You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2008.
With Labour Day/May Day coming up on the 1st of May, we should perhaps note that the current working hours we have today (which we complain so much about: Look! The French only work 6 hours and the Spanish have afternoon siestas!) is a result of much fighting, protests, negotiations, demonstrations, and revolution.
If it makes you any happier on your work day so far, people used to work 10 to 16 hours a day for 6 days a week before the industrial revolution.
In particular, in one of the movements in the demand for an eight-hour day, the slogan was “Eight hours labour, Eight hours recreation, Eight hours rest“.
Eight hours labour. Yep.
Eight hours x 3 = 24 hours. Yep, that’s a day.
Wait. Eight hours recreation?
Lemme check again:
8 hours work. Yep.
8 hours sleep. Yep. Most of the time less even.
8 hours play?!?!
Where did my eight hours of play go?!
According to calculations, I should be playing as much as I’m working! But how?! Where?!
In order to investigate, I’ve decided to do a breakdown of a typical weekday of mine:
12 am. On the internet. Or just crashed into bed.
1 am. Possibly just crashed into bed.
2 am. Sleep.
3 am. Sleep.
4 am. Sleep.
5 am. Sleep.
6 am. Sleep. Alarm screams at 6:30.
7 am. Up. Brush. Dress. Breakfast.
8 am. Should be on bus already. Or else I’ll be late.
9 am. Work
10 am. Work
11 am. Work
12 am. Work
1 pm. Lunch.
2 pm. Work
3 pm. Work
4 pm. Work
5 pm. Work
6 pm. Leave office.
7 pm. On bus home.
8 pm. Eating dinner. Stare at TV. Pet cat.
9 pm. Shower. Tidy room. Pet cat. Stare at TV.
10 pm. Turn on computer with the intention of doing errand-like stuff.
11pm. Still on computer doing I-don’t-know-what.
12 am. Another day begins.
Seriously. Eight hours recreation? Where?!
We need another revolution….
Having slept at 10pm last night, trying to ward off another bout of cold/flu that I can feel coming up, I should get up this morning feeling refreshed right?
Wrong.
I slouched out of bed, aware that I’ve had absolutely enough rest, but yet can’t bring myself to award anyone any morning cheer. My aunt walked out of her bedroom and patted me on my head as I squat in the living room trying to be friendly with my cat. I stared at her.
Actually, not just morning cheer…..evening after-work cheer….dinner cheer….night-time cheer……any cheer at all is totally out of my system right now.
I eventually dragged myself to the bus stop. I looked at all the suits and ties and skirts and heels queuing up behind me, all devoid of cheer, and I feel a certain ping of sadness.
I have become Just Another Office Drone.
How sad.
And as I stood there, watching buses rush by, full buses that I can’t get on, buses that ladies in tight skirts stumble after in their heels and flapping tote bags, I feel sad for my younger selves.
The child who drew pictures and dreamed of becoming an artist. The teenager who loved Worldview class and stayed in during break to discuss religion and philosophy with Toby and Mr. Darren. The high school graduate who thought she’ll improve the lives of people everywhere through science. The university student who’s favourite class in uni. was God, Stephen Hawking and the Big Bang and whom the professor gifted with several really cool books.
And guess what, I’m now just another woman in some carefully-ironned pants and heels standing in a bus queue with innumerable others just like her who hates the guy who shaves on the bus going buzz-buzz-buzzzzz throughout the 1 hour ride into town.
And just as I’ve asked this question so many times before, here I ask again:
What am I doing here?
Was working the cash at the cupcakery yesterday when this gweilo couple came up to me with their mugs of coffee and wanted to pour them into paper cups to take away.
And the lady asked me, “Where are you from?“
Surprised, I said, “You mean this shop? …..Or me?“
“No, you! Where did you grow up?“
“Oh, uh, I grew up in various places….Canada….” I am always hesitant to answer such questions, coz they always warrant a long response.
The woman gave the man a slap on his arm: “SEE! I TOLD you she’s Canadian!!!!“
“….Indonesia, and Thailand.” Which they ignored.
The man exclaimed in return, “I KNOW! I mean, she is totally Canadian!!!“
“Well, I only lived there for 3 years when I was a little kid….“
Woman and man excitedly babbled: “Babble babble babble….Where in Canada are you from?“
“Well….I lived in Toronto….“
Woman: “Oh really?! Well, I’m from NewFoundLand!“
I immediate tried to dig through all the Canadian geography and state names and capitals I had to memorize in grade school…..Where the heck is NewFoundLand?!
They continued to babble at each other: “Babble babble babble… …!!!!“
Excited that anyone is actually interested in me, I asked, “Is it because of my accent?” A lot of people think I’m Canadian/North American coz of my accent. I originally picked up English in Canada you see.
Man: “Well, not just the accent! It’s the whole thing! The way you look, the way you speak, move….EVERYTHING!!!!” *throws his arms around in big circles*
Woman chimed in: “Yeah! You totally have the Canadian look!! Everything!!!“
By then, their coffee has finished the transfer to paper cup and I had a line of customers staring at me un-amusingly. They turned to leave. I said, “Well, thanks very much and have a nice day!“
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
I guess people hear what they want to hear.
Not that I mind being Canadian. I’ve been called American, Thai, and Vietnamese too.
But, can anyone please tell me………..what is the “Canadian look”?!
I scored my first ever goal last night.
Actually, I’m not sure if it’s my first EVER. But since I don’t remember myself scoring, so I think EVER is right.
I was having such a bad day (and days) at work that I went out for a drink with Yvonne right after work, just before game time. A drink turned into a couple of drinks and by the time I arrived at HV, I wasn’t walking strictly straight, Claire was talking to me but I didn’t hear, and Kay and Pixie could smell me and declared that I was slurring.
Thirty seconds into game start, my only thought was: Hmmm, you really do lose your sense of balance and eye-hand coordination with drinking….hmmm…..
Half way into the first half, I realize I don’t like getting beat and had better put my act together. So I began to gingerly attempt to connect stick with ball.
Playing striker that day, I had a lot of chances in the D. In one, I was diligently minding my own business, head down, dribbling towards the goal, and then SMACK! I had ran straight into the goalie. Our heads made contact and my face slammed into Jo’s helmet. She flew backwards onto the pitch. My glasses went flying and my body followed more or less similarly.
The result now is a mostly invisible bruise that hurts like shit and throbs when you smirk, smile and laugh.
BUT, I redeemed myself by receiving a great pass down the middle of the pitch, got it past A team defender Katie, and continued to sprint towards the goal as fast as I can. Jo the goalie ran out in an attempt to stop me, but I dinked the ball just right of her big leg pads and watched the ball roll into the goal. SCORE!!!
I was absolutely estatic. All that happened during the day disappeared and I spread my arms and ran. I thought about pulling my shirt up over my face a la football. But reconsidered since I was wearing glasses and my face hurt. See, I’m not one to make a fool of myself. Ever.
One day later now, I’m still overly excited (probably to the annoyance to my teammates). But hey, all I usually do is stand and watch as my teammates score and celebrate while feeling sorry for my lonely arse, abandoned in goal. Or I usually stand/knee/sit/lie on the pitch and watch as my opponents score against me and celebrate wildly as I curse under my breath and hope they all get striken by lightning.
I was a very happy me last night. :)
- You can bypass all the crowds and queues amassing in front of feeding places by just walking up to the counter, raising one finger (index, of course) and you’d be shown immediately to your seat. (Suckers eating in groups of 2 or more get a numbered ticket and an exciting half-hour wait.)
- You can eat the same $22 noodles 5 days a week if you want. But mostly because you need to skimp and save up.
- Likewise, you don’t have to pay $25 for a tiny slice of pizza that doesn’t fill you up when you really don’t want to.
- There is no 10 minute discussion of where to eat while waiting for and going down in the lift.
- You don’t have to sit there facing someone trying to smile and think of appropriate small talk when all you want is to a) play sudoku on your phone, b) catch up on reading, c) rest your chin on your palms and stare into space.
- You don’t have to spend another 15 minutes agonizingly waiting for your slow-eating companion to finish their meal (while continuing to think of appropriate small-talk).
- You don’t have to eat while trying very hard to politely and discreetly advert your eyes so you’re not looking at the contents of a full talking spitting mouth.
- You don’t have to share your chicken wings in swiss sauce if you don’t want to.
Recent Comments