no flowers, no voucher, not even chocolates . . .

When, after 13 years, you walk away from the job you poured your heart into, spent more time at than you did with your family, and passed up countless better opportunities for, it’s bound to sting a bit when it dawns on you that no one bothered to get you a farewell gift.

Taking a deep breath and saying “oh well” and hoping that the disappointment will be released from my chest when I exhale.

I brought cake. I brought cake …

 

Nope, didn’t work. Still hurts. Thirteen years. No flowers, no voucher, no card, not even chocolates. Oh well.

Not a speech, not a thank you, not a good bye. 

Wow. Thirteen years.

Dental Denial

Sitting in the dentist's waiting room, my hands shaking so much I can hardly type.

I guess everyone is allowed one irrational fear. And mine would be sea creatures. I don't consider my fear of the dentist as irrational. Who can claim that a visit to the dentist was ever a pleasure. I don't care how hot or sexy your dentist is, he or she will at some point cause you pain.

The dentist, pokes around in your mouth, with sharp metal objects - that's inside your body - while you're awake, and you're trapped in that chair, with a massive light blinding you. Yah, not my idea of a relaxing afternoon.

And what's more, with a visit to the dentist, the pain usually doesn't stop there. For hours or days after you're likely to have pain - like when you do an extraction or a filling. Who ever goes to the dentist and gets instant relief? No, you end up with more and prolonged pain.

I don't think my fear of the dentist is irrational. At all.

The biology of psychology

It’s obvious that what happens in our heads usually manifests itself as physical reaction. There’s the whole Fright, Flight or Fight story. But that’s not really what I was thinking about.

I can’t generalise and say that all women, most women or some women find their bodies respond, or refuse to respond, the same way that mine does. I can only speak for myself, of the discovery that my mental state and emotional turmoil directly manifests itself in the way I become practically catatonic in a certain situation.

It’s my understanding that real catatonic individuals are mentally and emotionally present, but locked in a wax-figure of a body. Similarly I find I am storming on the inside and totally paralysed on the outside – frozen. Numb would be the wrong word, because I do feel pain. Crippling, air restricting pain.

 I feel like a statue crying real tears.

stuck in the middle

So what exactly are the middle ages? I’m 35. Am I middle aged? Well I’m certainly not a youth anymore. And unlike Julius Malema, I’m not stubbornly in denial about it.

Considering the average age at which people keel over these days, I think 35 is middle age. Not that being middle aged is a problem. I don’t mind either way. Just when asked how I feel earlier, the phrase “stuck in the middle” popped into mind. And I realised that I do sort of feel stuck and stagnant.

Oh well fresh start just up ahead. 11 days to go …

The Birdcage

The Birdcage: a 1996 American comedy film directed by Mike Nichols, staring Robin Williams and Gene Hackman. It is a remake of the 1978 Franco-Italian film, La Cage aux Folles.

 The Birdcage is also what I call the office I work in.

I work in a brightly coloured open plan office, with a mezzanine level trimmed in Christmas lights. From my original desk at the window I felt like I was perched on the edge of the M5, and had a great view of the River Club Golf Course and the mountain range in the distance. All was cool. But then I was moved closer to my project team. Here I sit in a row of desks – 3 folks beside each other, separated by orange partitioning about 30cm high. And we each sit opposite someone. So picture the 6 of us (and then one left so there’s 5 now), sitting facing each other. All this might seem pretty normal to you. But out of the 5 people at this bank of desks, 3 of them are gay. The gentleman beside me, is married, to a lovely woman apparently, but wears a ladies watch, so I’m not 100% sure that he’s as straight as he claims.

 In the bank of 6 desks behind me I’ve found one confirmed gay person, and another we could possible call bi-curious (one who claims to be straight yet takes several intimate coffee and smoke breaks with a certain older, gay gentleman). Upstairs there seems to be 2 unconfirmed gay men, and another bi-curious candidate.

In the middle of our very bright orange office are two bright orange outdoor umbrellas. I have no idea why. I’ve asked whether they’re aware that umbrellas opened indoors bring bad luck, but this lots so openly defiant of anything conventional . . .

Let me tell you about the fridges. In the kitchen is a fridge where one would store milk and any lunch items that needed to be kept cold – but that’s only if you can find space in between the beers.

Some of the sober individual in the office complained about the amount of alcohol squashing their fruits and yoghurts and management’s solution was . . . they bought another fridge exclusively for beer.

There’s another little bar fridge which we now use only for canned cooldrinks. This little fridge is always well stocked, since there are no decent shops in the area.

Upstairs sit a mix of IT folk, mostly developers. And they have an X-Box. So any time of day one can hear either high pitched car tires squealing around a digital race track, or gun fire and the groan of injured virtual soldiers.

Those who smoke generally use the balcony, except late in the afternoon or on Fridays when it’s not unusual for some to just chill at their desks with a cigarette and a beer.

TV screens are up all over the place and alternate between sports or music videos. Most mornings I come in to the sound of ABBA’s Dancing Queen or Elton John’s Club at the End of the street.

On occasion, again usually on a Friday, Bob Marley can be heard Jamming through the office and on those special days we have Her Royal Highness Freddie Mercury blaring, followed by the soundtrack of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. In all a very vibrant environment.

The title of Birdacage making sense yet?

Oh did I mention the dress code? I arrived here on my first day dressed in my usual professional black, only to find the CEO in denim shorts, and my direct manager in a surfer’s board shorts and a faded T-shirt. Most of the guys here wore shorts and sloffies until the weather changed. Now it’s just jeans and T-shirts or hoodies.

Every second Friday is braai day, when they knock off around midday and gather around the giant Weber on the balcony, beer and cigarette in hand.

In all the folks are nice and respect my little space. I’m grossly outnumbered and haven’t objected to the drinking and smoking because they haven’t been in my face about it.

I actually enjoy working here, where I’m entertained with the constant gay banter. I’ve had the guy opposite me squeal in excitement because he was about to become an aunty. Yes, he said he was going to be an aunty. He also told me when I enquired that it was rude to ask a woman her age. Yes, I was asking him his age at the time. But he’s an amazing, wonderfully warm person.

Even though we have separate men’s and ladies loos I occasionally come out the toilet stall to find one of the guys in there – they’re apparently very flexible about these things.

Oh and the pranks.  I sit beside the incarnation of Loki the Trickster Demon. The big bosses have the receptionist cook them hot breakfast some morning. One of these mornings they were served bacon and blue scrambled eggs. The software testing guy had salt poured in his coffee, and the office manager got locked out on the balcony. Telephones get prestiked in their cradles, mouse buttons switched, office chairs unscrewed. You name it, this lot have tried it. And I always make sure I lock my PC for fear that someone will come along and send a dirty email to the global address list or change the language on my PC. Both of which have been done to other careless souls in the office before. 

I’ve actually enjoyed my time here and will miss the colourful characters, the odd free lunch, the stocked cooldrink fridge and yes, even the pranks.

 Hanging out here has definitely been an experience.

Picture my eyebrow raised and me giving you a dirty look. This look is dripping with disapproval, irritation and offense.

So over the past few weeks I’ve realised that when people piss me off I’m not very good at telling them to piss off. People who hurt and offended me, often continue to hurt and offend me because I never educate them. But how does one politely point out that what has transpired is unacceptable?

My solution is to simply kill all those people who piss me off. Problem solved. Chances of that dearly departed individual ever offending me again are rather slim then.

Because, I actually think bloody murder might be easier than saying, “oh erm, by the way, I didn’t like that and would you rather in future respect me by not doing it again?”. Nah I think I’d rather just use one of those fire place tools to the back of the scull. It’s by far a more satisfying and permanent solution.

Heck just thinking about it makes me feel happier and relieved.

Ok, so if I can’t really physically go kill someone, how about ignoring the person for ever, as if they were dead?

I could do that right? Ignore their calls and mails. No matter how thick that person is they’ve gotta get the message that they’re dead to me. Eventually. Right?