Languidity

This entry, the last for 2006, caps off a pleasant Christmas holiday, a languid three-day week at work and a suitably busy weekend. Christmas was like a short holiday - no cooking or cleaning and a different bed to sleep in for two nights. Despite a lack of Christmas gifts for her, my dog was spoilt rotten with love and food (about the same thing, really, when you see it from a canine perspective). I also came home with a massive haul, despite only outlaying gifts for my parents and sister. All the ring-ins for Christmas dinner brought gifts so I raked it in without needing to return the favour.

Chi'na, my spoilt pup, having a snooze

Work was a breeze with only half the staff in the office. We ended up playing soccer against Pro' on Thursday, a heated game (in more ways than one) that resulted in a 8-6 victory to us. Hot: the midday sun. Hot: a shirtless Toro working up a sweat. Hot: the competitive streak enhanced by the searing climate. I took on Fat Tony (a particularly reviled Pro' player with a penchant for aggression and keeping a constant offside position) and won, fighting for the ball up the right wing and clearing it for the forwards to play into goal. So proud of that.

The Ent was in charge on Friday. He forced us to retire at 4pm and shepherded the staff to the Chelsea for an undeserved drink. I distinctly recall everyone going "for one" and somehow ending up with five jugs between the six of us. I didn't even pay for any of it. I seriously have to curb my alcoholic intake after spending the last four Fridays practically blotto. Curb... after tonight, that is. Still, interesting information gleaned while perched on a bar stool; some of it touched on the future of our company, some of it was about past decisions. Alias even mentioned Stalkie in relation to her obsession with Toro and then brought up a past incident involving Chief. (Chief was practically "la la la I can't hear you" at this, which was hilarious). Also shared news on Christmas, which turned into plans for NYE and the inevitable groan about coming back to work on the 2nd.

Everyone then skedaddled at around 6:30pm for other appointments. I didn't have anything planned except sleep but ended up catching the bus home (due to trackwork) then staying up half the night dancing to the George Michael DVD that my flatmate bought me for Christmas. Woo!

Yesterday was spent entertaining my brother's friend Eve, who is visiting from KL. She's a former fashion journalist turned freelancer working as an image consultant, so you can guess that, with my bohemian laissez-faire, I didn't really take to her. My cousin, Aunty M, met her separately in Malaysian publishing circles and didn't like her attitude about networking and all that fashionista superficiality. After what I experienced yesterday, I second the motion.

I met her in Paddington - late, I might add, because I'd accidentally taken the bus to Bondi Junction via the back streets of Woollahra and had to take one back down Oxford Street - then we went for a late lunch (it was 3pm by then) but not before I kept losing her to the high fashion boutiques along the strip. Yawn. Eventually we made it into the city and over to Paddy's. I was going to leave her there to meet with an acquaintance but then I found out that this guy was a freelancer established in Sydney so I thought he'd be interesting to talk to (and he was - we got on like a house on fire) but then Eve started getting bored with Market City so he left and I took her on a short tour of Newtown, which she didn't like as much as Paddington. But at last the day grew old and I excused myself with a 'hope you enjoy yourself in Sydney' and 'have a happy new year' before gratefully boarding a bus home.

I got to thinking, then, how I would categorise myself in terms of my Sydneysider-ness. I've lived here all my life and although I've been travelling and have seen far greater, more exciting places, I can't help feeling that I am a product of Sydney. I'm certainly not a Hills girl, even though that's where I spent most of my upbringing, and I barely recognise the south, west and east. I think I am a northerner with an inner west attitude, which I basically translate as someone who had all the opportunities of a certain kind of affluence, but also her feet on the ground, Newtown-before-gentrification-style. Make of that what you will.

Anyway, it's almost time for the 9 o'clock fireworks, time to head to the backyard. Have a happy new year, however you choose to celebrate it!

Home

I'm writing this entry from 'home', which is to say my parents' place in The Hills. They've gone to a barbecue at their friends' place and my sister isn't due to arrive from Canberra until tomorrow morning. My brother has gone to Japan with his girlfriend this Christmas, and won't be back in Sydney until Chinese New Year. It is the first time in a very long time that I've had this house to myself - it feels strange and familiar all at once.

I managed to remember the code to turn off the security system. I stacked presents underneath the Christmas tree, lit up with flashing bulbs. The string of lights is now too long compared to the tiny tree, but seeing the spark-shaped casings connected to the ancient timer reminds me of the old days, when we had a six foot Christmas tree and lived in Kings Langley. That was twenty years ago - and I still want to know the contents of the boxes stacked beneath the baubled, plastic foliage with the same curiosity as then.

I hadn't eaten dinner, so I hunted around for a frozen pie and defrosted some peas and corn. I laughed at the overstuffed fridge, ready to disgorge its contents in the festive frenzy planned for tomorrow. Mum had replaced the microwave. The new one confused me and I couldn't defrost the pie properly. This, I discovered after I'd burnt the top in the snack oven but still found frozen morsels of chicken within. Another two minutes in the microwave and I burnt the top of my mouth. Unbelievable. I'd forgotten how to defrost and eat a pie.

I couldn't find the key to get out to the backyard so I went out through the front door and went through the side gate. My dog was confused and happy to see me. I'd forgotten her smell - somewhere between animal and the damp grass after rain. She didn't like that I'd brought the newspaper with me because it meant that she wasn't going to have my full attention, but she sat placidly enough at my feet and licked my ankles.

It began to rain again, the sharp pitter patter on the corrugated plastic roof bringing back a wave of nostalgia that rode summer rains of the past. I went back indoors and fixed myself a cup of tea, sat down at the old PC with the crazy ergonomic keyboard and began to type.

Queen Alice

(an entry about poker)

I'm trying to get Alias the Jester to approve my poker nickname 'Alice'. As in Alice in Wonderland "curiouser and curiouser" "you're nothing but a pack of cards" etc etc. Why? Because I always want to see the community cards before I confirm a bet. Anyway, Alias hasn't even approved of my nickname for him but this is my blog so I get to call him Alias. So Old Man River, Alias, Soccer Chief (not a poker nickname, duh), Mr Origami and I scheduled a game after work...

Big boss came in, though, and ran a sales meeting in the boardroom, which is our usual den. We were even going to use the projector to screen the cricket, which is being played in Perth. We ended up moving furniture to the sound room and setting up there and had to contend with the radio broadcast of the match.

I had a bloody lucky run of cards - a lot of triples - which wiped out Alias and Old Man (he had taken down Origami in the meantime, if my memory serves me correctly) reasonably early. So I went heads up with the Chief, who I find impossible to look at because he's just too beautiful (I mean, really, it's just not fair for one person to be so good looking...).

I started off with the larger chip stack in the one-on-one but we see-sawed for about ooh, a good hour. The blinds started hitting 40/80 with a minimum bet of 80 so there was quite a many chips in the pot at each hand. In the end I can't quite remember how I steamrolled him, but he had bet all-in and I, having the slightly upper hand at the time, acquiesced. I think I might have had a pair of fives and he might have had a king or ace high. Origami later said that he fully thought the Chief had me covered and conceded that I'd played well.

Bowed out within a couple of hands in the second round, though (Chief had to go - I felt bad that he was so tired and the play exhausted him further). Alias actually took me out (rather than the other way around, which is what usually happens). I had pocket Queens and a Queen on the river... and he had a flush. Bastard.

That reminds me of an earlier game where Origami lost to the Maverick (who doesn't actually work with us - he is the husband of Melways, who does work with us). They were both all-in. Origami had pocket Queens and the Maverick had pocket 2s. Melways dealt a 2 and it was all over Mr Origami. So those pocket Queens are cursed.

Next time I'll scream "you're nothing but a pack of cards" and see if that gets me the nickname I want.



P.S: Interim news about Stalkie, who'd told Alias and a bunch of other people (at a lunch the other day) that I had said that Alias and Origami didn't want her to play poker any more. This is a blatant lie. Either she's mixing up the fact that Alias and Origami think she's a loose cannon at poker with the fact that Dutchie and our CEO didn't want her to come into the office or she is trying to discredit me. Alias also mentioned that his manager, Toro, keeps getting emails from her and is too nice to shake her off. Lying to her just makes it worse for himself. I guess nice people aren't always completely honest.

the way it is

A couple of months ago I mentioned my tendency to dream about trains when I am troubled. In that entry I also mentioned a situation involving a (formerly good) friend of mine with regard to a lack of notification re: her wedding. Look, with everything compounding itself at the moment I hardly have time for people who don't have time for me. That's just the way it is.

But my subconscious believes otherwise, for without warning I've begun to dream about her. I've dreamt about her explaining the wherefores to me and everything being okay, even though the dream never ends with us reconciling as friends. I have dreamt about her explanation so many times that sometimes, in a moment of confusion just after I wake up, I believe the issue to be resolved and acceptable, even though I haven't touched it since I learnt of the snub. All this tells me is that I should say something or write something to her - but I cannot seem to identify this as my initiative. And the timing is all wrong, it's busy, it's festive - the last thing I want is to let my social problem ambush someone else's mailbox.

I've mellowed, methinks. Where's the fire, doc? And yet I'm strong enough now to let it eat at me for another month. Just another month. And then I'll tell her.

Electronic goalposts

A perpetual problem when playing casual soccer is knowing whether or not the ball went through the goalposts. In fact, I estimate that we spend about 10% of the match disputing whether the ball went through the goalposts. Of course some goals are clearcut, but when you have no goalie, and the ball comes in at an angle, how do you know? And then there are disputes about height...

So, with the advent of those projector pens that project a sensitive laser keyboard, surely they can make electronic goalposts. I mean, have a little device that projects a rectangular area that you can set to whatever size (like 2m wide and 1m high or whatever). When the ball passes through this field, it records a goal. It should also be one way to prevent accidental goal recordings when the ball is rolling out of the goal.

Now somebody make this damn thing and give it to us!

In the morning

Here are some things that I don't like interrupting my morning: lawn mowers. Construction work. Car alarms. Stalkers.

And so it began, and so it ended. I descended the stairs to the train platform cautiously, not quite awake to the task that I had already spent my night alleviating; 'how to extract oneself from the kind of relationship you didn't even know you were in'. Stalkie sat on a bench at the bottom of the stairs. I wondered, not for the first time, whether I should have started going to work earlier. I waved, but it was a hesitant sweep of the hand rather than a friendly gesture.

I'd told her that I had some "bad" news. I had asked her whether she wanted it in person or via email. She settled on email. Then she changed her mind and turned up at my station, demanding I speak. Why did I spend my night constructing a well-worded email? I had emptied myself into the words already, I had nothing to say for a few moments as I grasped at a hazy memory of typed reasons.

Have you ever tried talking to someone who doesn't listen? They hear you, but something in them just doesn't trigger. Have you ever tried talking to someone who thinks they know what you are going to say and has already made up their mind about the things you have not said? There's nothing you can do to change their mind because it has already closed on the pre-emptive conversation that they have already had with you in their head.

Stalkie began the conversation by putting words in my mouth, weaving her own platitudes and excuses into the mix. Suddenly, I remembered why I was there and halted her stream. I told her I was in self-preservation mode. I searched in vain for her eyes but all I found was an uppity nose and pursed lips. Gone. Selfish, I remember calling her, and conceded 'with reason'. I can't take it any more. Where was the goddamn train???

She said she'd warned me that she was difficult and wielded the statement as if it was some kind of caveat amicus that I had failed to notice. How does that work, exactly? Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Well I'm damned, then. The train pulled in and we forked to mount different carriages. She folded her arms and huffed that I had not given her a reason for my departure. I had, but she hadn't listened. A perpetual problem. So close to escape - the doors opened. Email, I told her, check your email.

But it was not over yet. Log in, sit down. She writes that she wishes that she had told me she didn't want to be friends before I had. The petulance spread itself to the outer reaches of my immediate vicinity and then collapsed, exhausted, at the finish line. It was over. I was finally free.