o christmas tree
Growing up, Christmas held little significance for me apart from the stifling heat in which I would wait for my parents to come home from work, whence I would complain about our lack of Christmas spirits. I was not really the modern day Tiny Tim, but my dramatic whinges about our tinsel-less existence would have made Mr. Dickens very proud.

Lest you picture a bleak Christmas with a young Polly dressed in rags and constant cries of “please sir, can I have some more?”, I should write that though I spent Christmas mornings alone in a Christmas tree-less flat, we always sat down to a scrumptious Christmas dinner in the evening. My parents fused the best worlds of Oriental cuisine and fresh Aussie seafood: Peking ducks with plum sauce, prawns and lobsters, mud crabs with shallots and ginger, cold smoked turkey and potato salads, etc. But despite having my stomach filled to such a capacity that would have brought eternal joy to Oliver Twist, I was a spoilt bratty girl who still “asked for more”.

Every year I would ask for a Christmas tree, and each time I was met with the same answer that our flat was too cluttered for a tree. I did not get over the disappointment until I was at least nineteen.

My bitterness was made worse by parents who insisted on including tree ornaments for my presents every bloody year. What they saw as an act of kindness -- to replace any feeling of loss on account of no trees -- was merely adding salt to the wound.

A few days ago, I realised that Pixie’s dad did the opposite to her. He bought her a lovely plastic pine tree, but denied her tree ornaments. If only we had discovered the polar scrooge-ness of parents earlier; we could have had one perfect tree together.

This Christmas, things are a little different. I finally got a tree to put up all those ornaments. My parents decided to make my last few months in Sydney memorable by giving me my long-wished for tree. It’s a plastic replica which we will, according to Mum, “use over and over again when the grandkids come over”.

Mir recently wrote that parents change their die-hard habits at the arrival of grandchildren. It seems my parents even change theirs for grandchildren of the phantom variety.

Shopping for the tree was quite a drama. Dad did not really care what we got, but Mum insisted on absolutely the best.

“I will not have your kids say to me: wai-pou (maternal grandmother), our Christmas tree is crap,” she said when I recommended a thin plastic one costing only thirty dollars.

In the end we settled on a plastic cashmere pine.

“Smell that! It even smells like a real one,” Mum said once I set up my long-awaited tree.

“No. I’m sure that’s the plastic you’re smelling,” I said.

“Just take a whiff. It’s pine-smelling plastic.”

“I don’t think it’s good for you to be sniffing plastic.” But I did it anyway.

* * *

And on this night before Christmas: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
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gay, solicity, roseanne and licky

My mobile phone sprang into its polyphonic splendour while I was driving along the M4 motorway last week. I didn’t want to risk a fine by answering it. My mother, in the passenger seat, dove straight into my bag and flip opened my phone. I screamed for her to just let the phone ring out.

“Harlow?” said mummy dearest without notice to my panicked cries. “Now Polly drive at the road. She call later.”

My eyes wandered off the road and stared at her in horror momentarily. There are still moments of my life when I’m immature and bratty enough to feel ashamed of my mother’s broken English.

“Was it Pixie?” I asked after she hung up.

“No. It was a man. A man named Gay,” Mum answered, eyeing me suspiciously. “Who’s Gay?”

“Gray. G-R-A-Y.”

It was my friend Gray from uni, calling to confirm Friday night’s dinner plans with the Bear and Funk-Sole-Brother - events which in retrospect deserve their own blog post.

My mother has the habit of putting her own twist on my friends’ names: Felicity becomes Solicity, Resan (a masculine Kurdish version of Richard) turns into Roseanne, and Ricky spins into Licky.

“Why did you have to answer the phone? You said it all wrong. You sounded horrible.” I said cruelly. I drove in silence for the rest of the way home. I was not at my most dutiful-daughter-self.

As I watched her make wontons later that afternoon, I sheepishly tried to redeem myself.

“I'm a tightarse, mum. I didn't want to pay for the phone call back.”

Maybe mother knows best: she put extra shrimp roes in my wonton soup that evening. It's unclear if they were shrimp roes of forgiveness. We're not a very expressive nor transparent family.

I spent the night in melancholy reflection. While I float around with dreams of being a writer, it dawned on me that my parents will not be able to read anything that I write.

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escape from suburban multiplex
On Friday night, Pixie and I went to worship the venerable Mr Pitt and Mr Clooney at the temple of Ocean's 12. We saw it at the local multiplex in our not-very-safe western Sydney suburb. With cautious instincts ingrained in us since our teens, we walked briskly to the carpark after the movie.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a large group of boys. This wasn't a rare sight in our good ol' suburb on a Friday night. They're probably going to their cars to drag race each other through the carpark, I thought. But as we approached my car, we sensed their close presence.

"Oof, Ali, az eef yer can smash Harout. He bash the shit out of yer first!"

"Yer being a facking smart cunt?" Ali retorted.

With ten metres to go, we sprinted to my Corolla. I fumbled for the car keys and the contents of my bag spilled all over the ground. When we eventually made it inside, I locked the car door in one swift motion. By then, the juvenile delinquents were already standing in front of the car. One of them was already devoid of a shirt and paraded his adolescent pectoral muscles around.

"Oh, shit. I hope he doesn't fucking moon us," I said to Pixie.

As I backed out of the car space, we suddenly realised that though they were juvenile, they were not exactly delinquents. They were in fact on Mr Westfield's payroll as trolley boys. I had parked next to the trolley return bay and the previously topless boy was merely in the process of putting on his neon yellow reflector shirt.

"We're such dorks." Pixie said as I navigated the car around the wrongfully accused trolley boys.

Well put, Pixie.
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one-two-side-together-side

High School Rival and Chubby Solicitor have been taking dance lessons in preparation for their wedding. On Monday night, they invited their close friends to waltz with them so that we do not look like an embarrassing bunch of Britney Spears impersonators in January.

A look of pure hatred and horror came over my face when I foxtrotted my way into the suburban dance studio. While I remembered to be in comfortable clothes and shoes, no one told me that the other essential accessory was a partner.

The three ladies and three gentlemen quickly latched onto each other. The lonely girl who had earlier fancied herself becoming the hottest dance sensation since Hugh Jackman was paired off with the dance instructor’s camp English husband.

“I will lend you my husband, Emery,” said the dance instructor with an impossibly small bum.

“Hullo there, muffins,” greeted Emery, in a pink silk shirt and tight black pants.

I fought the urge to take the dance instructor aside and relay to her Liza Minnelli’s romantic history.

Emery sang to Michael Bublè as we glided across the floor. Under his impeccable guidance, I was becoming quite competent. But I couldn’t stop staring at my feet.

“You know, I can’t keep my eyes off my feet,” I said.

Emery suddenly stopped. He led me to the side of the room and proceeded to examine my feet.

“Muffins, they are very interesting looking feet,” he declared. “Now, keep your eyes locked on my bluish grey eyes and you won’t worry a thing about making a mistake.”

I swapped partners with the Bridesmaid halfway through Fly Me to the Moon. Chubby Solicitor’s friend from the law firm, Bubble-O-Bill, was a massive ball of nervousness. He also had a habit of forming saliva bubbles around his mouth when he spoke.

Bubble-O-Bill did not have Emery’s grace and elegance. My interesting feet lost their rhythm. When came the time to do the fancy twirling bit, I spun out of control and slid ten feet across the dance floor on my knees.

Sensing my distress, Emery came back to be my partner again. But I no longer possessed my earlier brilliance.

“Muffins, what’s wrong with you? You were Ginger Rogers before. Now you’re stomping around like it’s a hoe-down,” said Emery with alarm.

“It’s Bubble-O-Bill,” I whispered. “He’s made me bad.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Muffins. It happens to the best of us,” Emery assured me. “I danced with my uncle Frank one wedding. Came out of that with bloodied toes and deepest sympathy for my poor aunt Vera.”

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blue blue is thy robe
My creative outbursts are always in overdrive during exams. I had a great many things to write about over the last two weeks, but such urges were quashed as I chained myself to my laptop in order to write my thesis and study mundane things like Stochastic Analysis. Now that everything is finished and done (forever!) I feel my brain shrivel up like a prune.

Last week, the Mallavian Whiz told me about his favourite poem. He sent it to me, possibly hoping I could derive some inspiration from it during the exams. No such luck. I was as lacking in inspiration to write my thesis as ever. Frankly, as far as the thesis was concerned, there was no better inspiration than mugs of coffee without any sleep for several nights.

I could not draw any inspiration from the MW’s favourite poem because it was in Chinese and written hundreds of years ago. My modern Chinese tongue is lacking in proficiency at the best of times (dare I remind you about the Olympic diver episode?), so the cryptic limericks of dynasties from yesteryears sent me into a spin.

I asked the wise Pixie for help to decode the poem. O wise Pixie, at least she can read the gossip columns in the Chinese papers without confusion.

Alas, Pixie had much more fun poking fun at my current supposedly ambiguous friendship than being of any help. She emailed back with the following interpretation:
Blue blue is thy robe,
Weary is my heart.
Obstacles on thy path,
When shall I dance to the music?
I decided to have a second opinion. What better people to ask than my own kind parents? So after dinner one night last week, we gathered around the dining room table for Ancient Chinese Poetry Appreciation 101.

“See that last word on the first line? It’s another word for the robes scholars used to wear,” Dad pointed out.

“I’m not too sure about that word in the last line,” Mum contributed. “I have never seen it in my life.”

Before any progress was made in Ancient Chinese Poetry Appreciation 101, my kind parents morphed into the overly concerned parents of only child; they questioned my sudden interest in own culture after years of perceived denial.

“Why is this young man writing you poems?” Mum asked, but obviously thinking, how long have you known this young man? Should we be worried about possible grandchildren?

“He didn’t write it. It’s a poem from the Tang dynasty.” Dad smugly said, but obviously thinking, bloody fool couldn’t come up with anything original.

“What sort of person is he?” Mum continued with her questions, but obviously wanting to know, is he good enough for my baby girl?

“How did you meet this boy?” Dad asked, but obviously implying, I hope you didn’t meet him at that club you went to last Saturday night.

Bugger. Why could it have been Browning, Plath, or Madonna? I would have been able to tear through the metaphors and alliterations with greater competence and without assistance coupled with interrogation.
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lobotomy of common sense
Between the two of us, my best mate Pixie and I exhibit the most comprehensive knowledge of movie and music history. I recently got her hooked on the Internet Movie Database website. Every couple of days, I get a 'did-you-know' phone call from her.

'Did you know that Colin Firth is going to be in a new movie playing a lobotomist?' she said this afternoon.

'No. No way. He can't break my heart like that. It was bad enough he was in that stupid What a Girl Wants.' I replied, feeling a little like a disappointed lover who just discovered that the object of her affection fancied her brother.

'Maybe Livia wants the money,' she said of Colin Firth's Italian wife.

'And he might be thinking about sending Luca and Matteo to some expensive snobby private school.' I resignedly admitted that Mr Darcy already has kids with his Italian wife.

Pixie is the only friend who can comprehend such a devastation.

A few days ago, I was talking to the Mallavian Whiz. The difference in conversation is very clear. There is no mutual understanding at all.

'Knuckle Head is very particular about his food. He orders in a certain way,' said the MW of a guy he has classes with.

'You mean like in When Harry Met Sally?'

'Who?' asked the MW.

'When Harry Met Sally! The movie? Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan?! You've never seen that?!' I was a little exasperated.

'No. So, Harry is a picky orderer at restaurants too?' the MW innocently asked.

`No! Sally! It's SALLY who's the picky orderer!' I almost screamed. 'Have you seen Sleepless in Seattle? Blackadder? Monty Python? Bridget Jones' Diary? ...'

He just kept shaking his head, much to my disbelief.

'You have to be a picky orderer in South Korea,' the MW finally said when I had stopped listing film names.

'When were you in South Korea?' I asked.

'A couple of years ago, when I was there for the IMO.'

'For what? International Monetary Organisation?' I asked.

'No. That's IMF. International Monetary Fund. IMO is International Mathematics Olympiad.'

'Oh,' I said, suddenly feeling very stupid. I suppose that's why the MW is the one going for the university medal and Colin Firth still remains the single most significant relationship in my life.
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of how calculus brought a friend

The most surprising thing of 2004 has been my newfound friendship with the Mallavian Whiz. For a large part of my undergrad years, he has been a mere speckle on my radar; I noticed him, I thought he was slightly odd and I never really acknowledged his presence except to poke fun at his oddness.

It wasn’t until this year that I actually began to talk to the MW. And it wasn’t until recently that the MW and I started to converse about things other than Stochastic Calculus. I am ashamed to admit that I only started talking to him because I needed help with assignments that I couldn’t figure out on my own.

Now upon closer acquaintance, I feel like a male lead in a teen comedy. I am Freddie Prinze Jr., who suddenly realises that some Hilary Duff or similar character is quite interesting behind a façade of Mallavian Calculus.

Before I get any further, I should note that the MW and I are not about to conclude the chapter with an ending worthy of a teen comedy. Don’t expect any sentimental violin solos accompanying the MW sashaying down the stairs of his parents’ house in a slinky prom dress with me ready to tie a corsage on his wrist.

The MW thinks I am quite mad. The other day we were discussing the constant bickering between China and Taiwan. I likened it to a couple experiencing a bad break up that has lasted over fifty years.

“The thing is, MW, if you really love someone, you should set them free,” I said, jokingly.

The MW, being the serious man that he is, was unimpressed and speechless. I don’t think my likening him to Hilary Duff will be of any comfort either.

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my hot momma
Polly's momma is not unlike Polly. She gets herself into all sorts of mess and hilarity.

Momma likes to haggle. Her philosophy in life is "don't buy if it's not half off". This applies to every store, which makes shopping at some of the more trendy establishments very embarrassing.

Yesterday, momma's haggling ways got her into a spot of bother. She still pretends to be naive, but dear readers, my momma's hot and the world is not innocent.

Just like on any regular afternoon, my momma went shopping, this time for some ugg boots and lanolin moisturiser for a visiting relative. She popped into a new souvenir store that has recently opened nearby, brewing a storm for its unknowing owner. She managed to bring the price of a bottle of lanolin down to two dollars from six.

Never one to miss out on a deal, she proceeded to buy eight dozen bottles. Yes, that's over one hundred bottles of weird sheep's fat for moisturising purposes.

Now, realising that eight dozen bottles is going to be heavy and she is forbidden to drive under any circumstances (another one of her stories, maybe for another time), she asked the store owner to hold the goods until she can get a friend to pick them up.

"Oh, no. That's all right," the store owner said. "I'll drop it off at your place after I close up."

"No, no, that's too much trouble," hot momma coyly said.

"Really no trouble. Just give me your address and phone number and I'll come over after five. "

"Oh, you're too nice," hot momma exclaimed, thinking it can't be true that her daughter claims chivalry to be dead.

"Now, just write down your details here. You can pay me when I've delivered them."

* * *
My momma later got her cousin to pick up her crazy purchases, but the smitten store owner has called twice today already.

And that's my hot momma. Dad is a very lucky man. If he wasn't so reserved, I imagine he would boast about this to his mates at the pub.
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son nom est john!
The last episode of Sex and the City finally aired tonight. I was rather disappointed. After six years of emotional investments, I am left feeling like I've accidentally dropped the last piece of a thoroughly enjoyed chocolate brownie on the floor.

Perhaps what was more of a let down was Mr Big's name.

John. Fucking John! Out of all the names in the world, and after having six years to come up with a name for Big, they decided call him John. I was livid.

I've had problems with the name John. I don't seem to have much luck with Johns. They're either liars of the most generic type, or annoying weasels of the can't-exchange-can't-refund-can't-get-rid-of variety. Now, I take extra precaution when introduced to people with the name John. I even heed the warning bells when they are its foreign counterparts, like Jean or Ioan (unless it's Gruffudd, in which case, I will wrap him in a bow and send him to Pixie).

Perhaps John is an appropriate name for Big. He certainly possessed the troublesome characteristic of a John. I think I can now come to terms with this oversight on part of the writers. On the contrary, I commend their impeccable insight into the elaborate psyche of Johns.
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the boy who cried poo
The house was run amok by the Bald Baby, a delightful two-year-old boy of my kind parents' friends who stayed with us over the weekend. He is, by far, the best and brightest two-year-old of my acquaintance.

He is also the only two-year-old of my acquaintance, so my judgements could be a little biased.

It's been a very wet weekend thus far. I've been sneezed on and peed on by the Bald Baby. Yes, despite the germs and the smell, he is still one very much loved boy.

The Bald Baby doesn't have much hair. In a vain attempt for his hair to grow back thicker, his mother had it all shaved off. In another vain attempt to acquire a head full of luxuriously thick locks, the Bald Baby stole his uncle's Rogaine and smeared half a bottle's worth on his head.

Have I mentioned that he is two?

This weekend, he has reinacted the story of the boy who cried wolf. Except, in the Bald Baby's case, he cries "poo".

Imagine this. A picture perfect family, with a recently borrowed two-year-old addition, sat down to a feast cooked by the matriarch. The two-year-old did not want to eat. He wanted to play on the computer and look at old videos of himself. But he was trapped.

"Poo poo!" he suddenly cried. A mass panic ensued around the dinner table. Two otherwise calm adults rushed in hysteria to fetch the potty, while the third lifted the Bald Baby off the high chair.

The Bald Baby looked around at the three mad adults surrounding him. He smiled and slowly broke into fits of giggles. While we were dazed and confused, he ran off to the computer.

Now picture this. Three very tired adults were trying to get ready for bed. One of them was especially buggered from climbing up and down the stairs with the Bald Baby because it had amused him greatly. With bountiful energy, he did not want to sleep.

"Poo poo!" he cried after two minutes lying down. Another mad dash for the potty found the Bald Baby at the computer again.

Just like the boy who cried wolf, we were smart enough not to believe him again. And just like the boy who cried wolf, the Bald Baby spoke the truth the third time around.
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adventures in mandarin
With little drama, and a mere two year separation from my mum, dad and I leapt off a Qantas jumbo jet and ran into mum's arms. Truthfully, though, only I ran. Dad was very dignified and did not cause a scene.

I was nine years old. Not old enough to have the typical reserved-ness instilled in me. As years went by, it became clear that being reserved and being Polly never meshed well together.

For a long time after moving here, I tried very hard to be less Chinese. I lost my accent after three months. When I speak to my parents, it is in Mandarin, but very slowly because all my thoughts seem to be in English. To my family, I talk like a retarded kid with a nine-year-old vocabulary.

It wasn't until I finished high school that my warped little head thought it would be cool to be Chinese again. Maybe it's because there were more people of similar extractions at university (c'mon, do you expect an Asian kid not go to uni?).

My attempt to find my roots led me to sign up as a volunteer interpreter at the Sydney Olympics. I love sport. I love talking. It was time to contribute.

Even with my fourth-grade-level vocabulary, I was deemed good enough to mingle with the Chinese athletes. Hilarity ensued.

I worked primarily with the Chinese diving team. The first time was at the FINA Diving World Cup, a pre-Olympic event that was supposed to be a rehearsal for the real thing seven months later. Doping control and media interviews were my main responsibilities. I preferred the latter.

On my second day, I was asked by the language manager to escort the super hunky Tian Liang to doping control. So off goes innocent little Polly into the divers' warm down area to inform the two-time Olympic champion (though at the time he was still up-and-coming but already showing his talent).

I found Tian Liang talking to another Chinese diver (obviously not good-looking enough for me to remember his name). I should also mention that I was in heaven in the warm down area. Naked torsoes everywhere.

Tian Liang saw me walking towards him. He smiled and nodded at me.

"You want me to piss in a bottle, don't you?" he asked in Mandarin.

It took a while before I registered that he had said the word "piss". I muttered in agreement and told him I would meet him across the pool.

[Really, I could turn this into a love story, worthy of Harlequin.]

Fifteen minutes later, we gathered at the doping control area with officials from FINA. An important-looking man, who answered only to Doc, shook Liang's hand for a disturbingly long time.

"Now, Polly, can you tell Tian Liang here that he did very well tonight but he will still have to go through an urine test?" Doc asked.

I relayed the messaged in Mandarin. But in taking care not to miss any words, I spoke even slower than my usual pace. Liang kindly nodded and smiled at my every word.

"Sure," the very obliging young man answered.

"Now, Polly, can you tell Tian Liang that when he goes behind that curtain there, I will follow him. He will be required to take out his penis and urinate in this container here. I will have to have full view of him while he does this," Doc said while I jotted down his words.

I was mortified. Liang had only fifteen minutes ago reminded me how to say "piss" in Mandarin and now I had to say "penis". I had only just turned eighteen. I could barely say the word in English in front of strangers. Liang -- bless him -- kept very calm throughout my trance. At last, Polly spoke.

"He wants you to piss in front of him. And he wants to see you take out your ji ji," I finally said in Mandarin, recalling the word my three-year-old cousin once used to call his wiener.

The multiple world champion and world cup winner did not bat an eyelash. He smiled (or maybe it was a smirk) and followed Doc behind the curtain.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is why Tian Liang is a classy athlete. Later, he even thanked me for my feeble efforts. He commented that I was to the point. Yes, Polly does not beat around the bush. We had a delightful chat while he waited for his coach to pick him up.

Seven months later, I was the interpreter for his interview after he won gold in the ten metre platform. A reporter later told me that she noticed a glint in his eyes as he watched me bluff my way through the interview.

I suppose it was an urine test we both shall not forget.
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hiatus
I will be on a self-imposed sabbatical from this page until 29 November.

Damn exams and that bitch of a thesis.

Damn that Chinese practicality and hunger for all things academic.
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exodus

(Picture taken in Rotorua, on the north island of New Zealand. The blurriness of the water is not due to my poor photographic skills. It is steam rising from the water. Rotorua is in an active volcanic region.)

Beautiful and fabulous New Zealand. Land of hobbits, elves, men and dwarves, living together in harmony.

And now the destination for ye who are tired and weary, those who are tempest tossed; the homeless, hungry, poor, the wretched, sinful lost. The huddled masses who yearn to be free gather there. From a weary world of darkness, come ye unto her. Her yoke is easy, her burden light, there’s rest on the peaceful shore, she lifts her lamp eternally beside the golden door.

I came across this little tid-bit of news on Channel NewsAsia. It made me laugh that there could be this mass exodus to that sweet little place across the Tasman.

It reminded me of the day after the Australian election four weeks ago. The Bear and I were discussing the horrible result and the possible bleak future ahead of us. Disheartened and furious, the Bear declared:

"Fuck this. I'm moving to New Zealand."

It seems he is not the only one. Many hobbits, elves, dwarves and men from several shires will be in search of Gandalf the Grey, to destroy the one ring that enslaves them all.

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gaahh!
The nightmarish Friday has drawn a close and I now begin the day, like many other young single girls about town, with a slight headache from consuming a little too much wine.

Yesterday was my last official day of uni. There is still a thesis talk, three exams and that bitch of a thesis to attend to. But official is official. I am on my way out into the big bad world.

I searched for my notes in the honours room to take home and study. I had lent them to the Bear a few days ago. So the nightmare began.

I found my notebook under a pile of his rubbish papers; in tatters, with the spiral wires all bent out of shape. The state of notebook made me short of breath. It was so beautiful when I handed it to him on Tuesday. My pathological neatness was best reflected in those notes.

A more ghastly thought occurred to me later. The Bear sometimes goes to the toilet with an armful of notes and textbooks. Sometimes he even announces to the rest of the room that he is going to "get some good thinking done." I was mortified at the thought that, maybe, in a fit of constipation, he tore my notes apart.

Now I will have to re-write them. Have to remember to get a pair of rubber gloves too.

The shock of my notes subsided when I met up with some friends later in the evening to celebrate Pixie's new employment at the Quite Impressive Financial Consortium. We were a merry company of four until I had a Bogart moment.

“Out of all the two-hatted-SMH-food-guide restaurants in Sydney, he steps into mine, seated a mere three feet from my table.”

Slight heart cracks upon quick conversation with the unexpected arrival. When I returned to my table, I proceeded to finish off my glass of wine and Pixie's too. I am at my loudest when I have some pinot noir in me. Not just pinot. Pretty much anything fermented would do. I wanted the unexpected arrival to hear that I ain't doing too shabby lately. The pinot noir was good. I had my friends laughing with their heads thrown back in the most classy yet noticeable way.

The restaurant had one of those small but trendy unisex bathroom. Very Ally McBeal. I walked in and could not help but notice a strangely attractive creature staring at me. I was quite intimidated and walked right into her.

The bathroom was darkly lit and covered floor to ceiling with mirrors.
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serenity now

zen

A conversation between my mother and I.

Mama: How was your meeting with your supervisor this morning?
Me: It went well. It was the first time he seemed to like the stuff I did.
Mama: So was it just you and him at the meeting?
Me: I only have one supervisor.

At this point, I was getting somewhat annoyed. I have been working on the thesis for almost a year now. I must have mentioned my ever-so-patient supervisor in conversations on a weekly basis, though sometimes in a less saintly light.

Mama: Where is he from?
Me: Poland.

The whole department is made up of half of the Eastern Bloc. Must be something in the water that makes them superior in maths. I used to think that they were fed calculus since kindy.

Mama: Is he an attractive fellow? Polish men are usually very handsome. Remember your Polish friend with those piercing blue eyes?
Me: Oh god. Mum! He's in his fifties. Maybe even late fifties. Married. With daughers in high school.

The crazy thing is that we had the same conversation last week.

Serenity now. Serenity now. Focus on the fish in the pond. Fish will bring serenity and zen-like state.

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fashion faux pas

My lecturer from Categorical Data Analysis suffers from acute Eastern European chic. His symptoms thus far have included double deniming, over large belt buckles, and various overtucked unsightly patterned short sleeved business shirts (which according to many metrosexual style bibles should be burnt unless you are still at school).

At last night's lecture, he upped the ante. He arrived, briefcase in tow, in a gold satin shirt. The state of the art ventilation system in the building left the shirt bellowing.

Just so one gets an idea of what he looked like:

Half an hour later, on further inspection -- I did not hear a word he said about logistic regression and CATMOD procedures in SAS -- I decided that he was a cross between Goldmember and a Ferrero Roche.

Why couldn't he just stick with tweed?
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Hey you! Yes you!

Unless I'm otherwise mistaken, and Rambo is really struggling to make ends meet, this chap is probably another actor trying to take the City of Angels by storm. Picture was taken early this year on holiday with my lovely parents. The trip itself is a whole other can of worms, open for discussion at a later stage.
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this one time, in Vancouver
A few years ago, Pixie and I lived in Vancouver as exchange students. It was a strange idea to go on exchange with one’s best friend, when the whole aim usually was to get away from all the regular friends and see if one can stand on own feet for six months. Some might say that we barely survived the experience, but that’s really a matter of opinion.

We share some of the fondest memories together with Rom-com and Pooh, fellow Aussies we had met at orientation one bitterly cold Vancouver morning. They are my sisters in arms; the only three other people in the world who can share my understanding in the significance of Richmond, Stanley Park, and of course, Tofino.

I often tell my other friends about my time in Vancouver. But they can never appreciate the stories as the four of us do. What were supposed to be funny anecdotes about my life there often become “this one time, in Vancouver” annoyances.

This one time, in Vancouver…

…Pixie and I were waiting for a 99 B-line at a bus stop on Granville Street to meet up with Rom-com in Richmond. A blue station wagon with American number plates slowly pulled up in front of us. The passenger rolled down the window. He looked frantic and scared, but despite his state of alarm, he was impeccable in manners.

“Excuse me, m’am. Do you know the way back to the United States of America?” The panicked man asked.

Always ones to be pleased with being mistaken as native Vancouverites, we were both very smug at the question posed at us. We were equally smug about our knowledge of Vancouver streets. Granville Street, running north to south, eventually leads to a sign that guides motorists to Bellingham and then onto Seattle.

“Mate, keep driving south along this street, you’ll get there,” we answered.
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the collective noun for science teachers?
I met up with Gigglesworth tonight to celebrate her new job at The Very Sought After Bank. It was also the first time I got to meet her new boyfriend. I did what all good friends do in such situation -- sat still, not judge, and made witty commentary.

I think my efforts were well received. The "checking-out" was a mutual event. There was much pre-conceived ideas and images on both sides. But the sangria was well spiked, and much of the evening was passed in pleasantries, and occasional bursts of laughter.

The train ride into the city from the suburbs was a torturous affair. The carriages were packed to limit with high school science teachers. Their attires were the give away; brown leather lace ups, solid coloured shirts tucked into tanned trousers, and -- the piece de resistance -- black digital watches. Conversations were mild and casually anecdotal in reference to particular kids in class. Their youngs were chips of the old blocks in appearance, only the attires were somewhat updated. Tanned cargo pants with polo shirts not tucked in. The digital watches were the same. Perhaps an heirloom passed down from generations of high school science teachers.

I wondered at the significance of a train full of science teachers. Is there a secret society that they gather at each month? Are they on their way to such meetings to discuss ways to protect a very harmful secret? Was it a gathering to plot out this year's HSC papers?

As for the question posed in the title, I venture to guess that the magic word is "bunsen".
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The ship has sailed
The Pixie and I clogged up the phone lines for three hours the other night. She had a very bad run of luck that day -- most of which was attributed to CityRail and their over-zealous appetite for profit (and blatant disregard for actually running the trains).

During the course of conversation, we remembered events surrounding a certain alcohol infested camp in second-year uni. Many a thing happened that weekend, none too splendoured, all too hazed.

We met Mr. Saudi Arabia at the camp. With blue eyes and blonde hair, he is not really from Saudi Arabia, but claimed he was to get Pixie's attention. The effect was adverse. His Sheikhness has been subject of our cruel jokes ever since. He was very pissed the first night of the camp. A nudie run was inevitable, though regretably, we missed his glory.

It was only this year that my paths crossed again with his Sheikhness and I still need a moment to maintain my giggles when in his glorious presence. His glory is now in other endeavours. He is the golden boy of the Statistics department. Lecturers beam at the mention of his Sheikhness. Had Pixie been as equally pissed, or more aware of his advances, she could very well on her way to be Mrs. Dr. Sheikh Saudi Arabia.

A mouthful to say, to be sure. But the glory! She laments the sailing of the her oil ship.
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Tightarse banks
The Rather-Large-Bank does not have a "relocation imbursement" policy. I'm beginning to think ill of them. It's not like a $200 plane ticket is going to put a dent in shareholder profit, considering they had $100 million to throw around (and consequently lose) in the forex market.

The move is overwhelming me now. The euphoria has now subsided; all that is left is fear. I am praying that Flea's friend will still want me as a roommate next year. There is so much uncertainty in my plans. I used to pride myself on embracing changes, but if I had been given the choice of staying here or moving to Melbourne this week, I would definitely choose the former.
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Two roads diverged...
I was supposed to sign my contracts for Rather-Large-Bank and return them last week. I've still yet to do it. I filled in all the forms yesterday and got Boy Who Stole My Shoes to witness my signatures. Seemed only fair as we will be "colleagues" next year, albeit in different cities.

I made a giant mess of the tax form. It is now full of liquid paper marks. They will definitely shake their heads in dismay and send forms for me to redo.

I am at a crossroads, somewhat. The move is going to cost a lot, and no where in the contracts did it mention the magical words, "relocation reimbursement". I was under the impression that they will pay for some of the moving costs, at least the plane ticket down. But I am also chicken shit. Asking them for money makes me feel like a bogan standing in queue at Centrelink. I don't even ask Stinkylink for money when I'm entitled to it, so asking money from future employer is even more of an obstacle for me.

To ask or to not ask? Asking makes me feel cheap. Not asking makes me feel cheated.

Fuck it. Made up my mind. Will ask. What are they going to do? Fire me for asking? Before I've even returned the contracts? If it comes to that, Ray Martin will have something to say about such injustices against an honest little battler.
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Gently down the stream
A gorgeous Sunday afternoon was spent at Bobbin Head, rowing down the Hawkesbury River with the Very Good Friend and the Pilot. We rowed our version of the women’s cox eight at the Olympics, though the Pilot being a guy was not convincing nor menacing in response to my performance of Sally Robbins dropping the oar. He did not threat to throw me into the water, but only occasioned yells to “just fucking row!”

We were at the birthday party for Bubbles. I don’t know whether it is the getting on with age or not, but this year has seen a spout of birthday activities that did not involve expensive dinners, heavy drinking and excessive dancing at very dark clubs; activities that would have made us très cool when we were seventeen. Our methods for ringing in our twenty-third year have been tame and innocent. For Bubbles, this is particularly cause for concern. We are getting old.

My team of the Very Good Friend, the Pilot and yours truly were triumphant in defeating the other three boats. We were perhaps fifty boat lengths ahead of the rest while they were still trying to figure out the basic manoeuvres. Our ambitiousness (and Leo spirits) took us to the far orange buoy where the current was much stronger. This arrogance had to take a backseat when we eventually had to be towed back to the rest of the boats. From there, it was another competition -- though the other boats did not know of the contest -- for the race to the docks.

Bubbles, who is very affectionately named despite the name, has some rather skanky friends and cousins with shamefully ugly boyfriends. This observation is admittedly conceited but nonetheless true. I have never seen a group of more ugly men. Though they all drove BMWs and 4-wheel drives (without a spot of dirt on them), they were dealt a very bad hand when looks were handed out. Perhaps they have very good personalities. Though, that is debatable based on the following.

I saw two boxes Krispy Kreme donuts as we were leaving Bubbles’ house earlier in the morning. I immediately offered my assistance to carry them to the car.

Me: Ooh. I love these. [This was said partly to make conversation with a roomful of people I hardly knew.]

Ugly guy #1 [very darkly]: Yeh. Of course you do. You look like the kind that would.

Hmm. An ugly guy implied that I was fat. Let’s just make it clear that he was very short, definitely not healthily proportioned and with a girl who can only be described as “pre-pubescent” looking.

I am not fat. True, I am slightly larger (in both height and weight) than those of similar Asian extractions, but after years of self-doubt, and several years of convincing from ex-admirers, I know that fat is not something used to describe me. At a size eight, I can hardly be deemed fat. I choose not to look like a stick as many other girls of my people do.

I like my Krispy Kremes, and shall remain dedicated in my devotion.
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Bitch of a thesis
There is less than eight weeks until my thesis is supposed to be polished and ready for presentation. So that should give me 56 days to write something adequate about the implied volatilities of financial options. This equates to about two pages a day, give or take.

Sounds reasonable.

But I am not biologically tuned to start work early, stretch out my arms and wave goodbye to the deadlines. Rather, I like staring at the deadline, give it an evil look or two, make it think that I might not catch it, and slam it flat as the clock ticks down. This is not a very good idea when one has to write a 100-page thesis on something one cares (or knows) very little about.

Starting tomorrow, I shall be better on terms with my thesis. I shall stop referring to it as a bitch or the devil in disguise.
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