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| Wednesday, November 30, 2005 |
| You're going to wear THAT?! |
Mr Ata has had no new clothes for four years.
Well, alright, he did buy a pair of shorts a couple of years ago. And his brother gave him t-shirts after visiting Thailand (one says "Same Same" on the front and "But Different" on the back; the other has the Coca-Cola logo in Thai). And he has had some free polo shirts and a jacket from work.
But cheap stuff, emergency shorts and company logos aside, no new clothes for four years. He bought some casual shirts (during our own trip to Thailand for our honeymoon)and a new business shirt or two during the first six months of our marriage, but nothing since then.
Last Sunday, Ata enforced a shopping trip. This was to use the gift voucher - valued at $48.05 - that had been a Christmas present from Mr Ata's littlest brother in... (dramatic pause)... 2001. It was valued at $48.05 because Mr Ata's brother had purchased some plain t-shirts from this particular outlet for some project that was never brought to fruition. On returning the t-shirts, he was told he could only have store credit. So he asked for four gift vouchers, and gave them to his family for Christmas. Split four ways, the value came to $48.05. And we had been in to this particular store once or twice over the last four years, but never found anything that Mr Ata liked. Basically, he likes his no-ironing polo shirts. He doesn't even wear business shirts to work any more. Just polo shirts. And he occasionally complains about not having anything 'nice', except for the two dress shirts - purchased five years ago - that get brought out for work dinners and weddings.
Anyway. Back to the shopping trip. After much deliberation, Ata insisted that he try on a particular shirt. The shop assistant rounded up a black Bonds t-shirt, to be worn under the shirt. Black t-shirt under and overshirt unbuttoned, it looked very good. Particularly with his new glasses. Ata likes. So after some ummm-ing and ahh-ing and insisting that it looks great, fine, funky, we finally proceed to the desk. Ata is providing the gift voucher to the shop assistant when Mr Ata, turning away from the desk, announces, "Actually, I don't think I'll get this after all."
He doesn't like it. Feels silly. Thinks it doesn't suit. Thinks it will be hot. (!!!) There is some hand waving from Ata. The shop assistant (very nice lady, worked there for years, has a 2-yr-old daughter and recently returned from a trip to Europe) is looking at the clock with mild concern - it is 10 to 5. You know the face shop people get when a customer takes a long time to make a decision and then changes their mind? That was the expression on her face.
To wrap up, the clothes were purchased. Mr Ata agreed to take them, but Ata suspects he is harbouring distaste... the biodegradable plastic bag containing the outfit has been on the table since Sunday, and Mr Ata is usually a stickler for Putting Things Away. |
posted by Ata @ 6:05 pm  |
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| Monday, November 28, 2005 |
| A Story for Myo |
To avert the possible threat of Grievous Bodily Harm, Ata has been forced to think of another story for Myo.
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I cannot think of any Ata & Mr Ata stories right now, Myo. At least, not any that can be published on the Internet without first checking with Mr Ata. And he is playing with Bosco in the kitchen. So it shall have to be an Ata story. Let's see... a story for Myo. Hmm. She has already heard about Ata and the Rat Poison, and Ata and the Chlorine Tablet Which Looked Like A Crown Mint (also known as The Chlorine Tablet Ata Should Have Known Could Not Possibly Have Been A Crown Mint). Ata and the Vending Machine? Ata and the Water Buffalo, Pts 1 and 2? Ata Stole the Smarties? Ata and the Missing Trampoline? Ata Gets a Sister? Ata and the People Who Lived in a Shed? Ata Drives Into A Ditch?
A little short story for Myo.
Once Upon a Time, when Ata was just a Kitten, she lived a long way from Anywhere. This was because her father was a pilot for a company which provided air services to remote areas. Naturally, this brought her into contact with a number of surprising and confusing characters. For example, Cabbage - who lived on a large boat with an assortment of children by at least one woman, who did not seem to attend any sort of school (the children, not the women) and visited the island on occasion. Or her father's Best Mate, who once claimed to have paddled a canoe from Australia to Indonesia, and told stories about setting fire to tarantula holes in Vietnam. Ata took swimming lessons in the sea until crocodiles began to be sighted at that beach. Ata's school was fairly large, although it had begun diminishing at the time Ata attended there. School Sports Days were held at a beach. For the...mmm... three years? Yes, three years of schooling that Ata completed at the local school, she was in the Non-Bilingual class - basically, every white child on the island, ages ranging from 5 - 13 or so. And some Yolngu children, whose parents wanted them taught in English. Ata now recognises this as Segregation for Convenience, but this is beside the point. Being a school in a setting of strong Yolngu culture, it was perhaps not unusual that Balanda parents and teachers wanted their children to have some exposure to traditional culture. For example, Ata's own mother taught some Yolngumatha (local language), and included occasional classes on kinship structure.
On one occasion, when Ata was about 7, a school Excursion was arranged. We were to go hunting. Basic instruction in bush tucker was considered important - if only to be sure the Balanda children did not eat something they shouldn't. On this day, some women were to demonstrate the catching of Goanna.
Has anyone reading this attempted to catch Goanna? No? Well, read carefully here.
The women located a Goanna, and chased it. It ran into a hollow log, out of reach of human arms. Reasonable Goanna behaviour. To extricate the obstinate lizard, the ladies lit a fire at one end of the log, and positioned themselves at the other open end.
It was only a short time before the fire had the desired effect. The Goanna shot out the end of the log - and straight up the leg of one of the women waiting at the other end. Straight up her leg, straight up her torso, and into her hair. Ata has a very clear memory of a usually dignified woman - in fact, group of women - dancing about shouting, trying to remove Goanna from hair. The Goanna, no doubt more panicked than the women, was eventually dislodged from its perch. Moving at what surely must have been approaching the speed of light, it bolted vertically up a Tree Trunk. Which brought us to an important facet of Hunting - learn when to quit. At that point, we quit. The men had had more luck with Turtle.
Ata returned home somewhat late, but having had a thoroughly enjoyable day. To find her mother in a state of high distress - during the day, a tree had fallen over and brought the power lines down, draping them over the fence Ata and her little brother would usually climb to come home. Her mother was terrified that Ata and her Brother would be electrocuted on their way home - to top it off, the school had not informed the parents of the class excursion, so Ata's mother was very concerned when Ata & Brother did not arrive home at the expected time. And there was no power for some days.
Many years later, Ata discovered that it is much easier to catch Goanna by tempting them with raw sausage meat. And that Goannas have bad eyesight, and easily mistake fingers for raw sausage meat. And that if you have a Goanna attached to your finger, it is a Very Bad Idea to shake it, as your finger will come off second best. On the other hand, much entertainment may be had by gently lifting the Goanna up so that it dangles in the air from your finger until it's jaws get tired.
The End. |
| posted by Ata @ 6:53 pm |
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| Friday, November 25, 2005 |
| Tell me a story #1 |
Today, Ata did nothing terribly interesting. In lieu of an action-packed real-life drama, there is this instead. Gather 'round.
The Weather Girl
Once upon a time there was born a girl. Very soon after she took her first breath, it became evident that this girl was unlike any born before her or after her. As she screamed in outrage, dark clouds gathered in the skies above, and as she settled to contented nursing the clouds melted to let clear sunshine through. Through some strange interference of Fate, or Destiny, or simple Luck, this girl and the weather could not be separated.
She was born the third child of wealthy parents, and resided in a manor house outside a village in a sheltered valley. As she grew, her parents and the people of the village came to see her as a blessing on their land. When the sun shone too long and the crops began to wilt, the girl would sit in the parlour of the manor house and listen to a band of minstrels play their most tearful ballads, until rain fell to quench the drying soil. If not enough sun shone, the minstrels would play dancing tunes until the glad light of a warming sun kissed the cheeks of the children playing outside. The girl was, by and large, a cheerful child, and the villagers were glad of this. When her temper was raised, however, scorching winds swept through the valley, sapping moisture from the skin and desiccating the very earth, and dry lightening snapped from the sky.
As time went by in the valley, the people prospered. The girl, aided by the music, measured the weather so that crops grew thick, feeding even the poorest citizen with plenty left to sell to neighbouring villages. Her doting parents smiled on their youngest child, and watched her grow from infant to toddler to young woman. And one day, as the ways of humans are and always have been, the girl met a boy, and fell in love.
For the people of the valley, this was a glad time. The minstrels living at the manor house smiled in the warm sunshine and played only to please themselves, as the joy of love kept a gently sun glowing. Teasing breezes ruffled the hair and skirts of the village maids, and blessings of fond rain fell. If one minstrel - the youngest and most recent arrival to the manor house – declined the company of his fellow musicians and wandered alone instead, playing sorrowing melodies on his pipes under the shade of the sympathetic willows, no-one noticed. On the day the couple wed by the curve in the river, decked in wildflowers and smiles, the villagers did not notice this one minstrel who did not play in the wedding band or dance to the joyful tunes.
For the people of the valley, this was also a glad time. The spring of new love embraced the valley. In the perfect evenings, the clouds of gathering storms were welcomed, and parents put their children to bed early, shuttering the windows against the swift winds and passionate thunder outside before locking their own chamber doors, laughing like children themselves.
But all seasons end, and for the young bride this spring was too short. It was no comfort to her that the accident took her love quickly, without pain. Her grief poured from the heavens and did not stop. The villagers stayed indoors, worried about their flocks, and felt their own hearts break with the sorrow of the young widow in the manor house. For days the rain laved the village as if the very sky felt her grief and sought to wash the stain of loss from the valley. When the rains finally broke, the villagers sighed in relief and returned to their work, anticipating the return of the sun.
As the rains cleared, however, the skies did not. The rains were replaced by a dank mist, through which only the feeblest light glowed, barely as bright as a single candle. After a month of waiting and worrying, with food stores spoiling in the damp conditions, an exodus began. After three months, no-one remained in the village. The parents of the widow sent her brother and sister to stay with friends in the next town. Over time, they ceased trying to lighten the spirit of their youngest child. The minstrels, too, packed up their instruments. On the day the final carriage rolled away from the front steps of the manor house, the youngest minstrel stood in the doorway to witness their departure. His own instruments succumbed to the damp, their wood swelling and splitting. Metal fittings rusted and stuck, and mildew crawled steadily across the pages of his music. Even his voice fell flat in the damp, unmoving air, its resonance swallowed and smothered by the heavy grey mist.
The four of them lost count of the weeks and months passing. In time, most of the world outside the valley forgot them – with the exception of the son and daughter, who arranged deliveries of food and firewood. Visitors passing through the valley did not stop and visit the manor house, but passed through as quickly as they could. The grey mist seemed to settle into their very souls, and it was with relief that they travelled out of the valley and into the natural weather – be it rain or shine. The four remaining residents of the manor house fell into their own grey routines, often eating together but rarely talking. The widow spent most of her time in her own quarters, gazing unseeing over the misted fields. The minstrel wandered about the manor house and grounds, at first wondering if he would ever play music again, then forgetting that he ever did. It seemed that time stood still in the grey valley.
It was a day as damp and unhappy as any other, when the minstrel climbed the spiral staircase to sit in the tower room, from where the view stretched on all sides over the manor grounds. As he stared, listless and aimless, a memory leapt unbidden to the front of his mind. It was of himself, as a child, playing with water filled bottles – his first instrument, long since abandoned in favour of more sophisticated tools with more silvered voices. As this memory played itself for him, he began to desire again the simple pleasure of hearing sounds other than his own footsteps and the unceasing drip of water. From the kitchens – now barely used – he retrieved a number of glass bottles in varying size and shape. He took them back to the tower room and, arraying them on the floor, filled each with a different quantity of water. As he blew on the tops to test the notes, it seemed that a small part of him breathed more deeply, and the gloomy damp sat less heavily on his heart. With time and patience, he learned to play simple tunes on this unwieldy instrument. Most often he would play lullabies or gentle, sorrowing melodies, playing until he could no longer hold enough breath. Then he lay on the floor and gazed at the mouldering ceiling until he fell asleep.
On a rare foray from her quarters one afternoon, the widow happened to overhear a haunting melody whispering through the halls. Following the sound, she stood at the bottom of the staircase and listened. As she listened, the mourning in the tune seemed a balm to her heart. She climbed the stairs a little way to listen some more, and the peace offered in the melody seemed to comfort her spirit. She climbed the stairs a little further, leaning into the music as a vine leans toward sunshine, and when the music finally stopped she was standing in the doorway, bidding the minstrel to play again. For many days, this became the routine. They would meet in the bare tower room, and she would seek the comfort of his gentle, echoing tunes. Then they would lie silently on the floor and gaze at the patterns of mildew on the ceiling until healing sleep claimed them both.
No-one can be certain how many days it was, but one day, the mist seemed a little lighter. The widow’s parents looked at each other as if waking from a dream and wondered how long they had been walking in this waking sleep. As each day passed, the damp lifted and the mist melted from the valley. On the day the minstrel dared attempt a brighter, quicker tune on the ungraceful water bottles, a smile broke through the greyness and pale sunlight shone for the first time in a long time. The sunshine grew and strengthened, and plants began to grow strong and green. On the day the valley greeted a bright, glowing dawn, the parents sent word to their older children. The son and daughter returned to the valley, bringing with them their own families so the children’s voices would echo through the manor halls. As the flowers began to bloom and the trees put out new growth, so too the village welcomed the return of citizens to its streets. And on the day the widow again became a bride, the people of the valley gathered again with flowers and smiles to congratulate the happy couple.
For the people of the valley, glad times came again, and the village prospered. In the manor house, the woman and her husband lived in joyous contentment. The sun shone just enough and the rain fell just enough, and children lay in bed listening to the gentle thunder as their parents, smiling, clasped hands and retreated to their own chambers.
When the grey mist settled on the valley – as it sometimes did, in the early mornings or late afternoons – the woman and her husband sat in the high tower. He played for her on the glass pipes, specially made, while her heart remembered and sorrowed, and she again made peace with her past. At those times, she looked on her husband with special love, knowing that his love for her was as constant as the rising of the sun and the setting of the moon, enduring her many moods as the earth endures the seasons. |
| posted by Ata @ 7:10 pm |
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| Thursday, November 24, 2005 |
| It's all in the mind |
Ata has been discovering the Power of the Mind.
Last night, a redhead fell on her. Well, toppled over and very nearly fell on her. And before anyone asks, "Now what was a nice girl like you doing in a bar like that on a school night?", the answer is: Not that kind of redhead. It was a very-hot-light-on-an-extendable-pole-with-three-legs kind of redhead, not the looks-great-in-a-miniskirt sort.
How does this relate to the Power of the Mind? Well, Ata had noted the slightly unstable base on the redhead, and had envisioned herself, standing peacefully nearby , all to unaware of the danger until - KA-LATTER! The light collapses on her and she has to receive emergency first aid to treat burns of varying degrees (Did I not mention the light was Hot?).
Of course, the light stayed happily in place until it was Ata's turn under the spotlight. When all was quiet and no-one was looking... KA-LATTER! Over it goes. Fortunately, Ata managed to escape Fate by being just a little too far away for the light to land on her - but it gave her a decent fright nonetheless. "I am sorry!" wailed Ata. "It was my fault! I ENVISIONED it!"
"Next time," suggested an also-startled watcher, "Envision me winning on a scratchie ticket."
Ata has been trying. {rubs forehead mysteriously} Scratch the little squares, my pretty.... |
| posted by Ata @ 10:23 am |
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| Tuesday, November 22, 2005 |
| Tuesday |
Ata has not been well. Poor, poor Ata. Sob, sob, etc.
Alright, so I'm a hypochondriac. So sue me. Or leave me to suffer in pain and misery. It's your choice.
Today (whilst in the waiting room at the GP - I'd just like to point out that I don't touch Women's Weekly outside waiting rooms) I read half an article about Jools Oliver. You know, Jamie Oliver's spouse. Apparently she is very very tidy and fussy about keeping the house neat. I have a Friend like that. Well, alright, I have a few Friends like that (my theory is that they're friends with me to balance out the unreasonable tidyness in their own lives), but one is more severe than others. What I most don't understand is that she displays her extreme cleanliness as if it's a good thing. If I felt compelled to have my lounge seats dry-cleaned after my in-laws visited, I wouldn't be proud of it. How she fits in working as well as cleaning, I'll never know. Sometimes I feel like she tells me about how tidy she has to be to get me to tell her it's okay.
The most bizarre thing is, we get along well. I don't put my feet on the seats at her place, she doesn't look at the carpet at my place.
Although I can't remember one occasion of her using the toilet here. Darnit, it's impossible to get all the dust out from behind the pipes! |
| posted by Ata @ 2:03 pm |
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| Sunday, November 20, 2005 |
| How Alarming |
Yesterday I woke up with the sudden rememberance that my Friend-Around-The-Corner was going to pick me up at the unreasonably early hour of 8:15am, and I had forgotten to set the alarm. Fortunately, it was only 6:30. But all this talk of alarms reminds me of a story. Settle in. This may take a while.
Once upon a time, when Ata was a week-old newlywed, the day came when she and Mr Ata had to go back to work. Well, alright, to be completely accurate - Mr Ata had to go back to work, and Ata had to commence her final clinical placement. With most of the boxes unpacked from having moved in together, one important item was brought into play for the first time. I mean the Radio-Alarm Clock, of course, for all you budding smutmongers out there. Ata had a Radio-Alarm Clock that had been a birthday present when she turned.... 16? Something like that. Might have been 17. Anyway, this particular Alarm Clock had two little buttons on top - push one button, and you would be awoken at your specified time by the radio. Push the other button, and you would be awoken at your specified time by an electronic bleep-bleep-bleep. Living in the technologically advanced age that we do, I'm sure you're familiar with the concept. Ata preferred the Radio, and she would set it very very low, just on the threshold of hearing, so that she would be seduced into a state of wakefulness by the dulcet tones of the Breakfast Radio Crew of whatever station was annoying her least at that given time.
Anyway, the Radio-Alarm Clock had been installed on Mr Ata's side of the bed. The alarm was set for some hideously early, is-the-sun-up-yet time (by which I mean around 7:00 - Ata is Not Good with mornings). And Ata and Mr Ata went to sleep.
Seven AM arrived the next morning, and Ata sat bolt up right in a state of sheer panic, to the tune of BLEEP-BLEEP-BLEEP-BLEEP-BLEEP. Roswell shot off the bed and into the bathroom. Scrabbling over Mr Ata, Ata turned the alarm off. Being newlywed and young, so very, very young in the ways of marriage, Ata lay back, telling herself she would get used to it. If this was how Mr Ata set the alarm, it would be alright.
This lasted approximately a week. On the Friday, in a state of high nervous agitation from having been savagely torn from a state of deep sleep every morning, she explained her preference for the radio over the bleep-bleep-bleep. She managed to get across her extreme distaste for beeping alarms. Mr Ata readily agreed to change the alarm. The weekend passed with calm in the two-bedroom flat, and Ata went to sleep on Sunday night in the calm assurance that all would be well.
Monday morning was heralded with barnargle-tarby nargle dalanby! AHHHHAHAHAHAHA! Ata was again torn savagely from a state of deep sleep by the radio, turned up so loud that the voices of the Breakfast Radio Crew were distorted past any point of intelligibility (not that it made them any funnier, it should be noted). Roswell repeated her vanishing act from the bedroom, peering back around the bathroom door with startled eyes.
Becoming wiser in the ways of live-in relationships, and with a note of desperation in her voice, Ata explained again. Emphasising her need to be gently seduced into awakening by the dulcet tones, etc, etc, she requested that the radio be turned down. WAAAAAY down.
"But," said Mr Ata, perplexed, "I won't wake up if it's soft."
Through clenched teeth, Ata assured him that, if the Radio-Alarm Clock were on her side of the bed, SHE would hear it, and SHE would ensure he woke up. He agreed to this arrangement.
The next morning, all was well. Dulcet tones, and so forth. Ata poked Mr Ata several times to be sure he was awake, and hit the snooze button. Peace reigned - for approximately five minutes. Then there was a new sound: mee mee mee meep! mee mee mee meep! Roswell leapt up, mewing with consternation, and began head-butting Ata alternately with staring concernedly about the room, trying to locate the source of the sound.
Maintaining heroic control over her stressedness, Ata queried Mr Ata on the sound.
"It's my phone," he explained a little defensively. "Just in case the radio did not wake us up."
Four years on, Ata still cannot bear electronic alarms. They set her teeth on edge. Roswell still finds them alarming too, and has been known to bite the phone. Just gently. However, the mobile phone alarm now only gets set when Mr Ata has to get up but Ata doesn't - and he turns it off very, very promptly.
The End. |
| posted by Ata @ 10:54 am |
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| Thursday, November 17, 2005 |
| Simon Vivian |
Don't ask me who Simon Vivian is. When I clicked in the "title" box, up popped a list of Things That Had Been Entered In A Box Like This Before - you know, as it does. Some of them I recognised as subjects from emails I've sent. Some of them I recognised as subjects that Mr Ata may have sent. Some of them.... I just don't know. I picked Simon Vivian because I couldn't think of a title myself. And I hate leaving things untitled. It's like leaving the house without an item of clothing.
It is Hot, I am Home, and the cats are Hungry. I can tell because they have been extremely lovable and cuddly. Roswell is now sprawled on the floor by my chair as if she has been ironed flat, gazing alternately at me (with sheer adoration) and Bosco (with suspicion and malice). Bosco is parked on the other chair, paws curled under at odd angles, gazing affably down at Roswell. If she gets up to leave the room, he will leap down and pounce on her, but right now he's a picture of serenity.
We were to have a Meeting here tonight, but it has been cancelled. This means I do not have to tidy up. We do not plan to have anyone over on the weekend, so tidying up can be delayed even further. If I play my cards right, I may not have to vacuum for at least a fortnight. On the down side, I think we are out of Food. I may have to cook tonight. Did I mention it was Hot? And my Blog is too pink. I look all girly. It didn't seem that pink when I picked the template, but it's turned out PinkPinkPink.
I am procrastinating. Can you tell? I am procrastinating about NaNoing, and digging holes, and vacuuming. I always keep a good long list of things to procrastinate about. That way, if I'm ever bored, I look at the list of things I could be doing and decide I'm not that bored after all. I'm busy, procrastinating. We have lived in this house for two and a half years, and there is one person who keeps sending mail to the previous occupants. They don't include a return address. We see the previous occupants on an occasional basis - yes, we bought a house from friends. The fact that we have received regular mail from one individual for two years without passing it on to our Friends makes me feel even more procrastinatory about passing it on now. It doesn't look important. The address is printed on to a sticky label and stuck to the envelope. It looks like a mailing list. The street name is misspelled. I don't think our Friends want to get it anyway. |
| posted by Ata @ 5:54 pm |
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| Wednesday, November 16, 2005 |
| Turkey turkey. |
On arrival at home after work, there was a message on the answering machine. Well, there were two messages, but one of them was a message from last week that I felt confident in disregarding. The other was from my mother-in-law, from hereon identified as MIL.
Now, I have been very lucky in my MIL. She is pretty much the best MIL one could hope for. For example, she does not drop over unannounced, nor does she insist on having us over for a meal every weekend. Furthermore, she has not once insulted my cooking, housekeeping, or general ability in any area, and she can be relied upon to gang up with me against her own son if the situation warrants it. This is probably assisted by the fact that she has no daughters herself, and three sons. She gets along well with my family. She does not provoke arguments. She does not make nasty comments (well, not when I'm in earshot, anyway).
So. As generally wonderful as my MIL may be, she does occasionally do some slightly random and unpredictable things. For example, well before I was engaged to Mr Ata, she called me one morning - before 8am on a Saturday, I might add, AND I was a Uni student at the time - to advise that it was precisely three months until Christmas. The message on the answering machine today was also Christmas-related.
She has bought a Turkey.
Fortunately, not a live one to take home - although it wouldn't be outside the realms of possibility for her to do that. And to be fair, she has only paid for the Turkey, not collected it and brought it home with 38 days to go to Christmas. Or thereabouts. But nevertheless, she has bought a Turkey for Christmas.
Neither she nor I have ever cooked a Turkey.
There are not enough of us to eat a Turkey.
The closest I personally have ever come to the preparation of a Turkey is the roasting of a pre-packed Turkey Roll. Usually, Christmas fare for us consists of assorted cold foods, possibly supplemented by a barbeque.
Why did she suddenly decide to buy a Turkey? This will remain one of the great wonders of the universe. Can she even cook a Turkey in her oven? It is somewhat unreliable. Could be that we will be having Turkey for Boxing Day lunch. Will we be eating Turkey meat for the three weeks following Christmas? No, because Mr Ata & I are going to Ballarat.
Perhaps, to get into the spirit of things, I shall volunteer to make something terribly Christmassy and traditional. As opposed to my usual potato salad or chicken wings. I don't even know what Christmas Tradition requires. Must I bake mistletoe with something? Reindeer in holly sauce? Partridges in Poached Pear Trees?
...I don't even like Turkey much. |
| posted by Ata @ 10:27 pm |
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| Tuesday, November 15, 2005 |
| Gabby Is Here! |
It has been said before and I shall say it again: Group work is a tool of evil.
Tonight was the presentation of the group assignment for the HR Consultancy class. Our group forgot to prepare a handout, but the lecturer didn't seem to notice, as we had provided a copy for her. We passed, it is over, it is the last group assignment Ata will have to complete for this Diploma. Hooray. Jubilation may now ensue.
Ata stayed behind to discuss the final assignment with the lecturer (joy of joys - an individual report). After discussing shoes for fifteen minutes (don't turn the Key!), we spent five minutes talking about the actual assignment, and then the lecturer asks, "Have you considered going further with study? You know.... (pause as if she was about to suggest something slightly smutty)... university?" Ata had, in fact, given small consideration to applying to study for her MBA. Small consideration leading to the conclusion that really, she did not want to go back to university at this stage. And not really certain that she wanted an MBA at all. Amid validating her suggestion, the lecturer remarked, "You have the Gift of the Gab."
This is not the first time Ata has received that comment, but it is the first time it sounded like a compliment.
Just call me Gabby. |
| posted by Ata @ 8:26 pm |
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| Monday, November 14, 2005 |
| Monday's Expert |
Despite my internal resolution to post daily, I was so caught up in the general Sundayness that no posting occurred.
Yesterday we had an evening barbeque with our Friends-Around-The-Corner. Ata & Mr Ata had attended a party the previous evening (being Saturday evening), where they knew no-one but the host. Well, the hostess. Ata went to school with her. For a year. Many Moons Ago, but we have kept in vague contact - the phenomenon of the twice a year friend is something Ata derives great security from. So. Knowing no-one at this party placed a certain requirement on us to be Sociable. This was not assisted by the fact that Everyone Else seemed to fall into two groups - Family or Workmates - and hence had instant connection with a group. Nevertheless, Ata valiantly threw herself into conversation with a some total strangers and (as you do) discovered a certain level of connectedness with all of them - I lived there too! I think that too! I've worked in that field too! I once met someone who ate at that restaurant where your cousin drove past too! Which brings me back to the Friends-Around-The-Corner.
Whilst engaging total strangers in conversation, Ata discovered something about herself. The basic secret to conversation is that everyone has a Key. Read closely, now, because this is Important. If you find someone's Key, they will talk to you in great detail for a Long Time. Even better if you happen to share an interest in their Key. For children, Keys are very easy. The three magic subjects (as taught to Ata by her Developmental Linguistics lecturer) for children are Pets, Fights, and Accidents. Especially true for the under-fives. When children are a little older, you can add Books and Computer Games. For adults, their Key usually lies somewhere in Work or Family (including Where-Do-You-Come-From, or Family History). Hobbies usually also contain a Key, but it can be harder to grasp (So what do you do? is a more acceptable question to ask of a just-met stranger than So what do you do in your spare time? Although having discussed the first question, there is unspoken permission to discuss the second topic). In the course of meeting the aforementioned total strangers, Ata noted that when she spotted someones Key - she turned the lock. Changed the subject, cut in to demonstrate that she knew all about that topic too, or otherwise shut off the flow of conversation. This is not a trait that leads to involved and interesting discussion and stimulates good feelings on the part of your conversational partner. So. Ata went to the Friends-Around-The-Corner, and revealed to her Friend this disturbing habit. To which the Friend replied "Yes, I have noticed that you do that." There was some short explanation of What-Ata-Does and Why-It-Is-Not-Good.
Now, Ata loves her Friend and values her honesty. But noticing a habit in yourself and discovering that someone else notices too are completely different things. Self-revelation is far sweeter when the revelee has to be convinced of your shortcomings.
Still. Honesty is a great value, and verity is treasured above all. The words were not spoken unkindly, and truth spoken in love should be heard with equal grace. So Ata collected her mild miffedness and accepted her correction, safe in the knowledge that she now has unspoken permission to be Completely Honest with her Friend-Around-The-Corner. |
| posted by Ata @ 11:43 am |
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| Saturday, November 12, 2005 |
| LawnMowing Day |
Today was LawnMowing Day at Casa Ata. LawnMowing does not occur as frequently as it should, and Ata - feeling chastised by the accusatory rumbles of neighbourly mowings - badgered Mr Ata into assisting with the Lawn. I mow, he whipper-snips. That is the arrangement.
The front lawn has been tamed. The back lawn is improved, but the point at which Ata decided she had had enough (as determined by no longer being able to push the mower) can be clearly seen.
When I am a Wealthy Woman, I shall employ a gardener. |
| posted by Ata @ 2:17 pm |
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| Friday, November 11, 2005 |
| Ata Goes Online |
Atavaria has a blog.
After how many months of insisting that Ata had no blog, has no blog, and will have no blog, Ata has a blog.
Ata is, apparently, easily swayed by simple peer pressure and the tantalising thought that her thoughts will be published and gratefully devoured by the teeming masses, hungry for edumacation and Atathink.
So. Shall Ata now confess to having a blog? Or simply blog away, and see who finds her? A riveting game of Who-Finds-Ata.
I can barely wait to begin. No, really.
I think I may have to tell. |
| posted by Ata @ 8:07 am |
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