Difference

I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for the past two hours and nothing has changed. Well, maybe something did, but only temporarily. Any changes were always swiftly undone, effectively amounting to nothing changing after two hours of changing and subsequent undoing.

The girl in a neighbouring cubicle is acting as a mediator between her sister and her sister's on-again/off-again boyfriend. In between talking to the two lovers/non-lovers, she updates her mother, her father, her boyfriend and her best friend; a repeated, running commentary on the day's unfolding drama. I don't know if he loves her. She doesn't spend enough time with her. He hasn't paid rent in two weeks. She's flirting with a co-worker. The story is told and re-told and embellished and edited. The girl in a neighbouring cubicle is playing a solitary game of Chinese Whispers. Her phone is constantly ringing, dropping, dialling, on hold. And it's not helping in changing the same spreadsheet that I have been staring at for the past two hours.

Mum's fiftieth birthday is just around the corner. Over the past week I've held meetings with her friends, the MC, arranged for pre-recorded birthday wishes from New York and Davao, finalised a programme and a this-is-your-life-on-a-projected-screen-kind-of-like-a-movie-montage-but-not-really slide show. It's been an exhausting, tiresome exercise that, so far, feels rather unrewarding, overly contrived and a chore rather than a labour of love. I guess it's like any other birthday party. The only good, so far, to come of it has been seeing my uncle and auntie make their way from Manila to Sydney. But seeing them only makes me wish that I had some extended family to hang out with here. I'm jealous that I can't introduce anybody here as my cousin's cousin. That would be sick. Fully sick. Subwoofer. Thinking about it is not helping in changing the same spreadsheet that I have been staring at for the past two hours.

Blogging about staring at the same spreadsheet for the past two hours, and the girl in a neighbouring cubicle, and Mum's fiftieth, has changed nothing. I think I'll go get a sandwich.

News

By the time I woke up today our housekeeper had already managed to toil through all the weeds in our front yard and mop the foyer of our house to such a glossy finish that it looked as if I could glide all the way to the kitchen if I had been wearing socks. She had left the gate and front door open and unattended, and she hid behind the shrubs that somehow turned into square hedges over the years without our attention. I said hello. She didn't reply.

I made myself french toast for breakfast, which was a lot of trouble for a few bites of pleasure. Whilst eating I thought about the divine duck ravioli and pesto I had the night before and browsed through our unused cookbooks in hope that I would find the recipe. There was nothing - nothing even close to duck ravioli and pesto. All five cookbooks were Asian cookbooks; three of them, of Thai recipes. The closest was a recipe for duck curry, and in my books, that isn't even close to duck ravioli and pesto, though I'd still enjoy either.

As I was putting away the dishes I thought about something that D had mentioned a few days ago - her boss hated blogs and MySpace and Facebook and the like. But I couldn't remember the reason why. I think it might have been that he didn't like the idea that so many insignificant happenings could be broadcast so easily.