Because sometimes you just have to laugh at it, you know?

Report: Women Increasingly Choosing Dead-End Careers Over Dead-End Relationships

COLLEGE PARK, MD—According to a report published Monday in The Journal Of Gender Studies, many American women are bucking centuries of traditional gender roles by placing stunted, emotionally unfulfilling relationships on hold in order to pursue mind-numbing careers devoid of any upward mobility.

The study, which surveyed a cross-section of 477 female recent college graduates, found that young women were 23 percent more likely than any previous generation to seek dissatisfaction in the professional world rather than in empty romantic partnerships. Dr. Gillian Detweiller, a professor of women's studies at the University of Maryland and coauthor of the report, said that the data suggests a cultural sea change in how women choose to experience lifelong disappointment.

And of course

no one could recognise me at work today.

The Welcome Back

As I struggled to load up my backpack after it emerged from the X-ray machines, the man next to me was told, rather rudely, that his pineapple juice was going to be confiscated.

She gestured towards the plastic container, and told him NO in a rather irritated manner. I suppose she was irritated that he did not know about the infamous no-liquids-allowed-on-the-plane rule. I mean, everyone knows about it.

He did not quite understand what she was saying, and did not understand why his rather benign bottle was being taken away from him. He turned to me, uttering "pani, pani", as if to explain it was only a drink.

Exasperated that he was still not getting her point, she unceremoniously shoved the plastic bag and its contents into the rubbish bin. He got her point, and walked towards the gate looking rather unhappy.

On board Biman Bangladesh, it was chaos. There were no air stewards/stewardesses around to help the passengers figure out how to load their stuff into the overhead bins. The man who lost his pineapple juice spent a fair amount of time bumbling around. I felt like I was on a train bound for Kolkata.

Two air stewards appeared, looking rather hassled and I guessed the plane was short-staffed. I did spy an air stewardess ahead in extremely-empty the business class section, though.

I didn't remember my last flight on Biman being as messy as this.

Midway through the flight, a man emerged from the toilet smelling of cigarette smoke. He tried to return to his seat, only to get yelled at by an air stewardess that happened to be passing by. I couldn't help but laugh.

After the stop in Bangkok, the air steward asked me to "follow him". Turns out he was bumping me up to first class. I struggled for a moment while deciding whether or not to accept his offer. Privileges for the foreigner? Or was it because I was the only female sitting amidst almost 200 men? I didn't have any problems sitting where I was, no one was harassing me. I had managed to convince them that I spoke fluent Bangla, and those nearby turned to me for help when filling up the immigration forms. "Sister? Give me your pen."

Even the guy next to me only asked me a couple of questions before leaving me alone.

Well, I took the offer anyway. So much for my principles.

For all its flaws, there are certain things about Bangladesh's airport that kicks ass. Like the fact that I could get out of customs to draw money from the ATM, and then happily walk back through it to buy stuff from the dismal duty free shop. And like how the guys at the duty free shop accepted my takas even though they were allowed to. "If anybody ask tell them you pay in US dollar ok?"

Waiting for my luggage by the belts, I heard a voice call out. "Sister!" I looked up to see the guy I had lent my pen to. He waved it at me, as if happy to have located me again after having lost me to first-class. He threw it across the belt and I caught it with my right hand. Cheers for me, ha.

Queuing for the final scan, the man next to me was visibly upset at the number of people trying to cut the queue from all over the place. He tried his best to restore order, but no one listened. "Very bad people," he said, tsk-tsking along with me.

I played hardball while trying to get a cab. I turned down the first couple of offers (400tk), and stuck to my price. Just as I thought I was going to have to cave (surprisingly few cabs that day), a nondescript white car pulled up and offered my my asking price. This really pissed off the first cab driver that had been hanging around waiting for me to cave. All the others had not betrayed the 'brotherhood of drivers' and refused to slash their prices. This one was probably not a member.

So I just looked sheepish and rather apologetic as the driver hurriedly loaded my luggage into the car, all the while arguing with the other guy. What to do? I really felt quite bad about it.

It turns out that paying 100 tk less means you get a car without working wipers. Was not a good day to rain. My driver was going so slowly, even the CNGs overtook us. I didn't mind. If you can't see the road, you're free to go as slowly as you pleased.

Whirlwind

The best news today: I finally cracked my neck after three weeks of not being able to do so.

Hooray? Hooray!

Unfortunately: The entire Mambo collection which I though I had successfully copied into my laptop has disappeared! No more midnight Bananarama for me.


The trip back was good, but was much too short. Too many people I could not meet, too many things I did not get to do.

As I savoured my last pint at the Harry's bar inside T1, I felt such longing to stay. The comforts of Singapore never quite hit as hard as it did then. And I was leaving all this behind? For what? I used to think that the people who called me 'crazy' for doing this was rather naive, but maybe they were speaking from this very perspective.

Still, as much I enjoy having them, I am fine living without all the extra perks. I guess I'm good at making do. The peripherals aren't the things that make me happy, although they do help a lot when you have to pretend that you are.

But it does feel good to know that I have a place to go back to, under any circumstances. I have an escape route. And just knowing that makes everything a lot more bearable.

Who'd have thought

that the thing to kick me out of my inertia regarding African photographers would be coming back to Singapore and reading half of What is the What?

Can't talk about emotions, because too confusing to be penned down. Shall instead, make the observation that my legs are seriously heavily scarred. Relatively, anyway. Never noticed it this way until seen under Singaporean sunlight. Wait. My legs haven't seen sunlight in a while.

Doesn't help the cats gave a rousing "welcome". Welcome back willingly-bared-flesh!

Refuelling

Yes I've blogged today already (while invigilating, no less), but perhaps something should be said on the eve of my temporary return to the land of coffeeshops and kopitiams.

I realise that I've had this blog for nearly four years. Reading past entries still make me cringe and want to hit the delete button, but I suppose cringing is a sign of non-recognition, which is in turn a sign of change?

Four is really such a small number. It hardly means anything, really. But browsing through the old archives, I can hardly fathom how many inconsequential words I have typed. The chronicles of my life, organised by the month.

I suppose the worst thing is that I am still saying the same things, complaining about the same personal flaws and faults. I still have no faith in most people. I was out of it for a while but I'm a cynic again. I'm learning to live with my flaws, and I think that is a better way in which to get rid of them - rather than disowning them right from the start.

I don't think I will have nostalgic longings for Bangladesh if and when I return for good. I'm not too sure how to explain why, but maybe my nostalgia was just some weird love for exoticism that I refused to acknowledge. Sometimes I think I've had enough, I want to have my wanton mee and iced tea (how sad to draw the line at food, eh?), but then I look back at all my half-accomplished projects and half-fucked efforts at making a meaning out my life - and I think, I just can't quit. Not now.

OhsweetmotherofGod

Which part of "DO NOT TALK WHEN YOU ARE IN A FINAL EXAM" does (a select few participants in) this class not comprehend?

I almost (ok I think I did) lose my temper at a student who 'got lost' on the way back to the bathroom, only to come scampering out of the next door computer lab when he heard me slide the classroom door open.

Oh you have got to be kidding me.

I should not be allowed to invigilate exams. I'm way too anal-retentive and come from a guilty background which makes me extremely suspect of every snide look and weird seat shuffle.

This is total karma payback for being a smartass bitch who would walk into exam halls 15 minutes late and snicker while exhaling in loud whispers. And that episode when I was 14 during which I actually openly and very very not discreetly exchanged math test papers with my classmate next to me just to compare - after promising each other that we wouldn't change answers.

Believe it or not, we weren't cheating. We were good friends, had finished quickly with lotsa time to spare, and for some reason I can't recall, just wanted to compare. I think we were either both very confident or the test was a small and inconsequential affair. Anyway the teacher went nuts and didn't believe a word we said.

I remember feeling so maligned and indignant. Haven't felt maligned in a long time ('cos people are usually right now)!

Shall do nothing regarding today's episodes, because they'll get their own karma payback in due time.

THE PRESUMPTIVE NOMINEE

Slightly slow, but just watched the Obama dancing clip.

Ellen DeGeneres: "You're the best dancer so far, of the presidential nominees."

Barack Obama: "It's a low bar."

Writing with the blinkers on.

An AFP report as read off ST dated May 7:

Palm oil wiping out key orang utan habitat

INDONESIA - ONE of the biggest populations of wild orang utans on Borneo will be extinct in three years without drastic measures to stop the expansion of palm oil plantations, conservationists said Wednesday.

I guess I am disappointed there was no mention of the rather obvious link to biofuels, the illegal logging industry, and the fact that just two weeks ago Greenpeace activists dressed as orang utans scaled the Unilever building in London to address this point. I mean, this has been talked about as far back as two years ago off Mongabay.com (and a year ago off the Times and Guardian).

Why is oil palm replacing tropical rainforests?
Why are biofuels fueling deforestation?
April 25, 2006

Recently much has been made about the conversion of Asia’s biodiverse rainforests for oil-palm cultivation. Environmental organizations have warned that by eating foods that use palm oil as an ingredient, Western consumers are directly fueling the destruction of orangutan habitat and sensitive ecosystems.

I know I speak presumptuously because, hey, what the hell do I know about the work processes in a wire agency. But if they can always throw in a line in (most) Singapore-related articles about her nanny-state tendencies, couldn't hurt to have a standard line for such things too, yeah?

Has It Come Down To This?

I have a love/hate relationship with ST's Forum pages because sometimes the letters they print make me go a bit crazy with anger, and somehow seeing it PRINTED makes it worse because its real and validated.

May I treat you, my lovely friends who do not read this particular section of ST, to the wise musings of a certain Ellouisa Chen:

It's Singapore, serve us in English first, please

WHY IS it these days that whenever I step into a retail boutique, I am greeted by the sales assistants in Mandarin instead of English?

They then follow me around the shop, promoting their products to me in Mandarin.

I find this shocking in Singapore, a country where we are trying to emphasise world-class service standards.

This is not to say that speaking in Mandarin equals mediocre service.

But it seems to me that gone are the days when storekeepers would converse with customers in English in Singapore, a cosmopolitan country with many foreigners who live, work or visit.

Sales staff recruited from overseas should be given to understand that they must serve customers in English first for two reasons. Firstly, because it's more professional. Secondly, not all customers understand Mandarin and sales staff should not assume that Chinese customers are as eloquent in Mandarin as they are.

Retailers should look into this problem and ensure that their frontline staff master at least the rudiments of English.

Singapore is gearing to host top international events like the world's first Formula One night race and the first Youth Olympics.

Surely, we should not subject visitors to a mediocre level of service or allow them to think that our level of communication is so limited.

Ellouisa Chen (Miss)

I wouldn't recommend reading through the following 350++ comments this post received, nothing really very constuctive, but some stuff was funny (someone called her "Lousy Chen" and another wrote. "greet also complaint, never greet also complaint, greet in Chinese also complaint."

Losing Perspective

The last two weeks have been utter hell for me.

I just needed to say that and get it off my chest. The worst thing about feeling this way in a country like Bangladesh is that you are constantly reminded about how pathetic your sorrows are in comparison to others. You feel bad? Oh poor foreigner with a roof over her head. You don't know bad.

Yes, I have had to cope with more shit in the last two weeks than I have ever had to deal with in my entire life. Is Jess exaggerating again? No, i am not. Yes, I am having that alcohol craving again. Yes, I am back on sleeping pills. So what?

Two weeks ago, I waited for a friend outside a spanking new supermarket. A woman and her son was walking around the perimeter of the entrance. She had just been told by the security guard to please stay behind this line, do not come in and harass our customers.

She had her hand on his shoulder, a boy not older than 12. There was something very wrong with his right eye, and it looked like he was going blind. I can't imagine he could see anything out of that eye. He looked exhausted, but still quietly stood in front of his mother as she went round talking to people.

They were not beggars.

She came up to me, and pointed at her son, and I had heard this routine before. She needed money to pay his medical bills. I gave her some money and reassured the security guard that had gallantly come forward to rescue me from this pestering woman.

I tried to speak to her, but I could barely make out what she was saying. She was not tired at all, even though I suspect she has been doing this all day. Desperation can be such a source of energy.

She pulled out proof, the medical bills tucked away in her son's shirt pocket. I couldn't concentrate at deciphering the scribbles. I kept thinking, do I really want to read this? If I really looked at this, if I really understood what was happening to her, I would not be able to walk away. What are you doing Jess? You are giving her false hope.

And so I didn't read it. I gave the paper back to her. I saw the sum, though. I don't remember the number anymore, but I remembered thinking there was no way she was going to raise that amount by standing outside a supermarket asking exiting customers for loose change.

In my seven months here, I have been taken home by a rickshaw wallah with one leg, and another with only one hand. On both occassions I did not notice the missing limb until I was already seated and moving along the road. They had both found their own ways to manoeuvre through Dhaka's chaotic traffic.

I tried to strike up a conversation with both of them, just to find out what had happened. The one with only one arm lost the other in an electrical accident when he was 8. When we reached my house, I gave him an amount slightly higher than what I usually give. He looked at me with such disdain. I could almost imagine him saying, "You've got to be kidding me." I gave him more.

My colleague recently started a second job selling electrical appliances. The new job starts at 5.30pm, and he ends work in my office at 5pm. He earns based on commission. He can no longer support his family with one job. He has two sets of parents, siblings and a wife to feed. With the price of rice being what it is, he had no other choice. The same amount only buys half of what they used to get. The rent already takes up more than half of his salary.

Poor foreigner, feeling sorry for herself.

Jess Lost Her Voice

Not too sure what happened, but I could feel it creeping up after the second coffee in the middle of Friday's pre-World Press Freedom Day conference.

And after too much mingling and a good solid hour and a half of talking/yelling at students - its now ALL gone. I have a tendency to TALK TOO LOUDLY. Oh, you knew that? Sorry. Just saying.

This means that unless my voice comes back by tomorrow morning, I'm going to have to cancel classes AGAIN. This is incredible. The number of classes I've had to postpone and cancel because of cyclone/twistedfoot/serious flu/mothershiplanded/power failures. I have apologised to my students a million times. I think I'm going to have to give them all As just so they don't give me a shitty evaluation. Joke.

I didn't say a word during the two-day journalism session, but it was just great to be listening to all this again. I didn't even fall asleep once. Miracles happen! I've always enjoyed the company of (most) journalists, even those that made have crossed over into academia.

Check out Cobrapost.com. It's like an Indian version of the Drudge Report. Very interesting. I have a natural aversion to sensational-format television and reports, because of its negative associations with the American versions that tend to create spectacles out of absolutely nothing. The louder the sound, the emptier the story.

But although there's a lot of the same visual elements in Cobrapost.com, their stories almost warrant the trumpeting and fireworks.

I was thinking about something that Shahidul wrote. "To stay neutral is to stay aloof. We stand on the side of the oppressed." Perhaps, objectivity is a luxury that journalists in this country cannot afford.

For The Last Time, I DON'T KNOW.

I have a stiff neck which has only gotten progressively worse over the last two nights. It hurts like FUCK and I suspect it may have cramped up last night but I think in my haze of pain I was to confused to realise it was just a cramp and not a monster inside giving my tendons a good wring.

But I just suddenly imagined Jill singing Ace of Base's Don't Turn Around just to mock me and I laughed till my neck hurt.

Race to Nowhere

It just seems to me, as things get more and more uncertain, the only thing that has remained constant is our continual participation in the marathon of happiness. The reasons for running change, the route becomes slightly complicated and it starts getting really difficult choosing between the forks in the road. Sometimes you stop and think, waaaaaaait a minute I think I took the wrong detour back there.

But still, we keep on pounding on. I'd like to think I'm always headed in the right direction, but hey, who knows about these things. Lately, I suspect I've been running in circles because the sights and scenery looks rather familiar. Didn't I twist my ankle on this stupid rock before? Yeah, I think I've been here.

This whole post is gonna read like a cheap lift off one of those inspirational posters.

And the only reason I thought of the above is because I'm trying desparately to find a source of constancy in a life that's becoming rather "off-track".

I spent some time thinking about how I handle problems, and the answer is - not well. This has become all too apparent because I've had an opportunity to engage in compare-and-contrast. As a person who's had to deal with very little 'problems', I am really ill-equipped for hardballs. In comparison, a person who's had to deal with being broke and finding a place to sleep on the streets has the tendency to say FUCK IT to most hardballs.

OR it could just be that I'm just really useless and no amount of 'life experience' is able to toughen me up.

And yes, the uncertainties that continue to swirl and there's very little that I can speak about with confidence. Everything I say seems like something I might wanna retract in the future. Well, one thing I think I may have learnt - Don't get too comfortable. There's always some asshole out there that's gonna ruin it for you.

Out on the Town

It just took me two hours to whittle down the number of unread emails from 93 to 16. Not bad. This is what happens when you don't check your email for a day and a half.

Went 'clubbing' last night, a term which I use very loosely because the songs being performed by the in-house Filipino band included songs from Celine Dion and Whitney Houston, and that one about how "sometimes love just ain't enough". I had increasing difficulty stifling my giggles as time went by, because things just get funnier by the beer, doesn't it?

I didn't plan to end up at the hotel's bar, but I suppose I didn't really have much of a choice yesterday as the streets overflowed with the entire population of Dhaka. It was the Bangla New Year, and the jam was horrendous.

So I ended up being the only foreign girl in a bar filled with mostly men - both local and foreign hotel guests - and a smattering of local women. Three of them, to be exact. Were not difficult to miss because they took turns to dance solo, all of which were decked out in gold jewellery and red saris, much to the delight of the audience. But man, those girls had balls. Not just any kind of dancing too, but full-out Hindi movieisque dance moves.

And, as expected, I had to deal with questions. Literally was asking to be picked up, sitting at a bar by myself, and I suppose this is be the only place in the whole world where I would have to fend off men. Women seeking male validation would be very happy in a place like this.

And in the end, I did end up at a table with two of them. It's difficult to explain why I was so much more amenable to this pair. The most shameless reason is because they were the most attractive. Jess was not looking for intelligent debate that day. But also because they were shameless too. There was no attempt to get to know me better, no forced displays of intelligence masked in long-winded and faux philosophical questions ("So really, how did your life bring you here?), or emphasis of wealth ("I have a very nice house in Singapore.") All they said was, "Come and join us! We're trying to get drunk!"

And I did. My judgment proved correct, and I had a fine time with two people who, like me, were only looking for some laughter and frivolity.

I know I already blogged today, but I'm just too exhausted and wanted to spend some minutes up on the rooftop by myself to catch the last few minutes of dusk.

The weather's been quite punishing, which exacerbates the power failures that have been happening with increasing regularity. Haven't been getting enough sleep, and waking up earlier than usual - which is a good thing, and I should be doing this more often - but the end result of the fatigue and heat... well I'm just exhausted.

The Indian visa application was a disaster. It's a long and boring story, but after two failed trips and too much bureaucracy to face, and I decided to give up the attempt. Would normally be feeling guilty for doing so, but in this case, I think I can safely say that I really did try my best.

So this means I have no plans for the upcoming Bangla New Year. The last time I was here, I wore a sari and went out to some park to hang out. I am NOT doing it again this year. I find myself rejecting the notion of beauty as held by the general female population of this country. I haven't yet really thought about this, so it still feels like a knee-jerk reaction on my part.

Objectification of women occurs in all cultures, and some would argue its even worse in the West, but there is a uniformity about it here that unsettles me. Women objectify themselves, that is not something I can deny or argue about coherently, but at the very least, in the West, there is still a form of self expression in that objectification. What 'type' of beauty would you like to assume? Here, the eyeliner is piled on in the same fashion, the jewellery of different design but worn with the same effect, and of course, a sari is a sari.

It's all very futile anyway since regardless of self-expression or no, the end results are the same, but that's the distinction I will offer if I am asked to articulate my uneasiness.

And of course, I would not dare to go further to belittle women here who do conform to this culture's notion of beauty. It doesn't require a rejection of culture to assert your rights, but I suppose there is so physical evidence of this assertion, I end up being too presumptuous about things.


Another factor is the obligation for such conformity. A woman who does not conform as such is regarded as a misfit by her own peers. I don't know what the men think, but all negative comments I have ever received regarding my physical appearance all comes from women. This could be, of course, because the men are too polite/shy/conservative to say as much, but it also seems like they don't expect it of me since I am a foreigner. And if they don't, then why do the women?

One Big Chey.

My father asked me last night, via sms, if I knew about "a big protest in dhaka about giving more rights to women?"

I had been devoid of news that day, so No, I did not hear about it.

Imagine my skepticism when he replied in detail about "5,000 male muslims clashed with police after friday prayers."

Waaaaaaaait a minute. Males protesting for women's rights? Was this history in the making? Had I missed out on a historical moment in Bangladesh's woman's rights movement? Wow, these people can certainly surprise you.

Logged on this morning, eager for more.

Ah. Reality, it seems, is a lot less complicated, and a lot less surprising.

Dozens injured in Bangladesh protest of women's rights policy

DHAKA, Bangladesh: Dozens of hard-line Muslims were injured in Bangladesh on Friday in clashes with police during a demonstration against a new policy advocating more rights for women, a police official said.

Emphasis in text totally, completely, my own.

Friday.

Misinformation led me to wander around the streets of Gulshan rather aimlessly at 10am on my one-and-only day off.

Felt slightly helpless, being too far from the house to consider crawling back into bed, but there's a fresh charm on the streets every Friday. When empty, they can be rather enjoyable to walk upon.

Gulshan's considered one of the posher districts in Dhaka, along with Banani and satellite towns Uttara and Baridhara. Should check with my geography about this, but this is how my head understands it as of now.

Nevertheless, I had a difficult time convincing my Mom this was so when she was here. Posher? How so? Admittedly, the buildings are no shinier, the pavements as broken as anywhere else in Dhaka. Its not an Orchard Road in that sense. But if you sit and wait a little longer, you'll see the bigger cars, the foreigners, the beggars who are more insistent and more professional in their insistence. The rickshaw wallahs here are not shy to ask for prices that their Dhanmondi counterparts would baulk at.

And why shouldn't they inflate ten taka to a hundred? The embassies and high commissions are here, filled with diplomats and their private drivers. The car boutiques are here, their shiny glass windows helpless against the onslaught of Dhaka dust. The newfangled restaurants with fancy decor. Of course, most of the wealth is away from the main road and in the backlanes - the private apartments, sprawling bungalows. The roads seem wider here, could it be to accommodate the larger size of cars here?

Still, my Mom was unconvinced.

And so I walked from the Indian High Comm, walking past a KFC, and then a Pizza Hut. Went to check out a bookshop, which didn't have much, and then past an A&W to hit the centre of Gulshan-1. All three fastfood outlets occupy a two-storey building by itself.

Rickshaw ride down to search for another bookshop I recalled seeing (a plan had long since formed in my mind, and it involved newspapers and a cuppa breakfast coffee), got lost for a bit but eventually ended up at Words 'n Pages.

Bought the IHT (135Tk, if anyone's interested) and a Chinese-English dictionary just 'cos i felt like it. Yesterday I couldn't remember how to write 来至, and I wept in shame for an hour.

Then, off to hunt for a place at which to enjoy the paper and an unscheduled breakfast. Failed miserably. There are probably places that do serve breakfast fodder, but I just didn't know where they were. And I don't even have high standards for these things - my favourite breakfast in Singapore takes place at the kopitiam downstairs upon red plastic stools and in front of a bowl of steaming prawn noodles.

So, I debated getting a waffle at A&W, but eventually decided that was compromising too much with my notion of what breakfast should be like.

The two kids followed me for a block. The older sister chanting her demands for money, the little one, who looks like he just learned to walk, chanted after her, gurgling and messing up the phrases, but trying to imitate as best he could. I felt sick.

I am so excited I'm almost giddy.

Would very much like to SHOUT THIS but shall not jinx it. Best to follow TYM's silence-till-success method, since it worked.

AHHH!!!!!

"Oh definitive article, how I've missed you."

Working when no one else is has its perks - enough bandwidth to feed a cow, and enough to start watching The Daily Show online again.

Which would then mean I'm not really working... but if you knew about the TDS-cold turkey I had to go through , you'd totally understand.

Am doing the coffee-with-news thing, although the morning is almost gone, but, hey, guesmrbs what, I have no qualms about ignoring the clock to suit my routine.

Highlights thus far include hearing Jon say "bet the muthafucking ranch" and "just like Christmas morning, or so I've been told."

Oh Jewish fake newscaster, how I've missed the irreverence.

This morning involved a lot of deep breathing and application of anger management tactics.

Shall shut up and just post pictures.

Confession

I blushed when Ricky Gervais called Jon Stewart 'handsome'.

Item #83475 on List of Things I Did Not Know!

The things you come across when you type the wrong stuff into Google's search bar.

GREY GOO

Grey goo is a hypothetical end-of-the-world scenario involving molecular nanotechnology in which out-of-control self-replicating robots consume all living matter on Earth while building more of themselves.

The term was first used by molecular nanotechnology pioneer Eric Drexler in his book Engines of Creation (1986):

Imagine such a replicator floating in a bottle of chemicals, making copies of itself....the first replicator assembles a copy in one thousand seconds, the two replicators then build two more in the next thousand seconds, the four build another four, and the eight build another eight. At the end of ten hours, there are not thirty-six new replicators, but over 68 billion. In less than a day, they would weigh a ton; in less than two days, they would outweigh the Earth; in another four hours, they would exceed the mass of the Sun and all the planets combined - if the bottle of chemicals hadn't run dry long before.

Awesome.

If you had asked me, I'd have only thought of that flour paste that goes into orh luah. It's the only grey-colured goo I can think of. That and other inappropriately rude items which don't quite deserve elaboration. My sense of intelligence seriously undermined right now. By this episode, and also because I just had to check the dictionary for the spelling of the word 'perseverance'. That's a toughie, that is.

Just wanted to say that I would’ve gladly participated in the uber-Hip Earth Hour if the power companies here weren't already one step ahead of the rest of the world and doing it on our behalves. Plus what’s this joke about doing it for an hour on one day? Where’s the sincerity in that? Every two days, or daily – that’s more like it. And why stop at one hour at night, when you can do it several times in the day too?

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Nora Ephron's latest up on Huffington (calling for Hillary to exit) made my already-perfect morning all the more perfect. Just 'cos it was a pleasure to read.

"But now that we're down to two contenders, it's turned into an unending last episode of Survivor. They're eating rats and they're frying bugs, and they're frying rats and they're eating bugs; no one is ever going to get off the island and I can't take it any more."

For some reason, I like that she used the word 'unending' intead of 'neverending'.

The morning's been perfect because I'm in a really good mood today. Better than I've felt in the last couple of weeks. Not too sure why, though. Probably has something to do with the rejuvenating effect of having a week off all work, and having the mothership dock for a week.

The first night she was here, she proceeded to scrub down the toilet which I had already scrubbed in anticipation of her disapproval. But then, by the end of the week, I was complaining that the room needed a good sweep, and she simply dismissed it with a "Do it after I leave, lah." Now, if that ain't progress, I don't know what is.

Also, the internet is somewhat hooked up at home. The bandwidth and connection speed is terrible, but still, something is better than nothing.

There's something terribly calming and precious about the act of having a cup of coffee in the morning as you slowly scan through the news. This morning, for the first time in half a year, I finally had a chance to savour that serenity. The Things Which Can Calm Jess list is regrettably short, though I believe the sight of a sleeping cat and Valium are items number 2 and 7 respectively.

Ha. Through rambling, I've unearthed the real reason behind my previously inexplicably good mood.