Enter the Confessional #4: ID Parade

(It's up to you to determine if that 'D' should be lower-case.)

Through a convoluted series of events that I won't even bother trying to explain in depth, beyond:

Equation 1
fervent homesickness + pain-in-the-ass Lawyer +
quiet Sunday evening alone in the flat =
bad televisual decisions

I have become infatuated with 'McLeod's Daughters'. It's on NetFlix - it got picked up Stateside a while back by one of those estrogen-fueled basic cable channels that usually specialises in made-for-TV movies starring the mom from 'Family Ties', and I guess it got enough of an audience to justify making it available - and last weekend it showed up at the arse-end of my recommended viewing list. On a whim I decided to have a look... and now it's five days later, I've got through 30+ episodes, and while the initial shine is starting to wear off, I'm still thoroughly enmeshed.

To make matters worse, I am also a little bit in love with Claire McLeod. Not in a TV crush way, though there is a bit of that:

Equation 2

[(butchy walk + Bonds singlets + deep voice) * covered in dirt]/

vague facial expression resemblance to The Canberran Who Shagged Me =
CATNIP

No, this is more in line with a recurring pattern of mine: wildly overidentifying with a fictional character.

I've done this for... well, most of my life, I reckon. It will usually (but not always) be a character from a book I love; this (usually-but-not-always) book will resonate with me in some objectively ridiculous fashion; and, critically, the specific character will have qualities that I desperately want for myself. I will often end up adopting some bizarre trait of that character, though it's usually something fairly minor and definitely something that isn't obviously connected to anything. This is fortunate, because it means that the manias generally pass unnoticed: I am unlikely to get whatever the current version of 'The Rachel' is, for example. It's subtler than that, assuming that the word subtle can ever be applied to me without an audible question mark at the end.

So with all that in mind, here's the chronological starter's guide to my multiple personalities:

Name: Velvet Brown

Book: National Velvet by Enid Bagnold

Trait: Crunchies

I don't remember how old I was when I read National Velvet for the first time. I got it as a gift from my aunt Franny, part of a beautiful blue leather-bound set of four totally mismatched books: National Velvet, Harriet the Spy, Catcher in the Rye, and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It took me years to pick up Velvet, but when I finally did I *loved* it. I still have that copy somewhere, and it's shot to hell: pages folded down, leather cover warped, the whole thing expanded out to four times its original size from having been dropped in the bath and dried out so many times.

The Brown girls were always getting 'sweets' 'on tick'. They ate Fry's and Cadbury's chocolates by the bucketful, talking with special rapture about the chocolate-covered honeycomb Crunchie. They liked the ones that were a bit underdone so they were chewy in the middle. Totally foreign to me... until I was 13, on a layover in Shannon Airport in Ireland. It was early morning and I was hungry, but nothing appealed to me through the haze of jet lag. And then I saw the heap of shiny gold wrappers in the middle of a Cadbury's display, and I raced up to my mother and babbled inarticulately about 'Velvet's favourite'. I bought one, and I still remember the first bite: the thin layer of chocolate was sweet and creamy, and the honeycomb(esque) centre was smoky and crumbly and just amazing. An addiction was born.

Name: Nickel Smith
Book: Bingo by Rita Mae Brown
Trait: down-home Southern bitchery
NIckel Smith appears in three of Brown's books, but Bingo is the one that counts. Nickel serves as Brown's appointed voice (all of her novels feature someone who's a thinly-veiled version of herself), which means that she gets most of the good lines, including some first-class Southern sniping. Lines that have made it into heavy rotation include, '[he]'s got resonance where his brains should be', 'you look like the dogs got at you under the porch', and '[she] couldn't help being born ugly but she could have stayed home'.

Name: Mikage Sakurai
Book: Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto
Trait: katsu-don, motherfucker

I can't remember when I first read Kitchen: I think it was when I was in college, but I'm not sure. The copy I've had for years has gone missing sometime in the last year - I lent it out and forgot to whom, as I've done many times, but this time it didn't come back to me - and I'll have to get another copy soon because it's been too long since I last read it. It's short, more of a novella than a novel, but it's full of small details that I have loved since whenever that first reading was.

The climactic scene centres around a bowl of katsu-don, a Japanese dish consisting of crumbed pork and sauteed onions over rice, with hot broth poured over it and an egg cracked over it that cooks in the broth. But I realise that my description is unflatteringly prosaic, so I'll turn it over to Yoshimoto:

This katsu-don, encountered almost by accident, was made with unusual skill, I must say. Good quality meat, excellent broth, the eggs and onions handled beautifully, the rice with just the right degree of firmness to hold up in the broth - it was flawless.

When I first read Kitchen, I had not yet had katsu-don. But it didn't matter: when I read that paragraph, katsu-don skyrocketed to the top of my comfort food list. Don't get why? Read it again, slowly. Everything you could want from comfort food is right there. It's warm, flavourful, substantial. It is perfect. I wanted it.

I didn't get the opportunity to try it for a long time, but when I did, I got lucky: I happened into the best version anywhere in Sydney. It was at Don Don ('Don x 2') on Oxford Street. I went there with my ex Thy-Anh and a few of her friends. I didn't know much about Japanese food at that point: I hate seaweed so sushi was off-limits, and I hadn't explored any other dishes. But this night they really wanted Japanese and I was assured that there would be non-sushi things for me to have, so I went along. It never even crossed my mind that katsu-don might be on the menu, but there it was. I was beside myself.

When the bowl appeared in front of me a few minutes later, I was nervous: I had wanted it for so long and had built it up to so much in my head that if it wasn't good, it would actually hurt my heart. But no, it was everything I had hoped and more. It was like this meal was custom-built for me. It was, as Yoshimoto said, flawless.

Name: Serena van der Woodsen
Book/TV show: 'Gossip Girl'
Trait: ridiculously long strands of pearls (and also perfume, kind of)

Some things fall into your lap when you really need them. Serena van der Woodsen fell into mine, courtesy of recaps of the TV show by the sublime Jacob Clifton*. I've never seen the show, and at that point I hadn't read any of the books, but Jacob's recaps stand alone in their awesomeness and familiarity with the subject is unnecessary. (He has also recapped several seasons of 'American Idol', and ditto for that.) This means that my introduction to Serena came through the recaps, and I was hooked from the fucking first.

Serena van der Woodsen is beautiful, rich, mysterious, and universally adored. She's fundamentally kind and endlessly generous, but she will exact payment out of your ass if you're stupid enough to fuck with someone she loves. She is also utterly artless and has only recently learned How to Be Places. Serena van der Woodsen, in short, does not give a fuck.

In the first season, Serena wore insane strands of pearls wrapped all around herself in complicated ways. In an attempt to channel some of her glamour and total detachment from reality, I found myself a stupidly long string of something approximating pearls at Diva and started wearing them every way I knew how. And you know, it kind of worked, if only as a total placebo. I think there are assumptions that are made about a girl with pearls wrapped 18 times around her wrist, and they were assumptions I was entirely happy to have made about me at the time. (Those assumptions may also have existed entirely in my own head. I do not care.)

I was delighted to find out subsequent to declaring Serena my hero/ Oprahesque life guru that her 'signature scent' - specially created for her, of course - is a blend of patchouli and sandalwood with other warm accents. Many of you will know that the perfume I wear was specially created for me way back when I was 15. It too is a blend of patchouli and sandalwood with other warm accents. Clearly, we are soulmates. And don't you dare accuse me of stealing it from her, because she wasn't born when I first put mine on. It is just an incredible coincidence. Also, she's fictional and has never actually been born. I'm not so crazy that I don't know that.

I've since retired the pearls, though they're always close at hand and still make the occasional appearance if needed. The perfume, of course, is still with me daily.

* TWoP was one of my favourite sites for yonks. Unfortunately, Bravo bought them a few years ago and there were a lot of unfortunate changes, including the loss of many of the best recappers and a seizure-inducing new layout. Jacob stayed on but reading anything on the site is too much like hard work, so I embarked on a ridiculous but thoroughly rewarding project of copy-and-pasting all of his recaps into Word. Should any of you want seasons 1-4 of 'Gossip Girl' or seasons 4-6 and 10 of 'American Idol', let me know in the comments. You'll thank me. True.

Name: Claire McLeod
TV show: 'McLeod's Daughters'
Trait: silver star necklace

This is the one I'm most embarrassed about, with good reason. First of all, it's the one I'm wearing at the moment, so talking about it makes me feel way more exposed than any of the others do. More importantly, though, it's embarrassing because it means admitting that I watched 'McLeod's Fucking Daughters'. I say 'watched' because in the weeks since I started writing this post, I finished the first three seasons and have officially given it up. I knew that Claire got killed off at the end of the third season and I promised myself that I would chuck it once that happened; fortunately, the show had become so ridiculous by then that it wasn't hard to stop. How ridiculous? Well, in a single third-season episode, Claire gave birth to her ex-boyfriend-who-was-still-married-but-didn't-tell-her's baby (and of course she'd told her ex that the baby wasn't his because... well, why not?) alone in the North Paddock, where she was found by her half-sister Tess thanks to the guidance of a faerie-folk-ish six-year-old... though Tess shouldn't have been out walking by herself because she'd just been rescued from near-drowning in a silo of organic wheat (that shit is like quicksand, but of course Tess didn't know that because she's from the city) and had aspirated some grain, which is a fucking problem that would land you in hospital for a stretch if you had any sense or didn't exist only on a crappy Australian bush drama.

This is not even the full story.

Anyway. I am comfortably in remission from 'McLeod's' now, but the necklace remains. Some of you may have seen it at some point; I got it very shortly before leaving Australia, at the same silver shop on King St. where my going-away ring and bracelet came from. It's very plain, just a small silver star on a short black rubber cord. It sits right below my throat and is exactly the right length for playing with while lost in thought... just the way Claire's always playing with the gold horseshoe necklace that her father gave her. (BEFORE HE DIED.)

I don't want to think the only reason I put it on for the first time in months was because I wanted to emulate the way a soapie character fiddles with her accessories; that would be unspeakably pathetic. I was having a particularly rough spot of homesickness, which may have made me reach for the necklace in the first place. I bought it as a souvenir for myself, so that makes some kind of sense. But I can't deny the coincidence of the timing, or of my sudden interest in touching it all the damn time.

In my defense, I will say that Claire is fucking awesome: tough, capable, take-no-bullshit, and with a core of pure red fury. She's stuck in a craptastic show for sure, and there are plenty of moments when the plots and dialogue go from eye-rollingly goofy to full-on ridiculous; but Lisa Chappell knows the heart and soul of her character, and even in the most maudlin situations manages to make Claire's reactions seem honest and consistent. (And her Kiwi accent only breaks through sometimes! That's acting.)

Claire's a bit of an exception: the other characters all come from books or TV shows I revisited over and over and over, while I cannot imagine ever wanting to watch 'McLeod's Daughters' again. But Claire had an impact on me and I'd be lying if I said she didn't. I'm wearing the necklace right now, for christ's sake... though I hope to have moved on by the next time I see anyone who reads this. It's embarrassing enough.


XOXO