Small, Purple Pail List

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf? Anybody? That particular utterance has absolutely nothing to do with this post, but sometimes you just have to go with the random and often unstable thought processes that explode in your brain during the writing of blog posts to hit blog post gold.  I've never actually encountered any blog post gold on these here e-pages, but there's always a first time. 

Now, who puts things in buckets?  Like, who has a bucket list?  I don't.  Bucket lists are all the rage though - or fully sick, as Shakespeare no doubt would have phrased it - so I'm going to do one.  Bucket lists used to be called fun goals, but apparently that was too boring a title for a movie blockbuster, so they decided to go with a plastic household object that is used mainly to carry mops or sometimes other things. 

I'm sure other people have other purposes for buckets but I don't know what they are.  I'm not a bucketologist.  Plus I hate to meddle in things that are none of my business.  Actually I do like to do that a fair bit, but I don't really care about the daily vicissitudes of buckets.

I've never been much of a goal settee.  I feel like if I put lots of lofty, impossible but fun and aspirational-type things into a metal-handled plastic container then my life from here on will just be full of big mobs of disappointment.  So I'm writing a small purple pail list; it's like a bucket list but a pail is heaps smaller than a bucket, thus more achievable.  Plus it's purple, which happens to be my fave colour, so there's that.  Makes sense, no? 


For example, climbing Mount Everest turns into climbing my local Mount Taylor, which I've done about five billion times, so I can tick that one off.  How would one ever climb Mount Everest?  What do I look like, a friggin' sherpa?  Bear Grylls barely did it and he is basically a wild animal. 

Looking for more things as we speak to put into my purple container.



A pouting yellow bucket.
You work it, girlfriend.



Why I need to move to Queensland.

I'm not even joking anymore. I want to move somewhere warm.  I need it.  Warm weather makes me happy. Cold weather does the opposite.  I don't need the beach; I just need the warmth.


Canberra in winter: Nope.

Queensland in winter: Yep.



Furious. But I self-censure.

Been thinking about this all day.  Absolutely furious over it.  When I was at uni I wrote a blogpost about how western guilt leads to western tolerance which leads to Islamic multiculturalism which leads to muslims embedding their melodrama, violence and seemingly inability to behave rationally in the western world.

It was about how hundreds of years of middle eastern tribal violence has come right to your front door.  And that islamic multiculturalism equals worst idea ever.  And how there should be no immigration policy with countries that self-identify as muslim. 

That's a snapshot, but I'm not posting the rest.  I'm self-censuring, which is exactly what western governments want me to do over this issue.  

Rivers of Golden Cars

I'm currently housesitting for a work colleague, looking after a house - funnily enough - a pretty garden and a friendly, fuss-free, fancy-free pussy cat.  I'm living in an area that I don't know very well, but I quite like that, as it's like going on a summer holiday, except without all that pesky sunshine, sandy beaches, warm ocean water and laidback lifestyle.  Who the hell wants to go on a summer holiday anyway.  Only crazy people pull that shit.

In the past few months I have increased my fitness level to the point that I'm just supremely fit and am merely waiting around now for my callup to the Australian Olympic Track and Field team.  Maybe the governing body of sports people send form letters.  Should I be waiting by the mailbox? 

No-one really understands the daily vicissitudes of being an Olympic athlete, except us Olympic athletes.  Don't be envious; coveting is unattractive.  I'm even working out right now; my index fingers are among the fittest in my street.  Word.


All this fitness and et cetera et cetera means that I must run almost every day.  I've been treading the mill, riding the pushbike, and row, row, rowing the rowing machine at the gym on my cardio days, but I don't like walls, man, I need the open space.

So I have been staking out new running tracks, in so much as you can do that without your new temporary neighbours getting suspicious of strangers walking through their backyard at twilight looking for shortcuts.  I just don't understand why anyone would find that weird at all.

So today I went for a little wander and ended up fairly quickly up a mountain.  It's always a good day for up.  It was twilight by the time I got to the top and the view was spectacular.  It's only a little hill, but it's angle and position are perfectly situated to admire a wide section of Canberra. 

I sat and watched the cars during peak hour, which looked like the streets were rivers of golden lava peaking out through Canberra's many tree-lined thoroughfares.  As far as peak hour holding any allure, this was definitely it.



This is actual lava.  Any resemblance to gold cars is purely coincidental.

 

Feral Boojay & bogan-breeding

I'm feeling massively lazypants, but I want to whinge a bit about my city, Canberra, so this post has been tweaked, rehashed and recycled from last year to become the writing masterblogpost you see before you.  Alas, not a lot has changed since last year.

Living in Canberra and working in the public service is just bollocks at this time of the year. Speaking of balls, this place is cold enough to freeze them off a brass monkey right now.  Canberra is getting it's arctic monkey on.

As if that wasn’t enough horrible, we may as well rename my town Boojayberra for a couple of days and cut out any confusion. 

When it comes down to it, the federal budget is all about a small group of people who move massive amounts of money around an imaginery monopoly-type board while the rest of us go to work and hope they don't send us directly to jail or give us an old boot to play with.

I unfortunately know at least half a dozen people who get all excited by the associated budgetary figures and statistics of this system of commerce, and they're not even paid to be enthusiastic about the nuts and bolts, or faux interested at the other end of the public sector spectrum.  One of them works in advertising.  It's really not right.

I find their overeagerness terribly tragic and deeply disturbing, and it also means that no-one wants to talk to me right now about more pertinent matters, like what's happening in the Daily Mail.  I love the Daily Mail.  Pure British tabloid trashiness.

I know not to watch commercial news stations EVER. I know not to do this. And this is why.  Why is a single mother with no income and five children under the age of five by five different fathers considered a ‘victim of the economy’, rather than what she really is, which is a completely irresponsible skank?  Why is she considered disadvantaged, and why does the Gillard Government support people like this with a sugar hit?  Well, skank, Wayne Swan says no more baby bonuses for you.

If you can't afford to have children then you probably shouldn't be having children. Is this really rocket science?  It shouldn't be an entitlement; it should be means-tested, and not only financially. While I admit that would be a win for the nanny state, it would also be a huge triumph for the rest of the community.  In reality, the only people who worry about whether they can afford children are the people who can afford to have children.

Thinking actually works.

I seem to be on a foot-long sub blog fiesta at the moment.  What's going on there?  Who the heck knows.

I had a little thought bubble today.  I know it was wrong, and I know I should just block all mental and intellectual activity as soon as it pops into my little brain, but it happened OKAY.  It. Just. Happened.  But I will be aware of it happening next time and nip it in the bud, because we can't just have people thinking all over the place.  My thought went something along the lines of this.  WHY ARE THERE SO MANY FEKING STUPID PEOPLE IN THE WORLD???


Thinking is essentially good,
but best keep your pants on.

By my reckoning, at least 50% of the population went to Dickhead College, where there is no university entrance index to get you in.  Stupid gits just allow the academia to follow them around for 20 minutes and then they're magically enrolled. 

Despite the fact that the process of reasoning and deduction is unique to human beings, shitloads of fools seem utterly incapable of stopping to think about the consequences of their actions.

What they need to do is sit down, have a good hard look at themselves, probably note at this point how poorly attired they are, and perhaps note that the world won't complain if they pull their pants up or wear a dress that covers their arse, and then do the exact opposite of what they were going to do because what they had planned was essentially a really stupid idea.

Look to The Thinker as an example.  Sort of.  I'm about to give you pretty much the best advice anyone will ever give you so inhale it in. 

In so much as thinking is GOOD, it is usually best you keep your pants on while doing it, particularly if you are sitting on a bench in a public park or on a rock at The Gates of Hell, otherwise known as the security checkpoint in the lobby of your workplace.  Swans, especially, don't really approve of public nudity.  There's not much swans do like.  I love swans; they are my kind of people. 

Save the Whales. Except this one.




Canberra's Skywhale.  

 

Just Do It

In a bluey mauve mood today apparently.  Just go with it; I always do. 

I don't know about you kids, but I have had a  comprehensively exhaustive week.  I'm well aware that those two adjectives mean the same thing.  Geez, which part of comprehensively exhaustive week do you people not understand? *don't know how to insert winky smiley face on Blogger so this will do*

My 9-to-5 has fatigued the hell out of me this week through its sheer bloody-minded uninterestingness.  I'm just so gosh darn it bored with it all.  But there are more than likely changes in the wind, so I think I'll jump aboard the opportunity train while there are still positions available that don't involve cleaning the toilets.  Or jumping off moving trains. 

The Defence Department has been calling my name for years, so maybe I'll jump off the train onto a tank.  Just like Jack Bauer.  I would do it exactly like Jack Bauer.  And Defence have a real-life helicopter in their lobby, so there's that.

The only area of my current department that attracts my attention is mental health, but I'm not sure I want to work there.  Maybe a change of departments will be as good as a Hawaiian holiday with an ocean view with breakfast thrown in and a stones throw from a Starbucks. Although, with that attitude, I suspect I may need to lower my expectations somewhat.

Like most of us, my goal in life is to do something I really want to do in order to pay the bills.  It's a simple little friggin' goal, but it's pretty hard to achieve.  I don't know about you, but I'm not even in the same ballpark in terms of doing something-I-want-to-do-with-my-life.  In reality, I am in another ballpark playing a sport I don't really like.  Like croquet.  I hate croquet.  It's stupid.

I spend my days hitting wooden balls with a mallet through little arches until my eyes explode through their sockets.  And then I go back the next day, when all I really want to do is play archery.  Or something.  I very much doubt the public sector is my answer to the age old 'dream job' predicament, but I will persist until my dream job sweeps me off my feet.

What's that you say?  I have to go find my dream job?  Surely that's just your crazy talking!?  I'm sure a travel writing gig that involves endless loops around the sun-drenched Greek islands, bikinis and ouzo will fall into my lap. 

I imagine my new fave saying, 'Just Do It', is apt in this situation.  It's also Nike's primary motto.  Who knew?  But there are always disclaimers that come into play with Just Doing It, like fear of failure, anxiety, mortgage and bills, and that cosy, warm security blanket of a public sector position.

I am, however, Just Doing It in the fitness arena of my life.  I have been to the gym five consecutive days this week.  Weights, cardio, weights, cardio; it went a bit like that.  I am a feeling a little comprehensively exhausted (maybe Nike will like this slogan too, seeing as they stole my first one*).

I am usually very much in favour of al fresco cardio training.  The air is clear and cleansing, there are less people and there's more space to do your thing, but training at the gym ain't so bad; it's just something I have to get used to for the next five months, as Canberra sinks into its Antarctic winter.

* Just kidding, Nike. I wear a grey, purple and blue pair of your trainers. I heart them.  But they are falling apart. Maybe you need to hire better machinists? You know what they say - Just Do It.

RANT OF THE DAY - Recorder Distorters

Everywhere I go there are annoying little people - I think they may be called children - learning how to play the recorder.  Badly.  They do it very, very badly.  Why is this happening, you ask.  Nobody knows.

Learning how to play a musical instrument when you are a snotty, little ratbag serves no useful, practical purpose whatsoever, unless you want to be in a jazz band (fair call) or a busker (not the best career choice but inevitable for some) when you grow up, although it is also a very useful method of irritating this shit out of everyone within a one mile radius.

For the uneducated and uninterested, a recorder is a musical instrument of ear death.  A flute-like eardrum-bleeding torture machine.  A wooden tube that needs to be snapped into little pieces as soon as the user blows that hideous squeaking racket out of its little holes.

Rant of the day.  Thank you and good day.

Caffeine: How much is too little?

NEW BLOG POST!  OMG OMGOMGOMGOMG I'M SO EXCITED. I'M SO EXCITED I THINK I'LL WRITE THIS POST ENTIRELY IN HIGHLY ANNOYING SHOUTY CAPSLOCK LETTERS.  My goodness everyone, just calm the heck down.  Me, particularly.

My current spate of mass hysteria is primarily driven by the fact that I've sort of mostly kind of quit most sugar and I've found something new to replace it with.  Great success.  CAFFEINE!  Yes, caffeine!!!  CAFFEINE!!!  It's probably not immediately obviously to the layman that I've consumed any caffeine at all today, but I have.  

They do say you should replace one dubious habit with another.  It's true; I read that on the back of a KFC (yum, so good, stop judging me, I'll do what I want, you're not the boss of me) bathroom door somewhere.

I probably could have turned to water in my hour of need but it's a clear, pompous little fluid, what with its sanctimonious health properties and its dirty detoxy ways.  No wonder all the other beverages despise it.  Except for when it freezes itself - then it'll go after any drink, the little tramp.

I criticise its shady methods, but I am actually also abusing the watery substance in its natural form right now as well - in the manner of about four litres a day - which is fortunate because I am also drinking about half that in caffeine.  It's like the lack of sugar has sent me completely bonkers.  And sleep... what's that?... is that some weirdo dodgy pastime you people do at night or something?...oh, you crazy kids and your shenanigans.

Attention Seeking Water

Canberra Water has announced it will go on strike, claiming no-one pays it any attention anymore now that it occasionally rains a bit.  Water is hoping to enlist the support of fellow elements Earth, Air and Fire so it doesn't look like a total, inconsiderate douche bag.

The strike comes as Canberra water company Actew fights to block the release of an independent review into managing director Mark Sullivan's pay, just weeks after fellow utility ActewAGL refused to disclose the wages of its top executives.

"Every weekend that twat, Mark Sullivan, comes to the Cotter to try and part me like I'm the fucking Red Sea. The stupid knobhead doesn't know I've already been parted. I mean, I'm a fucking dam", said the slightly unhinged Water, splashing itself down with a bucket and pale so as not to evaporate. 

"I am so sick of this ACTEW pay scale palaver.  What about me?  Don't the big Water cheeses know who I am?  I can make myself fucking scarce anytime I want and put them out of a job", said a flushed and angry Water.


The planned strike will be the first time since it last stopped raining that local environmentalist's heads will spin on their axis' and explode in a fit of self-righteous indignation, which will come as a relief to the other 99.9999% of the population who think they're complete raging twats.

But it can't be all that bad, as it means ACT Greens MLA, Shane Rattenbury, will stop walking into my shower at the 38 seconds mark, screaming that I'm personally responsible for ruining the whole earth through my water usage.

Despite repeated attempts to resolve the issue behind closed doors, the belligerent Water refuses to waiver in its bid to be the centre of attention.

"One day the world will be plunged into an apocalyse-type nightmare and psychotics will kill just for a drop of me", said H20, as it asked for a glass of itself.





An angry local body of water

 

Sight for Blind Eyes

I've realised in the past year or so that university has completely ruined my eyesight.  It can't possibly have anything to do with the fact that I am getting older, because I am barely out of my teens.

All I know is about ten years ago my sight was not too bad at all, now I'm lucky if I can recognise someone I know from 20 metres away.  What the hell happened here? Uni happened, that's what.  I think all those years of reading lecture notes and textbooks by flickering campfire has stuffed them good.  Actually that's an outrageous lie, because I wouldn't go camping if my life depended on it.  Or yours.  Probably especially yours. No offence, cyberbots.

I've been wearing glasses for years for reading, especially when my eyes get tired.  But my main sight issue comes courtesy of my nan's genes.  Bless her, she gave me one long-sighted eye and one short-sighted eye, so my poor depth perception has been a handy life-long excuse for why I constantly walk into and sideswipe cars, walls, doorframes, doors, power poles, pillars, concrete barriers, and the occasional unfortunate person.

I have also been known to flatten side mirrors as I walk through carparks.  And it was a running joke when I was a child how I would manage to walk into a doorframe with my right shoulder and bruise my left inside ankle.

I'm very, very familiar with that instant nauseating pain you get when you hit your funny bone.  Actually none of my bones are off limits.  I often slip on escalators and I don't really care for the gap in elevators that normal people don't seem to think about.

I absolutely hate getting on or off a treadmill while it's vaguely moving, which is just stupid anyway, but I watch people do it at my gym all the time.  And last year at Disney in Florida I spent a lot of time willing myself not to misjudge my step when I had to get on rides that just don't stop. Stress, man.

Driving on roads that are squished between rock faces is a right nightmare and fills me with anxiety.  Ironically, I was pitcher for my high school softball team.  I imagine a lot of my issues could be mediated if I wore my glasses, but I've never been one to do what I'm told.  Plus poor depth perception makes one's life more exciting.