Mr. Miyagi

Roomie #1 took home a stray cat from the veterinary clinic last week. A skinny grey thing who we’ve taken to call Mr. Miyagi. I liked him immediately, despite my fears of being bitten and clawed.

I have never had a pet in my life. The closest thing that came to a four-legged creature within the vicinity of our house was a stray cat Mum and I used to feed. But it was hardly ours; it was fed by practically every other house in the neighbourhood.

We cooed and fretted over Mr. Miyagi. Despite being officially Roomie #1’s pet, Roomie #2 and I showered him with love and material goods – a scratching post and loads of toys.

“He is the cutest thing ever!” I told Mum over the phone.

“Mr. Miyagi is very smart too. He knows which cupboard holds his food.” I told Pixie over the phone.

“Why would you get a cat? Cats never love you back,” Pixie asked. “It’s all taking with them.”

“Cats are gross. They lick themselves all the time.” Miss Unsubtle was on the same page as Pixie.

But Mr. Miyagi had my heart; though my fear of being scratched still kept me from picking him up to properly cuddle him. As days passed, I watched him grow closer to Roomie #2 as he purred in her arms.

My fondness for Mr. Miyagi froze on the fourth night. While both Roomies were at work, I found myself alone facing Mr. Miyagi and his poo underneath the Christmas tree.

There is something about cleaning someone’s poo off the carpet that makes them seem less perfect.

After the poo-on-carpet incident, I took to a sterner tone when dealing with Mr. Miyagi. I ignored his presence in the house.

Mr. Miyagi ran away two nights ago. Roomie #1 was devastated. I was, in contrast, secretly happy. I hoped he would stay away forever, though I insincerely consoled Roomie #1 with a lot of “maybe he’ll find his way home”s.

Roomie #1’s tears were stopped midstream last night when the front door buzzed, announcing the return of Mr. Miyagi.

Roomies were both ecstatic at Mr. Miyagi’s triumphant and safe return. More love and food were thrown at him than ever before.

“We’re never letting you out again, Mr. Miyagi!!”

“We’re going to overfeed you so that you’ll be too fat to run away!”

Though I was happy that he was back, my enthusiasm was at a level somewhat below those of Roomies’ – I still remembered vividly the smell and texture of Mr. Miyagi’s number 2’s in a thin plastic bag against my hand.

Can Mr. Miyagi and I go back to the way we were? Can I even take a step further and start cuddling him?

At least I fed him tonight without saying in a reproachful tone, “now, Mr. Miyagi, you poo this in the kitty litter, okay?”


Captain Haddock

I first met Captain Haddock earlier this year. His beard reminded me of the Herge comic book character from Tintin. I was immediately attracted to his honesty and sense of humour. I don’t remember ever laughing that much while on a date. I liked him, despite my fears of being scratched by his beard.

It is a point of worthy debate that I have ever had a proper boyfriend. The closest person to have come to that role was another bearded fellow who had several other girlfriends.

I gave Captain Haddock rave reviews. I was equally well received one night when I met his friends. While Polly of the old would have been guarded with her feelings, Polly of the new was recklessly forward following what she deemed the best first date ever.

“I had a fantastic time. I would love to see you again very soon,” was communicated to Captain Haddock when I would have usually waited for the Captains to drop by when they are next at my port.

It was a fantastic second date too.

“Captain Haddock is hilarious! And smart!” I told Pixie and Miss Unsubtle, sheepishly admitting that I fancy Captain Haddock.

But I still had my fears. I still held a deep irrational fear of being scratched by his beard (feel free to interpret this metaphorically). Our good night kisses were awkward. The first time we tried it, he accidentally let go of his break and rolled the car down the hill outside my house. The second time we tried to accomplish the task, I pulled away too soon.

At the end of our third date, by which point we were both slightly drunk, I felt the prickly bits of whiskers rub slowly up my neck, around my cheek and towards my lips. I pulled away again.

How I curse that moment now!

The fourth date was disaster.

“You know when I walked out of the bookshop for a while just then?” he asked. We had been shopping on Brunswick St.

“Yeah…”

“I had to step outside because I farted next to the erotic origami books. Smelled bad.”

Oh lord, I thought. Have we fallen into such a level of comfort that flatulence is a topic of regular discussion? Or did he mistakenly think I pulled away from snogging him because I wanted to be just friends?

Captain Haddock’s flatulence and (now) brutal honesty cast a dark cloud over my perception of him. I still cringe when I think about events of the fourth date.

“How’s Captain Haddock?” many would still ask even though it has been weeks since I last saw him. He has, in effect, run away too.

The parallel between Captain Haddock and Mr. Miyagi occurred to me today. I secretly hope that he will return too. I may even overlook his troubles with gaseous discharge.

* Names have been changed to protect the privacy of both Captain Haddock and Mr. Miyagi

‘Do you have to be the best in everything you do?’ Farm Boy asked me a couple of months ago on a trip along the Great Ocean Road with Sparkles.

‘What do you mean “have to be the best”? I know I am the best,’ I said in earnest, with just a hint of arrogance.

But tonight, I write with a bruised ego. I admit defeat; that I am not the best at everything, that I am rather appalling in certain arenas.

Choreographed dance, per example.

I know, for a fact, that I am the hottest little pocket rocket when it comes to free form dancing at clubs. I am the disco queen. My antics on the Gold Coast a couple of weeks ago provide ample evidence that I am the disco queen.

But choreographed dance such as salsa classes are my Achilles heel. I went to one tonight at the Copa Cabana with Ms Perfect. I was crap-o-la. Dog’s breakfast. I was no better than the class I went to for High School Rival’s wedding late last year. There was no lovely Emery to call me “muffins”, but there were plenty ugly balding men, most of whom were named “Adam”.

‘You’ve gotta loosen up. Bend your knees,’ said Adam #1, who refused to hold my hand.

‘Don’t lead. You follow. You follow?’ demanded Adam#2, who was my least favourite.

‘Stop trying to lead,’ explained Adam #3, a munchkin-sized man with bigger boobs than me.

‘You’re doing great, but I’m the one who leads, okay?’ said Adam #4, a gorgeous man/boy of unspecified extraction and undetermined age. He had an afro that I wanted to run my fingers through.

‘You’re the worst person I’ve ever danced with,’ said Adam #5, whose brutal honesty cut me into pieces. I could only take in comfort that I will always have better and more hair than him.

I watched with pure envy as Ms Perfect ignited the dance floor with her partner. She twisted, she turned, she loosened, she followed, without ever losing balance or forgetting the “one-two-three, four-five-six” beats. Oh, how I wished to have a body that twisted in such a way! Why, oh, why are there bones in my body??

Many Adams asked Ms Perfect to dance with them after the class finished and the real dancing began. I, the poor little wallflower, stood bravely near a wall until a tiny man (another Adam) asked me to salsa with him.

Tiny Adam was worse than me. He also did not make a good conversationalist.

‘It’s good music, this.’ He said, when we did the basic salsa steps.

I nodded.

‘It’s good music, this.’ He said again, when we cuccaracha’d.

I nodded again.

‘It’s very good music, this.’ He said, in a slightly different way. He had tried to spin me, only he found himself spinning around instead, ‘You know you’re not supposed to lead, right?’

Morale has not been high for a while now at the Rather-Large-Bank. The CEO blames the media laying the slipper in and his minions have found all sorts of ways to make us sigh with giddiness at the sight of that shiny logo of ours.

Yesterday, while I was at home pretending to be sick, my team had a bake off.

“Polly!” said Shag-Fiend Director this morning, “you missed the bake off.”

She was not particularly enthused. Rather, she said it as though it was a blessing; that I had made the right choice to stay home and watch Days of Our Lives while Fat Global Head and No Neck Head of Risk battled each other out for baking supremacy.

Last week, when I was still doe-eyed about my future at the Rather-Large-Bank, the team got together for a catch up session. On a round table, where I was again the youngest of everyone, we had to tell each other what path we would take had banking not got the better of us.

“Professional golfer.”

“Editor of Vogue.”

“Chemist.”

“Civil Engineer.”

“Gigolo.”

“Shoe designer,” said Shag-Fiend Director.

The best one came from Francois, the Frenchiest man of my acquaintance. He speaks with a flowing rhythm, almost lyrical, but his face remains expressionless no matter the topic.

“Vell, I always thought,” he began, “I vould be, very good in adveetersing.”

Sniggers.

“In France, ve have very little adveetersing. It is only cars and vashing poadar… It is very generick. It is very easee to say that my shirt is cleaner and vyiter than yours, Fat Global Head. But I think I can really sex up vashing poadar…”

Uncontrolled laughter.

I wish my penchant for accents could shine through in writing.

7:00 am Alarm on mobile goes off. Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies never sounded so annoying at any other time of the day.

7:12 am Gosh, twelve minutes go by fast. Why hasn’t Fabulous Flatmate gotten up yet? Maybe set the alarm wrong.

Nope. Was right. I have to get up soon. I need to wash hair and blow dry it straight so that hair can go “whoosh” whenever I turn my head slightly. “Whoosh” is good. I am sure the Very Fine Energy Industries Director notices “whoosh” of hair.

7:30 am I am still very peeved about not working in Sydney for the week. Why get my hopes up and let conjure up all sorts of delightful working-in-Sydney scenarios in my head over the weekend, only to tell me on Monday that “sorry, you’ll be doing the same thing in Melbourne instead”? I had the whole week – mostly involving lunches with Pixie and Sparkles, and drinks and dance floor grooves at 333 on Friday night. Very mad still. Silent protest at desk (i.e. not doing any constructive work all afternoon) yesterday was obviously not enough.

7:34 am That’s it. I will call in sick. It’s the grand tradition. I will only be un-Australian for not doing it.

7:38 am But it is childish.

7:46 am Fuck that. Am not going. I deserve a day to wallow in self-pity and silent protest while watching day-time TV.

7:50 am “Hi, Shag-Fiend Director. Sorry I can’t make it today. I got a bit of a cold from walking home in the rain last night. See you tomorrow.”

7:51 am Back to sleep. Very good sleep. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? Always, always embrace tradition.

1:05 am Ooh. I had forgotten how good Dr Phil is. Very smart man. Put me on right path. I am no longer angry at Rather-Large-Bank for being budget-cutting cold-blooded wanker-breeding institution. Destiny is in own hands. There are more important things in life than missing out on a business trip. It will come in due time.

1:06 am Commendable insight to pull a sickie.

1. Will write more and write better; attend the Melbourne Writers’ Festival, sponge their knowledge, apply own wit, churn out best seller and quit Rather-Large-Bank.


2. Be more assertive at work – less “umm…I think you are wrong”, but more “you’re completely off the radar”.


3. Will do tax return. Very important. Perhaps should be at number 1.


4. Procrastinate less. Not everything is like an honours’ year thesis; deadlines are not usually at the end of the year.


5. Will stop harbouring affections for men who are already in serious relationships, because despite how perfectly caring and sweet they seem with you, they will still spend Sunday afternoons baking gluten-free banana bread for their gluten-intolerant girlfriends.


6. Will stop harmless flirtations with balding divorcees that are bordering on inappropriateness – please, no more “You want a good morning kiss? What do I get in return?” You know what you get in return. A tram full of passengers staring back at you in horror while you talk dirty to your mobile at eight-thirty in the morning.


7. Will cook more at home – because a dinner out costs at least twenty bucks, at four times a week is eighty dollars a week, $320 a month and an overly large number a year.


8. Will be nicer to people – because it is not very becoming to have topic of conversation constantly stalled at “effing Gold Buttons…so effing stupid”.


9. Will be more tolerant of people, be they of different race (please stop the “he’s such a dumb white boy” talk), intelligence (see number 8), and aesthetic value (declarations of “eww” will only get you so far).


10. Be more understanding to parents; be more Asian and contribute more to their mortgage repayments because you are the apple of their deluded eyes, please let the delusion continue.


11. Keep up the delusional self-confidence. It has been a good year of inflated ego.


12. Will be kinder to the boys you’ve turned down in the past. Stop making them the butt of all your jokes, even though they are very funny jokes and are most often only slightly exaggerated.


13. Be less concerned if you happen to spend a Friday night alone with just your thoughts and your laptop.


14. Will be less messy – it is not very becoming nor efficient having to step over books, clothes and shoes just to move an inch.


15. Try to make it to work before 8:45 am. This is already 15 minutes later than everybody else, who are we kidding here with a 30-minute late entrance?


16. Write more about your friends. You promised Hermione something about her at Easter. You haven’t delivered. And only one entry on Sparkles? Piss-weak effort. And it’s been a while since we have heard of Pixie, Pooh and Gigglesworth. Embrace the source of your happiness.


17. Not everything has to be about the Heartbreaker and the Divorcee. See number 16.


18. Will email friends less at work. No wait. Will balance working and emailing with greater efficiency.


19. Will try to be less of a whinger. Not everyone needs to know for the umpteenth time how much of an idiot Gold Buttons is at work.


20. Will try to limit browsing of celebrity gossip web pages to a minimum – read only the weekly Ted Casablanca “The Awful Truth” column, because knowing exactly how Jennifer found out about Brad and Angelina is not entirely of use to career prospects.


21. Engage, maverick, engage. Find that tall, dark, handsome, sensitive but macho, neat but not closet, Asian-ly aware but not suffering from yellow fever, intelligent man. Key notes: no more Heartbreakers, no more Divorcees.


22. But not make that a priority. Who are we kidding here? You’re only 24. Still a lot of time to make mistakes.


23. Twenty-three was a good year. Don’t forget that.
    


24. Keep list-making to a minimum.

There's nothing better than a cocktail at Ellis Street Lounge to beat those Tuesday blues. Wouldn't you agree, Sparkles?

I have never been one to get up before lunch on weekends. With the short days of winter, I see about three hours of daylight on my days off. I care little for breakfast, or brunch. So it was without surprise that the one meal I had at Tiffany’s was late afternoon tea.

On a lazy Saturday afternoon, after yum cha at Shark Fin House, Sparkles and I debated the plan for the rest of the day.

“How about a stroll around the Botanic Gardens?” I asked.

“I need to go to the loo,” Sparkles answered, “and the nice loo in David Jones is not on the way.”

An idea suddenly sparked. “What about Tiffany’s?”

“Yes!!” Sparkles replied, eyes sparkling.

“But we’re not allowed to buy anything! Stop me before I start buying,” I said with as much honesty as an alcoholic at happy hour.

The signature Tiffany jewels dazzled inside the polished counters. We were in heaven.

“Look at those earrings!” “I like that bracelet!” “Miss Unsubtlety has that necklace!”

“I passed my CA exams last week,” Sparkles said suddenly. I knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Well…I suppose you can get a silver necklace as a self-congratulatory present.” I said, before rationalizing, “And my birthday IS coming up soon.”

“That Atlas necklace could be an early birthday present to you from me,” she said, pointing to a delightful silver sparkler I had drooled over.

“And I need to give you something for passing your CA exams,” I said, nodding my head toward the Elsa Peretti open heart.

Transaction was completed in less than twenty minutes. We happily walked out with our first ever little blue boxes in little blue bags. At Laurent, our current favourite French Patisserie, we exchanged presents.

“Aww, you didn’t have to!” “It’s exactly what I wanted!” “How on earth did you know?”

According to a Melbourne urban myth, Barbie dolls stripped of their itsy-bitsy clothes walk the city streets on late nights. One night, while out with Pixie, Cartman and several other visiting friends, we came across our first ever wondering Barbie. A passerby was as amused by her as us and insisted on being in the photo.

A new pair of shoes courtesy of the half-yearly sales. Marc Jacobs. 50% off. I think I've done well.

Pixie, Gigglesworth, what do you think??

In light of recent change in work environment, that is, the new reporting line in the form of my Shag-Fiend Director (formerly known as Band Geek Manager), I wonder how the following will go down at bars and pubs:

"Hi, I need to shag you now to further my career. We might not work in the same company, but I need to shag you. Now."

I think Shag-Fiend Director is trying to live the single life through me. I got the "have a nice weekend, Polly, I expect a full report on Monday" as left my desk yesterday. She really picked the wrong person to report. So far this weekend, I have not left my bed except to go to the loo. See, I am not a fox like her. Men tend to run away from me.

Italian Stallion, per example. We had met a few weeks ago, and had quite a long conversation (one which I secretly hoped would blossom into a meaningful relationship whereby we would be the king and queen of jaw-dropping attractiveness).

My friend, Miss Unsubtlety, unaware of my acquaintance with Italian Stallion, introduced us again at a work function last week.

"Polly, have you met Italian Stallion? He's single." She said with her left eyebrow raised in bemusement.

"Oh really?" I said, raising my right eyebrow in response to Italian Stallion's availability. Unfortunately, he was not available for very long -- he promptly left our circle of madness and excused himself from the function.

My eyes followed him as his long legs carried his fine broad shoulders out of the room. Haha! You can't run that far, Italian Stallion, I thought to myself, because I am moving up to your floor next week!

Obviously, I can handle rejection and lack of interest very well. But this really provides no source for a good shagging story as requested by Shag Fiend Director. Will just have to drag myself out of bed now and go for a run. Perhaps there will be some delicious jogger going around and around and around Princes Park.

This week is the start of my second rotation. I feel the pressure to perform for the first time since joining the Rather-Large-Bank. No more Easygoing Manager keeping me updated on the trials and tribulations of Pommy Dude and Half Pint Hottie. I feel out of my depth and far from my comfort zone.

Of course, all this uneasiness has nothing to do with work. Pft. As if. Work is child’s play in comparison to other expectations.

My new manager is in her thirties and a bit of a ball-breaker behind an unassuming façade – much like the band geek girl in American Pie. Finally! A woman of power to respect and emulate instead of the usual forty-something balding male executives, I thought to myself yesterday. As we chatted about our ambitions and interests, I felt an instant rapport between us. My Band Geek Manager is funny and unpretentious. And she seemed to love me instantly too.

“You’ve totally got the respect of Band Geek Manager now,” Heartbreaker told me as we walked back to the Rather-Large-Bank building after lunch. He had previously been working in my rotation.

“Really?” My eyes lit up. It was almost like in year 10 when I was told that the computer geek whom I had a crush on felt the same way about me.

“Yep. She thinks you’re great.”

“Really? Aww…I love her too. She even said I can do some due diligence work interstate sometime soon,” I said, recalling the conversation I had with Band Geek Manager yesterday.

“She’s fantastic to work with. You can learn a lot and still have a great time,” said Heartbreaker. “But you might have to share some good shag stories with her.”

“What!?”

“Well…she thinks you’re going to have some funny shag stories to tell.”

“WHAT?!!” I shrieked again.

“You’re single, right? So she’s expecting wild-single-girl-about-town stories to share.”

“But I have none! I spend most weekends scared that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life!”

“No you don’t. Besides, I already told her about that make out session you had over the Anzac weekend.” Heartbreaker said nonchalantly, unaware that this could well tarnish the professional front I have been trying to carve out for the past four months.

“But there was no sex! It was just making out!”

“Yeah. She said she can respect that, but expects more next time.”

“What about you? Did you share your shag stories with her?” I asked.

“No. I’ve been going out with my girlfriend for three years. We have no fun shag stories anymore.” Heartbreaker said disappointedly.

“Oh.” I said, trying to feign sympathy. “But what am I supposed to do about my non-existent wild-bachelorette stories?”

“As if that’s true!” Heartbreaker said unbelievingly. “You’ve got all these men hanging about.”

How I wished that to be true! Why is it that people think I have the most fabulous life surrounded by hot men and yet I spent the last Saturday night surrounded by dirty laundry?? I looked very unconvinced.

“The Divorcee, for example? What’s happening there?” he continued. “Anyway, you can always just make it up.”

“Make it up?? I am so out of my depth. You have no idea.”

“Don’t worry. You have an overactive imagination.” Heartbreaker tried to ease the anxiety.

Paging overactive imagination (it’s a good thing I have one)! Please conjure up fanciful sexual delights to further Polly’s career prospects.

I have a cold. My nose is a leaky tap that refuses to be turned off. All I want is some hot tea.

But hot tea is one of the commodities that I will have to live without -- hot tea and heating and everything that is powered on electricity.

All I have is a lavender scented candle and three hours of battery life on my laptop. The power to the little house in Brunswick has been shut off. Some git at the power company thinks our name does not exist on their list. Some other git’s name is on their list and that git has not been paying his bill. So by some strange logic, we do not have power and I’m shivering in the cold comforted by a lonely candle.

Nevertheless, it was fun for a while. After dinner (a romantic meal by the candle light courtesy of the Colonel), I got out my guitar and sang a little ditty with my Loopy Flatmate entitled “O Brunswick, Why Art Thou So Shit”.

It was very catchy.

“Polly, did you hear the latest gossip?” asked Easygoing Manager excitedly as I walked back to my desk after lunch.

Easygoing Manager is in his thirties. He looks the part of the most accomplished Rugby Union fullback, battle scars and all. But when it comes to office gossip, it is a sin to be left out of the loop, even if one is purposely built for a rugby scrum.

I, too, was all ears.

“Pommy Dude is going out with Half Pint Hottie! They just started going out this week!” he said with a distinguished enthusiasm that would make Mary Hart of Entertainment Tonight proud.

Oh, my poor poor heart! Pommy Dude! And Half Pint Hottie!

I kept my composure and listened to the romantic entanglements of the office’s very own Posh and Becks.

“You haven’t heard? Pull up a chair, Polly,” Easygoing Manager started. “I had a feeling that Half Pint Hottie was keen on Pommy Dude. Remember the time we played soccer with them? She was in a mini skirt doing scissor kicks whenever he got the ball. You just have a gut feeling when something like that happens.”

This little cheerleading act obviously escaped my attention. All I remember from that day was the flying goal I scored past Pommy Dude’s (incompetent) hands.

“Anyway, that’s not the whole story,” Easygoing Manager continued. “You see, they were both with other partners not long ago. Half Pint Hottie was even engaged to be married! I’ve got to call Two-Packs-A-Day to tell him. Wonder if he knows. He sits next to Pommy Dude.”

“Two-Packs! Did you hear the latest?” he began again. “No. No. Not about the share offer. About Pommy Dude…no no, he’s not getting deported! He’s going out with Half Pint Hottie…well apparently he broke up with her a week ago…yes quick mover…I know…I know…Glad I found out early, I was going to ask her how the wedding plans were coming along at the next meeting...Mate, that would’ve been a total cock up, eh?”

He worked the phone for the rest of the afternoon, and by five o’clock, the news had travelled through the entire central nervous system of Rather-Large-Bank.