Freudian Slips

And they also lack a sense of perspective.

I said in my previous post that I couldn't wait to hear all about my barber's prostate problems. Sadly, he was away on Saturday (maybe getting a probe, HA HA HA!) so I was forced to take my chances with a new person.

Well, I suppose, technically speaking, I wasn't FORCED to throw myself at the mercy of a stranger's sterilised cutting equipment. It's just that I was told (in vaguely threatening tones) that if I didn't want to wait then I could see the Bald Barber, and I strongly believe that a bald man cutting hair is about as trustworthy as a nudist designing clothes; with no real vested interest you're bound to end up with something shoddy. The last time I surrendered my head to a chrome dome, I was given my most absolutely terrible haircut ever in the history of haircuts; my head is quite square at the best of times, but I ended up looking like a Dick Tracy villain (check out poor Measles there) and lord knows I was possessed with the murderous rage of same when I looked in the mirror.

So instead I chose to wait and was greeted by an exquisite European specimen by the name of Anja. As she ran a delicate hand through my out-of-control coif, she commented in terse Germanic tones that I had "hair like her ex." Uh-oh.

She soon warmed up, however, and we fell into the usual conversation you have with people you are forced to spend brief periods of time with. We chatted about plans for the weekend, how our respective days have been, and what I do for a living. I always cringe slightly before answering the last one. Anja, though, was very receptive to hearing about my career, because she could totally relate:

Anja: Working with people all day is very challenging. And I have to make a lot of important decisions for people as well.
Me: Oh...really?
Anja: Well you know, I am dealing with people's lives when I cut their hair. It's not like you can change it once it's done.

While it was tempting to ask Anja if she had actually learned that hair, you know, GREW BACK, I decided not to. She was the one holding the scissors after all.

But JESUS CHRIST SOME PEOPLE ARE STUPID.

TMI

I've had a series of dreams about my teeth recently. In one, I was in the shower, coughed, and...my teeth fell out in two neat rows, like those gross minty lollies in the pick and mix bag that everyone avoids. The last thing I remember is trying to lock them back into my mouth like pieces of Lego before waking up and frantically running a finger around the inside of my mouth.

The other dream was last night, where I looked in the mirror and found that one of my front teeth was missing. Completely gone. Gaping hole where it should have been. I ran around asking various friends and family if they noticed anything unusual about my more-gummy-than-usual appearance (even dentist friends), but all of them denied seeing anything amiss. It was at this point that I started to realise that maybe this whole thing was really a dream, because lord knows my dentist friends (that's right, I'm talking to YOU) never miss anything when it comes to my teeth. Ooh look, there's signs of grinding! There's some fluoridosis! Don't rip that bag open with your teeth. Don't chew ice. Don't bite your nails. GOD. You'll be telling me not to floss with razor wire next.

My dental hygienist, in her infinite wisdom, told me that dreams about teeth are indicative of worry. Which, you know, given my decision to surround myself by clients with chronic and messy life issues, in addition to choosing a boyfriend who could be shipped out of the country in a cardboard box, is probably fairly accurate. I'm starting meditation classes this week.

My last interaction with her was anything but normal. The first time I saw her she'd talked so much I was convinced that her jaw would detach from her skull, so I was bracing myself for more inane one-sided chatter when she walked into the waiting room looking...well, looking completely depressed actually.

Her: Hi.
Me: Oh...hi! Um...busy day?
Her: Um. You know how we were talking about my ex last time? And all the shit he was giving me?
Me: (after desperate dredging of memory banks) Yes. Yes I do!
Her: Well, he died.
Me: ...
Her: He was on his motorbike when he ran into a telegraph pole. Killed instantly. Come on in.
Me: ...

So obviously things did not bode well. As she poked around in my mouth and gave my teeth a general clean, she told me more about how she was still in a state of "shock;" how her ex has a twin brother, and how she's almost convinced herself that there was some sort of mistaken identity. As my mouth was full of metal implements and bloody spit it was all I could do to offer an occasional garbled "argh-hargh."

As she typed notes into the computer, we had the following conversation:

Her: So you went to Japan?
Me: Yeah I did. Really great. You should go.
Her: Did you go to Hiroshima and see stuff about the bomb?
Me: Er. Yeah, I did. Pretty traumatic stuff. Some of the stories made me cry.
Her: Oh yeah? What sort of stories?
Me: Oh. Well, there was one about a little boy who was melted to his tricycle. Or the one about the mother who found one of her daughter's sandals and spent days wandering the streets before finding her in the morgue...
Her: (sighing) Life's really shit sometimes, isn't it.
Me: Um. I guess so...?

Perhaps, what with being a psychologist and all, I could have handled this a little better, but I have to admit that I was shocked at the level of overshare she engaged in. I'm used to emotional vomiting, don't get me wrong, but normally I'm wearing a shirt and tie and sitting in a comfy chair with a notepad.

I can't wait to get my hair cut so I can hear about my barber's ongoing difficulties with his prostate!

Couples dressing alike when they're out in public and not at a fancy dress party: sweet or creepy?

I had always assumed that any right-minded individual in the world would say "creepy" without hesitation (I'm put in mind of Sarah Ferguson's daughters, who were forced into identical tam-o'-shanters and kilt-like things before they were old enough to have wills of their own). And yet S, who is otherwise quite rational and level-headed, insists that such a thing is "romantic" and "shows that people love each other" and "we need a couples shirt" and OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE I SIGNED UP FOR.

Repressing my urge to flee, however, I acquiesced somewhat to S' wishes and bought two of THESE shirts. Before you gag, I gave one to him with the proviso that we would NOT be wearing these shirts together. This way the electric jellyfish could be "a sign" that we "care for each other" without us having to "embarrass ourselves in public." S was not easily appeased, however, and insisted that I wear my shirt to Fair Day (which was on the Sunday just gone). "When I was at Fair Day last year," he told me earnestly, "there were many couples dressed in the same shirt." I tried to convince him that they were probably part of the same gay volleyball team, but he would not be swayed.

So I made the (probably completely selfish) decision to "forget" to bring the shirt on Sunday. This caused S a fair bit of unhappiness, and there were some unpleasant words exchanged, however once again dessert solved all of our problems and we went off to Fair Day wearing pleasingly different clothes, although I was reminded constantly about ALL THE COUPLES who would be wearing the same thing as a DEMONSTRATION OF THEIR LOVE and how I would feel REALLY BAD when I saw them all.

S is rather persuasive when he wants to be, so I was actually steeling myself to feel pretty damn apologetic. We got there, and GUESS WHAT? Nobody was wearing matching shirts! What an unforeseen situation! Golly, just imagine how great it would have been if S and I had worn the same thing - we would have really stood out and no doubt looked totally cool oh wait I mean COMPLETELY FUCKING RIDICULOUS. I plan to hold this one over his head for a little while just to show that I am always right and he would do well to remember that.

Seriously though, do my actions make me a bad boyfriend? Brutal honesty will PROBABLY be mostly appreciated.

EXHIBITIONISM is the word I was looking for. I'm so stupid.

Me: So how would you describe your general health over the last couple of months?
Client: Oh, it's been SHOCKING. I mean, I haven't even been able to go the gym like before. I've lost at least five centimetres off my chest. Here, look!
Me: ...

Just a little insight into my professional life there. Riveting, isn't it.

My  job as a corporate whore comes with all sorts of exciting perks, in addition to talking to people with both body dysmorphic issues AND a desire to show their chests off to complete strangers (you'd think I'd remember the word for that, but there you go). Why, it was only yesterday that I left the house at four in the morning to travel to a red, dusty town in the middle of nowhere so that I could speak to a woman with no teeth about her "issues"! ARE YOU JEALOUS?

The plane trip itself was rather exciting; I strapped myself into a little six-seater plane and was encouraged by the pilot to "pass around the drinks in the Esky." What, no air hostess? And can I just say that rural Australia is certainly depressing from above? All red and dusty and desolate, with only sad chalky lines dividing the enormous dust plains into slightly smaller, strangely-shaped dust plains.

The town was tiny, really just a few blocks for their central business district. There still managed to be a  Subway there though; as much as I like Subway (there, I said it. I ENJOY Subway, and I LOVE their Sweet Onion Teriyaki Chicken Sub, with under six grams of fat per serve, excluding cheese and dressings. I'D PROBABLY EAT IT EVERY DAY IF I COULD COPE WITH THE DISAPPROVING SNEERS OF EVERYONE AROUND ME), they're proving to be even more virulent than McDonald's and Starbucks combined.

I spoke to the toothless woman, ate my Subway sandwich (gagging slightly on the dust that came rolling down the street every 30 seconds or so), and returned to the airport with a dodgy taxi driver who stopped to pick up another customer along the way and charged us double for the privilege of doing so. I sat in the little shack that passed for a terminal and read the town's surprisingly thick tourism guide. The "Historical Walk" consisted of a trek around the block, and included "various houses of interest," and I was informed that this town know how to "work hard AND play hard." Playing hard appeared to consist of having a nice Chinese meal (no doubt of the deep-fried, bright pink sweet and sour sauce variety that S recoils at every time I tell him stories about what passed for exotic when I was young) at the club, and shopping for arts and crafts items that my grandmother would have dismissed as naff 20 years ago. Ah, to be so easily pleased.

After making eyes at the cute pilot, I settled in with a bottle of lukewarm water that I had handfished from the Esky once again and headed back for the bright lights of Sydney. It had been a long day.

Still, I saw a saucy puppet show that night, which made up for things.

Dear S,

You don't read this blog, which is probably just as well really. I know that I've often railed against Valentine's day in the past, what with its rampant commercialism and the fact that it completely strips away any chance of spontaneous affection (both completely new and mind-blowing criticisms, I know), however I suppose this is my first "real" Valentine's day inasmuch that I've had somebody in the country to share it with. So...happy Valentine's day, I guess.

It hasn't always been easy, like that time we almost divorced after watching Sweeney Todd; you said that it was categorically the worst movie you had ever seen in your life in the history of everything ever and blamed me for your subsequent headache and depression. From this followed a long and nasty passive-aggressive argument that started in the fresh produce section of Coles and only came to an end as we stormed down the frozen dessert aisle and purchased an apple and berry pie. And while your English is much better than you give yourself credit for, and while we can generally have a great conversation with no major difficulties, there are times that I just want to shake you and scream "OMG WHY DON'T YOU UNDERSTAAAAAND!!!1!" But perhaps this is more my issue than yours.

You are certainly good at a lot of things. As I may have already mentioned, your food is to die for. You have a pleasingly wicked sense of humour, you're outgoing, have an eye for fashion, and have the amazing orientation skills of a homing pigeon. I can't help but think that some of my friends like you a bit more than they like me. Also, your recall of the Rey Figure (which you inadvertantly saw while I was doing work at home) was quite outstanding, probably better than what I would be able to manage after six years of studying the damn thing. You're bilingual, you used to run marathons (and I can certainly see the lightness of step that would presumably go with that), and you can dance. In comparison, I am good at not very much at all and I am always slightly scared that you will work this out one day.

One thing I AM good at, however, is grammar, and you can be sure that I will be flogging this into you between now and the time you take your English test that determines whether or not you can stay in the country. Because, to be quite honest, I don't know if I could handle someone else I care for being shipped back to their motherland.

I remember the day you confronted me with a piece of cutlery that was not quite a fork, yet not a spoon. You asked me what it was called. I told you that it was a spork, and the look on your face was as if I had told you that I held the key to the Emerald City, and by the way I had also cured the common cold. Seriously, your skull seemed to glow as every synapse in your brain fired at once in response to this portmanteau. You then made a point of asking me to pass you the spork, or offering me a spork, at every possible opportunity for the rest of the night. It was really very sweet.

I guess that's about it really. Thanks just for being you. Oh, and bring my Gilmore GIrls DVDs back, I'm in need of more fast-talking wordplay.

Flatmate #1, let's call him Mr Science, has long harboured ambitions of becoming a rock star. Since I have known him, his wardrobe of Tool t-shirts has grown ever larger, as has his collection of dirgey metal that sounds more like a recording of teaspoons caught in a meat grinder than anything I would call "music" in even its loosest sense. But I like , so what the hell would I know?

(On a side note, I remember browsing a music shop where in the background they had something playing that I originally mistook for the air conditioning, or perhaps one of those robot vacuum cleaners. It basically consisted of someone going "eeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaagggggghhhh," with a MIDI "Orchestra Hit" thrown in every 30 seconds or so. The only other customer in the store, a woman with a shaved head and Ugly Betty-esque glasses, was droning on in a manner similar to the music about how, like, ORGANIC, and TRIBAL, this was, and how it was some of the best comedown stuff she'd ever heard. I shudder to think where she'd been the night before to make this seem soothing. I don't even know why I told this pointless side story, except to maybe point out another form of music that isn't so much music as it is sound. Or something. As you were)

Mr Science has reached the upper echelons of Guitar Hero III, though not without making myself and Flatmate #2 (let's call her Little Miss Welfare) want to gnash our teeth and scream "ARGHH MEIN EARS" every time we hear "Knights of Cydonia." And that is sad, because it is an awesome song, and I like to think that I liked it before Mr Science did. While I have not been as successful in this game as he has, I like to think that it is because I have little to no interest in mastering the fingering to a boring old Pearl Jam song when my first attempt at Pat Benetar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" was near-perfect. Who knew that such a ROCK GOD was lurking inside me?

Anyway, Little Miss Welfare has actively encouraged this rock star malarkey, and for Mr Science's birthday bought him an electronic drum kit. It's standing right in front of me, and it sort of looks like what the skeleton of a drum kit might look like, if drum kits indeed had skeletons. Which they don't, but bear with me. Rather than shiny cymbals or exciting red tom toms, this drum kit consists of a series of black pads that offer only a sullen "thud" no matter how hard you hit them. I find this a little wimpy, to be quite honest; what's holding you back, black pads? Why are you afraid to be heard, huh?

Actually, they're not afraid to be heard when it's night time. I lie in bed with two doors separating me from the living area, but I can hear Mr Science's thuds as he plods his way through the collected works of Led Zeppelin or the drum solos from The Dave Brubeck Quartet's "Time Out" or the tam tam solos from some sort of Cantonese musical or WHATEVER because it doesn't matter because it ALL SOUNDS THE SAME when played on those fucking ridiculous black pads, and it's at times like this that I wish I'd been more of a nagger when it came to getting a piano in the place.

At work there's an e-magazine (ooh, how MODERN. I will say, though, that because it's sent around via email, nobody feels any qualms in directing it straight to the trash folder without fear of environmental harm. The miracles of technology etc.) sent around every three months or so. This is meant to detail the exciting and amazing lives of fellow co-workers and how they spend one weekend a month in the Army Reserve or rescuing native animals or learning to play canasta or WHATEVER, but because nobody actually does anything much it's reduced to a list of birthdays and general financial goings-on ("we're not making enough money - WORK HARDER").

As a desperate column-padding move in the last edition, someone included a recipe for making icecream without using a freezer; it involved copious amounts of salt and seemed so unspeakably vile that I couldn't even bring myself to make it for the purpose of rubbishing later.

In short, this missive is generally rubbished by fellow staffmembers, and in an effort to perk things up a little, the pressure was put on me to write "a little something" in relation to my trip to Japan last year. While I would love to say that I was chosen for my Wildean wit and sparkling turn of phrase, it was basically because everyone else had baulked at the request and I was basically their last resort.

And so, full of resentment, I composed this set of haikus. They're totally lame and written in a rush (deadline = 9am tomorrow, because you can't keep the e-printers waiting!), so I expect it to be returned to me with a big virtual "DECLINED" rubber stamped across it. Fingers crossed, at any rate.

I got a lot of stares
Because I am six foot four.
I felt like their god.

Japanese schoolgirls
Don't look much like Sailor Moon.
I felt quite deceived.

I thought I would die
Catching trains at peak hour,
But I learned to push.

[workmate] and I met.
We bathed nude (not together).
I stole my bathrobe.

In Kyoto I was
Photographed with school children.
It was a bit weird.

Food: an adventure.
We ate random chicken parts;
Mostly quite chewy.

On the bullet train
We spent our trip in silence;
We were hungover.

[workmate] went skiing
But I got back on a plane
And back to work. Boo!

Mmm, Zen.

Dumplings and trifle, together at last

So, as some of you may be aware, my latest boyfriend partner squeeze person I have sex with but also like to talk to jesus christ is there NO way to describe him without using a term I hate "good buddy" (argh) is Chinese. This means that over the last four months I have eaten more handmade dumplings than in all of my other years combined. Because GOD they're amazing; just the thought of the special vinegar dipping sauce and the mysterious ingredient known only as "chicken powder" (which, from what I can gather, contains negligible chicken but plenty of salt, MSG and, judging by its colour, copious amounts of yellowcake scrapings) are enough to invoke a Pavlovian drool response from me. I'M DOING IT RIGHT NOW.

Because I was not endowed with the fine motor skills necessary to chop Chinese shallots into "dust," as S so poetically puts it (my efforts come out looking more like gravel), I am generally relegated to arranging sauce bottles in what I hope is a pleasing manner on the table. I am also carefully watched when it comes to the folding and sealing phase of dumpling preparation, as many of my efforts come out looking like an abstract version of the Sydney opera house and require S to surreptitiously repair them when my back is turned.

HOWEVER, I was honoured last night by being put in charge of dessert. Trifle, to be precise. S was introduced to trifle at my parents' place over Christmas and developed quite a liking for it for reasons that still aren't clear to me, so my skills were called upon to assist in celebrating the new year. While a lot of trifle recipes I come across call for delicate layering of quarter-set port-infused gelatine over diced seasonal fruits and handmade sponge cake, my family's version consists more of splorping a whole lot of runny ingredients into a bowl, covering with copious amounts of whipped cream and chocolate curls and allowing the whole thing to congeal in the fridge for a couple of hours. I made it in a saucepan because they were out of large bowls. I'm classy like that.

The trifle appeared to be a big success (no thanks to everyone else who was there and the creepy way in which they circled around my little workstation to observe this complex and exotic dessert was assembled. Didn't anyone ever tell you about performance anxiety, guys?), with only a small runny dribble sitting forlornly at the bottom of the pan. S put it back in the fridge, stating that it would go great with the dumplings the next day for breakfast. I am not sure how he manages to stay so slim.

Or maybe just ":D"?

I used to have a blog before. Then I had a different blog, and then for a while I didn't have a blog at all. But now I think I have a blog again. Maybe. For a bit. So here it is again. For now.

So. Um. It's been raining a lot, hasn't it? I travelled all the way to a bread factory for work yesterday only to be told that nobody had come in because of the flooding. I wasn't impressed. How selfish of them.

Um.

Oh, I know. Last night I received a text message from my mother, who is currently in New Zealand. My brother finished high school last year, and to celebrate the fact that they will never have to read another school report again, my parents upped and left the country. My sister's in South Africa as well, so I suppose it's up to my brother and me to fly the Australian flag.

...oh yes, the text message. It reads "HI (freudianslips) HPE U R WELL WE R AT (great-aunty) and (great-uncle)S NOW NANA HAS BEEN IN HOSPITAL AGAIN LOL MUM."

Let's leave aside the fact that it's all in capitals and appears as if my mother is actually trying to shout at me from New Zealand (text messages don't work that way mum!!1!). The phone my father insists on carrying around is only one generation from the ones that come with the aerial you have to pull out before taking a call, and doesn't lend itself to...well, to anything much at all really, and it's possible that capitals are all it knows. Also, while I detest abbreviations ("U," "R" "L8R" and the ilk), full props to my mother for learning and applying the lingo of today.

The "LOL" after news of my grandmother's hospitalisation surprises me, however. Mum has always ostensibly gotten on with her mother-in-law, and she doesn't seem like the sort of person to blatantly revel in someone else's misery. I guess it's kind of funny, in that my grandmother has been repeatedly sending herself to the hospital, only to be discharged a day later with a new pill to take...and now she's back in there again! Better get a bigger pill box, Nana! Ha ha ha?

I haven't sent a reply yet, though I feel that "roflmao hop its not hr hip!!" would be inappropriate.