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

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

Not with a bang, but with a thud.

NYE, Caritas Carney Hospital, Dorchester, MA. Hey 2010, do you really need to get in one last dig before you sweep out the door?

[sigh.] Apparently yes, because if you were listening carefully around 8:00 p.m. local time you might have heard me crashing to the hardwood floor of a Dorchester apartment. I was the victim of an orthostatic syncope, which is I-paid-a-lot-of-money-for-these-letters-after-my-name for 'head rush'. What was tricky was that I was unconscious for... awhile... and then my blood pressure wouldn't stabilise, so the EMTs called by Flattie Karen's overly-cautious nurse girlfriend decided I had to go to the ER. They found nothing wrong with me, of course, because there's nothing actually wrong with me, so they did what they do in hospitals when they can't figure out what else to do: hook you up to a litre of saline and give you a pregnancy test. (Spoiler: I'm not.)

And that's where I stayed, alone, until about 11:30 p.m.; at which point I returned home, babbled inarticulately at a roomful of people I mostly didn't know, wandered into my room, and fell asleep face-down in my clothes. It kind of was the perfect end to that year.

Don't think for a second, though, that I didn't enjoy myself. There are certain bizarre situations in which I excel, and left to my own devices in the ER? That's about six of them. I made friends, you guys. Of course I did. I made friends with the nurse who kept complimenting my hair, and with the registrar who told me I had 'tiny, pretty feet', and with the doctor who conducted my neuro assessment in the following fashion: 'Okay, follow my finger: look up look down look right you have beautiful eyes look left'.

I swear I'm not making this up.

So yes, that was my NYE. A rather different kind of night than I had expected, but equally eventful in its way. I'm happy to say that there have been no lasting ill effects. I personally suspect that I'm fighting off a virus because I've been kind of rundown and also because it's Boston in winter, so everyone's always fighting off something. Nothing to worry about, anyway, just a typical Brain Scan Moment (hi, Marie!).

In other news, I have had a major achievement today: I have suddenly worked out how to do a full kneeling backbend, which is a belly dancing trick I've been trying to get for, seriously, years. I don't know why all of a sudden it worked, but it did. Which is how it seems to go with belly dancing, for me at least: I'll work and work and work and get frustrated and give up and try again and work and work and work and get frustrated and lather rinse repeat, and then one day I'll do exactly the same thing in exactly the same way except this time, I get it right. And then I just keep getting it right.

Let me try to explain what today's trick entails:

1. Kneel down.
2. Lean back.
3. Keep leaning back until your shoulders hit the ground.
4. Get back up.
5. Don't cripple yourself.

That's what I've learned to do. It looks like this and it feels like... well, it feels like awesome, but I don't have a good picture for that. But I'm way past psyched about it. It's really kind of a big deal, definitely not something every dancer can do; it's cool enough that Zehara's going to change the new troupe choreography to incorporate it. I'm... yeah, I'm excited about it.

And speaking of photos, here are a few from the dagger performance. The makeup looks a bit OTT because I'd done it for stage but the camera zoomed, so ignore the warpaint effect and pay attention to the fuck-off chainmail instead. In that last one, that's my final pose and I'm doing the Bruce Lee 'bring it' gesture. I have the best ridiculous hobby, you guys.

XOXO

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?

My Beach Holiday

So the Cape was brilliant, and exactly what I needed. The sun, the sand, the salt water... all of these things work wonders on me, they always have. And it was reassuring to learn that I could love Atlantic Ocean beaches too, and that the sun here is strong enough to tan me.

But it was more than that. One finds guidance in the oddest places, and this weekend I found mine on the $1 shelf of a used bookshop, in the form of a book of poems by one of the greatest dramatic talents of our generation, Ally Sheedy. Yes, that Ally Sheedy. Bet you didn't know she was a poet. And that's because she bloody well isn't. This book contains some of the worst attempts at writing that I have ever seen, and I include my own high school journals in that statement.

It has long been observed that nothing bonds people like adversity, and it was in that spirit that six of us came together in the wee hours of Saturday morning, fueled by the finest Ireland has to offer (Barry's tea and Bushmill's whiskey), to share Ms Sheedy's efforts in the only way that could possibly do them justice. You are all in my heart and my nightmares forever, and if you bastards weren't all leaving the country so soon I'd say we should make a habit of it. As it is, we must console ourselves with becoming Internet Phenomena.

XOXO

P.S. Thanks, Oscar! I'll pick you out a really good rock.