Actually, it could be Rocky IX, I lost track of them after about Rocky III. Anyway the point of the story is - I've decided to start kickboxing. I figure it might clear my head a bit, not to mention make me feel a bit safer walking past the dodgy men's hotel down the road at night.
This wasn't an entirely voluntary decision however, my colleague practically forced me to go last Friday night. I hesitated all day but after a slightly counter-productive pre-session cigarette I decided to just go for it. At first, it was painfully obvious I was the new girl. Apart from being punier than everyone else, I was pretty much the only one not adorned in professional looking kickboxing trousers (which I have to say are far less flattering than yoga pants so I wasn't too disappointed to have my humble H&M trackydaks*). The kickboxing attire seems to require big, slightly shiny black pants and oversized black tshirts. I think I'll have to work on that.
Over the next hour I was kicked, punched, wrestled to the ground, forced to undergo a torturous series of pushups and weird tantric-style exercises which left my colleague and I either rolling on the floor in laughter or contorted into some weird acrobatic position. And I loved it! I came out feeling like I had actually achieved something, despite the fact my kicking technique leaves a lot to be desired and probably couldn't even deter one of the little street punks that skate outside the club.
But the best thing about this particular kickboxing club? One of the trainers owns a bar...right around the corner. So after class we all trooped off to the pub, looking disdainfully at the karate guys who had the room after us. (The story goes that we will be the fattest kickboxing club in town, thereby removing the need for the big kick-pads and using nothing more than the sheer force of beer bellies instead). It was so nice to be instantly accepted into the fold rather than scorned for being, frankly, quite hopeless.
Meanwhile I've been doing some hard thinking and I've decided on the advice of my wonderful friend S back in the Dam that I need to make some concrete plans to turn my life around. She also suggested a shrink, but since my previous three experiences with shrinks have involved a large American woman whose sole attempt at advice was quoting Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus at me as she served me particularly un-comforting herbal tea with powdered milk in it (I spent every session trying to decipher the university at the bottom of the certificate on her wall, I swear it had to be one of those "Study from Home" courses they advertise in TV Guides), a nicer American guy who really just listened and didn't actually give me any advice, and lastly a well-meaning young woman who earnestly told me that I should stop choosing unavailable men and do a study course instead. Hmm. So hundreds of dollars later I might be an aspiring masters student with a self-help book collection but that's about it.
I think I'll stick with the kickboxing.
*trackydaks - noun - Australian for tracksuit pants, usually particularly daggy* in nature
* daggy - adjective - Australian for "resembling the clothing of a loser", originally from dag*
*dag - noun - apparently a sheep-farming term for the poo that clings to the wool around a sheep's butt
Monday, August 28, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
For a minute there I lost myself
Well it's another day another kronor, and like most days recently I've felt like I'm in a cage. But I'm trying to tell myself to give myself a break.
Even though I've moved around the world before (twice, actually), I had forgotten one important thing, that favourite quote of mine: "Wherever you go, there you are". But I also had forgotten an even more important thing, who exactly "you" was.
They say if you start over in a new place you can start a new life. This may be true for ex-fugitives, people with a stash of passports in a lock box (I only have two, so my collection isn't very useful) or washed up child actors (that's only according to E! News, that bastion of Birdy and my world view), but I haven't found it to be true. The same mistakes will be made, the same heartaches will follow you, the same regrets to keep you awake at night if you aren't lucky enough to have a friend in the US who can ship sleeping tablets easily purchased over the counter at Walmart.
In my case, my painful Lost in Translation experience of last year has been following me. But I suddenly remembered that even though perhaps Mr Unrequited or various others don't think I'm 'wonderful' or 'beautiful' anymore, it doesn't mean I've changed - they have. And maybe, just maybe, they made the mistake, not me. Maybe in 20 years time they will wonder how different things could have been. Funnily enough, I remembered this while jogging, something I haven't done much since I was 19 and a damn sight skinnier than I am now (not to mention less alcoholic and Scandinavian in my smoking habits), so needless to say I wasn't exactly powering along. Jogging is the new meditation, I swear. I had the iPod cranked up on old Powderfinger songs from home, and lead singer Mr Fanning saideth unto me "I'll just keep kicking at the cracks.. until it all falls in on me...don't panic, don't panic". Suddenly I remembered the old days in Brisvegas, when I used to jog along the main road in Red Hill (with a Discman in those pre-ipod days), past the house of a previous Mr Unrequited who had also suddenly lost interest in me (sources say he is now married, living in Melbourne and apparently dresses like a homeboy from LA, but that is all unconfirmed). I realised I have kicked at the cracks before, I've done all of this before and goddamit, I survived - although whether or not I'm stronger because of it is debatable. And right now, and I say this to anyone who has just moved away - from a place or a person - maybe surviving is all you can do. Even though I don't want to go home, it does remind me at least of the fact I've been down harder roads than this one, or at least, they seemed so at the time. Especially that road in Red Hill. Now you'd hope that I had got somewhere in the last 8 years, but it's hard to see sometimes. Maybe writing it down will help.
Meanwhile I have at least achieved the milestone of my first Swedish crayfish party, although I'm sure that usually you don't have to dress up in 1970s disco attire to participate. It was a pretty surreal experience, ripping the tails off crayfish while singing snaps songs (and, obviously, drinking the snaps!) We were even treated to disco instructional videos from Finland (for those non Scandinavians, I gather that Finland is looked upon as the "Tasmania" of Scandinavia). I have dug one up for your viewing pleasure.
Despite everything, I still haven't mastered the art of budgeting, shopping wisely or eating properly, or falling in love with people who aren't in love with me, but maybe that just means I'm still me. And if it's just me and Mr Fanning on this road, so be it.
Even though I've moved around the world before (twice, actually), I had forgotten one important thing, that favourite quote of mine: "Wherever you go, there you are". But I also had forgotten an even more important thing, who exactly "you" was.
They say if you start over in a new place you can start a new life. This may be true for ex-fugitives, people with a stash of passports in a lock box (I only have two, so my collection isn't very useful) or washed up child actors (that's only according to E! News, that bastion of Birdy and my world view), but I haven't found it to be true. The same mistakes will be made, the same heartaches will follow you, the same regrets to keep you awake at night if you aren't lucky enough to have a friend in the US who can ship sleeping tablets easily purchased over the counter at Walmart.
In my case, my painful Lost in Translation experience of last year has been following me. But I suddenly remembered that even though perhaps Mr Unrequited or various others don't think I'm 'wonderful' or 'beautiful' anymore, it doesn't mean I've changed - they have. And maybe, just maybe, they made the mistake, not me. Maybe in 20 years time they will wonder how different things could have been. Funnily enough, I remembered this while jogging, something I haven't done much since I was 19 and a damn sight skinnier than I am now (not to mention less alcoholic and Scandinavian in my smoking habits), so needless to say I wasn't exactly powering along. Jogging is the new meditation, I swear. I had the iPod cranked up on old Powderfinger songs from home, and lead singer Mr Fanning saideth unto me "I'll just keep kicking at the cracks.. until it all falls in on me...don't panic, don't panic". Suddenly I remembered the old days in Brisvegas, when I used to jog along the main road in Red Hill (with a Discman in those pre-ipod days), past the house of a previous Mr Unrequited who had also suddenly lost interest in me (sources say he is now married, living in Melbourne and apparently dresses like a homeboy from LA, but that is all unconfirmed). I realised I have kicked at the cracks before, I've done all of this before and goddamit, I survived - although whether or not I'm stronger because of it is debatable. And right now, and I say this to anyone who has just moved away - from a place or a person - maybe surviving is all you can do. Even though I don't want to go home, it does remind me at least of the fact I've been down harder roads than this one, or at least, they seemed so at the time. Especially that road in Red Hill. Now you'd hope that I had got somewhere in the last 8 years, but it's hard to see sometimes. Maybe writing it down will help.
Meanwhile I have at least achieved the milestone of my first Swedish crayfish party, although I'm sure that usually you don't have to dress up in 1970s disco attire to participate. It was a pretty surreal experience, ripping the tails off crayfish while singing snaps songs (and, obviously, drinking the snaps!) We were even treated to disco instructional videos from Finland (for those non Scandinavians, I gather that Finland is looked upon as the "Tasmania" of Scandinavia). I have dug one up for your viewing pleasure.
Despite everything, I still haven't mastered the art of budgeting, shopping wisely or eating properly, or falling in love with people who aren't in love with me, but maybe that just means I'm still me. And if it's just me and Mr Fanning on this road, so be it.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Madness - anal and otherwise
Back from the madness of Amsterdam. And it truly is a surreal place, even when doing quite ordinary things and not perusing the latest wares in the Red Light District (or on porn channel number #459, but more about that later).
First surreal moment-to-remember was at that most crucially ritualistic of social events, the wedding. This wedding was particularly interesting because it represented nothing less than a clash of civilisations - Dutch and English. You probably think I'm being dramatic, but let me tell you, they have very different ways of celebrating nuptials. Actually, the Dutch have different ways of celebrating everything for one very significant reason: they never, ever dress up. For this wedding, the bride (who is English) had gone to the trouble of setting up an entire website devoted to the intracies of an English wedding (this was not to be a harmonious blending of tradition, more a delicately rose-scented form of cultural imperalism). The website included an entire section on dress code. To protect the guilty (who will be shamed below) I won't include the link but here's an extract:
"The Bride will be wearing white, or off white (she is pure, but not that pure) so it would be plain rude for any other Female Guest to turn up in White or off White. Likewise Black is a big no no. Sorry, but [bride] likes to think this is a 'Wedding' not a 'Funeral' (Well it is for [the groom]). Anything else in-between is fine. It will be a smart occasion so wear a dress or smart clothes where no black or white can be seen. No Jeans and casual clothes."
I have to admit that I was a bit rebellious and wore a black and white dress - but I did get prior approval from the bride, and had my makeup professionally done (not that you can tell in the photos, I look awful, and so none will be posted here). The photo above is an example we were provided with, although thankfully no-one recreated that particular outfit. Maybe they should have - one of the Dutch guests actually turned up in sneaker boots, and others in white suits the type a divorcee might reasonably wear at their second wedding. Even the bridal party seemed rather nonplussed about their "penguin suits", as I heard one of them utter. Normally I wouldn't be so indignant about fashion, most of my own wardrobe coming from the racks of H&M, but I had spent a fortune on my own dress and makeup and was wishing I was allowed to waltz in wearing nothing but tracksuit pants and an old Bonds singlet instead of downing glasses of red wine to dull the pain of my very high heels. Ok, I never actually wear tracksuits, but you get the point. I don't know what it is about weddings, they always sound like such a lovely idea but seem to require a marathon runner's stamina to survive, especially if you are single and being touted round to potential partners ("you know what they say about weddings", etc etc). It was quite a relief to go home to my beloved friend whom we shall call Birdy, and explore the cornucopia that the cable channels offered us.
Unfortunately, being Amsterdam, this wasn't just any old cable. After 8 hungover hours being brainwashed by E! television on Saturday, we were quite shocked to discover the availability of porn just two channels up the dial next to Eurosport 1 (conveniently located one click away for guilty husbands, I bet). The porn however was so bad it was good, many an entertaining hour could be had glued to "Anal Madness" or "Gusher Girls". Admittedly we decided to cook burritos and margaritas and watch the entire second series of LOST instead. (Ok, so we just had wine, not having the ingredients or in fact any knowledge of the ingredients of margaritas, apart from vague notions about tequila). I don't know which could drive you mad faster - E's "Starlicious Plastic Surgery Makeovers" or margaritas.
Whatever it was, something blew a fuse in my head and last night saw the resurgence of my madness when I decided to have far too many beers with Mr Unrequited. (Well how could my love life be such a car crash without these recurring acts of stupidity?) I am attempting to patch up our friendship, and friendship is all it is, but it's going to be a superhuman battle against myself. (My boss always says I really should patent the movie rights. This script is even going to challenge the heart-wrenching acting talents of ... Tom Hanks. Now that's a bad movie!) But seriously it is a problem I have, holding on to these people who I value so much but have to let go in order to meet another one. I guess it's hard to go back when you've crossed an emotional line.
And, in one last ditch attempt at madness (or maybe to drown its effects in self-destructive behaviour), despite last night's beers I'm off to once again drown my sorrows ....but this time on a good girlfriend's balcony.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Leeches and London
Britain, Britain, Britain, as they say on my favourite black comedy. Land of "nobbly oaty biscuits", late night curries, Hugh Grant, tepid tea and cucumber sandwiches. I love London, it always feels so good to be here. It reminds me of my first tentative steps into Europe armed only with a bad haircut (which of course lives on in my passport) and a credit card. Jon Jon once said that London still has a buzz about it that he will never tire of (despite his decidedly bourgeois penchant for the South of France), and I feel the same. Funnily I always seem to end up here when I'm in some kind of transition. Last time I was here, before my ill-fated attempt to move home to Oz, it was just after the 7/7 terrorist attacks and everyone was a little jumpy to say the least. A friend reported that Covent Garden tube station was closed for several hours because someone left an apparently very dangerous sandwich on a park bench. I remember catching a bus to Notting Hill in a desperate bid to escape Oxford Street as the police sirens started going off (again), only to discover later to my horror that the terrorists actually lived In Notting Hill. So much for Hugh Grant and tepid tea then.
A lot of Australians end up here - just the other night I was sitting in an Italian restaurant, drinking some horrible red wine and waiting for my beloved friend Kendall. Suddenly I realised that the familiarity of those at the next table was not because they were speaking English (a novelty for me in itself) but because they were speaking Australian English. And not just Australian English, but that pure breed of it called strine. Not only were they speaking Strine, but they were speaking about a most Australian subject - leeches. Leeches and ticks. "Leeches got up me gaiters," an old man with large 1980s square spectacles and a flannel shirt was saying. "And when they do that you have to put a little bit of salt on 'em," (at this peering at his completely disinterested teenage grandsons over his glasses with a nod to the ultimate wisdom of this statement.) "Some people use fire, but that just makes them shrivel up," he continued, as I looked at the plump, increasingly parasite-like mushrooms in my pasta with a little less appetite. This conversation then extended to ticks, cows and various other dinner conversation topics related to farm-bound afflictions. I couldn't help looking on the old couple and their grandsons with absolute affection. It was the most boring conversation I had ever heard, but I am sure that beneath his flannel shirt the old guy had a heart of gold, even if I wouldn't trust him to be able to apply his admirable leech-defying survival skills in the concrete jungle of a London tube station.
Top therapeutic things to do in London usually include looking in quirky museums for shrunken heads with my friend Ben (guarantees a second glance from the caretakers when we politely enquire if this museum has a shrunken head department and if not, why not?); eating at Pret-a-Manger three times a day and needless to say being careful not to leave the potentially deadly sandwiches at tube stations; getting a horrendously overpriced pedicure at Selfridge's for the cost of which I could probably afford a 3 week holiday with Jon Jon in the south of France; or reducing my credit card to a lump of melted plastic. I'm hoping that once again London will be the precursor to some kind of turning point in my life.
I haven't posted for a few days because I've been struggling with the black dog that Winston Churchill apparently used to call his depression. (At least my black dog is relatively well behaved, unlike the hound I saw on the BBC this morning which apparently has chewed up Elvis Presley's teddy bear. Good old BBC, reporting the hard hitting news and all before breakfast). Meanwhile I'm at the office which in London is particularly charming being surrounded by squirrels, a fish pond and a huge rambling garden, and in this case also blessed by nobbly oaty biscuits and cucumber sandwiches.
On the up side Uma and I have managed to secure an apartment although I will be homeless until possibly as late as October. This means that my kind temporary flatmate is reduced to sleeping on the camping bed in much closer proximity to the pigeons living on the balcony, who seem to be in heat and keep us awake with their horrible mating calls. (This prompted said flatmate to threaten mating with the pigeons himself yesterday morning, if it would shut them up. I hope I managed to talk him out of that one, but I can't say for sure).
Meanwhile heading off to Amsterdam, not my most favourite of European cities and on not my most favourite of airlines - I have to warn you now that may prompt a rant about the inflight "service". Cheerio for now London, with or without leeches. I'll have a cup of powdered, weak KLM tea on my way to Amsterdam for you.
A lot of Australians end up here - just the other night I was sitting in an Italian restaurant, drinking some horrible red wine and waiting for my beloved friend Kendall. Suddenly I realised that the familiarity of those at the next table was not because they were speaking English (a novelty for me in itself) but because they were speaking Australian English. And not just Australian English, but that pure breed of it called strine. Not only were they speaking Strine, but they were speaking about a most Australian subject - leeches. Leeches and ticks. "Leeches got up me gaiters," an old man with large 1980s square spectacles and a flannel shirt was saying. "And when they do that you have to put a little bit of salt on 'em," (at this peering at his completely disinterested teenage grandsons over his glasses with a nod to the ultimate wisdom of this statement.) "Some people use fire, but that just makes them shrivel up," he continued, as I looked at the plump, increasingly parasite-like mushrooms in my pasta with a little less appetite. This conversation then extended to ticks, cows and various other dinner conversation topics related to farm-bound afflictions. I couldn't help looking on the old couple and their grandsons with absolute affection. It was the most boring conversation I had ever heard, but I am sure that beneath his flannel shirt the old guy had a heart of gold, even if I wouldn't trust him to be able to apply his admirable leech-defying survival skills in the concrete jungle of a London tube station.
Top therapeutic things to do in London usually include looking in quirky museums for shrunken heads with my friend Ben (guarantees a second glance from the caretakers when we politely enquire if this museum has a shrunken head department and if not, why not?); eating at Pret-a-Manger three times a day and needless to say being careful not to leave the potentially deadly sandwiches at tube stations; getting a horrendously overpriced pedicure at Selfridge's for the cost of which I could probably afford a 3 week holiday with Jon Jon in the south of France; or reducing my credit card to a lump of melted plastic. I'm hoping that once again London will be the precursor to some kind of turning point in my life.
I haven't posted for a few days because I've been struggling with the black dog that Winston Churchill apparently used to call his depression. (At least my black dog is relatively well behaved, unlike the hound I saw on the BBC this morning which apparently has chewed up Elvis Presley's teddy bear. Good old BBC, reporting the hard hitting news and all before breakfast). Meanwhile I'm at the office which in London is particularly charming being surrounded by squirrels, a fish pond and a huge rambling garden, and in this case also blessed by nobbly oaty biscuits and cucumber sandwiches.
On the up side Uma and I have managed to secure an apartment although I will be homeless until possibly as late as October. This means that my kind temporary flatmate is reduced to sleeping on the camping bed in much closer proximity to the pigeons living on the balcony, who seem to be in heat and keep us awake with their horrible mating calls. (This prompted said flatmate to threaten mating with the pigeons himself yesterday morning, if it would shut them up. I hope I managed to talk him out of that one, but I can't say for sure).
Meanwhile heading off to Amsterdam, not my most favourite of European cities and on not my most favourite of airlines - I have to warn you now that may prompt a rant about the inflight "service". Cheerio for now London, with or without leeches. I'll have a cup of powdered, weak KLM tea on my way to Amsterdam for you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
