movers & fakers

My life as a fake

What have I done? How quickly, effortlessly, I've become one of Them. Them on the buses wearing headphones and expressionless faces. Them on the Terrace in gravity-defying footwear and attack mode. Them in the cubicles, before flickering screens, in the tea-rooms, at the photocopiers, ... forever adding up the bills and counting down to the weekend.

My 2-week flirtation with the public sector came and went.

Met good people, even if no abiding friendships to speak of. The General Counsel who had limited 'people skills' but a decent sense of humour no less, i.e. Typical Lawyer. A friendly visiting lawyer who happened to be the daughter of a favourite lecturer of mine. The token Asian HR lady who offered us muffins made by her young children. A fellow student clerk who enthused over her previous, far more lavish, stint at a big firm. The AC who reminded me of Beavis or Butthead (dunno which is which) - in appearance only, definitely not in terms of intelligence of love of mischief.

Missed out on participating in the Big Case of the Moment, due to the opponent being represented by my next employer. Perhaps as retribution for my moving to the Dark Side, perhaps because I hid my lack of motivation (or of talent) less well than I thought, the jobs I got assigned were miscellaneous at best, and neither challenging nor stimulating. Like sifting through engineers' reports; organising files; poring over Second Reading speeches; couriering documents; photocopying. But I've had worse, and no doubt will come across worse still.

The right move

It's coming up to a fortnight since I moved out of the garage-turned-studio backside of my parents' house, and I haven't looked back... Except literally, every weekend, when I return for babysitting duties, laundry, mum's delectable soups, and free internet.

All is well in the sharehouse. I've no complaints whatsoever, not even about my bedroom - which I've named *Tiny Tits*, for its size and position (= totally in the sun), as well as to be ironical having regard to its inhabitant's dimensions - contrary to the (much appreciated) concerns of my housemates.

I am especially enjoying:
- the manifold increase in control over my food intake
- the equally spectacular relaxation in what passes for cleanliness
- being able to have friends over at my leisure
- not having trashy Chn TV as permanent background music
- (to be advised)

And I've yet to have a "Who the f*ck are these people? What the f*ck was I thinking?"-type moment. So keep your fingers crossed for us!

downsize

My first unrequitable love has moved to Melbourne. My husband is heavily involved in musical theatre (in more ways than one). My drinking buddy slash pro bono shrink now sleeps less than 10 metres from me. I have no friends left.

I spent the afternoon with a Taiwanese tourist whom I helped find Taka's Kitchen last week in the city. Few if any of you will be familiar with my policy of, unless I'm in an extreme hurry (which I rarely am), escorting anyone who asks me for directions to as near the destination as I can. (I forgive your ignorance of the policy btw, it doesn't mean that you don't care; just that you've never had the misfortune of asking me for directions.) I omit herein the numerous tedious examples I'm able to recall offhand, but assure you that it is a policy applied indiscriminately and consistently.

And kindness (with a little sociopathy thrown in) does pay off; it brings people to you. We ferried to Sth Perth and back, strolled through UWA, snacked at Jester's. It wasn't as romantic as it sounds. Gosh, what do you take me for?

However, at this rate I don't know how I'm gonna fill the fresh gaping vacancies by autumn, being the anticipated onset of my next quarter-life crisis, when I shall no doubt require many a sympathetic ear and corkscrew owner.

saving faith

Having probably alienated a huge chunk of my (potential if not actual) readership with that homophobic rant 2 posts back, it is only fair that I now attempt to insult the rest of you - namely, the Christians, because you started it first *na nana na na*.

Some months ago mum got roped into Church Going ('CG') before she had a chance to register what had hit her. This has been a tremendous (and increasing) source of amusement (bewilderment? disturbance?) for me ever since, not only because of the terrible cynic that I am, but also what I know about her. That's all I'm going to say about it; people partake of CG for all sorts of reasons, and "good on yous all" I say. I mention it merely to set the scene: but for her new-found... interest? pastime? ...? (oh let it go already I don't mean to patronise), the incident I'm about to relate would have been completely avoided.

So, Thursday morning I was merrily going about my own business (= stumbling out of bed after sleeping in), vaguely aware that the pastor's wife ('PW') had come to help mum catch up on bible study (see, not a single euphemism, quotation mark, capitalisation or font emphasis in that whole phrase - I am too behaving myself!), but totally unprepared for what stood in the way between me and my breakfast cereal. Within 30 seconds of my emerging from my room, I had:

• made the crucial error of giving PW a warm greeting (handshake + enquiry as to her preferred title);
• become physically restrained by PW (offering my hand was a baad idea); and
• started receiving Lesson One of Welcome to Christianity.

Methinks I might've enjoyed the experience slightly more if - oh I dunno -

• I didn't have a stranger middle-aged woman's hands around my wrist the whole time;
• PW spoke better Chinese (yes people, it is a Chn-speaking congregation that mum's been recruited by; why would you have assumed otherwise);
• PW was more articulate, or at least better informed, about the subject matter, and did not employ Passion of Christ-esque re-enactment or slagging on Buddhism (in equally inarticulate, ill-informed fashion) as major marketing tactics; and/or
• I'd been in a coma for most of my life and was awakening for the very first time to the exquisite prospect of Exploring Spirituality.

And guess what I did? I just stood there and took it - for a good half-hour, all pleasant and humble like, whilst inside getting more agitated than any other time in recent memory (bar the NYE incident, which created a league of its own). Sure I'd been caught off-guard, and didn't want to make it awkward for mum; still - I was soo disappointed with myself! And in true wuss-style I now inflict upon you this mini gripe, hehe.

Maybe I got more worked up than I should've been; certainly more than I wanted to be. But really. Who meets somebody for the first time and asks them to choose between 'heaven' and 'hell' (She did! I swear! Preceded, of course, by an uninspiring spiel incorporating those and other catchphrases which no one of average intelligence and social integration hasn't heard before; use your imagination).

I respect that it's part and parcel of your glorious undertaking to spread the good news and all (don't say "it's only the evangelists who do it" because you all are and you all do in some way, often without even realising), but where is your respect for my capacity to think and feel for myself? Have you lived so much more than I have that you're qualified to fast-track my spiritual journey for me? Will my conversion, immediate or progressive, affirm your own faith? And if "that's not the point" as you protest - almost always a reflex - then tell me, what is?

Above all I am offended, yes she who is near-impossible to offend, is offended - deeply so - that whenever resistance is shown, or reservation held, towards the hypotheses posited by you, it is invariably and dismissively attributed to lack of information (ignorance), of curiosity (mental sloth), of humility (arrogance), or of a willingness/readiness to embrace the Incontrovertible Truth (stunted spiritual development). The dismissals vary only in form. And how does one argue with you using an entirely different, and therefore inapplicable, frame of reference?

As usual rebuttals/abuse are embraced with warmth and deference. *glances at my Christian Scientist (former) reader*

signs

My penchant for antisocial behaviour continues to escalate. Most recently, I've taken to walking alone in the neighbourhood around midnight.

On the way to the waterfront I pass a primary school, a retirement village, and usually a bunch of teenagers (different ones each time) who greet me, when they do, with "Good morning", "Good afternoon", etc. Once I reach the river I head towards a small jetty 30 minutes (at a leisurely pace) away. It is a cruisy, scenic, albeit poorly lit route. I have my mp3 player and my older-than-N man-sneakers, and for an hour and a half I'm the queen of the world.

Last night I wore uniform trackpants kept from my 2-month stint at a Chn secondary school - back in 1995, and a green flannel shirt I've had since age 11 - buttoned all the way up. Night before last was overcast, stormy, and the river moving fast; standing on that jetty, I felt like a character (and not one that survives to the end) in some B-grade Jap black-&-white horror flick.

But even an aspiring recluse needs a break from hermitude now and again. Which is why tonight I broke the habit and went to hang out at Shell & Tez's instead. There was pizza, gossip (in part relating to Channel 7's newest weekend weather presenter), photo-flaunting, and (atypically) no alcohol. I showed them Kenny, confident of a warm reception: they (or rather, we) appreciate and share Kenny's linguistic style; heck, one of the boyfriends even looks a bit like Kenny.

Dr. who?

No, not him. But another superstar to pre-teens I missed out on growing up with (because I was busy reciting Communist propaganda poems and watching Taiwanese soap operas): Dr. Seuss. I'm not familiar with the exact pre-requisites for superstardom and all, but if years after you sign out someone still bothers to slap your words together with song and dance, and someone else is prepared to fork out the price of a respectable-verging-on-extravagant meal to behold the first-mentioned someone's concoction - then as far as I'm concerned you've made it.

My prior near-perfect ignorance of the guy's life and work notwithstanding, I enjoyed Seussical! as much as any 23yo could, I suppose. But I probably enjoyed hanging out with N, her schoolmate H, and hubby's littlest sister C (Am I allowed to use 'sister-in-law'?) - more. The fact that they're all of that tender age when candy = currency, silly = cool, and any bogus explanation of the plot (to cover up my lack of Seuss know-how) is accepted with enthusiasm minus suspicion - is entirely to blame for my popularity among this demographic.

But what does it say about the current pace of my intellectual advancement, that a major source of nourishment is events attended predominantly by pre-teens? (In my defence on this particular occasion, however, and however unconvincingly: I only went to support / take advantage of hubby's gradual infiltration into the 'musical theatre crowd'.) Not much, obviously. And whatever it does say just goes over my head anyway - my ever shrinking head.

what-a-closet

I am feeling down, and hoping that writing this will distract me awhile, even if not amuse or uplift. If you find some pleasure herein, write something to make me smile - I'm running a tad low on that.

By the heading I'm not, at least not consciously, suggesting that my life is in some kind of metaphoric lavatory; (I feel that) it's nowhere near one. Actually I'm being literal for a change, with the heading. What follows is an exposé of the shortcomings, perceived by me, of being gaysian - alternatively titled: "eight (of many more) reasons why I don't feel completely at one with the Community".

1. I like having long hair. I'm sure I wouldn't mind having short hair either, if I ever get my act together enough to book a hairdresser. I just haven't any special affinity for that spiky black-with-blonde-highlights I-wannabe-Shane-from-TheLWord "boys don't bother" do sported by every other girl in the Community. Except when it's on Shane, of course.
2. My wardrobe is not dominated by men's wear. Moreover, the few items of men's clothing which happen to be in my possession (mostly via mysterious channels unknown to me), I do not wear out on weekends.
3. My personal philosophy on eye make-up: [a] less is more; and [b] unlike in many other contexts, black is not suitable-for-all-occasions.
4. Less than 80% of my social network overlaps with the Community. I like the Community people I know, and meeting new ones. But I also appreciate the small yet rare luxury which comes with not-being-fully-integrated(-yet): of not being introduced as, or to someone who is, so-and-so's ex/current/prospective.
5. My means of stress/boredom relief do not include smoking. And as seductive as I find the way certain girls roll up tobacco in little squares of paper, it would take a helluva lot more before I let one smoke in my car/house.
6. I don't look upon "dirty bisexuals" with contempt and suspicion; not even the ones who turn out really to have been "only in transition".
7. I like hanging out with boys, including the not-so-camp/-fabulous (read: straight) ones. They (generally) don't patronise intimidate frustrate agitate me. Who knows, I might even find one to fall for some day.
8. I can: be obscene without using naughty words; express affection without raising my voice or excessive bodily contact; get in and out of a public toilet in under 10min; crack onto someone without the help of alcohol; ... Hehe.

I should probably apologise for sounding horribly shallow, ignorant, bigoted, stereotyping, inflammatory, antifeminist, misogynistic, or worse. But ha! Maybe I am all of the above. If not all at once, then definitely a bit o' this and that at any given moment.

back and forth

My extraordinary talent for bad timing continues to perfect itself. Harsh words escaped whence tenderer ones remained trapped. Tears ran amuck. Pent-up anguish exploded in undignified and unsatisfying ways. All on a night which should have belonged to joviality (or at least substance-induced memory loss).

Mishaps like the above aside, I take no particular liking or disliking to NYEs. Have had my share of good ones; though the duds are always more memorable and noteworthy. Like the time I closed up @ the Sunflower then drove around the back roads of KP until midnight. Or the time I showed a 6yo N 'the real' Cottesloe beach.

I don't see my close friends nearly enough on NYEs. Because I have this notion, irrational or not, that they'd rather do something else. And since I don't need to hang out with randoms merely for the sake of not-being-alone, I am often left with few options. Yet somehow, most years, I end up somewhere mildly entertaining.

Tonight, I could have joined:
[a] an orgy (or, more realistically: witnessed one)
[b] some mates in Northbridge
[c] a polyamorous relationship (unrelated to [a])
Why did I choose to stay home and pick a fight instead. *face in palm*

Before the swelling around my eyes subsides along with my pettiness, before I surrender again to the grandeur of Life and the healing/eroding power of Time, I must bid adieu to 2006. A year dominated by immaturity, neglected by romance and intellectual advancement, saved by fascinating new friendships and deepening old ones, and topped off with the unexpected revelation of a conceivable career path. A year of non-saving, pig slaughtering, all-nighter uni assignments, one-way love-hate mail, being gaysian and meeting same, crying and laughing more than ever before ... A year hopefully to be followed by a no less eventful one.

Unlike my anti-ritualist fellow blogger, I've made a few real NY resolutions:

1. Give less, take more
2. Save up $15,000
3. Lose 5kg
4. Learn 3 performable guitar pieces
5. Find 50 more films to like
6. Own real property
7. Spend more time reading than eating
8. Win my first case
9. Avoid emotionally unavailable people
10. Fall in love

Will keep y'all posted throughout the year re: my progress with these. If I manage 7+ out of 10, you'll all buy me drinks this time next year, won't ya?