Just a quick one here...
We're all aware of information overload. Nary a day goes by when we aren't warned by a well meaning news article or a stern report on the news about the dangers of information overload, smartphone addiction, overuse of social media. This isn't really about the supposedly detrimental effects of information overload (though the effects, for example, on productivity and decision making skills are showing to be dire, if said reports and articles are to be believed). It's more about, well, what happens to this information? Sure, some of it is used to make very necessary decisions about our day to day life, and in some cases, large life decisions that warrant a little research and analysis. A lot of the information is surely stored, sorted in our subconscious, to affect us at a later day in ways that we will probably never realise and will certainly never be able to articulate. But with all the information going in, what actually comes out? I would have thought that for all that's absorbed, our brains must require some sort of product (a sort of bizarre version of 'what goes up must come down'.... what comes in must go out?). For me, it's writing this blog. This is the thing that I 'create' rather than absorb. With all the changes coming up in my life, I think it's important to have that sort of an outlet where I can actually make something. For others, it's baking or crafting or singing, but I can't do any of those things (well, I can, but the by products aren't really anything I am yet to reveal to the world).
So, the question is, what do you create? What, if anything, is your output back into the world that wants to stuff you full of information?
x
Tuesday 25 November 2014
Monday 17 November 2014
Friendship
This weekend, my best friend, who I have lived with for ten years, moves out.
Although this isn't sudden, I think it's the first time I've contemplated it fully.
Allow me to explain.
My best friend and I went to high school together. A couple of years after high school, we both moved to the city - me for university, and him for new career opportunities. For many years, we had talked about how cool our share house in Perth would be. It was our dream. Eating Red Rooster, watching Smack The Pony. Wielding our fake IDs at Rosie O'Grady's. Sitting around our kitchen table which would double as a fish tank. Yeah, we were cool.
In Perth, we lived with others - some very dear friends. Years on, as I neared the end of my law degree, my best friend (yeah, I'm going to go ahead and call him my BFF) announced that he was moving to Melbourne. I also decided to move to Melbourne at the end of my degree (now, before you write me off as a bunny boiler, I moved at a time that maybe 5 or 6 other people in our circle of friends moved as well. At that time, unless you had a degree in engineering or some other mining-centric field, jobs were thin on the ground).
So we moved to Melbourne and share housed with another amazing friend. The three of us eventually moved to a house that I bought. The amazing friend moved back to Perth to be with a partner, my BFF and I eventually found partners of our own. Both of them moved in. So the four of us, plus our dogs, have been living in our happy, slightly weird, urbane family. Until now. Since the beloved and I announced our engagement, my BFF and his BF have made plans to get their own place.
Now, I know that anyone reading this may think "what's the big deal? It's not like he's moving to Pakistan! It's not like he is her BOYFRIEND". These are points that many, many others have made to me. And I agree!! At least in the logical, sensible part of my brain. The part which organises tax returns and peels stickers off fruit BEFORE eating.
But that part of my brain doesn't always prevail, and you guys, the crazy, emotional, Oprah watching brain has kicked in. When you live with someone for that long - platonically, romantically, whatever - well, they become your family. You start to know everything about that person. You start, in some ways, to emulate that person in ways that you don't even recognise. You seek their counsel on everything. You cry to them when there's no more wine in the fridge. You yell at them when they delete your Law and Order from the Foxtel planner. You ask them to console you after another evening of regrettable lady-man liaisons with ill advised suitors. And they do. With aplomb.
Most of all, you love them and you think they are the best person in the world for hanging about for ten years putting up with your bullshit.
Don't get me wrong - I understand that change is a fact of life. I know that this is a fabulous milestone for Michael and I (it's hard to believe that we have never lived together alone in our relationship and I'm looking forward to that). I know I'll see my BFF all the time (we are planning on starting a business together so he's my business partner and will be my office bee-yatch very soon, I hope).
I'm just sad because I'll miss my best friend. I'm sad because in the ten years that we've lived together I never once stopped to think "hey, moron, this might not last forever, so cherish it while you've got it and stop getting pissed at the guy because he beat you at trivial pursuit again."
So. There you go. If you'll excuse me, I need to go and see if my BFF is free to watch some Smack The Pony.
Although this isn't sudden, I think it's the first time I've contemplated it fully.
Allow me to explain.
My best friend and I went to high school together. A couple of years after high school, we both moved to the city - me for university, and him for new career opportunities. For many years, we had talked about how cool our share house in Perth would be. It was our dream. Eating Red Rooster, watching Smack The Pony. Wielding our fake IDs at Rosie O'Grady's. Sitting around our kitchen table which would double as a fish tank. Yeah, we were cool.
In Perth, we lived with others - some very dear friends. Years on, as I neared the end of my law degree, my best friend (yeah, I'm going to go ahead and call him my BFF) announced that he was moving to Melbourne. I also decided to move to Melbourne at the end of my degree (now, before you write me off as a bunny boiler, I moved at a time that maybe 5 or 6 other people in our circle of friends moved as well. At that time, unless you had a degree in engineering or some other mining-centric field, jobs were thin on the ground).
So we moved to Melbourne and share housed with another amazing friend. The three of us eventually moved to a house that I bought. The amazing friend moved back to Perth to be with a partner, my BFF and I eventually found partners of our own. Both of them moved in. So the four of us, plus our dogs, have been living in our happy, slightly weird, urbane family. Until now. Since the beloved and I announced our engagement, my BFF and his BF have made plans to get their own place.
Now, I know that anyone reading this may think "what's the big deal? It's not like he's moving to Pakistan! It's not like he is her BOYFRIEND". These are points that many, many others have made to me. And I agree!! At least in the logical, sensible part of my brain. The part which organises tax returns and peels stickers off fruit BEFORE eating.
But that part of my brain doesn't always prevail, and you guys, the crazy, emotional, Oprah watching brain has kicked in. When you live with someone for that long - platonically, romantically, whatever - well, they become your family. You start to know everything about that person. You start, in some ways, to emulate that person in ways that you don't even recognise. You seek their counsel on everything. You cry to them when there's no more wine in the fridge. You yell at them when they delete your Law and Order from the Foxtel planner. You ask them to console you after another evening of regrettable lady-man liaisons with ill advised suitors. And they do. With aplomb.
Most of all, you love them and you think they are the best person in the world for hanging about for ten years putting up with your bullshit.
Don't get me wrong - I understand that change is a fact of life. I know that this is a fabulous milestone for Michael and I (it's hard to believe that we have never lived together alone in our relationship and I'm looking forward to that). I know I'll see my BFF all the time (we are planning on starting a business together so he's my business partner and will be my office bee-yatch very soon, I hope).
I'm just sad because I'll miss my best friend. I'm sad because in the ten years that we've lived together I never once stopped to think "hey, moron, this might not last forever, so cherish it while you've got it and stop getting pissed at the guy because he beat you at trivial pursuit again."
So. There you go. If you'll excuse me, I need to go and see if my BFF is free to watch some Smack The Pony.
Wednesday 5 November 2014
In which I contemplate working for a sociopath....
So I am on my honeymoon, flitting about, doing honeymoon-ey things, gazing into my beloved's eyes, contemplating sunsets, eating copious amounts of food, all the things one would expect, nay, are de rigeur for such an occasion.
Do you know what's not de rigeur for honeymoons? Checking work emails.
And there's a reason for this - work matters necessarily detract from honeymoon-style activities and undoubtedly tarnish or distract you from afternoons spent making love with your new husband followed by him feeding you peeled grapes.
But I did. In fact, I have the whole tine. Mostly just to keep tabs on what's happening back at work, I've made a point of not responding to anything that's cropped up.
Until now.
I received an email from my boss (addressed to a few people, albeit), one of the most rude, arrogant and unprofessional emails of my professional career. Since being in my position for six months, my boss has made a habit of nasty, manipulative behaviour demonstrative of his psychopathic nature (he once offered to mentor another manager within the business and then informed said manager that he would be docking his pay for mentoring services to the tune of about $40 000 per annum. He was not joking).
I responded to said email. Since taking this position, I've made a point of not tolerating this manager's bullying tactics, trying to (professionally and calmly) rebuff his inappropriate behaviour. Which is what I have done in my response email, however, this time I've added an offer to resign upon my return to the office.
So now I am quietly deliberately what to do. I've decided to wait and see what happens when I get back to Melbourne on Monday. Do I keep working for someone who thinks that everybody in his employ is an 'incompetent idiot in need of micromanagement', or do I hold my tongue and hang on to the (attractive) salary, determined not to let it get to me?
A tough decision. Lena Dunham's book, Not That Kind Of Girl, touches on this in a poignant fashion (albeit her comment is in relation to personal relationships, rather than professional ones):
You are not made up of compartments. You are one whole person. What gets said to you gets said to all of you, ditto what gets done. Being treated like shit is not an amusing game or a transgressive intellectual experiment. It's something you accept, condone and learn to believe you deserve.
Bravo.
Do you know what's not de rigeur for honeymoons? Checking work emails.
And there's a reason for this - work matters necessarily detract from honeymoon-style activities and undoubtedly tarnish or distract you from afternoons spent making love with your new husband followed by him feeding you peeled grapes.
But I did. In fact, I have the whole tine. Mostly just to keep tabs on what's happening back at work, I've made a point of not responding to anything that's cropped up.
Until now.
I received an email from my boss (addressed to a few people, albeit), one of the most rude, arrogant and unprofessional emails of my professional career. Since being in my position for six months, my boss has made a habit of nasty, manipulative behaviour demonstrative of his psychopathic nature (he once offered to mentor another manager within the business and then informed said manager that he would be docking his pay for mentoring services to the tune of about $40 000 per annum. He was not joking).
I responded to said email. Since taking this position, I've made a point of not tolerating this manager's bullying tactics, trying to (professionally and calmly) rebuff his inappropriate behaviour. Which is what I have done in my response email, however, this time I've added an offer to resign upon my return to the office.
So now I am quietly deliberately what to do. I've decided to wait and see what happens when I get back to Melbourne on Monday. Do I keep working for someone who thinks that everybody in his employ is an 'incompetent idiot in need of micromanagement', or do I hold my tongue and hang on to the (attractive) salary, determined not to let it get to me?
A tough decision. Lena Dunham's book, Not That Kind Of Girl, touches on this in a poignant fashion (albeit her comment is in relation to personal relationships, rather than professional ones):
You are not made up of compartments. You are one whole person. What gets said to you gets said to all of you, ditto what gets done. Being treated like shit is not an amusing game or a transgressive intellectual experiment. It's something you accept, condone and learn to believe you deserve.
Bravo.
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