The Ghost of Housemates Present

If a housemate moves into the woods, but no one sees her… has she moved in at all?  Or is she just paying an exorbitant amount of money to store her clothes?

Clothes like this wet suit, which fits me perfectly

We recently underwent a changing of the guard at the Cliff, with Marika abandoning ship, and Mandy moving in as her replacement.  Mandy was an excellent choice – easy going, good at sharing and she laughs at my jokes (thus proving conclusively that she has an excellent sense of humour).

There’s just one thing… I can’t actually remember what Mandy looks like.  If you did a line-up of appropriately proportioned blonde girls, I’d struggle to pick her out.

I literally haven’t seen her in almost two months.  There are two clear reasons why this might be the case.

Option A

The grand burden of being in a healthy relationship is that you actually have to spend time with your significant other.  Mandy is so enamoured with said Other that she has no use for a lounge room as cold as a freezer, in a building which now appears to flood annually, on a street where parking has become a bitter, bitter knife fight with that douche who leaves snide notes.  In this scenario it also becomes apparent that she is the first person to live in this house and be in a relationship at the same time.

Option B

Mandy is a spy, and ‘Mandy’ isn’t even her real name.  ‘Mandy’ is her cover identity, and the Cliff is simply one of many safe houses she keeps scattered all around the world.

Option B is clearly the most likely, but let’s just stay open-minded on the topic for now, because none of this is even the real issue.  ‘What’s the real issue?’ asks everyone everywhere (all of them).

The real issue is: What should we use her room for?

1. A part of me instantly blurts out ‘sewing room’ (even though I don’t sew) because I am my mother’s daughter.

2. A second part of me mutters ‘home gym’ (even though I would never use it), because I am still that same daughter, and thus have had it drilled into me that I should probably go for a run because it will somehow make me happier.  And that I really don’t need that second piece of bread because I should still be full from the porridge I had 6 hours ago.

3. An upstairs cellar.  Vastly more practical and likely than a home gym.

4. A Rear Window style set up, featuring a telescope, in order for me to solve crime in the neighbourhood.  The seedy underbelly of the Lower North Shore will be unveiled when I finally unravel the masterminds behind such misdeeds as The Case of the Missing Mop Bucket, The Curious Incident of the Glove Box Thief in the Night-Time, and who the hell owns the cat that shits on our front porch every single day without fail.

5. A dog kennel.  In order to breed the mortal enemy of the cat that shits on our front porch every single day without fail.

6. A craft room – because paper mache feels like something I didn’t fully trial in my youth.

7. Walk-in-wardrobe.  Stop laughing mum, of course I’m joking – my various pairs of jeans fit perfectly where they are.

8. Bo-ho café furnished with ‘found’ objects, featuring only tea and staffed by the street gang of tweens who loiter on the corner and threaten to make people buy their abstract paintings.

9. A warm safe place to hatch baby chickens.  Because of course.

There are some advantages to having a housemate who’s MIA.  For one thing, it saves me from trying to figure out how to tell Mandy not to use my tea cup without sounding like a total knob.

Also we now have a back-up room for our next Annual Plumbing-Based House Flood.  After the last one a few months back Layla had to move everything she owned into the lounge room.  Now I don’t want to say she’s a hoarder or anything, but if the mammoth pile of newspapers which appeared to be older than that soup I made 3 years ago that’s still sitting in the freezer is anything to go by… an Emergency Flood Storage Room might be a thing worth having.

Of course the best laid plans of mice and crime sleuths can be easily over-turned by the Ghost Protocol Housemate herself should she want to use her own room.  So selfish.

Painefull Out

P.S. During the latest Annual Plumbing-Based House Flood one of the tradies casually said “You should write a blog about this.”  I don’t know what’s more concerning, that Deputy Hot Plumber & Co may have discovered my re-telling of their last visit, or the idea that “You should write a blog about this” is now a passing statement that can be made between strangers.

The Time Machine

This year my birthday celebrations were intimate, but the hat parade was fabulous

Each year it arrives.  Inevitably, uncompromisingly, wordlessly.  The date of our birth is like the steamroller bearing down on the henchman in Austin Powers – constantly rolling towards us, while we remain paralysed and incapable of getting out of its path.  See what I did there?  In the name of an analogy I used something that peaked in the 90’s, got tiresome through repetition, and now ultimately just feels dated.  Kind of like my birthday.

The clearest thing I know for sure about aging is it sure seems to Grinch me out.  I wrote a stream of consciousness list, and completely without planning it, it became the highly positive, totally life-affirming, upbeat catalogue of:

Things I don’t like about getting older

The list featured all the usual complaints about physical changes.  ‘My back hurts’ was literally the first thing I typed.  It still hurts by the way.

No longer being viewed as young in the workplace

Why does this bother me?  Probably because it was somehow connected to my secret hope I was a child prodigy at something.  If you’re still getting the coffees at 29… I think that ship might have sailed.

The fact that I still don’t feel like a grown up

Grown-ups understand what the hell their superannuation fund does.  And probably have one of them, rather than six.  Grown-ups don’t wear jeans to work, they wear slacks, or skirts, or astronaut suits.  Grown-ups don’t live in share houses, or have to borrow gardening sheers from their parents, or have large mounted movie posters adorning their lounge room walls.  They have personal space paired with a hideous amount of debt, a gardener that comes on Thursdays and a burgeoning modern art collection.

Young people, because they’re annoying and stupid

I mean.  Obvious.

The property market, because it’s annoying and stupid

Realising my parents are also getting older

The insertion of hashtags into verbal conversation

And YOLO.  And other acronyms I don’t understand because I’m old and too scared to admit I don’t understand the annoying and stupid young people.

Getting out of bed has not become easier

I was told sleeping in was a youthful fad I would overcome.  I have not.

Vacuuming, shaving and choosing what I eat for dinner – 3 things that always seemed like thrilling privileges during my childhood, marvellous gifts I would attain with age, are awful things I somehow tricked myself into looking forward to.

Coming to terms with the fact that I probably can’t take my nephews in a fight anymore

Why is this important to me?  Because I’m not a real grown up perchance?

Coming to terms with the fact that I will never appear on Survivor, am yet to solve a crime in the manner of Miss Marple, and haven’t stumbled across my own undiscovered musical talent (a skill I haven’t worked at because I assumed it would just find me)

What have I done with my life?

That plan I always have about working overseas feels just as vague and base-less now as it did when I started talking about it 10 years ago

My inability to ride a bike uphill

It requires three things I currently lack – fitness, balance and, in a surprise twist, a bike.

The fact that I was pretty sure I was going to be a published author by my early 20’s

Mostly because of Zadie Smith.  I blame Zadie Smith.

I have failed to develop the ability to walk in heels.

Like my hidden musical talent, I thought it would just appear one day, unbidden, without practice, and simply occur.

The biggest recurring theme appears to be Things I Haven’t Done.   I think the worst part about getting old is the memory of what you thought you’d be by now.  It’s not traumatizing or anything, and I know I was a bit of a douche in my youth, but I can’t help but suspect Young Me would be totally disappointed in Old Me.  Young Me thought Old Me would have Figured Stuff Out, while seamlessly becoming a Sophisticated and Worldly Human Being who was widely recognised as a Flawless Genius Who Only Ever Had Amazing Ideas.

I struggle with aging, not out of vanity, but because I know it’s meant to be significant, but I’m not sure I’ve isolated why.  It’s something I have no control over, will happen whether I like it or not, and requires no special skills, so how can that by itself be considered an achievement? 

There are some good things about getting older.  It’s a shorter list though:

I like the people I like more

I love the people I love more

I can stay up as late as I want

Brunch

I’m sure there’s more to that list.  Perhaps I’ll add my failure to add to the second list on my first list this time next year.  Or maybe the whole thing will just make more sense when I’m older…

Painefull Out

Do I Know You?

I dread meeting excessive amounts of new people, not because I don’t like people (though… fair point, there is that), but because I’m terrible with names and faces.  When someone is introduced to me it’s like my brain does a 5 second samba to the tune of a foghorn, drowning out all possible information in that window.  By the time the window is closed it simply cannot be re-opened.  And just like that, you’re screwed.  You’re left to make do with elongated “Hiiiiiii”s and ill-fitting nicknames and calling women 20 years your senior “playa” in a total blind panic.

I have worked with people for 3 years and not known their names.  And these weren’t people I was on mere nodding terms with, these were people I used to have in-jokes with.  I knew the in-jokes, but not their names.

Once I decided to cheat, and drew myself a diagram of desks and got a sympathetic friend to fill it in with names.  It worked a treat for 2 weeks and 3 days, until everyone swapped seats.  It was like a cruel game of musical chairs.  Suddenly I found myself approaching a man I was fairly certain wasn’t called Kirsty, and mumbling a slurred version of the word “Ribs” before barrelling into conversation to avoid being asked to clarify what I’d called him.

I’m an equal opportunity offender when it comes to faces.  Today I decided to change it up by going to the Woolworths across the road from the Woolworths I usually use (I know what you’re thinking, STOP living on the edge with such bold life choices Painefull, you’re playing with fire).  At the check-out the woman serving me asked how I was with that tone of familiarity that implies more than ‘I’m trying not to look at the clock as I wait for my shift to end’.

ME: Um… good?  Thanks…

CHECK-OUT LADY: You’re my neighbour.

ME: Am I?

APPARENTLY MY NEIGHBOUR: You live in a flat at 98.

ME: I do…

HOPEFULLY MY NEIGHBOUR OTHERWISE HAS TOO MUCH INFORMATION: I’m in 96 – you park out the front of my place all the time.

ME: Oh.  Hi.  Sorry.  Yes.  How bout that…

As a sidebar, this is why, despite my aspirations, I have not talent for crime fighting.  If this woman had committed a crime repeatedly as I parked my car outside her house every day, and after a year the cops had asked me to describe her, their notes from that interview would have read…

Suspect has hair.  Is definitely a woman.  As tall as this-ish.  Hair might be brown.  Has face with nose.

But perhaps it’s even trickier when you do recognise someone, they recognise you, but neither of you has the will to go through with the socially mandated interaction.  Then, as if by magic, somewhere in the empty air between you, an unspoken agreement is formed to each pretend the other person is invisible.

I lived in perfect harmony with such an agreement for over a year, studiously avoiding eye contact with a former colleague on the non-explicit understanding that while he and I don’t have a problematic past, there is simply nothing to say now.  We had worked together, but never socialized, and neither of us had remotely enough information on each other to sustain even the smallest of small talk.

And then, for no apparent reason, after 14 months of harmony, he broke our deal.  He addressed me directly while we both stood in line to get coffee last week.  It was such a betrayal of everything we had been through together.  It’s like I don’t even know who he is anymore… all over again.

What followed was an awkward non-catch up, a barista who seemed to slow down just to spite me, and that classic, hurried spasm of a farewell: ‘We should totally do coffee, I’ll call you or you call me, and we’ll make it happen, we could grab a drink or something!’  I like to think he understands the unspoken contract we both entered in that moment to do none of those things, but it’s hard to say with this guy.  He’s clearly changed.  I guess.  Barely knowing him at all it’s a little hard to say.

Life goes on, unspoken agreements to never speak continue to be made.  Just this week I entered one with a girl at pilates I suspect I went to school with.  Now, once a week we will sweat, breathe loudly and do exercises that will make us feel like we’ve been punched in the stomach the next day.  We will then busy ourselves rolling our mats, gaze listlessly at distant corners of the room when passing each other and leave in a staggered formation to avoid any possible risk of exposure.

I think it could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Painefull Out

The Painefull New Year’s Eve

Welcome to 2014.  I’m 5 days late, but welcome anyway.  Let’s say welcome to the Real 2014.  The one that truly begins after the festive season ends, when work, and credit card payments, and sun stroke bring you back to reality.  Now that you’ve finally given in to your liver’s pleas for mercy, now that your oldest sister has finished dancing on the table, now that you’re torn between taking down the Christmas decorations and just re-branding them as The January Tree and The Year-Round Fairy Lights, I bid you a Happy New Year.

Scruffy is such a festive season hack - any excuse for a costume.  This is him wondering if his owner, my sister, hates him.

Was your New Year’s Eve disappointing?  A let-down?  63% of respondents say yes*.  Or they can’t remember, but the photos indicate they pashed someone who turned out to be a 3 instead of a 7.

My New Year’s celebrations were delightful, and I have decided the charitable thing to do is to share the secret to that success, the key to never being disappointed again.  Let me say, in advance, you’re welcome.

So, the math is simple.

Bottle of champagne + selected episode of Dawson’s Creek + the sound of fireworks occurring somewhere in the distance (apparently it’s a thing around Sydney Harbour?  I don’t know, I smell a fad) + leisure wear = A Very Special New Year’s Eve Tradition.

As is often the case with world-shattering discoveries (like the slinky, and Harrison Ford) I stumbled upon this equation by complete accident a few years ago.  It hasn’t let me down since.  How can you be disappointed when you know what’s going to happen (shock twist, Joey gets on the boat with Pacey)?  How can you feel let down when discovering ridiculously cheesy dialogue from your favourite high school show of yore (Jack’s Dad: Someone had to make the first move, Jack: I just didn’t think it would be you… Jack leans over and moves symbolic chess piece)?  How can you not WEEP every time Gran nurses Jen Lindley on her death bed (sorry, belated ‘spoiler alert’, but there’s a reason Michelle Williams is the Oscar nominee of the bunch)?

James Van Der Beek's stunning re-enactment of me weeping

Still not convinced that unlike NYE, Dawson & Co won't let you down?  I’ll let the evidence speak for itself…

Pro

- At no point will you curse the day your feet were born, and the crazy, over-sexed, hurtful and under-supportive shoes they get mixed up with

Instead

- You can watch Dawson’s ill-fated dalliance with the crazy, over-sexed, hurtful and under-supportive Eve, a character so shoe-horned into the story you can never quite remember why she’s there, other than to provide another non-obstacle to true love

Pro

- When you stumble to the bathroom you won’t accidentally interrupt a coke-binge featuring a notoriously unhygienic surface

Instead

- You get to watch the great ‘Say No To Drugs Kids’ episode where the strait-laced Andie pops her first and only pill, then promptly almost dies because there is absolutely no in between boys and girls

Pros

- You can avoid those deeply awkward interludes with random friendship outliers who you only see once a year, and whose name always escapes you

Instead

- You can watch everyone in Season 4 pretend that Pacey has always had an older sister called Gretchen who they’ve just failed to mention or see for 3 years

Pros

- There is no danger of being trapped in a corner in one of those epic drunken conversations that starts to feel like Waiting for Godot- meets the countless re-stating of the ultimate prize in a televised singing conversation (which is to say circular, unending and pointlessly repetitive)

Instead

- Every time Dawson and Joey have an earnest 3 minute conversation about being soul-mates, or Joey reassures Pacey that Dawson is her ‘past’ and Pacey is her ‘future’ (seriously, I counted 7 of those) you can just fast forward while topping up your glass

Pro

- There will be no battle to find a cab and get home

Instead

- Your bed is just around the corner.  It’s calling you.  The real challenge is tearing yourself away from watching some of the Oldest Looking Sixteen Year Olds of All Time (of ALL TIME).

Mouse can barely contain her excitement at my presentation

It doesn’t really need to be said, but I rest my case.

Painefull Out

* = survey was conducted by Painefull Statistics, and quality control assured that 100% of respondents were fictional

Twas…

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even the Parentals Painefull, who had turned themselves into bed when they realised how much profanity would be in the Will Anderson comedy routine they had stumbled upon on television (in dad’s defence he thought he was watching Adam Hills… which also explains why he kept marvelling at how real prosthetic foots look these days).

The weather outside had been frightful when I arrived at the Dor two days earlier.  42 degrees celcius to be exact when I stumbled into the house to discover Mother Painefull was hosting the Vagina Monologues – aka the Dor Women’s Christmas Champagne Appreciation Event.  40 ladies, excess finger food, and my father missing, having removed himself to an undisclosed secondary location.

Appreciation... achieved

Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree was up.  Mum had gone with an interesting gothic-Corpse Bride theme this year.

The sibling specialized family angel ornament is also hanging proudly.  I am the angel in the middle (who’s spun herself away from camera, bitch).  Do read into my placement.

Joy to the world was not precisely what I would call the experience of watching Anchorman 2 with my sister Mrs Ryan, and our parents.  The Parents Painefull had never seen the original.  I had forgotten about the franchise’s enjoyment of prolonged, absurd sex scenes, and was unaware there would be quite so much punning around the name of condoms, or quite so much singing to sharks.  Dad confessed he considered walking out 20 minutes in, but he kept thinking it would end soon.  It goes for 2 hours.

It could have been worse, it was not, for example, The Great 'Scary Movie' Debacle of 2000 - my father and I couldn't look at each other for a while after that one.

Topics of conversation for the trip to the cinema included Mrs Ryan’s thoughts on Mother Painefull’s driving style, and Father Painefull’s thoughts on Mrs Ryan distracting Mother Painefull as she drove, the weather, and how Mrs Ryan would go walking home from the movies.

Away in a manger is not where I sleep.  Because I have a bed obviously.  A lovely traditional single bed, as befits my marital status.  That is where mum photographed me this morning as I slept to show me what I look like when I sleep.  I umm-ed and ah-ed about putting that snap up (I am rocking some odd ‘thinker’ pose), but have erred on the side of maintaining the mystery in our relationship.  Here, instead, is an artist’s rendering:

The only way it could be more dead on is if it was lying down.  Unconscious.  And blonde.  And also female (you've got to forgive Rodin, he really did try his hardest to get this one right).

Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer was among the characters featured in people’s yards this evening as I joined the Ryans in their traditional tour of the neighbouring suburbs in order to cast judgment upon lighting displays.  In years gone past we used to print out official score cards and leave comments, but since the Ryans became breeders we consider it a remarkable feat when we simply manage to fit into one car now.

Topics of conversation included the Ryan Brood’s thoughts on Mrs Ryan’s driving style, a debate on whether Nephew 1 has a girlfriend, or a friend who is a girl, and the many mechanisms for the transportation and storing of sewage.

I leave you with that thought, and this image of Mrs Ryan's cat, Mouse, in full celebration of the festive season.

Like all cats, this cat is a Festive cat by virtue of his very species

Painefull Out

The Tennant, The Real Estate Agent, Her Plumber and His Dog

(plus the Electrician, the Neighbour, the Hot Deputy Plumber and the Man Who Professionally Dries Carpets)

Sometimes my life really does sound like a bad porno.  And here, by ‘bad’, I mean missing one key genre ingredient.  So sexless, but still somehow filled with strange and unplanned visitations.

Case in point: 5 Days of the Tradie

 One recent Monday a kindly neighbour informed me there was a leak in our hot water system on the roof of our house.  Apparently said leak had been in existence for about two weeks.  Fortunately the neighbour spotted me gasping for breath (and life) post wog in our driveway and shouted out the news – fortunate because as we all know it takes at least three weeks to write a note and put it in someone’s mailbox (first you have to find a piece of paper… then a pen… then you need to binge watch the last season of Big Brother so you’re across the story so far... then you need to find a flat surface on which to write… it’s a pretty big deal).

Standing at the appropriate vantage point I could see the birds were really getting a lot of joy from their newly minted winter hot springs retreat, so it was with heavy heart that I called, emailed and texted my infamously disinterested real estate agent (the kind who forgets to tell you about a rent increase until a year after the fact) with the problem.  From her I received the wonderful reply “I thought your water tank was in the laundry?”

Yes.  I am inventing a hot water system on the roof because I miss our long talks.

Now assuming the usual response time the past few years have taught me to expect, I decided to take a quick shower before the Portly Plumber arrived in what I presumed would be several hours.  Of course, I was mid conditioner when Portly rang to say he was standing at the door.

One frantic, damp and scrabbled clothing dousing later I let him in wearing my father’s old grey fleece jumper.  And a trusty pair of ugg boots.  And hole-riddled jeans.  But in my defence I had no idea that Portly would be joined, not just by his rather skittish dog, but by a strapping younger assistant who dutifully removed his shoes every time he walked into the house

The owners decided to replace the solar system with a new tank in the laundry (which means my real estate agent was almost right, or she partakes in recreational time travel – to be honest the second one feels more realistic).  Needless to say I felt it was my duty to help Deputy Hot Plumber in spontaneously clearing out the area where the tank would go.

There’s nothing like the moment you realise just how attractive a Deputy Hot Plumber is, followed by the moment you realise you’re realising this while holding the surfer skateboard that looks like it belongs to a teenage boy, but actually belongs to your housemate, but clearly because you’re holding it, it appears to belong to you.  This sent me into hyperactive, unnecessary exposition about my housemate and her skateboard.  It sounded like a lie, like the times I used to buy shapeless men’s t-shirts and broadcast loudly about buying them for my young brother (though that in fact was a lie – shapeless men’s t-shirts are just so comfortable and I can only steal so many from unwitting brothers in law).

I didn’t mind that they had to come back the next day to finish the work – at least it gave me more time to come up with a surreptitious method by which to take a photo of DHP.  I suspected my housemate Layla would be a particular fan.  I did mind that through a series of misunderstandings they arrived on the Tuesday while I was once again in the shower.  So flabbergasted was I, and disbelieving was old Portly, that I actually managed to answer the door in a towel that time around (which, Mother Painefull might argue, was a better and much more comely look than the previous outfit anyway).

I had to work incredibly hard not to make any dirty jokes about cleaning pipes.  Thoroughly pleased with myself I took one look at the new hot water tank and lost all self-restraint:

“But is it big enough?”

“I think so.”

The reply came from the very literal tank delivery guy.  Did I mention there were 3 men at the door, with a dog, when I answered it in a towel that Tuesday?

As the menfolk packed themselves into the laundry to try and appear like they were all necessary for what was happening in there, I remembered something a little awkward.  Oh god, there’s a pap smear notice on the pin board in the laundry… (for reasons that require their own separate post we have a pin board that features things ranging from speed dating score cards, to the person each of my friends wants me to direct the police to if they die under mysterious circumstances).

Just as I came to the conclusion that it was a good thing that The Great Tradie Invasion of 2013 was about to conclude I heard them referring to the parts of the job they’d finish the next day.  Plumbing, I must conclude, is like an election campaign – theoretically brief, but feels like a marathon once you’ve passed the point of no return.

To my credit I made damn sure not to be in the shower the next morning when the electrician popped in to say condescending things about my generation, hook up the power to the new tank, and flood the laundry and lounge room (in that order).

Some swearing, some shrieking and one rage run later (yes, I actually ran – apparently I need to Hulk out to exercise properly) I foolishly decided it was safe to get back into the water before the Man Who Specialises in Drying Carpet that Has Been Made Wet By Wildly Incompetent Electricians arrived.  A hint of paranoia is why I left my phone in arms reach as I showered, which is why I was able to answer it, and exfoliate at the same time, when the MWSDCHBMWBWIE rang to say he was at the door.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I am in the shower again… (awkward phone silence) which might sound like a strange thing to tell you seeing as we’ve never met…  (awkwarder silence) it’s kind of an in joke… (is it possible he’s hung up on me?) I’ll be right down.”

It must be said that by Friday, when he arrived to take back the industrial fan that had been drying the concrete under our ripped up carpet in the lounge room, he finally found the funny side to the fact that I was once again in the shower.  I can only imagine my reputation on the tradie circuit – ‘She’s hella weird, but that girl is cleeeeaaaannnn.’

On the upside, if the Electrician (who’s response to unleashing a small wave from the new tank into my house was “Look at that, it’s flooding”) hadn’t given us a temporary water feature beside the couch, we would never have had to clean out our storage under the stairs (which also flooded).  Who knew two tents, three lamps, two vacuums (one broken), a television (also broken) and this…

 

Undiscovered species?  Mrs Claus merkin?

...completely inexplicable object were all taking up residence in the Room That Time Forgot.  Mary Poppins bag, eat your heart out.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m waiting for someone to arrive for a cup of tea – I think I’ll hurry them along by hopping into the shower.

Painefull Out

A Painefull Guide to Looking Less Awkward (while remaining utterly awkward)

On the list of my Greatest Fears (a list that ranges all the way from Uncomfortable Underwear to Robot Led Apocalypse) one of the most highly ranked concerns to plague my mind is my Fear of Showing Up at the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time.  Its genesis can be found in a teenage incident in which I was dropped off at boarding school a day early.  It’s the reason I get cold sweats when arriving at fancy dress gatherings.  Every now and then something happens to reinforce my Fear – like the charming HR woman a few years back who instructed me (through several clarifying emails and phone calls) that I was to start my new job on the 1^st of January.  In her defence, how was she to know that the entire building was shut down on New Year’s Day?  She was on holiday after all.

The other source of my fear of fancy dress gatherings

In any case I am quite certain that this, my Fear of Showing Up at the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time, is one of the major contributing factors to the unparalleled wave of Awkward I bring along with me when attending any type of Function.  Here I use the word ‘Function’ as an umbrella term for those genre-less, mystifyingly dress coded gatherings in which one must make unending small talk with complete strangers while exuding charm, grace and confidence, not to mention managing the Olympian juggling act of sipping, nibbling and having a business card at the ready… all at the same time.  Some people call this Networking.  I call this Dying Slowly.

Through a series of inexplicable events I found myself at two such gatherings recently.  Though I failed (like a movie about a board game involving battleships, which is to say utterly) at the social side of both events, I did pick up some advice on the matter.

And now I feel it is my duty to all similarly awkward individuals (who would rather gnaw off their own hand than ‘work a room’), to share that advice as some sort of emergency kit should they ever get backed into a hall filled with finger food that’s being held by people who smile with ‘good-humoured interest’ while glancing over your shoulder.

Let’s called it The Painefull Guide to Surviving a Networking Situation and Hopefully Only Dying on the Inside.  Catchy, huh?  Who needs 5 words when you can use 15 (asked no one ever)?  Scrap that, let’s just begin by saying this: like Law & Order, there are two schools of thought when it comes to approaching a ‘networking opportunity’, those that wish to blend in, and those that wish to stand out… these are their stories.

TRYING TO BLEND IN

EVENT 1: Let’s call this the McMidney Milm Mestival Launch

Ah yes, the McMidney Milm Mestival Launch… I managed around 10 minutes of gormless smiling while clutching a Launch program (and somehow sweating through said program, applying printers ink to my hands, which I then thoughtfully transferred to my chin half an hour later when I drummed my fingers there while squinting into the middle distance in a failed attempt to appear intelligent and engaged).  Then I enacted my sacred right to text a friend.

Am currently trapped at a function where I know NO ONE.  Any tips on how to look busy, yet casual, yet totally at ease??

I sent this text to Chesty, an old hand on the networking scene.  Chesty replied with a stream of tidbits on how to achieve this.

The Chesty Manifesty on How to Blend In

The only time I am certain I will be able to blend in is during a zombie apocalypse.  I'm still working on robots.

1. “Do as I do and call your mum.”

This is a classic manoeuvre that everyone has used at least once.  The old ‘I’m so important, I’m so connected, my phone is my office, I’m having an animated conversation which surely means I’m awesome’ gambit.  Sadly or me at the Mestival Launch, when I called Mother Painefull she was two short sashays away from having coffee with one of the Carols (my mother knows a lot of Carols – I think it’s a generational thing, because all the Carols I know are her Carols).

2. “Go over to drinks/food/juice table at same time as someone, give big smile to anyone else approaching and then make lame joke about wishing it was late enough to drink or similar, use that to start convo ‘what brings you here?’.” 

As it turns out the Mestival Launch crowd was not the group for me to test out comedy bits.  At all.  They were quite serious about their tea.

3. “Ask someone near the bathroom where the bathroom is.  Go in and wait a few minutes then go out and as you pass them say thanks and then sort of stay nearby and start convo.”

Unfortunately when I did this I was at the end of my networking tether, and thus I looked frantic and sweaty – then I went into a stall and stood, pondering whether they thought my frantic, sweaty appearance might mean something.  Then I realised I had been pondering this scenario for 10 minutes and wondered what they thought my 10 minute bathroom visit was for – this became 20 minutes due to excess pondering.  I then had no choice but to race out of the bathroom avoiding all eye contact with those nearby in case they recognised me from my previous faux bathroom questing interlude.

TRYING TO STAND OUT

EVENT 2: The Pinscription Polarship Pannouncement

Everyone loves a Pannouncement, am I right?  No.  I’m lying.  If you nodded you’re lying (but you’re also physically reacting to something written by me, so you’re not all bad).  If you’re in any way associated with said Pannouncement, if your name is say… on a short list, that intrinsically means there is a medium to high chance that someone there will try to engage you in conversation about yourself.  If you are inherently awkward, as I am, this is disastrous.  You will make awful quips, you will become clammy-handed, you will be tempted to get drunk.  Lucky for me, at this Pannouncement, Mother Painefull was on hand to show how it’s really done.

The Mother Painefull Broadway Show-stopper On How to Stand Out

That's not a coat, this... is a coat

1. Wear a loud jacket, it’s always a good talking point

Mother Painefull could have been spotted in a pitch black room, so brightly hued was her coat.  I didn’t get the memo.  I wore black.  I was practically a waitress.  In mourning.  Who was about to head to her next gig as a stagehand at a high school production of Fiddler On the Roof (which, FYI, is a challenging role, and not a ‘sympathy gig’ your drama teacher gives you upon discovering 20 seconds into your audition that you cannot sing to save yourself).

2. Conclude a bonding session with a relative stranger by declaring her your new daughter (in front of one of your current daughters)

Thus a new talking point is raised for all involved.  Don’t take this talking point and spin it into an elaborate joke about playing Sibling Survivor and kicking people out of the family.  Not everyone can tell when you’re joking.  Which might have been the problem at the Mestival now that I think about it.

3. Upon the announcement of someone else winning the prize, ask them if they will take you.  Then tell everyone loudly that your daughter (the old one, not the new one) in fact came second – several people will assume that this means there is in fact a second place and she is talking with authority.  Then line up the winner for a photo between the old daughter and some other shortlisted entrant and loudly talk about getting a photo of the podium finish (telling the other shortlisted entrant he came 3^rd – he looks intrigued by this)

To be honest, this one’s hard to replicate when your mother is already doing it.  But I will say, Operation Stand Out… big success.

If the above two approaches to Networking completely fail, if you feel like a fraud, if you need something to make you feel better… I would suggest, why not find someone more awkward, stand near them, and let that comparison play to your strengths?

For me, at the Pannouncement , that relief arrived when I overheard one Nervous Entrant in conversation with Father Painefull.

FATHER PAINEFULL: The hosts said to make ourselves at home…

NERVOUS ENTRANT: Yeah, they’ll never be able to kick us out…

FP: Yes, I was thinking of checking out the bedroom…

NE: I know!  I said to my girlfriend – what if we went and had sex in their bedroom?!

Now imagine giant screeching cicadas.  Father Painefull looked mystified and discomforted in equal measure.  I know my father well enough to know he was joking about going upstairs for a nap (Father Painefull love a nap), and that randomly discussing sex under any circumstances at a social gathering is as off-putting to him as the idea of the two of us settling in to watch an episode of Game of Thrones together would be for me.

At that point I relaxed a touch.  In fact I sighed with relief that I was not the most awkward person in that moment.  Of course I was relieved - I didn’t yet know I was going to have to call Mother Painefull the next day to instruct her to please stop telling people that I came second, because those people have begun to ring me to congratulate me, and they seem to think I have won some sort of runner’s up prize.

This is of course impossible because at the Pannouncement, just as it is in life and Networking, there is no second place whatsoever, just people looking at you with concern, wondering why your eye is twitching.

Painefull Out