Spoiled for (the illusion of) choice

A SAGA OF GREEN WASTE IN THE MAKING
My wife and I are having something of a disagreement at the moment with respect to the ultimate appearance of our front garden once the landscapers have finished planting it. I think that maybe I get to have a say in it, Jennie chooses to disagree with my input...

My initial thought was that the Australian Native Garden was a nice, attractive choice of complementary landscaping vegetation - Sensible, hardy and drought resistant. In short the perfect choice for the constantly apathetic gardener (me), and the family's resident black thumb (not that I'm implying that Jennie is sudden death on plants or anything, but Right To Life do stage pickets and sit-ins outside the gardening section of Bunnings whenever Jennie goes shopping...) It seems that the Australian Native Garden was able to draw the attention of a nice, attractive choice of spousal veto. Okay, Mediterranean Garden it is! "With Cyprus trees? No? They've been vetoed too? Really?" Apparently all I have to do during the garden selection process is to agree, lots.

*sigh* Current score: Doug 0, Veto 2.

Yoiks! And awaayyy!

ADIOS COMMON FUND A1
Last Friday was my last day working for National Australia Trustees Ltd's Common Fund A1 (Hey! I'm no longer an employee so I get to give it this one plug, okay?), and I must admit that the change over to a new career path and job was more than a little intimidating - Even more so given the qualities of some of the people I was privileged to work with. They know who they are, even if libel laws and the International Convention on Human Rights (as well a several Papal Edicts) prevent me from spelling out precisely what those qualities were...

After becoming part of the team as a temporary employee in March 2001, and becoming a permanent employee the following August, it's been one of the constants in my life - so much so that I still can't look at my driver's licence without thinking, "There's 40 points worth of ID right there." I'm sure that with therapy (trans: Alcohol), time and reflection (trans: More alcohol!) I can perhaps make a full recovery... I think that quality time working out my Zombie Plan (with help from "The Zombie Survival Guide" by Max Brooks, and plenty of thanks to Sandhal @ NAT CFA1) will help.

In the mean time I'd like to apologise to anyone from the office who's reading this blog for leaving my desk in such a sorry state. After emptying out the accumulated clutter and crap of 7 years from my workstation and sorting through what could be recycled, what should be thrown out and what could be neatly nicked from the stationery cupboard (Whoops! Forget I said that, okay?) it was 6 o'clock and I had 30 minutes to get myself over to Footscray for pain and suffering. I know that you'll all be tickled pink to know that it hurt. Lots.

ONE ORDER OF "CULTURE SHOCK", EXTRA CRUNCHY
This Monday saw the beginning of my new role at Victoria University as a Student Support Officer... Whoo, what a change of pace! Almost all of my clients (I'm still in a customer service role) and a lot of my colleagues are young. Very young. I used to think that I was something like a redwood in the Common Fund, towering above pretty much everyone in sight whilst feeling well seasoned (and pretending to be mature). Now I feel like an inselberg, in as much as I'm tall, abrupt and ancient compared to the vast majority of everyone I meet each day. I kid you not, a lot of the students I'm helping out were born about the time I spent a lot of my time wagging high school.

FOOTSTEPS IN THE FUTURE
I'm going to hear the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps in the not too distant future. No, I'm bloody well NOT! fathering another child. I said "pitter-patter" and "tiny footsteps", not "thunderous stampede" and "drunken, epileptic water buffalo". The first turn of phrase gives the impression that there may be moments of peace and quiet. My offspring, on the other hand, wouldn't know how to be quiet even if you vacuum-sealed them in form-fitting steel cans and encased them in concrete. I know I said "Congratulations" to Sophie already, so this one's going out to the man who's taking the mad plunge into full-on fatherhood even after seeing my kids in action. Congratulations Stephen, you're a brave man... Insane perhaps, but brave without a doubt.

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Now playing: Tchaikovski - Piano Concerto No.1 in B Flat minor, Op.23 (Allegro non troppo e molto maestoso - Allegro con spirito)
via FoxyTunes

Gahhhhh!!!!!

"HOLD MY BREATH AS I WISH FOR DEATH..."
Jennifer and Krushna, those fun-loving Maidens of Pain, have managed to wring every last speck of pain-free existence from me. I'm really trying to think of any part of my much abused body that isn't screaming in pain at the moment and, other than my thinning head of hair, nothing is coming to me. It scares me to think that little more than 18 hours ago I felt much worse than the shambling wreck of humanity I am now.

Have you seen "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom"? Remember that schmuck that had his still beating heart torn from his chest before being thrown into a pool of lava, alive and screaming? Damn I envy him. Especially after being subjected to lunges. Which twisted son of a bitch thought of that brand of torture? I thought squats were bad. Hell, even my sessions with the amazingly misnamed "medicine ball" (medicine is supposed to make you feel better, at least in my book) pale in comparison to the brutal sadism that are lunges. I can see why my wife hates them so much, and I'm sorry I ignored her warnings about them.

Climbing stairs hurts. The process of sitting down hurts. The process of standing up hurts. Walking? That hurts too.