An update.

(With apologies and gratitude to Anthony, who received an e-mail suspiciously similar to the text below just a few moments ago. Whatever, I'm sick and feel like a jerk for having fallen off. I'm trying to catch up, y'all.)

The Political

I saw this BBC article a couple of months ago, and I wish to god he had named the person quoted in this exchange:

A leading Republican, who was in Congress for more than 10 years, answered my question: "Who can beat Obama?" with a casual, "a mammal". Then he added sadly: "But they are all reptiles."

We're all hoping that they destroy each other and don't end up putting up someone who looks moderate enough to lure away disenchanted Dems. In the meantime, I'm usually too focused on keeping down my food anytime one of their god-awful faces is on my tele to pay much attention to what they're saying, and that's probably preserving my sanity.

The Personal

I had an interesting four-day weekend: I went to Florida to meet Colleen's family. They're in the suburbs of Tampa - which is to say, Tampa; the whole bloody city's one big suburb - and they are hardcore Republicans with Christian overtones and Tea Party inclinations. They've long since made their peace with their gay daughter, but loving her deeply and wanting a good and safe life for her somehow does not equal choosing not to vote for people who want her miserable or preferably dead. It's a conundrum.

I had been warned of their political leanings and Colleen had pleaded with me repeatedly not to get involved in any kind of political discussion with them, mostly because a) I'm obviously not going to change their minds, and b) her Dad is a... fucking fucking fuck, I've lost one of my Australian words... he likes to start trouble because he thinks it's funny... AUGH. I get really upset when that happens. I've started forgetting words and street names; I couldn't come up with the name of the Annandale a while back and I drove myself crazy with it. Stupid and unimportant, except that it isn't at all. Anyway, whatever the word is (and please post in the comments if you know what it is)*, that's what he is, so the only way to avoid getting into an ugly and unwinnable argument is to refuse to bite in the first place. But it's hard when you're pottering around in the kitchen and notice the Obama countdown clock prominently displayed on the counter, and when politics keeps coming up in conversations going on around me, and also, well, have you met me?

Fortunately I managed to keep well out of it, and it all went swimmingly and they liked me very much. But it was weird being in that environment. In some ways it felt almost disturbingly familiar - the beaches; the crazy flora I've never seen Stateside, including a bottle-brush tree in their front yard! - and in others it felt so completely unrelatable. The place has no soul, and that's a big part of it - it's all planned/gated communities and strip malls and chains, not an independent anything to be found anywhere - but the other was definitely the people. You'll hear that Southerners are much friendlier, but I don't think that's correct: it's warm, but it's automatic; it's manners, not friendliness. With the people, as with the city, there's no there there. It's dead inside. And the politics are effing terrifying. I really do fear for this country.

But I'm trying to focus on the good of the trip, which was that her family really did seem to like me. I was so fucking terrified: it's been a long time since I dated someone who cared what her family thought. It's a lot more nerve-wracking this way (even though it probably says some very good things about Colleen and the choices I'm making these days. Look at me, growing up).

The Patriots

Didn't happen. Did not happen. Don't know what you're talking about.

XOXO

* EDIT: The word is stirrer. Which I remembered while brushing my teeth, because why not.

Introducing: Colleen

There's someone I want you guys to meet. Her name's Colleen.

She's really nice, and she's smart, and funny. She's cute, too. She has a great dog, whose name is Simon. She likes football and wine and most of the food I cook. She's good at crossword puzzles and she makes the best popcorn I've ever eaten.

She's 34, and a little bit taller than me (but just a little bit). She has short brown hair that sometimes looks auburn, and hazel-blue eyes that sometimes look grey. She looks great in polo shirts and pretty much any kind of sweater. She has two pairs of Fluevogs. Her smile goes up a little more on one side than the other, and when she's distracted she winds her fingers through a bit of hair on the side of her head.

She likes some really good music and some really bad music and some surprisingly soft-cock cardigan music. She has the travel bug almost as much as I do. She swears like a sailor, or at least like an Australian. Oh, and she's a lawyer.

Actually, she's The Lawyer. You've met her before. But because she's now also My Girlfriend, I thought I'd better give her a real name.

You guys, I'm... it's pretty fucking great.

XOXO

Two things that make me laugh, for very different reasons.

Here's a thing for those of you who want to know a little more about Jamaica Plain* (it's better than any other plain!).

And here's a thing for those of you who want to know a little more about bending in weird directions.

* Jamaica Plain is my spiritual home in Boston, and where I'd definitely live if it weren't next door to the neighbourhood I grew up in. I will almost certainly end up there if I stay in Boston. Somerville is where The Lawyer lives. She does play lots of sports and eat breakfast food. I, however, am not a vegan.

XOXO

Ugh.

You guys.

I just gchatted with The Chef. I still have no idea what's going on - I don't think she's come to any final decision, but I'm not entirely sure - but I have to ask a very serious question:

Is there anything more infuriating than someone you desperately want to be angry at being nothing but respectful and reasonable at you?

I mean this. I always thought I wanted someone who thought about my feelings and listened to me and went out of her way to be careful of me. Turns out what I really want is the exact opposite, because now I'm getting the thoughtful, caring bullshit and it's making me want to kick puppies.

I can't handle it at all. I know how to deal with screaming fights and wounded feelings and storming-offs. I know what to do when someone shuts me out completely or punishes me with silence or acts in a way that is entirely inappropriate to the situation and to our relationship. The script for any scene that ends with me sobbing so hard I get sick? I know it by heart. But this whole thing she's pulling on me here is breaking my mind. How dare she be honest? How dare she be gentle, and think before she speaks, and weigh her words carefully? And worst of all, how dare she listen to what I say I want, and then give it to me?!

Because then I have nothing to be angry or sad about, except the fact that she ended up ditching me and that was not how the story was supposed to go. And I feel hurt, and disappointed, and foolish, and I have nowhere to turn any of that except on myself.

XOXO

A series of unexpected events.

You guys, it isn’t even Tuesday and I am already done with this week.

1. I can’t stop eating. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with my appetite, but every moment I’m not shoveling food in my face feels like a moment lost. If I don’t slow my roll I am going to undo every bit of good work I’ve done since December.
   
   I’m also having a hard time getting back into the gym. I’m trying to tell myself that I really just need to get through the first two weeks of eating well and exercising and then it’ll be routine, but it’s like I’m back to square one where every minute is a struggle. And I’m craving the weirdest shit – like, Gatorade and Sour Patch Kids and Entenmann’s baked goods – that is miles outside of what usually interests me, and what’s worse is that I want them all by the bucketful (the Entenmann’s stuff in particular… dear god, the things I’d do to a box of their choc-chip cookies does not bear description).
   
   
   
2. We got snow. Again. I really can’t with this. I beg of you, Boston, no màs.
   
   
   
3. In the last 24 hours, I have been dumped by not one, but two people I wasn’t formally dating. Well, I’m exaggerating slightly, but only slightly: as of now things are off with both The Chef and The Lawyer. The Chef had a big snotty cry all over me yesterday because her ex wants her back and she doesn’t know what to do. They were together for 5+ years and split more than a year ago; I’ve never got a clear picture of the details but I do know that the break-up was seriously bad, and I have the distinct impression that the ex dicked her over something fierce. I don’t know how long they’ve been back in touch, but I think at least the please-come-back is very recent, because The Chef is not very good at keeping things under wraps and would not have been able to go on very long without telling me.
   
   I reacted much as you might expect: I gave my opinion (essentially ‘don’t be a moron, moron’), let her sob, and then told her to leave my house and only call me when she’s sorted her shit out but don’t expect me to be waiting around in the meantime – and by the way, next time she wants to drop something like this, she shouldn’t let me pay for brunch immediately beforehand. Fucker.
   
   I don’t know. If she turns the ex down and wants to give it another go with me, I’m not sure what I’ll say: to my list of major concerns we can now add ‘still not really over her last relationship, apparently’, and that’s not small potatoes. But to her credit she was honest to an extent she didn’t necessarily have to be, given the nebulousness of our relationship, and I also really feel for the girl. She’s hurting bad and really doesn’t know what to do – I suspect she’s desperate to trust the ex again and give it another shot but also really doesn’t trust her at all, so doesn’t know what to make of it. (I also suspect that the ex has managed to run some guilt-inducing ‘but don’t you believe people can change?’ line on her, which is gross, and no, for the record, I don’t.)
   
   And in case any of you is wondering, yes, this was as sudden as it seems, and no, no one saw it coming.
   
   As to The Lawyer, she has merely had an attack of the guilts, exacerbated by having received some fairly head-fucking news from her own ex this morning. It’s fair enough and probably for the best but coming on the heels of yesterday has me feeling even more kicked around. That will pass and we’ll recalibrate, and I knew it would only be a short-lived thing anyway, but I just didn’t want to give it up at this particular moment. On the other hand, the risk of using her as a prop to make myself feel better and ending up hurt in the process is huge, I recognise that, so it really is the best thing. She’s the emotional equivalent of a box of Entenmann’s choc-chip cookies: utterly delicious and addictive, but once the sugar high wears off there’s nothing but regret and bloating to show for it. Whereas The Chef was more like a fresh, healthy tomato salad that turned out to be laced with salmonella. Fuck, even the sane ones I pick are a mess.
   

Anyway. I’m sure this will all pass quickly enough. In the meantime, I have a week to get through. Back to it, I guess.

XOXO

A short play about the nature of modern relationships, and some other things

My boss, noticing that I'm about to change clothes before leaving work: Oh, do you have a date tonight?

Me: No... no.

My boss: So... what, then?

Me: I'm making dinner for The Lawyer.

My boss: Oh no. You're not back with her again, are you?

Me: No. She has a girlfriend now.

My boss: But... wait, what? I'm confused!

Me: Yeah, that makes six of us.

My boss: Six? Who's six? You, your girlfriend, her, her girlfriend....

Me: ...My flatmate, and you.

My boss: Wow. [beat] So, that's how you guys roll, huh?

Me: Apparently.

My boss: Well, bring me some leftovers if there are any.

*****

So yes, apparently that is how we roll. I don't know what else to say. I have bruises. These Things Are Not Easy.

Filed under 'Other Things Involving My Boss', I'm happy to say that the potentially nasty situation at work got ironed out without a problem on Monday. It turned out that there was so much confusion around what I was and was not allowed to do that not only did my boss and I not get in trouble for it, but she was actually able to make a case for bumping me up a pay grade and changing me to a salaried (rather than hourly-rate) position in the next budget. I wasn't in the room when she attempted this, but I wish to god I had been because that is some kind of spectacular maneuver. She is exceptional.

And I'm happy to say that apart from a small amount of lingering jet lag, I'm feeling pretty good about things. I was an anxiety-ridden disaster until Monday arvo, but once the work stuff got sorted out I found that I was... fine. Really, fine. I had expected my return to Boston to be much more tumultuous, especially given how great a visit I'd had, but instead I feel pretty resolved and calm about things. I don't know that this will last - I remember that early on after my move last year I felt way more settled than I'd expected, before crashing hard a few months later - but for now I'm trying to enjoy it.

It also helps that I've returned to a much warmer and more welcoming city than I left a month ago. The snow's all gone, we turned the clocks forward on Sunday so it's light well into the evening, and the weather's substantially better - it's not warm by any stretch, but it's warm enough that I can leave the house in only a warm jacket over a long-sleeved shirt and a singlet, rather than needing a long wool coat, a jumper, a hat, a scarf, and gloves as well. To me, that counts as progress.

All in all, things are... yes.

Omigod, you guys.

I just saw a set by the girl I'm going to marry. Meet: Kim Ann Foxman.

And you guys? She's a fuck-off DJ. And tiny. And awkward. And even more gorgeous in person. And I luuuuuurrrrrrrvvvvvvvve her so much it hurts!!!

Somebody please make this happen. All the gays know each other, right? We must cross over with her somehow.

XOXO I LOVE YOU KIM ANN!!!1!!!!1!!

Enter the Confessional #3: But I've got a really good personality!

Wow. So I'm doing really well with that 'keeping to a weekly schedule' thing, huh?

It would be easy to blame my extended fail on a long list of recent events, so that's exactly what I'm going to do. Some of them are easy to discuss in a public forum: Thanksgiving, moving house, busy time at work, lead-up to Christmas, etc. etc. etc. Others are more complicated and more personal, and have involved an intense mix of joy and pain (and sunshine and rain, sing it all god's children...) and fear and triggering and triggering and triggering. I'm dating a couple of girls, one of whom is awesome and good to me, and the other of whom I actually like - and you all know me well enough to know what that means. I'm settling into a life here that after only a handful of months is already uncomfortably rife with overlaps and I'm making decisions that aren't always good. I'm broke, of course. And I'm going to rot my teeth out with candy canes if I don't slow my roll.

Returning to the topic of moving, it's been... hard. The physical move itself wasn't too bad, but this was the first time in many years that I've packed up my room in my parents' house and not been taking it all to Sydney. I've been dreaming of home a lot lately and I know it's just my brain trying to sort through things and move on, but it's exhausting and it's starting to wear me down. I never thought I'd be living in an apartment in Boston. It's a great apartment, and I have a great new flattie named Karen, and it's in an area that I don't know so it feels new. All good. But I can't help but think back to this time last year, when my life finally felt like it was coming together again after far too long - job I liked, house I liked, friends I loved, new prospects on the horizon - and then how quickly it all got pulled out from under me, and how much I lost in the process. And that's happened too many times in the last few years, that thing of going, '...finally.' right before having my whole life go tits-up, for me to be able to even begin to believe that good things may be on the horizon. Which is all apart from the fact that I still struggle to see Boston itself as a good thing. It was the right thing, I know that, but it doesn't feel like a good thing. So there's that to contend with.

On a less fraught note, my bed is cursed. I'm not sure what the hell is behind this, but it's one damn thing after another: first, the queen-size mattress and boxspring arrived as scheduled, but the boxspring didn't fit up the stairs. They took it back and advised me to order a split queen, which I did... but no one told me I had to order two of them, because for some reason they sell the halves individually at Sears (Flattie Karen said she was going to go by there and ask for one leg of pants), and none of the three people I discussed my order with saw fit to clarify it with me. And so a week later - this past Saturday - the delivery men arrived with one half of a boxspring. And when I called Sears to give them a piece of my mind, they put me on hold for 20 minutes and then asked me to call back later because their systems were down. No, really.

At this point I decided to just get a cheaper set from the furniture place downstairs, and that arrived yesterday without incident. And having the boxspring meant that the bed was high enough off the ground for me to put my brand-new, custom-designed, hand-painted doona cover on without it dangling onto the floor. So I did, only to discover that the lovely cherry-blossom detail that was meant to have bright red flowers instead had anaemic red-pink ones, which is... not what I wanted. And kind of icky. And has prompted Flattie Karen to start calling me 'Salmon'. So now I'm trying to organize a return on a custom item, which is always a joy. I also still have a stray half-boxspring lying around my room because I'm trying to arrange the return of that to Sears, but they seem unwilling to get in touch with me about it. Oh, and my actual bed frame, which I thought was being delivered at the end of this week, won't be here until sometime next week, or possibly after due to the holidays.

[Sigh.]

I mean, all I can do at this point is laugh, but it's beyond ridiculous. The rest of the move has gone pretty smoothly, and I do have furniture (and credit card debt) thanks to the proud Scandinavian meatball merchants at Ikea, but the fact that the main feature of my room is unlikely to be sorted within the first month of my living here is starting to bug me. I will say that the mattress is amazingly comfortable, though, so I'm lucky there. And half expecting it to spontaneously combust in the night, or possibly be harboring Julian Assange without my knowledge.

In better news, the dancing's going well. It's been a busy few weeks, but now I've got two shows down and only one more to go - but the remaining one is the biggest and scariest one. I'm doing a fusion number with a dagger; it's to a song called 'Dr Sin' by Chasing Shadows (highly recommended), and my character is an assassin. It's a bit martial-artsy and a bit tribal and entirely fueled by my latent rage issues, but it seems to be going over pretty well so far, apart from how I almost took out an audience member a couple of weeks ago when my dagger slipped from my hand and went shooting out into the audience. First time I've ever dropped it, let alone flung it, and of course it happened at a show. Luckily no one was hurt, but the event has already passed into legend and my teacher is never ever going to let me live it down, not that I can blame her for that.

So that's me. For now. I won't do anything so stupid as to promise another post between now and February, but I'll see what I can do.

XOXO

Alors, ma petite, vous êtes un cochon.

Many of you will have heard me rant about Canada. The rants aren't serious; I'm either suggesting they're a nation of nice-but-boring types (because they're too polite) or a nation of serial killers (because they're too polite), but underneath it all I have a lot of respect for them, what with their enlightened approach to socialised health care, human rights, and thermal underwear. But I'd never been. It didn't really interest me - most of North America doesn't really interest me - and apart from Lynley and Suze's wedding, which I had to miss for budgetary reasons, there was no great event pulling me across the border.

Enter Lynne and Laura.

Thanks to these fine ladies' intervention, I can say with certainty (and minimal ranting) that Montréal is awesome. I loved the Frenchiness of it, the pointy noses and pointy architecture set against a version of the language so old as to be all rounded edges. I loved the history and the pretty sunsets, the baked goods, the debaculous Habitat '67 that ruins an otherwise gorgeous view across the river. I loved their way with offal and their adorable 12-year-olds (of course I loved their adorable 12-years-olds, and for real, I have got some kind of problem and I need help). If it weren't for their weather, I'd seriously consider it.

Having two mad Australians to run around with helped as well. By the end of our three days there, Laura was able to say that she didn't speak French (or at least, make an interesting enough stab at it that they quickly got the point) and Lynne had more or less stopped driving us into oncoming traffic. Fortunately, each was quite strong where the other struggled, so I feel confident that they'll make it through Québec City intact. Me, I contributed little to the proceedings apart from a patchy high school-French vocabulary and an occasional plaintive murmur of 'you're drifting to the right again pull left pull left pull left [sob]' from the back seat. Oh, and I got to tell an 'ugly American' type to fuck off, loudly and in the middle of the street. Always satisfying.

Thanks for a great trip, girls. I'm going to cook my ass off for you on Thursday. :)

Enter the Confessional 1: Peccadillos

I am endlessly susceptible to café staff.

I've tried to give them up, I really have. I've tried stopping in too often in an attempt to inure myself to their charms. I've tried avoiding cafés altogether, thinking that cold turkey might be the only cure. I've even tried dating a couple, and while there's nothing more likely to take the shine off one's perception of any group than an extended close relationship with one of its representatives, I remain undauntedly smitten. (See also: musicians, sporty types, and barely-legals wearing 'Dyke in Shining Armor' t-shirts.)

I try to tell myself that I will not be ruled by my obsessions. Like any addict, I make excuses, bargains with myself: I'm just passing; it's harmless; one more pot of tea won't hurt. After all, I can give it up whenever I like. But like any addict, I know the truth. I can't say no, I can't turn away. It's a sickness. My name is Elena, and I'm a baristaholic.

It's hard to quantify the attraction. I'm not a coffee drinker, so it's not the Stockholm Syndrome relationship of a caffeine dependent and her supplier. And while I have a notoriously well-defined type (looks like a 15-year-old boy, fucks like a trucker), my usual requirements can go right out the window in a good café. Which is not to say that my eyes won't be automatically drawn to the one who most fits the profile; I just seem more willing to expand that profile in a café than anywhere else. In fact, the effect is so powerful that it can extend even to other patrons: my most atypical target of recent years was someone I wouldn't have looked at twice in the street - her hair was longer than mine, you see - but we happened to be sitting opposite each other at brunch and over the course of the meal I found myself admiring her striking eyes and shoulders for miles. But what had first made me sit up and take notice was the way in which she placed her order: she barely glanced at the menu before firmly stating her requirements (eggs Benedict and a latte, if you're wondering). No havering, no hesitation. As someone who routinely hems and haws for hours, narrowing the list to two choices before inevitably ordering something entirely else, this seemed to me the picture of self-possession. It's not too much to say that I swooned a bit in my chair.

I think that's a large part of what attracts me to café staff in general and baristas in particular: they - the good ones, anyway - convey a sense of dominance over chaos that most of us could only dream of. Watch her at the coffee machine: her hands fly; she tamps like she's punishing the grounds for some imagined transgression; she harnesses scorching hot steam without batting an eye. She's covered in that dark brown dust that gets everywhere and manages to make it look as sexy as engine grease. She is calm. She is unconcerned. She is Together.

And I bite my lip and get flustered and forget how to talk. I botch the order I've been making for years (you'd be amazed how many ways there are to fuck up 'large peppermint tea, please'). I fumble for money and blatantly overtip because basic math is way too hard for me in that moment. If I'm lucky I'll get a cocky, indulgent smile in return, but most of the time I'm far too busy praying for the ground to swallow me whole to be able to properly register it, let alone return it. All I want is to get out of there without spilling something on myself or babbling incoherently. Their singlets, their tattoos, their arms that are always stronger than they look... in the face of these I am as helpless as a kitten. Take pity on me, café dykes of the world. I'm only an addict after all.

Is it too late to disavow my heritage entirely?

Really, Albania? Really?

It all comes back to South African cigarette butts.

Second Verse, Same as the First: A Play in One Scene.

[Two women. One old conversation that is new again.]

[And by new, I stress new. As in, of recent weeks. Because you'll all have heard this fucking refrain before.]

me: WHY WHY WHY DOES SHE SUCK SO BADLY, AND WHY WHY WHY DO I CARE?

Caitlin: I think you care because you are an inveterate romantic.

me: Oh fuck, don't go wishing that on me.

Caitlin: You deserve better. No judgment on her as a person (although you know which way my suspicions lean there), but you deserve to be treated better than she has treated you.

me: Thank you. Again. I think so too, but it's just... sometimes they get under your skin, and then it's hard to dig them out. And I swear I've got an innate sensor that's gone wrong and lets the wrong ones in.

Caitlin: I know. That's why you have people like me! To remind you of the stuff you're willing to put aside.

me: Every time I think I've got it sussed, that I've finally found someone who's Got It Together, she turns out to be just like all the others. And then I start sounding like That Girl and I hate myself a little more.

Caitlin: Dude, everyone has been there. Making excuses for someone because they have gotten under their skin, making allowances for them, letting yourself accept less than you deserve.

me: I wonder what it is. What causes that. Because I feel like we're all smarter than that.

Caitlin: It's at those times you need friends to remind you that you are awesome, and deserve someone who is going to treat you right and make you a priority... of course, maybe you shouldn't listen to me on that, as I will probably die alone due to my stubborn determination to settle for nothing less than true love. I'm a sucker.

me: It's not stubborn. It's Homeric.

Caitlin: Hubristic?

me: Heh. No, that's what my friend Anthony told me right before I left Sydney. That my life would always be a quest because I'm always going to be looking for the right job, the right girl, the right home. Not just whatever's there. Not settling. Except that it ended up sounding a bit dire, and I wasn't really consoled.

Caitlin: I keep looking for jobs, and every once in a while, it occurs to me that many people-probably most people-get that they may not like their job and are OK with that, and maybe I should just look for anything, instead of just things I want to do. But I am the way I am. I want to do work that I care about doing. Etc.

me: It's all the same, really. And it's wise, and true. But it's a real bitch.

Caitlin: Yeah, no comfort there. But I don't feel inclined to compromise on those things. Much as that might end me up alone and miserable.

me: You're right not to.

Caitlin: Well, of course you're going to say that. You're as bull-headed as I am!

me: Natch. But if I don't support you in making that right choice - and it is the right one - I'll never have a hope of supporting myself in making it.

Caitlin: Moral of the story: Confuso would be a compromise. And she's mean.

me: SHE IS MEAN! Like, that was a really mean thing to do, right? Fuck her and all her noise.

Caitlin: Yeah. She can suck it.

me: Damn RIGHT she can. Besides, I have a date with a lawyer on Saturday. Who's cute and funny and thinks my sarcasm is AWESOME.

Caitlin: That's the spirit!

me: YEAH. And I'm going to sword-dance the FUCK out of some Röyksopp this weekend, just to piss her off.

me: (Okay, I'm not sure how it would piss her off, seeing as she won't know about it, but the hell with logic. I'm ANGRY.)

Caitlin: That's quite a sentence! Picture that out of context. It would be like your overheard thing.

me: Oh my god, it would! The Ultimate Stompie!

Caitlin: Yes! That!

me: I feel much better now. Thank you.

Caitlin: Any time.

me: I will try not to bore you with stories of her anymore.

Caitlin: Hey, if you need to, you go ahead. That way, I can remind you that she is MEAN.

me: Yeah she is. Evil Dr Confuso. Meanie.