Waiting for my wings to grow.

So, after a year of tolerating Samsung Galaxy S' debilitating lag (Seriously y'all, I'm so proud of my patience. I only whined about this once or twice every day and even though once I got so close to throwing it to a cab driver's face - This can be another story, I don't want you to take this off context and think I have a violent streak - I asked myself what would Natalie Portman do and stopped at scolding the sour old git.), I got myself the newest iPhone that's hit the Singapore market. In case you're wondering, no, I'm not the kind of girl who hits the roof over the latest gadget or tech hype. I strolled into a Singtel shop very calmly yesterday morning and got what I came for within half an hour without breaking a sweat.

In fact, I didn't even have to tell the attendants what I wanted. Because V did. V also queued for hours before the shop was even open while I was still asleep.

I bet you want one too, but V is not for sale.

I am going to post some contents from the new iPhone soon. I heard the photo and video taking have really improved and God knows I could use some reason to be creative.

I just read Scott Adams' blog and stumbled upon an entry in which he types, "I got the flu recently, with all the usual symptoms. But one symptom fascinated me: I lost all ambition. I didn't want to work, eat, read, talk, or even exist. For several days I had no long term goals, no short term goals, and no desires whatsoever, except to nap."

OMG. I can so totally identify with that. I got the flu recently. I am sorta experiencing the ambitionless state right now. And whenever possible, I ALWAYS want to nap. I'm not sure one has to do with the others though.

My parents, especially my dad, often forgot my name. How about yours? And I was supposed to believe Edwina is an amalgamation of their names (Eduardus, my dad's Christian name, Wiryaatmadja, the family's last name, and Nani, my mom's name). Hmph. Right. I bet they daydreamed it one day and came up with that explanation between my fourth and fifth birthday.

A lot of the time when he talked to me, he would call me by my sister's name. Once he realised he was wrong, he'd apologise and call me by my other sister's name.

When I did something bad like draw doodles on my bed's frame with liquid paper ('bad' here being relative, of course. I prefer 'artsy''), he would do away with names entirely and said to my mom, "Look at what YOUR DAUGHTER did to the furniture."

This happened so many times and to my other sisters as well that now whenever one of us does something 'bad' or plain silly, the other two will just say to each other, "YOUR SISTER did this." Then we'll smile and be all warm and fuzzy.

I can't believe it's 2010 and I have to get used to writing dates all over again...

The holiday just passed uneventfully for me. I don't know what's worse, the fact that I worked throughout Christmas and New Year, or that when I'm taking stock and realising it, it's the middle of January! I think most of my accomplishments in 2009 are strictly professional because I didn't have time for anything else. Please don't tell me that's pathetic.

Before I started working full-time, I really underestimated the amount of time I would devote to it. Not just the formal hours spent in the office, but the commute, the homework, the time it takes for the mind to disengage fully every single day. It really requires an emotional readiness and perseverance, a lesson my sister is fast learning now into her second month of working. I tell myself I'll get better at compartmentalising my life, but the fact of the moment is I have only two big mental folders. I use one to organise my work-related thoughts and the other one for everything else. Obviously "everything else" does not get enough brain-space and brain-time to do well.

That can be my new year's resolution: to manage my work-life balance better. Wait, that's too tall. I'll basically be setting myself up for disappointment.

OH, WHATEVER. Check back in May or June. Maybe I'll have some resolutions then.

The office felt so quiet and empty at this time of year, it's surreal. Where I usually found work, work, and more work is now just space. The few people who are weird enough to still turn up are too busy dozing off to talk to each other, so the only sounds you hear are the lazy tapping of the keyboards and mice (the computer's kind), hypnotic to say the least. A senior colleague has for two afternoons in a row bought the rest of us hot lemon tea, I suspect to keep us from falling asleep, because the tea was steaming hot, sour with an undertone of bitter, it could only have been intentional.

The good thing about these slow days is that they give me time to think and write. These are two activities that are good for me, a notion that my bank account vehemently disagrees with, because see, they do not make money.

Now until the 6th of January, my apartment houses six people: me, my 2 sisters, V, Dad, and her elder sister, which from here onwards we'll refer to as Ako (The Chinese language, or in this case its Hokkian dialect, has exact calling IDs for members of nuclear and extended family. Ako = the eldest of Dad's siblings, female). This living arrangement adds the following to my list of gripes: my dad's predisposition to rearrange my furnitures and household appliances and Ako's habitual bleating and repining (Topics span from boredom to her children's financial woes). If the latter is not irksome enough, she communicates using frequencies that suggest she has been trained to be a psychological weapon, capable of inducing pain and madness in people within 3-meter radius by sound waves alone. Thank God work is not stressing me out these days.

If there's a lesson to be learned from spending some time with her, it's to remember not to ever, ever, let myself feel as wretched and pitiable as she does. Life isn't always rosy, but surely there's light at the end of every tunnel? Silver lining on every cloud?

Think this has been a cheerless entry so far? Wait, it gets worse.

I watched 2 episodes of the second season of Brothers and Sisters yesterday and in 1 of them Nora Walker shouted, "The definition of family is overstepping!". She was right. My dad had to pick Christmas/end of the year to confront me about my relationship with V and whether or not marriage was in the horizon. I wasn't wholly unprepared, but it still troubled me. As a rule, when my dad and I talk, it's best to sweep serious issues under the rug and air out frivolous ones only, like the weather and politics. Trust me, it's the best way to maintain peace between two identically headstrong people who are so different in beliefs, ideas, priorities, and perspectives.

Inwardly wishing I could just tell him to back off and immediately ruling the option out (See? I could be rational), I told him yes, I cared very much about V, he was probably my bestest friend, my fiercest supporter, and my dearest brother, but no, I had no intention of going further than that. Then I did not know how, but we ended up arguing about the merits of institutionalised marriage and law/rules vs. their intentions and the people they were created for. Why I bothered expressing my views at all showed I'm a stupid optimist.

Life isn't easy for most of us and no one, not even the extremely rich ones are exceptions, so if I can honestly and wholeheartedly say today that I'm healthy, happy, and very much blessed, what other demands matter? I don't understand why people waste their time and energy trying to fit into society's moulds of responsible human beings or citizens of the world. I don't judge these people. Conforming and having opinions that are shared by the masses probably feel comfortable. Why my dad wants that kind of life for me when I'm obviously content with my version of reality (a fine reality that doesn't involve laughing maniacally while butchering other living things or mood-altering medications, mind you) and so evidently happy is frankly, rather insulting.

His defence? Other people. "People are talking and asking questions," he said all grim and serious. Geez. People are talking ALL THE TIME, there's no stopping them. Doesn't he know IGNORING them is an option? Another option (and my preferred one of the two) would be to say, "FIRST OF ALL, IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. SECOND OF ALL, THERE IS NO SECOND OF ALL! IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!"

I know it's funny I should say this about myself, but I am a good person who most of the time try to do the right things. Being chastised for having a nice, loving relationship with V is as ridiculous as being scolded for bad penmanship when I'm writing a $10,000 check to donate to the old folks' home. It SUCKS.

I was told tonight would be an all-nighter, so I wore a casual cotton dress to work today, one that I knew would keep me comfortable and cool enough even when the central air-conditioning of the office building had been turned off. I also told my sisters not to expect me home before Saturday morning and made plans to postpone the weekly Maths tuition I give my neighbor's kid. But of course in life when you have put yourself in a proper condition of readiness, things get rearranged. And that's how I found myself having tequila sunrise at New Asia Bar by 6 pm, shivering because the whole 70th floor was freezing and it was raining outside.

The couch was so low too I had to make a conscious effort to sit properly, cotton dress and all. And it must have been so obviously exhausting because halfway through the drinking, a colleague of mine asked me why I looked so pensive. Why, because I'm a lady and a lady's charm lies in always looking solemn and lullingly withdrawn, of course.

Since the last time I blogged about work, we've had a couple of new-joiners to the team. One of them is a guy called Leighton who had to excuse himself early tonight because he was invited to dinner with the Prime Minister of New Zealand. While we were trying to remove our jaws from the carpet, he explained that they played rugby together. Oh, sure, that happens.

The other one was a beautiful French lady whom I admire for her experience (She's young and already a Senior Manager in the firm) and shoes collection. She's been seen wearing knee-high boots, chic colorful sandals, and Converse shoes to work. How did she do that? I haven't been able to find an extra pair of pumps!

Several photos were taken tonight, but I will not get my hands on them until next week, so be patient! ;)

So. Work is bloody tiring. I cannot imagine working for thirty years in a corporation, which was what my mom did without complaining half as much and as publicly as I have been doing for the past one year and one month and a half. But the dollar dollar bills, yo. They keep me going.

Which brought me to why I spent fourteen hundred dollars on a digital camera last Saturday. Though I think the euphoria derived from the purchase and novelty, from experience and a nutritious sprinkle of pessimism, might not last for long. Why did I do that? Because I believe with all my heart that people should work to live and by live I specifically mean blow a large amount of hard-earned cash in the weekends.

OKAY, to each his own.

You should not assume I do this every weekend, though when my salary quadruples I fully intend to. Collect hobbies, not cameras. Everyone needs a degree of hedonism to survive in a world as increasingly impersonal, demanding, fast-paced, and cutthroat as ours. And live NOW. When else should you start?

PS: I foresee lots of indulgent photos turning up in this space in the near future. I will insist they are art.

Okay, so since I started working I changed. I hardly write now. Or post pictures. Let alone record myself sing. But wait. I still love to sleep, eat, and smile. Without being bribed. So see, I'm still me.

The past year has been... an adventure. There were times when work was a bitch and going to the office was an epic battle of wills. But there were also times when it was cuddly and harmless and wait, I got paid too? Is this a ruse?

I learned a lot. That things are not always well-defined and it's a consultant's job to figure out what the clients want sometimes, even when they don't know it themselves. And that with some people you don't get the benefit of the doubt. You can screw things up or you can sit there existing, the difference is negligible to them. You have to turn the page to find the first nice attribute about them, but they're people you work for and you have to find it in you to respect, support, and work with their strengths and weaknesses. You grow a little wiser every time. Hopefully earn their trust and respect too in return.

I don't know where I'll be two years from now, for instance. My personal focus may shift. I may think work-life balance is more important than reward or recognition and pick a far less demanding job. I trust I will choose the right path for me then (because if I don't get better at making decisions as I age, I'm doomed). But now I still get a kiddish, irreplaceable high when I complete a piece of challenging job and get some sort of acknowledgment. Sort of like "What do you know? The girl's got brains!".

I guess by writing this I want to ascertain that in spite of the long working hours, between the griping and my nonexistent social life, I still enjoy myself and find what I'm doing rewarding. Whether or not this conviction will last is a very different issue, and one I will not fuss about because there is a time for everything.

I just had my (first!) annual performance review result announced to me recently. All's good, I have no reason to get a rope and hang myself though for a while I dared myself to hope I could achieve a little more. I asked my career counsellor, who delivered the message in an informal one-to-one, if I had anything negative said about me at all during the banding meetings, and he assured me the decision made on my performance level was quite unanimous. He then smiled and said, "It's impossible to please everyone, but it IS actually possible not to piss anyone off."

It's not an overstatement that he is my favorite person in the firm.

It's been a very busy couple of weeks, by the way. The system the teams have been designing and building for the past 2 years is going live this weekend. But boy, we're still in such a mess! And the urge to just sweep them under the rug and feign ignorance deserves to compete in the Olympic, but we know the right thing to do. We just wish it doesn't cost us sleep, but WHO ARE WE KIDDING.

Which probably explains the uncharacteristically severe menstrual cramps. It's a physical embodiment of my fatigue and frustration, because I don't express it another way. I'm a professional, see. Or maybe not and I just happen to have two X chromosomes who are into wrestling. In my tummy.

So anyway, if I make little sense now, remember I'm writing under the influence. Of muscle relaxants. And it's starting to take its toll because my eyelids are getting too relaxed to support coherent writing. I guess that's all for today, folks.

Clearly I have stories to share (see my CAS photos?), but not enough time to articulate them. I'm sorry, it has been really really hard to stay on top of things. Between my day job, running my dad's errands, my choir commitment, dance class, and what shreds of social life I have left, I am stretched really thin I'm turning transparent. I know, I know, I've been singing the same tune lately, but there just doesn't seem to be the end of it. I guess life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. Blogging plans.

Anyway, I was in Kuala Lumpur for 2 weeks earlier this month for Core Analyst School, a compulsory training for all Accenture analysts. People who have gone before me have all raved about it, going on and on about how it was the best time they'd had since they joined the firm and how it was more like a holiday than training. I just have to disagree. While it gave you some time away from the normal office hustle and bustle, it was not my definition of a holiday, where not having to do anything at all is key. Partying all night and stumbling around the training facility the next morning in a sleep-deprived haze? Not so much.

Interestingly, people I've spoken to about this seem to think that that is exactly what people my age should enjoy doing and their general response was, "Geez Edwina, how old are you?"

Apparently I'm an old soul because I appreciate a good night's sleep.

The training was great 'cos I got to meet analysts from all over Asia Pacific. Some of them were really interesting, but I don't think I'm being fair to talk about them here, even anonymously. This is what I struggle with when I write these days. My company doesn't endorse blogging about work, but once you work full-time, where does work end and your other life begin? The topic of work inevitably permeates most conversations. What else do you do when you meet up with friends after work? Hold hands and skip merrily together? Play double dutch?

But I'm a model employee who happens to have a master degree at Digression, so I'll find something else to talk about. SHOPPING!

I only meant to get a new handbag, but Great Malaysia Sale was in full swing and things were slightly cheaper there than in Singapore, so I splurged. Naturally. When I flew back to Singapore, I was more than a thousand Singapore dollars poorer. But I blame my sister. She was there and she did nothing to stop me. In fact, the expression she used most often was, "This and that looked really good on you, Sis!" How not to listen to her when she was right?! Besides, suppressed desire usually finds an ugly way to come out and if I hadn't bought all those I'd probably have weird dreams or break out in rashes.

My wellbeing is, of course, priceless.

Last Friday I sprained my ankle (along with the whole left half of my left foot) trying to break a slip (because a puddle of water got lost and ended up on the basement floor!) and for a few days I was an insufferable cripple who hissed at V every time he made any (brave but stupid) suggestion that involved me moving. I couldn't remember the last time I was that needlessly angry. No, wait, I think it was the previous Monday.

Sis got worried and suggested I go to a doctor. Dad insisted I find elderly women who specialised in fixing that sort of thing. Their kind are everywhere in Jakarta but in Singapore the norm is to go to a physiotherapist who's expected to charge you an arm and a leg to heal a hairline fracture in your foot. V was convinced that if he kept applying Counterpain and Tiger Balm Muscle Rub for days my muscles would unknot themselves, which in the end they did, bless their young, elastic cells.

 

This morning I was reading Lucy Ellman's Varying Degrees of Hopelessness (a gem I picked up at the national library on my lifetime membership now!) on my way to work and boy, has it been way too long since a book made me smile that wide. Excerpts follow.

Pol On Men

As Pol stomped off to use the Female Staff Loo, she contemplated the gender gap. Pol knew men to be weak, cautious and coy, needing to be courted, coaxed, cossetted, and then still completely undependable. So why does society humour them? Why is it that whatever men do seems more interesting and more significant than what women do? Even gardening and cooking acquire some credibility when a man is in charge. If a woman plants some flowers, so what? If a man takes to planting irises, the whole endeavour becomes poetic. It's ART.

Why this engorged sense of their own importance? What fuels their self-love? BALLS. They're all bursting with pride in their balls their whole lives long. Men derive a boost from having balls, their enthusiasm only partially quelled by the fact that half the world has balls.

But this is why they die sooner than women. They're exhausted by the effort to keep quiet on the only subject that really interests, astounds and forever pleases them: their bat and two balls. They talk on and on around the point - like a verbal wank - skirting with varying success the central topic, that from their bodies dangles some flesh that can extend or contract more or less at will. It makes them poor company. It makes them useless about the house. This love that dare not speak its name turns men into duplicitous beings.

On this capricious contraption rests all sense of certainty. Syms was always talking about this or that artist having the BALLS to do something or other. He made it sound as if without balls, one would do nothing. As if ova and wombs were unsuggestive of creativity. And then, having claimed for balls this great significance, he dared to criticize people for not putting their balls ON THE LINE. WHat did this phrase mean exactly? Was it like trying to walk in a straight line when drunk? Sign on the dotted line? It surely had nothing to do with clothes-lines. Pol thought that putting a breast or an ear-lobe on the line might be equivalent. But she knew that for men, only seeing BALLS on the line would do. Men see no point in being female. There IS no point, no point like their point.

The best solution would be to deprive men of distractions from their central theme and allow them to sit around all day studying their balls. Like drone bees, they could be shelved, to be used as mere genetic stock cubes. They are experts in uselessness. Women do everything better.

Pol On Women

Pol had learned to hate women. At the least provocation they were likely to report you to the police or the Inland Revenue. She was sick of their scowls and scolds. They wrapped you up in Brownie knots - moral strictures invented at a moment's notice - and talked about you behind your back. The trouble with crossing a woman is you don't know you've crossed her until months or even years later when everything pours out in some dreadful heart-to-heart. She wasn't sure women were right that talking about a problem helps. In some ways, Pol appreciated the obtuse silence of men on most subjects of any significance. At least you know where you are. Women fight like cowards, always popping up out of the grass at you for some frank talking. Preposterous people.

Pol had a feminist friend who had wanted Pol to meet a man she knew. She didn't fancy him but hoped Pol would. Pol had duly consorted with the guy for a few weeks, and then dropped him. The feminist friend had then ostracized Pol on the grounds of her cruelty. But what business was it of hers? SHE'd found the guy totally unattractive. Pol had found him totally unattractive but briefly tolerable. Where did morality come into it? Guilt-mongers, that was what women were. Whatever happened to that feminist Utopia in which women would be free to do what they wanted? Instead the world was full of watchful women, still waiting to pounce on you if you didn't baby a man.

Pol didn't trust feminists, or anyone else who declared a political position. They were badly toilet-trained. They used politics as a nappy, in case their baser instincts got out of hand. They wanted to see their own personal madness reflected in the misshapenness of the outside world - this made them feel on top of things. They were just looking for excuses to put down huge swarms of fellow being.

To trust anyone was madness indeed, concluded Pol.