random thoughts from a random mind

I am completely and utterly e-ADHD.

As I stated when I first started this blog, I have a tendancy to begin and abandon online accounts like so much used Kleenex. In fact, if the online sphere was a wasteland, my futile e-attempts would be the office chairs of the tip – used and discarded, floating, spinning, empty – with a spring that pokes your butt if you try to sit on it. This embaresses me sometimes, knowing my half-digested thoughts are floating around the internet, but what shames me more is the proof everlasting that I can’t keep my mind on anything half-substantial once the wrapping comes off the packet.

  This is as true in real life as it is online – I have a really bad habit of deciding I NEED to buy something that will CHANGE MY LIFE right away – only to research, evaluate and purchase within a few days, and then not look at said item again for months. The upside is when I do look at said item again, I usually use it, but I do tend to need a few months of guilty “I really shouldn’t have bought that game/set of boxing gloves/pair of rollerblades/blender for making low-fat yet delicious smoothies/giant and ungainly exercise ball” thoughts before I look at the item again. Once the guilt has abated (usually once I’ve shoved the item behind a cupboard, under the bed, or in a closet), I can start the seek-find-use process.

 Take my Nintendo DS, for example. Two years ago, I decided my parents HAD to buy me a Pink (of course) system, so that I could do Brain games on the Train, saving me money on books, and rescuing me from impending, potentially life-threatening, boredom. Only Brain games would do, mind you, as I didn’t see myself becoming some manner of Girl Gamer, determining the fate of some small animated being.  So, I began to play the Brain games, failed majorly on all fronts, realised I didn’t like how dumb the good Dr made me feel, put the DS in a box under my bed, and proceeded to spend a fortune on books again.

 A few months ago, I found my dusty DS, bought a Mario Brothers console, and had the TIME of my LIFE on the bus slamming the tiny plumber into walls, pipes and the like. In fact, I think I’ve managed to stick with this game longer than I’ve stuck with anything I’ve ever stuck with before – and with only a couple of levels to go before I finish the entire game, I’m obsessed with my DS. It even has it’s own special ‘adult’ looking case (cleverly disguising the DS as some manner of Filofax).  

 I’m not sure why I always do this, but know I did it as a child, as well - many of my toys had to sit in a box for months before I decided they were worthy of my attention, and some of these I still own. I tell myself I’m saving them for my future children, but in reality I just like them. I’m not sure if this habit is born of a major attention issue, or if I’m just SO stubborn I even rebel against my own better instincts, but either way I can understand how frustating it gets for my (much) better half, especially when he buys me things that I appear to have no interest in (at the time, that is).

 I just wish I wouldn’t do this with expensive things, like my GYM membership (Painful. I’m currently going through the ”put it in the back of the closet” stage, dragging myself there kicking and screaming  once a week, then blissfully jogging for FREE around the block every other day. *head-desk*), as it serves no real purpose other than burning money faster than the tyres of a Japnese rice-rocket.  

But, no more shall I let the same thing happen to this blog, which I have abandoned for months, going back to my old, outdated journal like a bad ex-boyfriend. He says he’s changed – should I believe him, despite the fact we both know we’ve outgrown each other?

 I shall now try to keep this blog updated with mostly-useless information and memories, and will try to keep it from migrating towards the dead space under my bed. Just be careful when you open the page – the dust might make you sneeze.

Something many people know about me, but that you may not, is that I am very good at finding things.

Since a very young age, I have delighted in searching, un-earthing and discovering things – sometimes to the benefit of others, and sometimes to the annoyance of others. Another thing many people know about me, but that you – reader as you are - may not know about me, is that I am a talker. A fast-speaking, word-spilling, would-you-please-just-shut-up, Grade A talking machine.

When I was young, I would constantly follow my father around the house while we (he) fixed whatever needed it (and oftentimes what didn’t need it at all), yapping my little brain out and telling my daddy anything and everything that happened to pop into my head. One day, dad got (understandably) sick of his noisy little shadow, and devised a cunning plan that would keep me entertained and out of ear-shot for a good while – long enough for him to concentrate on the task at hand, and maybe even long enough for him to have a coffee and a break from moi. So, with me chatting away beside him, my father picked up a teeny, tiny screw, and dropped it between the slats of the deck, onto the garden below. He then asked if i would do him the ultimate favour, and go look for said screw – which I was all too happy to do. I ran off noisily, and dad relaxed… until I popped back onto the deck a full four minutes later, screw in hand - fetched from behind a pot plant in the corner of the garden.

Dad was gob-smacked, and dare I say – a little upset. As my talking started up again, I wouldn’t have been surprised to have seen tears of frustatration pricking his eyes. Manly tears, of course. This was the first indication that not only was I annoying as all get-out, but good at finding things, as well.

As I got older, the items I found got stranger. At the age of ten, I unearthed a porcelain donkey from behind our garbage bin, on the side of our driveway. To this day I have no idea what I was doing there, or why there was a porcelain donkey hidden under the dirt and concrete, but I dug it up, nonetheless. I was extremely impressed with my archeolgy-type skills, and showed mum and dad my ‘treasure’. They weren’t quite so enthralled with my discovery; maybe because i’d dug up a large chunk of dirt in the process. Also, “porcelain donkey” probably brings to mind an item far grander than what I actually unearthed – in actual fact, it was probably more like half a porcelain ass. The poor thing was missing one or two legs -which, at the time, I thought only added to its ‘rustic’ charm.

Now that I’m older, my investigative skills have benefited from the rapid advance of technology. At the age of 17, Yahoo! and I were close aquaintances. At the age of 19, MSNsearch and I were good buddies. But now that I am 25, Google is my bitch.

Give me something to look for, and I will come up with the perfect keywords with which to comb the web. Want a random picture? I will piece together a combination of words the likes of which will have Google Image shakily offering up its relevant wares in a matter of seconds. I can Google anything, anywhere, anytime (just provide me with a computer and some net-type cable, and I’m good to go).

I have to admit to performing a sneaky “self search” on more than a few occasions - surprising even myself at some of the things that have come up. Once I found stories and poems that I thought had floated to the bottom of the interweb many moons ago. Then, I found an advertistment featuring a photograph I had taken – credited to me and all - which I hadn’t even known was in existence. Finally I found a website I created years and years ago, and shuddered a little at the e-self-obsession that marred the pages.

 So yes, I love a good Google search. There’s a certain feeling of satisfaction that comes from entering the perfect search terms and finding exactly what you want in the shortest level of time humanly (or, in this case, I guess robotically) possible. It makes the Internet a little more understandable and mappable - the e-equivalent of a GPS.  

  But despite the conveniance and comparable ease of a Google search to a full bedroom shake-down, nothing will ever be as satisfying as finding that ‘lost’ pair of favourite earrings behind the headboard of your bed – or a random porcelain donkey underneath the concrete driveway.

   So I’ll keep combing the net – but I’ll also keep my eyes peeled for that dropped screw. Who knows – one day I might need it to fix the back of my computer.

Note: Porcelain Donkey image courtesy of Google image search.

It’s funny the random things that you find on TV while you’re flicking through channels in an attempt to pass the time between mid-afternoon and “its ok to eat” PM. 
   This timeslot seems to me to swing between two extremes - ‘tumbleweed’ hour, that frustrating time of the day in which even Hillsong TV can pass off as entertainment, and ‘yum cha’ hour, in which tiny morsels of intriguing television push past, leaving you to decide what you feel like nibbling on. 

 Never was this proven to be more true than the other day, when my fingers stumbled upon a most random documentary about New York children learning to ballroom dance, in their inner-city public school.

The first thing that got me was the accent – that broad, brash, broguy accent that I love so much. It’s a very endearing accent, for some strange reason, and it always seems to make its owner seem both much knowledgable yet more laid-back than they may otherwise be (I’m not speaking of course of the atypical ‘Jewish’ NY accent – that’s a different kettle of fish altogether!).

 It amused me to watch these 11-12 year old kids, old before their time, forcing themselves to be OK with the hand-holding, shoulder leaning, step-following aspects of ballroom dance. They stumbled around the room, clutching each other’s tiny shoulders, pushing their chins up to the sky, dancing as they believed adults dance. Every now and then their partner would stumble, stepping on their feet, disrupting the flow - and for a moment, pure childish annoyance would storm their faces - before, of course, they remembered the camera-people around them, and re-arranged their features to feign some manner of of cool indifference.

 The movie at one point cut to a talking heads piece with two young girls, no more than 12, talking about boys, and more specifically, what they look for in a ‘boyfriend’. The main criteria, it seemed, to charm these two Lolitas was not to sell drugs, smoke crack, or be old and creepy. 

“I hate when i see a guy selling drugs,” said one, wrinkling her nose. “It makes me feel like, you know, they’re wasting their life and stuff.”

The other agreed. “I want a guy that’s gonna make something of his life, ya know? Not be in jail for smokin’ crack.”

I was a little shocked at how old these kids seemed, for only 12 years old. If you’d asked me at 12 what crack was, I’d have laughed, blushed, and described what happens when you wear hipster jeans.

The next scene, however, was as endearing as the previous was shocking.

Two boys stood awkwardly against a brick wall, speaking openly about the perils of reaching adolescance.

They seemed to be in general agreement that the whole thing was a nasty, nasty business.

“You start growing hair where there was no hair before, ya voice starts changin’…” one said, his face scrunched up in indignation. “You notice girls, who ya didn’t notice before…”

Then he said something really floored me. “And you have ta keep changin’ your sheets, cause you pee ya bed in the night!”

His friend nodded sagely, while I snorted with laughter.

How is it, that these 12 year adults, who know of drug deals, snorting crack, drive-by shootings and gang colours, do not know of wet dreams and the unpredictability of adolescant ejaculation?

On one hand, it made me sad that they knew so much of the adult world, and so little of that of their own age group. But on the other hand, it warms the soul to know that at least part of them can remain young, for as long as possible.