Advice Part 104- Christmas gifts

Aah, Christmas. A time of joyful carols (well, joyful the first time....somewhat less charming when you are subjected to Jingle Bells for the thousandth occasion), crowded shopping centres, too much food, and Santas who seem to look more frightening every year (serious question- is it really that hard to invent a realistic looking fake beard?).

However, all this pales in comparison to the horror of trying to find gifts for troublesome family members. Particularly if said family members have rather...errr....."unique"...interests.

My advice to young players is that such a process is likely to be filled with considerable frustration, (and potential humiliation), so you had best be prepared.

How do I know this? Read on.....

My father is a 74 year old retired gentleman. He enjoys reading, documentaries (especially concerning Ancient Egypt or the First and Second World Wars), gardening, and anything to do with Alexander the Great (I was a disappointment from the very moment of my arrival on this earth-I was not a boy).

However, his favourite thing is mushrooms.

But not the kind that you eat- he hates those. Rather, he likes red poisonous mushrooms with white spots. Only red ones. And only with white spots. The parameters are strict, and widening them is a no-no.

Anyhow......

On Saturday, I went shopping for my dad's Christmas present, and decided that I would buy him something mushroom-related to add to his burgeoning collection. At Bondi Junction, I hit the proverbial jackpot. There, in a homewares store, was a delightful, crocheted mushroom, of precisely the right colour and shape.

There was only one problem. Said decorative mushroom was actually a baby's rattle, which emitted a jolly "tinkle tinkle" when picked up. Still, that didn't bother me, and off I went to the counter to pay. That's where the fun started....

• Shop assistant: Hello, there. How are you today?
• Me: Very well, thanks. And you?
• Shop assistant: Doing your Christmas shopping? This rattle is just lovely, isn't it? It's wonderful when there's children at Christmas.
• Me (stupidly): Oh, it's not for a child. 
• Shop Assistant (curious): No? 
• Me: Oh no! It's for my dad.
• Shop assistant (looking a bit perturbed): OK. Sure.
• Me (trying desperately to salvage the situation): Yes, he just loves mushrooms! Especially red ones with white spots. He can't get enough of them. 
• Shop assistant (clearly fearing for my sanity, and likely concluding that my father is a "magic" mushroom fiend): Well, he'll like this one. I think. 
• Me (getting more and more desperate): Oh, he will. His lounge room is filled with mushrooms. 
• Shop assistant (silently looking more and more worried).....

Let me assure you, I beat a hasty retreat from that shop. And I don't expect I'll be going back any time soon. But I guess I probably provided an amusing anecdote for the shop assistant, who could go home and tell her friends about the crazy woman who came in to buy a baby's rattle for her magic mushroom loving father....

Advice Part 102- Dating Disasters Part 5 (otherwise known as "the date that never happened")

I realised today that it has been a while since I wrote about my dating disasters, as new material has not been forthcoming of late (whether for better or for worse). Hence, this story is being dredged from the very bowels of my collection, amidst the muddy, rotting detritus of awkward situations that I would prefer not to revisit with any regularity.....

But, that being said, I think it provides some useful advice to young players that if someone advises you NOT to approach a potential partner, it is often a good idea to take this warning seriously.

How do I know this? Read on.....

A few years ago, I was desperate. I am not ashamed to say this now, but it was a most grim time. My eyes were constantly open, seeking opportunities, and I thought I had hit the proverbial jackpot when my neighbour told me she was moving out, and she would be renting her apartment to her cousin.

The following conversation ensued:

• Me: So....Is your cousin a man or a lady?
• Her: A man
• Me: And how old is he? (subtlety was never my strong point)
• Her: 28. Around your age.
• Me (unable to believe my good fortune): And he's married?
• Her: No.
• Me (getting more and more excited): Single, then?
• Her: I'm not sure.
• Me: That's great! I can't wait to meet him! (Hell, relating this story now, I cringe at my level of desperation)
• Her (big pause): He's not the man for you.
• Me: Oh. Right. Fair enough, then. Umm.....

To be honest, I was a bit shocked by this. "Not the man for you"? What on earth did THAT mean? How did my neighbour know what sort of men were or weren't for me? I like to think of myself as very open-minded. Perhaps this guy was JUST the man for me! Or didn't she think I was good enough for him? That was a bit offensive. Or did he have some particular predilection for women of a certain "type" (e.g. blonde hair, Asian background) so that she knew in advance that he wouldn't have any interest in me?

My mind considered all possibilities, and, like a child who has been told that no, that sweet is "not the one for you", I became more and more determined to meet this elusive cousin.

But the day he arrived, I realised that she was right. He was NOT the man for me. Because not only was he in a relationship, but his partner was another guy.

Strangely enough, I was absolutely DELIGHTED by this discovery! There wasn't anything "wrong" with me, that made me an unsuitable dating prospect for the cousin. Rather, he was "not the man for me" because I was not a man for him, if that makes sense.

And I think that's a good thing.

Advice Part 101- Clothes that fit

Once upon a time, in the dim recesses of history (perhaps not the time of Socrates, but at least back in the Middle Ages), I was a size 10. However, unlike the ANZACs, age has wearied me and the years have condemned, and my waistline has burgeoned.

I am now a size 14.

At this stage, I would typically say "no biggie." But perhaps that isn't appropriate here....

However, in recent days, I have come to a rather startling revelation- whilst I know that I am no longer a slender adolescent, many others seem to lack the knowledge that they are NOT a size 10, and insist of wearing clothes which DO NOT FIT. Hence, my advice to young players is that if you are going to buy some clothes, please, PLEASE buy a size which fits, whether it is a size 10, 16, or 26!!!!!

How did I reach this conclusion? Read on.....

As many of you will know, of late I have joined the dark side and acquired an office job in the city. Besides an income, my job has provided me with ample opportunity to observe the sartorial preferences of my fellow city workers. And, snide and snarky as this may sound, I have noticed a disturbing propensity for both genders to don clothes which simply do. not. fit. And the vast majority of those who wear clothes that don't fit are wearing ones which are WAY too small.

Of course, dear readers, I do not believe that YOU fit (ha ha, see what I did there?) into the category of the "eternal size 10 who refuses to acknowledge that they are probably closer to a size 16." But, in case you are EVER tempted to enter this "forbidden realm", or in case some of your nearest and dearest are showing signs of toppling over the edge, I have decided to assemble a helpful little list.

How to tell if your clothes are too small:

• You are wearing a button up shirt, and the buttons gape open or pop off. If one button falls off, OK, perhaps it wasn't sewn on correctly. But when they all ricochet off regularly with abandon, this is a worrying sign.
  
• You are unable to sit down, because of the risk that the seams on your skirt or pants will split.
• Your pants are so snug that not only can passersby see the outline of your underpants from the back, they can also see the outline of your undies (and everything else) from the front. This is extremely disturbing.

• There is a big gap between the bottom of your pants and the tops of your shoes, so that everyone can see exactly what colour socks you are wearing. This is particularly embarrassing when the socks don't match, and one is a novelty Mickey Mouse style, whilst the other is a grey business sock.

• Your skirt is so short that when you sit down, your underpants are clearly visible. This is particularly bad when you're sitting opposite someone on the train. 

• Your shirt keeps coming untucked from your pants because it doesn't have enough material to stay tucked in.
• You have to leave the zip on your skirt (or dress) half undone because the material won't stretch sufficiently to allow you to do it up the whole way.
• It is possible to see the "control line" at the top of your stockings poking out from under your skirt. 

Hopefully, these hints are useful. And, if in doubt, remember my old adage (which I may perhaps have borrowed from someone): with clothes, sometimes more is definitely more!

Advice Part 100- Psychic coffee

I can hardly believe I have reached 100 posts on this blog, which started out as a way for me to fill in a Saturday night when I was home alone. I was going to do something "special" for the centenary, but a complete lack of motivation and creativity has unfortunately put paid to that. But hey, it's not every day you reach the big 1-0-0!

Anyway, enough of that....

Today's post sees us return to the psychic realm, a sphere I visited on a previous occasion. I would like to report that this particular visit was more illuminating. But that would be a lie. With this in mind, my advice to young players is that if you are offered a "psychic coffee cup reading", approach with a good dose of skepticism. If you approach at all.

How do I know this? Read on....

Yesterday afternoon, I was a bit bored, and so I decided to go on a little excursion to Newtown. I dandered along south King St, and resolved to partake of a coffee in a cafe I have visited previously, and rather enjoyed.

All was going well until I took a seat, and was approached by the psychic coffee cup reader, who apparently has a regular gig at the cafe on a Sunday afternoon. Said psychic offered his services. I declined. But...well....

• I was the only person in the cafe. 
• The psychic was bored. 
• So was I. 
• He was offering a cheap rate. 
• He has a 90% success rate (ho ho ho....I must have been in the other 10%). 
• And (perhaps most tellingly) Air was playing. On vinyl. Say no more.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was on the psychic couch, coffee cup upturned, spirit guides being summoned.

So. What did the psychic see? A variety of things....

1. That I work in a job "with a lot of paper and filing." Wrong. I USED to work as a filing clerk, but that was 8 years ago, and I'd hardly call it a "momentous experience."

2. I am "very close to my younger sister." Wrong. I don't have any siblings. The psychic tried to salvage this erroneous inference, by asking if my mother had had a miscarriage of a female foetus. Right.....

3. I am single. Wrong. Been in a relationship for 2 years. Although I guess the fact that I was in the cafe by myself on a Sunday afternoon might have given that impression.
4. I am a lesbian. Wrong again. Although he wasn't the first to make that mistake, as I've mentioned before. He tried to backstep here by saying that my partner must have "a lot of feminine energy." "Do you mean long hair?" I asked. This remark was not looked upon favourably.

5. My vitamin intake is inadequate. I didn't realise that spirit guides also offered medical advice! And there was I, stupidly consulting doctors for years!
6. I am going to marry a man called either James or Nick. I'm not sure how this fits in with me apparently being a lesbian, but I let that slide. The only Jameses I know are my uncle (let's NOT go there) and my friend's husband (or there, either). And I don't know any Nicks. But I do recall that a friend wanted to set me up with a guy of this name....Perhaps I missed my chance?!

So there you go. I am most intrigued to see what happens. And if your name is James or Nick, I would advise you to run.

Advice Part 99- Driving with restraint

Aah, the open road! The sound of wheels upon the asphalt! The wind whistling through the window! The soft hum of the engine! The beautiful scenery encompassing you as you motor past! Or, as Mr Toad says "When I'm messing around in cars, the world is apple pie."

Certainly, some people (and toads) may love driving. However, I can loudly proclaim that I am not one of them. Hence, my advice for young players is that if you are looking to go on a roadtrip, I am probably not the best person to ask along.

Let me elaborate....

Last week, my companion and myself embarked on an 800km journey to the wilds of Tasmania. Because said companion does not drive, I was given the role of "official chauffeur."

At first, this newfound responsibility seemed quite exciting- I could choose where we went! I would be in control! But as the days went by, some little frustrations started to gnaw at me.

More precisely, why is it that....

• On the first day, a bird decides to leave a "calling card" on the windshield, which cannot be removed via wipers/squeegee/scrubbing, and so your view of the road for the next six days is perpetually interrupted by an unfortunate splodge in the centre of your field of vision?

• Your travelling companions' choice of music is absolutely dreadful? We had a grand total of three CDs for the entire trip, consisting of Mercedes Sosa (an Argentinian folk singer who is good in SMALL doses), Tom Waits (if I hear "Big in Japan" ONCE MORE, I think I will scream), and Frank Ocean (my choice- we listened to 3 tracks before it was deemed "too boring").
• When a road is narrow, windy and treacherous, (preferably with a sheer drop on one side, and a rock face on the other) you will invariably face a plethora of B-double trucks hiding behind the corners, and rollocking out at great speed just when you're trying to take a sharp turn?

• No matter how fast you go (and, in my case, this isn't very fast), the idiot in the car RIGHT BEHIND YOU wants to go much, much faster, and does his best to let you know you're going too slow by sticking his proverbial nose up your backside? (sorry for the colourful metaphor, but you get my drift....)

• By the time you finally reach your destination, you're so buggered from dodging the trucks and crazy other drivers that all you want to do is lie down on the bed and go to sleep, rather than admiring the sights you've driven halfway across the island to see?
• The only petrol station you can find when you need to fill up the tank is in the backwoods of the back of beyond (pretty far back, in other words), and charges far more than any other station? 
• When you try to open the petrol cap at said station, you can't find the lever to do so (because only REALLY old cars have levers, as I discovered), and you need to ask the patronising yokel who runs the station to assist you? Cue snide comments about "city lady drivers." 

If anyone wants to drive me around on a trip, be my guest. But in future, I will be firmly ensconced in the passenger seat.

Advice Part 98- If you like big butts

There are few things more positive for the self-esteem than receiving a sincere compliment from a random stranger. It takes considerable courage to approach somebody you don't know, and tell them that you like their hair/shoes/bag/new shirt.

But my advice to young players is that there are some things you should NOT comment on. No matter how admirable they are. And one of these things is a person's bottom.

How do I know this? Read on....

Yesterday, I was heading home after my yoga class. As I couldn't be bothered getting changed for the short train ride back, I headed to the station in my yoga attire (consisting of a very long, very unsexy T-shirt and saggy baggy pants-NOT like these).

I have done this at least a hundred times before with no issues, and I didn't expect anything this time, either.

Big mistake.

All was fine and dandy until I heard uproarious sniggering behind me. Looking around, I saw two guys in their early twenties laughing their heads off, and pointing at my backside. When they saw me watching them, one immediately burst into a rousing rendition of Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby got back."

Sample lyrics- "I like big butts and I cannot lie" and "I want them real thick and juicy." The singing was sporadically interrupted by huge snorts of laughter and cries of "shake it", directed towards me.

I was FURIOUS. 

HOW DARE THEY MAKE FUN OF MY BUM?????!!!!!! MY bum! My BUM! MY BUM!!! (etc etc)

Certainly, it could be argued that Sir Mix-a-Lot (the Shakespeare of our modern age, perhaps?) presents a rather, err, positive view of round backsides. And by singing it at me, perhaps the young knights at Newtown station wished to convey their appreciation of my rump in the only way they knew how?

OK, I don't dispute this. However, what this comment fails to acknowledge is that Sir Mix-a-Lot's tale of booty is directed at women with VERY LARGE backsides. And I most certainly don't like strangers at the station pointing out to all and sundry that I have a fat bum. Even if I do. Comparatively speaking.

Instead of "shak(ing) that healthy butt", as my fans exhorted me, I promptly sat down to block their view of my notable posterior, and gave them my very own patented death stare.

That put an end to that.

All I can say is, if you do like big butts, you don't have to lie. But maybe keep your opinions to yourself at the station.

(P.S. This video is great. Check out the lady dancing from 2:46 onward!)

Advice Part 97- Not THAT kind of partner

(Special thanks to Mel and her husband, John, for following my blog and for suggesting this topic!)

For the past four years (eek!), I have been studying Spanish, with VERY limited success. If I'm talking about myself in the present tense, everything's fine and dandy. But as soon as the past or future or other people are involved, I lose it entirely.

However, my advice to young players is that if you want to improve your Spanish, take care with the methods you use, or you may get more than you bargained for. Nudge nudge, say no more, etc etc.

How do I know this? Read on.....

A few weeks ago, when I quit my job, I suddenly had LOADS of free time, which meant I could devote more effort to my Spanish studies (and let's be honest here, I hadn't devoted much effort up until now....).

But what to do?

• Enrol in more classes? No, I'm too broke. 
• Start watching Spanish films? I get too tempted by the subtitles. 
• Read Spanish newspapers online? Boring. 
• Move to Spain and throw myself in there? Two words. If only.

Anyway, I decided that the best thing to do (times being what they are- hello, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead) was to participate in a language exchange with someone from Spain or South America. I've done this four or five times before, and it's been great. You meet up once a week or so, and spend an hour talking in English, an hour in Spanish, and you help the other person with their grammar/pronunciation/vocabulary.

So, I dusted off my old advertisement, added a photo of the Alhambra, and posted it in the Community--> Language Swap section of the (insert name of free Australian classified) website.

And that's when the fun started.

I have no idea why, but my ad seemed to attract a rather, err, "particular" group of respondents. Despite PURPOSEFULLY not using the words "language partner" (that's just asking for trouble) or posting pictures of myself in revealing attire (unlike many of the other advertisers- I'm not joking), most of the replies I seemed to get were from men wanting to meet up for "kinky times."

One asked me to send him my picture, to see if I was "the right type of partner." Another sent a string of suggestive emails, asking if I lived alone and was looking for a "real man."

To make the whole thing more undignified, the sleazy men didn't even speak Spanish!!!!!

I just don't get it. Is "language exchange" some sort of weird euphemism for "sexual services", like "handbag" is a euphemism for "good looking male arm candy"? Was I inadvertently advertising another kind of service? Or are there people out there who are such desperados that they answer any type of ad with a lewd offer, figuring they have nothing to lose?

The mind boggles. And NOT in a good way.

All I can say is, next time I think about advertising for a language partner, I might post my ad in the Adult Fun section of the website. After all, the replies can't be any stranger, can they?

Advice Part 96- When not to write back

One rather unwelcome fact about myself which I have been forced to acknowledge lately is that I have what could be euphemistically termed "a bit of a temper." Beneath the benign exterior lurks a beating heart, filled with fury. And one thing which REALLY gets me riled up and liable to explode is negative emails.

My advice to young players is that if you receive an email which gets your proverbial goat, DO NOT WRITE BACK immediately. Or at all. Instead, allow your anger to go from a boil to a gentle simmer before you give your interlocutor the full benefit of your superior intelligence. How do I know this? Read on.....

A while ago, I submitted a paper to an academic journal for publication. The obligatory eon passed, and I received a reply. The reviewers liked my paper, but wanted a few changes.

No biggie. A revise and resubmit was a good result.

So, model academic citizen that I am, I made the changes (which I didn't like much, but anyway.....), and resubmitted the paper, expecting an acceptance.

Hence, you can imagine my FURY when I received a rejection!!!! I was absolutely incensed, and decided to let the editor of said journal know my thoughts on the subject.

In a fit of rage, I sat down, and typed out an email, in which I questioned "the rigour (or lack thereof) of the editorial process" and expressed my "extreme surprise and disappointment at the negative reception towards (the) revised article." I continued in a similar vein for a few more paragraphs, just to ram the point home that I was NOT happy.

Feeling extremely proud of myself, and righteously indignant, I pressed "send", and thought no more about it.

Well, no more until I received a reply from the editor herself, telling me that my email was "lacking in collegiality" and "disrespectful to (her) and to the journal." She advised me to "moderate my tone" and to "behave with greater decorum."

Oh dear. That's one journal I won't be submitting to in the future.....

Another, more recent, incident occurred when I received a rejection for a job I had applied for. The form "thanks, but no thanks" email included a glaring error in punctuation, which I decided to generously point out to the sender, along with informing them that I thought it was "extremely unprofessional" and "cast a bad impression" that their rejection email was so poorly composed.

I didn't receive a reply to that sterling effort. And I doubt I'll be getting a job there anytime soon.

My new policy is to still compose emails of fury, and then send them to myself, rather than the intended recipient. This way, I can exorcise the demons, and exercise my literary "skills", without causing offence or making things more difficult for myself in the future.

But if anyone would like me to write such an email on their behalf, please let me know. My rates are very cheap.

Advice Part 95- A visit to the vet

For the past four years, I have shared my apartment with my animal companion (fancy name for "cat"), Polly. Most of the time, we get along very well, but once in a while, our harmonious existence is disturbed by a visit to that most dreaded of entities.

The vet.

(The above picture in no way represents my cat's experience at the vet- that picture is the stuff of feline FANTASY)

With five such trips under my proverbial belt, I feel suitably qualified to offer some advice to young players on surviving this most monstrous of excursions. And so I have combined a list of handy hints below, which I hope will be useful if you ever have to venture to the animal doctor.

1. Surprise is the essence. Do not let your animal companion twig as to what fun you have in store for them until you are just about ready to go, and you commence your trapping attempt.
2. Don your protective gear. No piece of exposed skin is safe from the ferocious claws of the screeching banshee. I foolishly believed that my neck was out of reach, but I now have a Texas Chainsaw Massacre style scratch across my throat to show for my complacency. 
   
3. Prepare your container in advance. Polly is more than happy to stick her nose into any empty box I have lying around my apartment, but as soon as I try and put her into the dreaded cat box, she fights like a demon. From trial and error, I know that the best move is to put her in feet first.
4. Do not be fooled by the plaintive cries.Your animal companion is unlikely to be well pleased when contained in the box, and may emit pitiful cries. At VERY loud volume. Do not be tricked by this! It is a clever ruse to obtain freedom, and, should you unleash the beast, you will not be able to capture it again. 
   
5. If you don't have a car, getting your fiesty furry friend to the vet surgery is an added piece of excitement. For me, this involves carrying said shrieking feline through the main street of my suburb.
6. When walking through along the main street with your unwilling animal companion, you may receive "helpful" comments from the local denizens. Sample: "Ooh, you have a cat in the box!" (No, really? I would never have guessed. Or to use a more earthy expression, "No s*%t, Sherlock!"); "She doesn't sound very happy in there!" (Yes, I am fully aware of that, but if nosey parkers like you would mind your own business, perhaps I'd be able to get her to the vet faster and she would shut up!!!).
7. Waiting at the vet surgery to be seen can be a further feat of endurance if you are sharing the waiting room with a 54kg Newfoundland dog (which may be mistaken as a bear) and a squarking parrot.
   
8. By the time you finally get in to see the vet, both you and your animal companion are likely to be nervous wrecks and completely shellshocked. The unceremonious poking and prodding seems positively benign, considering the rigmarole involved in getting to the surgery.
9. Then the vet will produce the bill, and you will find yourself hundreds, or, more probably, thousands, of dollars poorer.

Still, at least I know that I will never be tempted to become a Crazy Cat Lady, living with multiple cats. If I have this much trouble taking one to the vet, imagine how I'd go with five!

Advice Part 94- The career abyss (and finding a ladder out)

Of late, I have been experiencing what could best be described as "a bit of a career crisis." I have realised that I am not very satisfied with my job (there's the understatement of the millennium, but as we all know, I am now keeping my posts "friendly and upbeat" to avoid being told that I need to seek "urgent professional psychiatric assistance"- sorry, couldn't resist the snide comment), and that I don't want to spend the rest of my working life (a period which is looking like extending to the age of 70) getting up every morning and hating what I do.

Ugh.

In an effort to extricate myself from this situation, and actually find something I enjoy (!!!!), I decided to seek some help. This has been a most enlightening process, but my advice to young players is that in seeking such assistance, you might end up feeling even more confused than before.....

So, who did I ask for advice in escaping the career morass? And what did they say? Thank you for inquiring. I couldn't have thought up better questions myself (gee, funny that....).

Here's the answers.....

• Professional Careers Advisor. 

Approach: Spoke to me on the phone, got me to complete a questionnaire on the internet, and then met with me in person.
Recommendation: Community psychologist, organisational psychologist, teacher, or university lecturer. Definitely not clinical psychologist.
Cost: $170. And these were his "mates' rates"

• Myers-Briggs Type Test. 

Approach: An online psychology questionnaire, which purports to ascertain your personality "type", and makes career recommendations based on that. My type is INTJ. 
Recommendation: scientist, lawyer, or "areas requiring intensive intellectual efforts, presenting intellectual challenge, and creative approach." 
Cost: Free

• Psychologist. 

Approach: Typical counselling session. I've seen the same counsellor since I was in university, so he knows me pretty well. I have a lot of time for him and his advice (other USyd PhD graduates, you probably know the counsellor I mean, as it seems that pretty much everyone at USyd went to him when doing their PhD!)
Recommendation: Not clinical psychologist, not opening a bar (I lack the "street smarts"). Maybe being an English teacher overseas.
Cost: $100

• Facebook friends poll

Approach: Asking a general question on FB about what I should do, and letting people answer
Recommendation: Counsellor or writer.
Cost: Free

• Psychic Photo Reading (No, this is not a joke!!!! The photo reader is a good friend so please don't say anything unkind :-) )

Approach: I had to take along a photo of myself as a child, and the psychic photo reader asked me a number of questions about the picture and what I was feeling
Recommendation: Writer.
Cost: Free

So, there you have it. I don't know if I'm any closer to finding my way out of the career hole, but it's certainly been an interesting experiment. 

By the way, did you know that there is actually such a job as a Professional Owl Handler?!