
Prognosis: bleak.
Stop and think about that for a moment.
On Christmas day, Melbourne and NY shared the same temperature. Middle of summer; middle of winter. I am starting to think that my Master's advisor may have been serious when he told all of his grad students to buy land in Manitoba.
I had a nightmare a few years ago in which The End had come. My friend KC and I were in a tent in the middle of an apocalyptic desert surrounded by blowing sand and searing sun, applying duct tape to the zippers to try and keep the toxic winds out. And then we huddled together, recalling images from our favourite hiking spots: the towering green freshness of the redwoods; browned California hills scattered with wildflowers and scraggly oaks; the glacier-smoothed granite of the Sierras. And we cried at the loss which was so much greater than our own lives. I woke up soaked in desolation.
I am still occasionally gripped by panic at the thought that the Earth is going to hell in a hand-basket. Or more correctly, that Homo sapiens is going down and taking most things with it. And then I get an email from my bro and I realize that this is actually happening. This is not some nightmare. This is not a thought to try to avoid in order to feel better. This Is Actually Happening. Will politicians wake up in time to avert the worst of it? I don't know. Can I do much more than I'm already doing? I don't know - we have green power, barely drive, vote for people who understand environmental issues, and shop with a conscience. Is it enough? I don't know. Do I feel hopeful? Rarely.
Prognosis: bleak.
January 04, 2007
Black
The new look of my blog may be bright and colourful ("clownish" according to Z), but my mood certainly isn't. After a week off between Christmas and the New Year, I am back in the tedium that is my temp job. No matter how many times during the day I repeat, "Six days left ..." it still sucks. Even Si's "I am in my happy place" Ikea-faring mantra does nothing to help. It's also hot hot hot except at my desk where I sit literally shivering all day. Have I mentioned that I don't like my job?
I suppose I can't wholly blame the job for The Mood. It's been skulking around for a couple of weeks now and as much as I try to shake it, it won't be shook. So, I garden and bake and organize the kitchen's stock of dried goods into neatly labeled jars and, when that's done, find myself staring into the blackness above our bed and, when I get tired of that, pacing the hallway through the witching hours. I'm sure the insomnia-induced exhaustion doesn't help.
And I'm also sure it will pass - I mean, eventually it has to, right? Until it does, I'm staying close to home and (here I quote Mr. Sassyass) missing y'all terribly.
I suppose I can't wholly blame the job for The Mood. It's been skulking around for a couple of weeks now and as much as I try to shake it, it won't be shook. So, I garden and bake and organize the kitchen's stock of dried goods into neatly labeled jars and, when that's done, find myself staring into the blackness above our bed and, when I get tired of that, pacing the hallway through the witching hours. I'm sure the insomnia-induced exhaustion doesn't help.
And I'm also sure it will pass - I mean, eventually it has to, right? Until it does, I'm staying close to home and (here I quote Mr. Sassyass) missing y'all terribly.
January 01, 2007
The good kind of censorship
From Lake Superior State University's list of banished words for 2006, comes the following:
And my other favourite:Halthy Food
Someone told Joy Wiltzius of Fort Collins, Colorado, that the tuna steak she had for lunch "sounded healthy." Her reply: "If my lunch were healthy, it would still be swimming somewhere. Grilled and nestled in salad greens, it's 'healthful.'"
Lamethetic is a great word - watch, they'll have to ban it next year!Combined Celebrity Names
"It's bad enough that celebrities have to be the top news stories. Now we've given them obnoxious names such as 'Bragelina,' 'TomKat' and 'Bennifer.'" -- M. Foster, Port Huron, Michigan."It's so annoying, idiotic and so lame and pathetic that it's 'lamethetic.'" -- Ed of Centreville, Virginia.
December 29, 2006
Night Out
Last night we watched The Neverending Story at the Rooftop Cinema which was a very cool venue - actually, it was downright cold, but also cool in the less literal sense. The movie was not as magical as it was when I was a ten-year-old bookworm, but it has survived the tests of time better than The Labyrinth. As with most older movies, it is essential to apply liberal doses of imagination to the not-so-special effects. Take, for example, the part when Atreyu tells the scary wolf-creature that he'd rather go down fighting than be taken by the nothing. The wolf leaps toward him, snarling as the wind of the nothing tears tree from rock. The audience sharply inhales and - cut to Atreyu pushing the large, dead wolf away, its legs sticking out at right angles from its torso as it lies on its side. The whole audience, with the probable exception of the young girl sitting in front of us, laughed out loud.
On our way home, a guy around our age got on the tram and loudly asked if there were any English on board, which there weren't (I quickly decided that I'm Ameralian). A couple of stops later, someone got on wearing an English cap. Our "friend" immediately started singing "Four nil four nil four nil four nil" to the tune of Auld Lang Syne. I guess we won the cricket! The guy wearing the cap turned out to be an Aussie, too, and they soon joined voiced in a rousing rendition of "Yellow Submarine" except the chorus went, "We all live in a convict colony, a convict colony, a convict colony...."
On our way home, a guy around our age got on the tram and loudly asked if there were any English on board, which there weren't (I quickly decided that I'm Ameralian). A couple of stops later, someone got on wearing an English cap. Our "friend" immediately started singing "Four nil four nil four nil four nil" to the tune of Auld Lang Syne. I guess we won the cricket! The guy wearing the cap turned out to be an Aussie, too, and they soon joined voiced in a rousing rendition of "Yellow Submarine" except the chorus went, "We all live in a convict colony, a convict colony, a convict colony...."
December 25, 2006
It’s Australian for Christmas
When I was about 10, my mum, sister and I moved out of
December 22, 2006
This ... again?
This quote comes from an article about the EU's proposed airline green taxes:
"Qantas takes its environment performance seriously and is fully aware of the debate around climate change as an issue of global significance," [Simon Rushton] said.What debate is he talking about? There is no debate about the fact that climate change is happening and rapidly. And I dare anyone to argue that it isn't an issue of global significance. If only Qantas took science as seriously as it purports to take its "environment performance".
December 21, 2006
Say what?
I was just awarded one of these:
This is in addition to the scholarship I've already been given. I am in total disbelief. My husband is not surprised. Which is not surprising. But the money sure as hell is. As is the swing from "How are we going to pay rent?" poverty to "Let's buy a dresser and a new mattress and some clothes to go with that suhweet coat Head and Ether sent" prosperity. It makes by brain go all blooey and my heart beat quickly - which is a good thing. Surprises like this are good for my health.
The Helen Macpherson Smith Scholarships
The trustees of the Helen Macpherson Smith Trust have donated funds to establish special scholarships for outstanding women who are entering postgraduate study. Two scholarships are available annually and are normally awarded to the highest-ranked female recipients of an APA or MRS entering a:
1. scientific/technical discipline, and
2. a humanities/social sciences discipline.
This is in addition to the scholarship I've already been given. I am in total disbelief. My husband is not surprised. Which is not surprising. But the money sure as hell is. As is the swing from "How are we going to pay rent?" poverty to "Let's buy a dresser and a new mattress and some clothes to go with that suhweet coat Head and Ether sent" prosperity. It makes by brain go all blooey and my heart beat quickly - which is a good thing. Surprises like this are good for my health.
All in a Name
Some companies work for a humanitarian cause or to create an innovative product or to do offer service. While ultimately the goal may be to make money, they can at least say they’re doing something good along the way. The company I work for appears to exist only to make money. Sure, they’re providing a service that certainly beats the service provided by the likes of Philip Morris, but selling booze is a job that each brewery or winery could do on their own. This conglomeration exists to make money, most of which ends up in the pockets of a select (male) few. It is demoralizing to show up to a desk every day in order to help someone “general manager” rake in bucketfuls of cash.
In addition to General Managers, QA specialists, VP’s, Marketing Coordinators and the like, I have come across several funny titles in my work. I particularly like “Shifty Bugger”, though that’s obviously a joke. Obviously quite serious is “Knowledge Manager”. Uh. Does this employee even know what she does? Can she take herself serious with that title? And then there's my favourite title: “Cellar door”. I wonder if he gets paid to revolve.
And just in case I started to think that funny titles only happen in business, Lumpkin suggested that I get work as a Whale-Vomit Specialist. How truly brotherly of him!
Speaking of names, if one wants a cup of coffee here in Aus, one usually orders something called a “flat white”. Because I can’t drink milk, I end up ordering soy. And because drinking caffeinated coffee makes me twitchy enough to give Z grounds for divorce, I usually end up ordering a decaf flat soy white. It’s an embarrassing drink to order – makes me think of stuck-up people in LA. It’s also quite a mouthful. So Z has given my coffee drink a new title: very flat yellow.
In summary, my family suggests that I be a Whale-Vomit Specialist who drinks Very Flat Yellows. I'm trying to see this as positive. And failing miserably.
In addition to General Managers, QA specialists, VP’s, Marketing Coordinators and the like, I have come across several funny titles in my work. I particularly like “Shifty Bugger”, though that’s obviously a joke. Obviously quite serious is “Knowledge Manager”. Uh. Does this employee even know what she does? Can she take herself serious with that title? And then there's my favourite title: “Cellar door”. I wonder if he gets paid to revolve.
And just in case I started to think that funny titles only happen in business, Lumpkin suggested that I get work as a Whale-Vomit Specialist. How truly brotherly of him!
Speaking of names, if one wants a cup of coffee here in Aus, one usually orders something called a “flat white”. Because I can’t drink milk, I end up ordering soy. And because drinking caffeinated coffee makes me twitchy enough to give Z grounds for divorce, I usually end up ordering a decaf flat soy white. It’s an embarrassing drink to order – makes me think of stuck-up people in LA. It’s also quite a mouthful. So Z has given my coffee drink a new title: very flat yellow.
In summary, my family suggests that I be a Whale-Vomit Specialist who drinks Very Flat Yellows. I'm trying to see this as positive. And failing miserably.
December 18, 2006
Culture
I just finished reading a great book, "The Player of Games" by Iain M. Banks. For those of you who haven't read any of his Culture books I highly recommend them - and this one in particular. It's been interesting to contemplate how life would be if there was no danger, if there were no rules, if death wasn't a lingering threat. What is added to our lives by our mortality? What do we gain? When I was an earnest (ahem) young girl, I remember swearing to my skeptical third grade teacher that, were the future to provide me with a choice, I would opt to do the housework myself rather than letting a robot take care of it for me. I felt then that I would lose some essential aspect of living by relinquishing any part of my existence. Nowadays, I would jump at the chance to have something scrub my toilet, iron my clothes and wash the dishes. But how far would I want to take that? How would it be to live in a society in which there was no need to work unless one was inspired to do so, a society which also has a lack of need? Want to live in a grand house over looking a fjord? No problem. How about a houseboat floating in a sea of jello? No problem - until you find yourself living there, surrounded by jello.
At this point in time, life in the Culture sounds pretty appealing. I would love to have the luxury to immerse myself in various pursuits without the pressures of time/mortality and money. I would learn all about linguistics so that I could better understand the formation of accents and dialects. I would open my own restaurant and try being a chef for a while. I would spend a few hundred years, because that is how long it would take, learning how to draw a decent representation of the world around me. And I would study the fishes in the deep blue sea.
In some ways a PhD does afford this sort of luxuriating. I am getting paid to spend three (and a half) years studying something that I find fascinating. The down-side is that this is just one thing I'm fascinated in - one of many, many things. Some people hear their calling loud and clear; for others there is no calling, just a mumbled cacophony of interesting things to do.
Which brings me to another point that's been making lazy laps around my cranium. I have been asking myself recently if fish/ecology/biology/science is really it for me. Maybe I won't enjoy it as much as I would enjoy owning a specialty organic farm? What I have come to realize is that there can be relief in just making a choice. It doesn't have to be the right choice (is there ever an obvious Right Choice?), it just has to be a choice. And once the decision is made, you can be on the move towards something. Perhaps the particular something doesn't even matter as much as the having chosen it. And so I find myself on the bring of beginning a dissertation in marine ecology...
Which isn't to say that I won't try cooking commercially at some point, or that I won't live on a farm again or - well, ok, so the linguistics thing is probably out.
At this point in time, life in the Culture sounds pretty appealing. I would love to have the luxury to immerse myself in various pursuits without the pressures of time/mortality and money. I would learn all about linguistics so that I could better understand the formation of accents and dialects. I would open my own restaurant and try being a chef for a while. I would spend a few hundred years, because that is how long it would take, learning how to draw a decent representation of the world around me. And I would study the fishes in the deep blue sea.
In some ways a PhD does afford this sort of luxuriating. I am getting paid to spend three (and a half) years studying something that I find fascinating. The down-side is that this is just one thing I'm fascinated in - one of many, many things. Some people hear their calling loud and clear; for others there is no calling, just a mumbled cacophony of interesting things to do.
Which brings me to another point that's been making lazy laps around my cranium. I have been asking myself recently if fish/ecology/biology/science is really it for me. Maybe I won't enjoy it as much as I would enjoy owning a specialty organic farm? What I have come to realize is that there can be relief in just making a choice. It doesn't have to be the right choice (is there ever an obvious Right Choice?), it just has to be a choice. And once the decision is made, you can be on the move towards something. Perhaps the particular something doesn't even matter as much as the having chosen it. And so I find myself on the bring of beginning a dissertation in marine ecology...
Which isn't to say that I won't try cooking commercially at some point, or that I won't live on a farm again or - well, ok, so the linguistics thing is probably out.
December 07, 2006
Don't say that
My Dad is in Hong Kong for a trade show, which he tells me is terribly boring but for the booth girls dressed in leather. When he tries to read my blog, he gets and error message from a Hong Kong url. Certain countries that we visited during our travels didn't like blogger either - I tried to log on for days from Addis Ababa, though that may have been less to do with censorship and more to do with the generally craptastic state of that country.
Speaking of censorship, the company I work for has a "no denim" policy. Seriously. No demin allowed. This makes my brain go waggawaggawhaaa? Dictating what employees can and can't wear to work?!?! That is the most stupid thing I have ever heard. I work for a company that it doesn't trust its employees to choose their own clothing. How hard can it be? Got a big sales meeting? Pull out that suit and tie. Work in IT where the closest thing you get to a person is that email in your inbox? Wear whatever the fuck - sorry, phuck you want. And I don't just don't get it. It takes time and money for someone to come up with a "no denim" policy, time and money for someone to write up a proposal for the exec team, time and money for the exec team to give the ok, and more time and money to communicate to the suckers - uh, I mean employees. This is certainly the most corporate corporation I have ever worked for - and I hope this is as corporate as it ever gets for me.
It's almost enough to make me want to shave myself a mohawk and dye it green and get a Polynesian face tattoo and an excessive septum piercing. Almost.
Speaking of body manipulations, I had the pleasure of having eight electrodes strapped to my chest for a twenty-four hour period this week. It happened to be incredibly hot the day I got hooked up to the heart monitor - I still have a couple of spots on my chest that looked like they had an unfortunately close encounter with an octopus. And no, you can't see. That may have been the only period of time where I actively wanted my heart to do it's syncopated hiccup routine. And did it? Not that I'm aware of. This morning, though, about 15 hours after I removed the heart monitor, it does it again. Should there be a next time where I try to sleep without crushing the machine or choking on the multiple wires, I will be sure to ask my body to misbehave earlier.
Speaking of censorship, the company I work for has a "no denim" policy. Seriously. No demin allowed. This makes my brain go waggawaggawhaaa? Dictating what employees can and can't wear to work?!?! That is the most stupid thing I have ever heard. I work for a company that it doesn't trust its employees to choose their own clothing. How hard can it be? Got a big sales meeting? Pull out that suit and tie. Work in IT where the closest thing you get to a person is that email in your inbox? Wear whatever the fuck - sorry, phuck you want. And I don't just don't get it. It takes time and money for someone to come up with a "no denim" policy, time and money for someone to write up a proposal for the exec team, time and money for the exec team to give the ok, and more time and money to communicate to the suckers - uh, I mean employees. This is certainly the most corporate corporation I have ever worked for - and I hope this is as corporate as it ever gets for me.
It's almost enough to make me want to shave myself a mohawk and dye it green and get a Polynesian face tattoo and an excessive septum piercing. Almost.
Speaking of body manipulations, I had the pleasure of having eight electrodes strapped to my chest for a twenty-four hour period this week. It happened to be incredibly hot the day I got hooked up to the heart monitor - I still have a couple of spots on my chest that looked like they had an unfortunately close encounter with an octopus. And no, you can't see. That may have been the only period of time where I actively wanted my heart to do it's syncopated hiccup routine. And did it? Not that I'm aware of. This morning, though, about 15 hours after I removed the heart monitor, it does it again. Should there be a next time where I try to sleep without crushing the machine or choking on the multiple wires, I will be sure to ask my body to misbehave earlier.
December 03, 2006
On the nose
A lifetime or two ago when Z and I were exploring the South Island, we had a special anniversary dinner at a fabulous restaurant recommended by Mr. Sassyass. We ordered a bottle of local wine and were enjoying it when I decided to red the label. In addition to listing flavors like plum and berry, it listed the words "canned apricot". Canned apricot??? This lead to a hilarious competition to see who could come up with the worst wine description ever. I think the winners were a palate of last year's oysters, and a nose of seal colony.
Today, I was reading through an article describing the top 100 wines of 2006 and found the following:
2004 Carmel Road Monterey Pinot Noir ($20)
Nicely balanced, this wine is aromatic (basil, plum, red cherry and pencil lead), softly fruity (pie cherry) and spicy, with a hint of tar on the lingering finish.
Mmm... just what I want my wine to taste like: pencil lead and tar.
Today, I was reading through an article describing the top 100 wines of 2006 and found the following:
2004 Carmel Road Monterey Pinot Noir ($20)
Nicely balanced, this wine is aromatic (basil, plum, red cherry and pencil lead), softly fruity (pie cherry) and spicy, with a hint of tar on the lingering finish.
Mmm... just what I want my wine to taste like: pencil lead and tar.
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