When techies have time on their hands

Last month, someone in Austin, Texas, hacked into a couple electronic roadworks warning signs, and changed the message to read as below.


The city is, of course, obliged to find the culprit and prosecute, but let's face it, at a time like this when all we're hearing is bad news, that's pretty funny.

Resolutions were never meant to be followed anyway

I have a little post-it stuck on my office closet, for me to see every day.

Resolutions:
- Eat healthier
- Swear less
- Be more sensible

These were my New Years resolutions from 2007, but I still keep them there (never too late to start working on them). Then, I noticed, the other day someone stuck a new post it on my office closet, just to confuse me.

Resolutions:
- Eat healthier
- Swear more
- Be more sensible

Ha, joker, I thought. But then I opened the closet door, and there were more post-its:
- Eat pizza and cake
- Drink heavily
- Spend money

Threw me in a fair share of confuddlement, I concede. For, in all fairness, I would willingly take on any of these as my resolutions for the year. But I refuse to be the office clown, dammit. Refuse.

Besides, it shows me that (a) people have too much time on their hands; (b) people have too many post-its; and (c) perhaps people don't quite view me with the level of gravitas I thought I portrayed.

But if people are going to insist on scrutinising and inputing into my resolutions, then at least let's give them something to sink their teeth into. So now I've put a new post-it on the closet door, jostling for space amongst the others:

Resolution:
Learn to type with toes

That'll give the technies here something to think about.

Maybe the key is facebook?

I logged in to my Facebook account this morning, and the first few status updates I saw were:

Friend A took the "How 'New Yorker' Are You?" quiz.

Friend B took the "What Car Fits You Best?" quiz.

Friend C took the "Where Are You Meant to Live?" quiz.

Friend D also took the "Where are You Meant to Live?" quiz, it's obviously going around like a virus.

Friend E took the "What kind of Writer Are You?" quiz even though she doesn't write.

Friend F took the "Which Colour is Your Aura?" quiz, whatever that be.

And the list would go on. All I have to say about this is, obviously, people have no issues with baring their souls and opinions. Or getting diagnosed for who they are. 90% New Yorker. 80% Toyota Corrolla. Meant to live in France. Writer like John Steinbeck (even though she doesn't write). Orange coloured aura (whatever that be).

Not that I have an issue with people completing these surveys. Only, every single year I have to send out employee surveys as part of my job as HR bod. And I just wish people responded with the same enthusiasm. I refuse to accept that knowing what colour your aura is, or what % New Yorker you are, could be more interesting than completing an employee feedback survey. I mean come on, this is my job here, folks. But sadly, apparently 'tis so. Because certainly nobody responds to the surveys I have to chase down.

Unless, of course, maybe the key is to next time distribute them on Facebook.

Watch out for Queen Jaffa

Tomorrow, we're hopping over the pond (and then another one. And then another one.), to Bombay to spend time with the mater and pater. It's only a quick fly-by visit, really, only just four days. But all the same, it's a break from work, and some time with the rents.

Which, of course, we're excited about. But at the same time, it's always saddening to leave Queen Jaffa alone at home. The spoilt brat, who has recently taken passionately to fat-free blueberry yoghurt, is quite a social kitty, and mires herself in petulance and sulking each time we leave for a few days.

So this time, we requested Jorge, the doorman, to stop in and feed her while we were out.
"Jorge, would you mind coming over every day and just giving her half a tin of catfood?"
"Sure thing!" he responded, "You know I love cats!"
"Thanks, man, you're the best." And I was just about to head off, when a thought suddenly struck me.
"Oh, and Jorge?"
"Yeah?"
"She's a bit of a sneaker-outer, so when you open the door, she'll likely run out between your legs. Just might want to watch out for that."
"Ha, ha, thanks for the heads up."
I turned to head home, and then suddenly remembered.
"Oh, and Jorge, she'll rollover and show you her belly, she does that with everyone. But don't assume she wants to be pet. Half the time she takes a taloned swipe at anyone scratching her belly."
"Ha, ha, thanks for the heads up!"
"No worries. Oh yeah, and one last thing. The other day, out of the blue, she threw up. No idea why. Just sitting there, and then suddenly, bwwaagh, vomit comet. You might want to watch out for that."

And I left a rather perturbed looking Jorge at the front desk as I headed upstairs to play with Queen Jaffa.

Starting again, because life should be pretty

You might remember, Delta and I have been held emotionally hostage by Apple for close on six months now, waiting for the launch of the newly redesigned Mac Mini. Well, much to my excitement (and somewhat surprise), this time, Apple actually delivered! A new Mac Mini was launched earlier this month. Delta and I had our 'technology police' (Guster, Metrohom), out scoring the tech blogs for us, so we knew within a matter of hours once the computer had been launched.

Immediately, I rushed to the Apple site.

"Metrohom, there's two versions of the macmini! One's for 599 and the other's 799. Can you look at the specs and tell me the difference?"

So Metrohom diligently looked at all the stuff that's alien to me: GHz and RAM and ROM and other such random acronyms which mean nothing to yours truly. "For what you guys use your computers for, the $599 is absolutely fine for you. You won't notice a difference."

But of course I panicked about what I would miss out if I bought the cheaper one, and so I bought the 799 one anyway. Such are the results of effective marketing.

So now, folks, we have a mac. Which means, like most PC-to-mac users, we dont' know how to transfer our music, or open it once it's transfered, or close it once its opened. And we can't find where all our folders have gone. And we can't figure out where on the computer most of our stuff is. And keep thinking of new functions we don't know how to relearn in this new macworld.

But oh gawd, it's just so pretty.

Like it's 1999

Friday afternoon, Ilajna sent us a note:
Guys, Danny's birthday drinks tomorrow. Come if you can!

Being as I was still somewhat out of sorts with my cold and cough, I wasn't about to jump into party mode. But Saturday rolled around, and Guster called us and asked if we weren't up for a couple of drinks at the local, before we headed over to Danny's. I hadn't really intended to drink, but the barstool was so snug, and the bartender was so friendly, and the boys were in great form, so the question of wine became inevitable.
"Oh, okay, just this one."

Before we knew it, Delta had already made his third trip to the jukebox, and all our favourite tools were pulsing through the room. Before we knew it, it was already 11 o'clock. All of a sudden, time had snuck up on us, as it is often wont to do. Delta grabbed my hand, "let's head over to Danny's before it's too late!"

So we walked the few blocks over to the bar where Danny was celebrating his birthday, and what do you know, it turned out there were a couple of pool tables where games were on the go. There was no time to waste, and Delta and I rolled up our sleeves and put on our game faces.

I'd first learnt pool in highschool, on an old pool table where our shots had to navigate distorting cracks, peaks and crevices in the felt. Needless to say, I'd perfected the art of imperfect shots. All the same, I grabbed the cue without hesitation and plunged into the game like the foolhardy Don Quixote.

And before we knew it, another few hours had passed. Boy, if there was anything that's a time-sink, it's pool. When we stepped out for a brief fresh air break, we noticed the scent of early morning breads already being delivered to diners. And of course, we were suddenly starving. We simply had to have a diner breakfast. So Lahsiv, Doobs, Delta and I headed over to the diner next door, to hungrily scarf down generous servings of eggs and toast and pancakes.

It was 5.30am by the time Delta and I finally crawled into bed that night. "Boy!" I sighed, exhaustedly. "For homely chickens like us, we've just partied like it's 1999!"

Can't escape the winter without a cold

Just when I thought I'd pulled a fast one on the weather by not falling ill all winter, Winter herself one-upped me by sneaking in a low punch right at the last moment. I should have seen it coming, I suppose, when Monday was suddenly so cold that I could no longer differentiate between my nose and the icycle hanging at its tip. When, all of a sudden, my voice started sounding like Darth Vader. Or at least, like Eddie Izzard's imitation of the dark lord.

So I spent the week for the most part working from home, preferring to sequester myself rather than splutter all over the peops in the office. And this is how the day transpired:

Every time I received an email, I sneezed. Every time the phone rang, I sneezed. Each time the cat moved, I sneezed. And sometimes, I just sneezed. Queen Jaffa, having never witnessed this before, at first was quite alarmed by the growing pile of tissues with which I surrounded myself. But shrewd cat that she is, she quickly weighed the benefits of having me at home (ie continuous petting) with the pitfalls my constant sneezing - and quickly adapted to the new lifestyle.

So by Thursday this week, the kitty and I had established a new pattern of behaviour: she, box of tissues, mug of hot water, Vicks, laptop and I, camped out on the couch all day. How ideal. If it weren't for those inconvenient sneezes.

My top five. And then my top ten.

"What's your top 5 books ever?" MacKlaine asked me the other day.


Possibly one of the most difficult decisions I've ever made. So after much, much thought, here's my list. And I've taken the coward's way out and done a top 5. and then a top 10. And only just barely stopped myself from doing a top 20. Because really, once you're giving books a 5* rating, it's really hard to distinguish. I guess the way I'd put it is that all these books had characters I fell in love with. Again and again, in each page and each chapter.


Top 5 (in no specific order):

- Nobody's Fool (Richard Russo)
- Cider House Rules (John Irving)
- Brooklyn Follies (Paul Auster)
- Birdsong (Sebastien Faulks)
- A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)


Top 10 (in no specific order):

- Mysteries of Pittsburgh (Michael Chabon)
- Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates (Tom Robbins)
- God of Small Things (Arundathi Roy)
- Middlesex (Jeffrey Eugenides)
- Norwegian Wood (Haruki Murakami)

Emotional as dice

Flights are like purgatory. At the moment that you enter the plane, you're at a singular point in your life - however depressing or exhilarating that point may be. And then you sit in the metal tube for a few hours, belted into your seat, like a surreal version of Star Trek, until you reach the other end and step out into an entirely new part of your life. New place, new people, new time, new mood. It's the closest we have to a time travel machine.

Like a couple of dice, enclosed in a fist and rattled and shaken, only to be forcibly expelled into a whole new world. It's no wonder, then, that flights should leave you feeling somewhat vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable, I mean.

In any case, that's my explanation, this emotional vulnerability, for why I don't normally cry for movies, even the sad ones, but if I watch the same movies on a plane, it's a time for pure emotional purging. Of their own accord, my eyes start weeping like leaking taps. You know - on the plane - about the only place where you particularly don't want to cry in public, because now the person strapped into the seat next to you thinks you're crazy. And they can't do anything about it or move somewhere else, because they're physically belted in next to you.

And you try to suppress the tears, but it's as futile as trying to suppress hiccups, this only causes them to come out with reinforced exuberance. Suddenly the tears are just gushing, accompanied by a fair share of blubbering, snorting, sniffling and honking, while the person next to you continues to witness this spectacle through subtly averted eyes, keeping a watch on you in mounting horror and discomfort. And then they catch a glimpse of what you are watching, and realise it's a comedy, like Forgetting Sarah Marshall.

I mean, who would normally cry for a movie like that, right? The only explanation I can have for my behaviour, therefore, is the emotional vulnerability induced by a flight. Like dice, being rattled and shaken, and forcibly expelled at the other end.