Post Christmas...

http://www.pe.com/imagesdaily/2007/12-08/wham_400.jpg

Bonsoir my lovelies.

And how were your Christmases, may I ask? Too much food, so annoyed at family members, full of extreme dvd watching? Same here. But on the whole, mine was fun- time for a brief rundown? O-kay: here we go. Warning: It's a long one.

On Friday I woke up and promptly watched an episode of Gossip Girl (Season 2). Jenny Humphrey was sacked from Eleanor Waldorf's atelier. She flounced out, Eleanor Waldorf gaped like a stunned mullet and Nathaniel stared brooding with his sideswept fringe as sideswept as ever. On that dramatic note, I trundled off to breakfast- a special breakfast courtesy of BigSister, consisting of fabulous blueberry and strawberry pancakes (Jamie Oliver's American Pancakes), a bunch of Grainwaves and a handful of lychees. Nutritious. The night before BigSister had already made a start on the Christmas dinner and we sneaked a taste (or five) of the berry trifle she had masterfully put together. Attempt #1 resulted in some berry trifle icecream (i.e. too little gelatine + the freezer = berry trifle icecream) while attempt #2 had enough gelatine to make the trifle tower. She was proud.

Then we showed dad what we had gotten him and mum for Christmas- a brand new HD, LCD Panasonic television. Flat screen and everything. Dad crooned and was suitably appreciative. Mum got home, frowned a little and proclaimed:

"But I don't know how to USE it!"

Well there's gratitude for you. Saying thank you never really was my parents' forte- it may be an Asian thing- they get shy and flustered and find it easier to say something peculiar rather than consider that it's the thought that counts.

[By the way, not really related to my Christmas but one of my mates at work gave his own spin to the annoying family rearing its ugly head on Christmas Day:

"We went and visited relos in Geelong and whenever we're around my grandparents, my parents put on all these weird airs and graces. I was just eating my food and my mum kept on saying "Take your elbows off the table". I felt like yelling "F*cken hell I always eat with my elbows on the table, leave me alone!"

You had to be there to hear it and laugh because this was coming from the cheeriest guy at work who wouldn't say boo to a cow. ]

Miffed and rolling her eyes into her orbits, BigSister retreated back into the kitchen where she worked on the prawn, radish and apple salad with home made mayonnaise while I delved back into the Upper East Side. Five episodes later and my head dizzy from too much tv, I joined her in the kitchen and helped her make these special potatoes where you fry them, season them, then submerge them in chicken stock and bake them in the oven. So good. We made the snapper and waited and waited and drummed our fingers on the kitchen top. Where was Dad? Christmas dinner is ready on time for once.

My dad was working on Christmas Day and said he'd be home in an hour. Dangnammit all that well timed organisation for nothing. We may as well have been disorganised, cooked with our eyes shut and watched the entire season of Gossip Girl without stopping.

Eventually he got home and we ate a feast. Dad said it would've cost $300 in a 3 hat restaurant while my mum kept on asking extra peculiar questions such as:

"And how much did this fish cost?"

"And how much was the television? Did you get it from Bing Lee?"

Again: there's gratitude for you. How about:

"This meal is awesome, and I love the television"

... now there's a thought.

Needless to say, everyone enjoyed the trifle. Hands down, the best dessert to date. Well done, BigSister.

The next day was Boxing Day and BigSister ventured into the scary world of Post Christmas sales, at the equally scary hour of 8 am, while I slept blissfully on. I snuck back into the world of xoxo Gossip Girl while my sister returned home victorious- shoes, sparkly Collette Dinnigan jacket and a wool dress all for a third of their original price. We ate leftover Christmas dinner and I exited Boxing Day feeling a little annoyed that I had wasted the day watching dvds. But then I considered that there wasn't really much else to do, and it was fine.

On Sunday my sister and I visited our old next door neighbour. She's 85 and her husband is 88 and they're the cutest couple you ever saw. We gave her a sushi making kit for Christmas and raided her fridge for some exotic chunks of cheese, bread, pickles, capsicim and Mango fool (it's mango chopped up into tiny pieces mixed in with milk). Yum. I kick started my New Years' resolution to drive more and drove up and back from Castle Hill. Proud as.

P.S I have six words (and eight items of jewellery) for you: Castle Towers Diva- Best Purchases Ever.

On Monday I moaned about the whys and wherefores of going back to work while BigSister told me to Snap out of it! and just ignore the impending gloom that is, the day after the Christmas break. But I don't wanna go back to work! I yelled, to anyone who would listen.

I met my sister's boss- a judge in the Supreme Court. Jovial, articulate and a food lover himself, we enjoyed the best Japanese that China Town has to offer at Menya. We slurped down our noodles, marvelled at the amount of soup he had spilled on his shirt "Just pretend it's the rain!!" before saying au revoir and leaving him to navigate his way back home through the city.

To top off my four day weekend, I caught up with my old friend Miss Louise, from high school. She's living the dream: working in Geneva, travelling the world, actually doing something adventurous with her life. If you know what I mean. We talked, took silly photos, cringed at the weirdo waiter who clearly had a crush on poor Miss Louise and wanted her digits and yammered on and on like the good old days. I love catching up with her and can't get over the fact that even though we go for loooong stretches of not seeing one another, each catch up is like a continuation of the last one gone by- we don't miss a beat, there is no awkward crevasse to bridge each time we speak, and it relaxed, easy and fun.

Like I said, on the whole Christmas break was a lovely mix of people, food and family politics. Today I returned to work sad and unmotivated. In fact, I probably declared from the moment I stepped into the office, that today with be a highly unproductive day. Work can start with a vengeance next year. It's still the festive season after all, right? right???

The day before the day before the Day.

http://www.ticwatches.co.uk/warhol-nothing-special-episode-unisex-andy113-1174-3663_medium.jpg


Today's the day before Christmas Eve which is the day before Christmas Day.

In other words, today's the day no one takes notice of because it's like an extra toe- you could live without it.

Here are the ten things I noted on the day that I would otherwise overlook simply because it's the day before the day before the Day:

1. Myer is open for 24 hours of non stop shopping


2. My work shoes have got a hole near my right big toe. They're just hanging on. I refuse to get new ones. They need to see this year out


3. Everyone at work mooched around declaring "I'm so unmotivated today"


4. I wore purple eyeliner simply because the dress code didn't seem all that important


5. The trains are empty


6. People meandered as they walked to work. No urgency to speak of. Meander away everyone, you deserve it


7. A little toddler sat in the seats near the train doors and proceeded to squash her nose all Miss Piggy-esque against the plastic barrier. She then giggled uproariously for the next ten minutes and made the whole carriage laugh


8. A general vibe of laidback excitement. Christmas Carols galore.


9. It's hot. It's sticky. It's too hard to move too fast


10. My bank account is in the depths of despair and I need to get paid pronto

Tomorrow is a half day at work and mufti day- double jammy of fun !

Tis the season to be sil-ly fa la la la la la la la la...

http://blog.lib.umn.edu/marty031/meredithsblog/christmas.jpg

Christmas is meant to be the silly season. You're meant to eat lots, relax and forget about the reality that January is but a mere handful of days away. The silly season is over almost as soon as it began and the year looms ahead. Bah Humbug! I hear you say?

Well sure, I'll admit that it's the Pessimist's Take on the the World's Best Time of the Year. But I actually think it's a mix of trepidation and anticipation. I sort of prefer June and July over January and February because I'm already in the thick of things- on the treadmill that runs to the end of the year... whereas, Christmas and the New Year mark the start of a giant hill that you have climb; conquering challenges, the humdrum, dealing with the everyday waves that trip us up and occasionally drive us to despair.

Having said that, as long as I push that trepidation out of my mind, I'm having a ball and I'll be honest, this weekend was crazy awesome. And I mean the most crazy awesome my weekend has been in a long time. Not crazy and awesome as in, "I went stir crazy and the food was awesome", but more in the, my travel bug was reignited and I'm excited about doing lots of different things next year way. Man from Mars' mates from Exchange came to visit Melbourne- one's a Dutchie and the other is a Frenchie. They're super cool and nice. I love people who love to travel- they're always excited, open to adventure and non-judgmental. Most of the time they're also laid back and fascinated in absolutely everything, which makes you realise that all it takes is a plane ticket to anywhere, to get you feeling the exact same feeling, stoked about life, places and people- invigorated, exhausted, craving a soft bed. Appreciating the world for what it is.

We watched "Weird Science" at the Rooftop Cinema, sipped chocolately coffee at Brunetti's, had burgers in Federation Square, went to Japanese where two police paddy wagons stood out front for the better part of our meal and talked and laughed and listened. They shopped while Man from Mars and I bid farewell to our lovely friend who is leaving us for London- a teaching sojourn that will leave her Melbourneless for a year. She's nervous, excited and apprehensive- like we all are before the start of something big- but like it always turns out: the best time ever.

I can't wait to hear her adventures and I can't wait for my own- I wonder what the year will bring. This morning I sat next to my next door neighbour on the train ride into work. He was going into town to go to the dentist and had been chosen to play Santa at the local shops. With his fearsome bushy white eyebrows, a mustache grown especially for Movember and a slightly less than rotund belly, he was a perfect pick. He stared down at me and furrowed those eyebrows until they couldn't go down no more:

"When the opportunity presents itself, grab it with both hands. The youth is wasted on the young. You don't want to live with regrets."

And with a stirring shake of his fists he grinned widely. I grinned too. Every year will have its aeroplane highs, it's shitsucks lows and its terrifying moments of baulking in the face of a challenge. But at the end of the day we'll get through it, we'll wake up the next morning and do it all again.

Merry Christmas to you and to you and to you. Hope the Teens (this decade was the "Noughties" so moving onto the Teens) are good to you.

Different wavelengths...

http://www.astronomynotes.com/light/freqwavl.gif

For Man from Mars and I, the Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus dichotomy becomes most clear when it comes to the subject of driving.

I hate it. I'm a nervous driver who feels pressured by the driver behind me, rushes through lane changes and feels like the world is doomed as soon as I step wheel into the cramped and hectic hell that is, the car park.

Save me, I'm begging you.

Meanwhile, Man from Mars classes driving as his "me" time. His time for introspection and calm; an escape from the buzz and wild times of a share house and life in Canberra.

I love it, he says.

Love is a very strong word, I point out. It shouldn't be chucked around loosely and in my opinion, driving definitely isn't worthy of such high praise.

The Sweet Park that led to nowhere...

http://stylefrizz.com/img/the-sartorialist-scott-schuman.jpg

On Tuesday, the Sartorialist (http://www.thesartorialist.blogspot.com/) was in town to promote his new book and we wanted to be one of those well dressed, nonchalant but secretly excited people who was lucky enough to get his autograph without even trying. My sister bought the last copy at Kinokuniya and we both left work early to get to Sass & Bide on Oxford Street quicksticks.

We roared around Oxford Street, found a sweet park, sweet parked and trotted excitedly up the hill. The book signing began at 6 pm and we were pretty punctual- it was only 6:30 pm after we'd wormed our way through the side streets and began the pavement pound en route to Sass & Bide.

But as we drew closer and closer our hearts sank to our knees. The line ran halfway down the block, past Scanlan & Theodore and all the way around the corner. We were like O M G . But like I said before, it was still really early- the book signing would go until 9 pm, and we were still optimistic at this stage. We took our place at the end of the queue and eyed the other people in the queue. An eclectic mix. There was one guy in a tailored cream suit and a trilby. He looked like he'd walked straight out of the Sartorialist's blog and I presumed that his intention was to be photographed by this revered fashion commentator. Then there was the girl in the black strapless jumpsuit. She looked cool, and I heard her telling her friend that it was the only thing she had which would be appropriate for this occassion. Directly in front of us were two girls carrying Valentino handbags. They were pretty annoying because they both worked in law firms and they kept gushing about how intense work is, but on the other hand how absolutely fascinating it is to be working in such a commerically successful law firm. Y a w n.

At the beginning my sister and I could ignore the painful throb as we stood in our heels. We thumbed through the Sartorialist's book and pointed out outfits we liked and others that were interesting more for the people wearing them. But as hard as we tried to amuse ourselves, the queue could not have progressed any slower than it did. Every ten minutes the line would creep forward by a couple of people. Everyone would shuffle forward patiently. It would be worth it in the end- our book would be autographed, we would go home and in 20 years' time our book would be a collector's item.

But as the minutes ticked by and we used up the hour allocated to our sweet park, the wind began to howl, rain threatened to bucket down and we were still hours away from the front of the line. Our mouths turned downwards and we muttered about the possibility that the following exchange was taking place between the autographer and each and every autographee:

Autographer: Hi, I love what you're wearing

Autographee: (Squeals) I love your work. Your photos are incredible. You are my idol. I am overwhelmed. (Swoon)

Autographer: Thank you so much! Your support means so much to me

Autographee: Anything for you Mr Sartorialist, care to take a photo of my outfit?


And so it would probably go on.

The whole situation was a disaster and by the time 8 pm had rolled around, my sister and I had had enough. It wasn't the Sartorialist's fault. It was the way the whole thing was coordinated. Lines spewing out from both directions of the store entrance. Confusion. Disorganisation. Plus, we were famished, and when you're hungry, there's no going forward. We were going home.

That's not to say that we were defeated. As we walked down Oxford Street passing all those other people braving the gale force winds and still waiting in line, we linked arms and pretended that we had indeed obtained the coveted autograph of the Sartorialist. We flipped open the book and I feigned pointing at the non-existent signature, all the while proclaiming "Wow that is sooo coool!" Juvenile and immature, I know- but it was the least we could do to redeem this failed night which had begun with so much anticipation and promise.

The Rogue (Birthday) Trader

http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51NqChdsFNL._SL500_AA280_.jpg

The exact date of my dad's birthday has always been a bit of a mystery to me and probably to him.

He was born in the late 1940's, somewhere near the end of the year when South Korea was going through some unstable times and records weren't kept all that well.

He has a bunch of siblings- the oldest of which is approximately 20 years older than he is. He's the youngest.

His driver's licence states that he was born in April. When I was in primary school, he declared the end of December to be his birthday. Then he changed his mind and for reasons only known to him, he decided that December 7th would be the way to go.

And so that date stuck.

Until this year.

As we unveiled a strawberry custard masterpiece and presented our gifts, Dad stared up confused and declared:

"Naw! You got the date wrong- now it's the 24th of November! I found the records and that's my actual birthday!"

You don't say.

He chuckled indulgently- as if to say "You guys are so absent minded!" and proceeded to croon at the card we got for him. One of those ones where you open it and the card launches into a song- in this case Disco Inferno by The Trammps (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_sY2rjxq6M&feature=related).

Over and over, he whipped that card open. Each time he whopped at the ingenuity of the card's design.

And so we played Disco Inferno eleventy more times, in place of singing Happy Birthday for him.

He was the birthday boy after all- I suppose he has a right to do whatever he wants.

He declared this birthday to be the best ever and the day ended on a high with my mum and dad jiving to the jukebox that was, his birthday card.

Not on my belly's life...

http://www.shangri-la.com/uploadedImages/property/Sydney/dining/restaurants/cafeMix.jpg

Stomach bugs are the worst. Especially when you get hit by them the day before your work Christmas party which is being held at the Shangri La- Cafe Mix- Buffet.

Yes. Buffet.

I stayed up all Thursday night feeling horrid and dizzy, all the while declaring the situation completely unjust and unfair. How was I going to eat like the king with this lurgy in tow?

I wasn't. Obviously.

So I missed out on the mountains of seafood, the chocolate fountain, the shelves of beautiful pastries and cakes and had to make do with a bowl of miso soup and two pieces of "safe sushi"- as in, nothing complex; the cucumber and avocado kind.

Oh woe is me.

I've heard that those buffets are $200 for two people.

Wasted.