Moata's Blog Idle
Moata Tamaira is a librarian with a black-belt in sarcasm who's been meaning to get one in procrastination too but always ends up watching TV instead. Her blog is an unholy mash-up of whimsy, cynicism and wry observation.
Twenty-seven days later
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Pah ra pa pum pum. That's how it started yesterday during a lunchtime jaunt to Farmers. There I was happily contemplating some cheap lipgloss when something in the background music caught my ear. 
And there it was, the unmistakable "pah ra pa pum pum" of The Little Drummer Boy...in November. To the casual observer there might not have been much in my general demeanour that would indicate seething resentment but, believe me, it was there. In fact I do believe that the second I twigged to what I was listening to I emitted the sort of low-frequency growl that only pack animals and the clinically insane can pick up on.
It's not because I don't like The Little Drummer Boy. It's actually one of my favourite Christmas songs because it lacks the schmaltz and sickening sentimentality that many of them seem to be drenched in like so many brandy-soaked Christmas puddings. Nor, despite the cynicism that I display in much of my life, am I anti-Christmas. On the contrary, I'm a big fan. As is so often the case, it's the things about which you are truly passionate that can inspire a rigidity, a certain pedantic belief in how they should be approached, and so it is in this case...for I am a Christmas Nazi.
Part of how this manifests, other than getting a ridiculous amount of pleasure out of achieving Christmas tree decoration "symmetry", is that I feel quite strongly that the festive season does not and should not start until December. When I see Christmas-themed chocolate giftsets on the shelves in September it makes me tut like an old lady. Christmas decorations in late October make me roll my eyes and Christmas music in November makes me want to drive candy canes into my brain via my ears (which would actually look pretty comical, not to mention festive, so I suppose I should hold off on that for a week or two).
Apparently I'm not alone. Last week Ali Ikram did a piece about the premature decorating that many retail outlets undertake, in particular Westfield. Apparently the reason they have to put them up so early is that it takes TWENTY-SEVEN DAYS. Yeah, I thought I'd heard that wrong too so I watched the clip again and the Westfield representative definitely says that it takes them twenty-seven days to put all that plastic greenery and 300,000 baubles in place. Now, obviously I'm not in the business of mall decoration because you probably have to do some kind of special course for that, but I put it to you that if it takes the better part of a month to do then, I don't know, maybe you've gone a bit overboard. The phrase "wind it back a notch" springs to mind.
I mean, I don't get up at 3 o'clock in the morning so that I can put on every item of clothing I own and then waddle off to work, that would be silly. Nope, I know that I have a set amount of time in the mornings to get ready and so I decorate and beautify as much as I can within the allotted time.
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Ladies, loos and the mysteries thereof
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Yesterday, someone asked via the comments of this blog if I "do requests". Well, it has occasionally happened, though sadly never at karaoke and never Hero by Mariah Carey (look, I know it's the worst song ever but if you're doing karaoke the implication is that you've already shrugged off the shackles of "taste" and "refinement" so I think you should just go all the way into tacky and be done with it).
I have been dwelling a little this week on some of the oddities of man/woman interactions so while I'm on a roll why not answer paul's query, spurred by a throwaway line in Monday's post, on women and our "social" toileting habits? I'll perhaps try and come up with something completely unrelated to boy/girl misunderstandings on Friday but for now let's just press on as there does seem to be genuine confusion and/or mystique around the phenomenon of women going to the toilet together.
One of my favourite science writers, Ben Goldacre, has a rather useful saying that he encourages people to apply when assessing any pithy, punchy soundbite that purports to sum up a piece of research or a new scientific development. It is "I think you'll find it's a bit more complicated than that." Which is really just my way of saying that there isn't one answer to this question but a complex interplay of different factors that may have an effect depending on the circumstances. But I'll give it a stab at explaining it anyway.
First, and I'm assuming that mostly men will be reading this for information and women just to see what I say, boys, think about what women enjoy doing above just about anything. Is it using monosyllables in response to any questions you might ask? No. Is it making incredibly short phone calls? No. Is it convincing you that you need a back wax and then doing it ourselves? Maybe. But really, we love talking, and discussing and rehashing and describing and opining. In short (well, actually not in short, more at length really) we love chatting with each other. Most of us see no reason why we should lose the flow of a perfectly good conversation because one of us has to leave for toileting purposes. Why not just change venue briefly? So we do.
However, as an aside, talking whilst in a cubicle is only something that I am happy to do with good friends. In the past I have been weirded out by mere acquaintances who I happened to cross paths with in the ladies and who carried on chatting as I was perched upon the throne. Probably everyone differs slightly on this one but I am wholly of the opinion that unless you are someone I would lend a pair of my much-loved shoes to, then I am not entirely comfortable conversing with you while my knickers are around my knees. Don't take it personally, I'm just a bit funny like that.
Roughing it?
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In the wake of yesterday's post, wherein I dispensed advice to the men of the nation on how not to chat up the ladyfolk, I started to wonder if I might not be getting a bit "diva" on it. Who am I to say how? Was I expecting rather too much of the collected male citizenry? I've always prided myself on being one of those mid- to low-maintenance kind of gals but maybe that's not true?
I say mid- to low-maintenance because I know that I'm definitely not of the "zero maintenance" variety. Although I am fiercely independent, preferring to do things for myself, I also like my creature comforts so can only stomach camping for a maximum of about three days, and when in a relationship need regular cuddles and compliments. My feeling is that these things constitute a base-line of "minimum system requirements" for the successful running of this particular piece of "Moata software".
Having said that, there is the small issue of "The Shoes". I have a lot of them and I do tend to refer to them as "the pretties", sometimes in the kind of cooing tones that most people reserve for their pets or possibly children. But in my defence, on my recent long weekend roadtrip I was sufficiently able to separate myself from them that I only took one pair of sturdy sneakers and a comfy pair of slippers with me. Similarly, despite the vast number of hair products I currently own (and a tendency towards "boofiness"), I left those at home too. I mean, hey, it's not like we were going to be swanking it up anywhere.
And then when I was slinging my backpack into Moose's car I spied her fantastic red boots in the back and I started to suspect that not everyone was on the same page as I was.
Sure enough, day two came and out of Moose's bag came a hairdryer! I didn't know we were doing hairdryers! There was some stress when her hair mousse could not be found, prompting Betsy to offer some anti-frizz creme. All this made me feel like I was in a really terrible film in which one of the Topp Twins accidentally enters a beauty paegant but remains plucky and lovable and ends up wearing a bush-shirt as formalwear and everyone learns to appreciate inner beauty and some over-manicured, skinny blonde chick ends up with a cream-pie to the face.
School for seduction
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As I think I may have mentioned at various times in this blog, I am a single thirtysomething woman. There are lots of things that accompany having this status. I can stay out late if I want to without checking in or disrupting dinner plans. I can go to the movies without engaging in longwinded "negotiations" wherein my preferences and list of already viewed films are overlapped with another person's. Sometimes I get the "look of pity" from smug marrieds, which is always fun. Also par for the course is (hopefully) being chatted up by guys every now and again.
I know that approaching a stranger and striking up a conversation is not, by any stretch of the imagination, an easy thing to do, and as someone who has a sometimes uncontrollable tendency towards sarcasm, speaking to me in particular might be even more fraught with difficulty. Having just undertaken a "girly roadtrip" where there was a series of spectacularly unsuccessful attempts at successful male to female interaction, I feel compelled to outline the following pointers for any likely lads who might be reading and would like to brush up a little. Most of these I would imagine to be what you might call "no-brainers" but recent events have made it apparent that this is not necessarily the case.
How about we exchange names first? - Generally speaking, when it comes to the wooing of women, one cannot put the cart before the horse - that is, as one must crawl before one can walk, so too must certain simple steps we taken before great leaps. For instance, if a clutch of ladies should be entering the hotel you are staying at, yelling your room number out in their general direction is NOT the appropriate way of announcing your interest in them. How about starting with a simple but direct "Hi there"?
You're not wittier when you're drunk - Women can be incredibly talkative creatures and are often happy chatting among themselves, without male companionship, for hours on end. More often than not there won't be an obvious pause in the conversation for you to take advantage of. You may just have to bowl on up there. That's okay but try not to wait until after you're on your eighth pint to do it. Chat up lines are a lot less effective when they are slurred. There are very few men who can pull off "suave" in this state of inebriation. Sean Connery could probably do it. Oliver Reed almost certainly did. Unless you are an incredibly famous British thesp this approach is best avoided. (NB - If the woman you are approaching is also on her eighth pint then obviously there's a level playing field and you may actually stand a snowball's chance in Hell. Just keep those beer-goggles firmly in place and all will be well.)
Not all attention is good attention - If your previous attempts at "chatting up" have resulted in the womenfolk removing themselves from the bar, to the less raucous atmosphere of the TV lounge then a second approach may be possible but only if you are less drunk than you were during the first encounter. Definitely do not attempt a follow-up flirtation if you are more drunk than before. If upon tracking them down, you find you have difficulty engaging the ladies in conversation, pretending to play a game of chess with your offsider that involves throwing chess pieces all over the floor while making obvious puns around the word "pawn" will get their attention (though women, being wily creatures, will probably give the impression that they barely notice your presence in the room). Be assured, the attention you receive will not be of the kind that will "further the relationship". The second you leave the room they will be making very unladylike faces (not to mention gestures) at each other. They will not be "swoony" facial expressions and the gestures will not involve fanning their faces due to your hotness.
Stealing Star Wars
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One of the things that really sticks in my craw (and no, I'm not sure where that is, suggestions below) is thievery.
So strong is this aversion that when it comes head to head with something that I love it utterly overrides it. And this would be the reason I get all teeth-grindy during the "you'd better pick a pocket or two" interlude in the otherwise unblemished cinematic experience that is Oliver! (oh, and more recently because that cute little blonde kid thinks he fathered one of Michael Jackson's children, ick). It's the stealing. I just can't stand it (unless it involves biros or pencils, because it's not really stealing if they just sort of follow you home, okay?)
I think this strength of feeling comes from the empathy I always feel towards the victim of theft, and man alive did I feel empathy when I read the story of the guy whose Imperial Stormtrooper suit was stolen. Well, empathy and an insane amount of geekish excitement.
For those who haven't read the story, basically this guy ordered a Stormtrooper outfit for $5000 and had it stolen from outside his back door BEFORE HE EVEN GOT A CHANCE TO TRY IT ON! As a somewhat reformed Star Wars obsessive (I started to question my lifestyle after seeing Episode I) this gets me where I (used to) live. I used to sometimes order stuff from the US and it would take aaaages to get here and the anticipation was almost painful. Furthermore the police involved in investigating the burglary are of the opinion that it wasn't an opportunistic crime, which implies that there's a fellow Star Wars fan/thieving scumbag who may, even now, be re-enacting the Mos Eisley spacedock shootout with a few friends.
And that's one of the things that really confuses the hell out of me about people who nick stuff. If you're stealing things that you like you're stealing them from people who like the same things as you. There's every chance that in different circumstances thief and victim could have a good old yarn about a shared appreciation of Princess Leia's slavegirl outfit, or the neverending quest for the blue snaggletooth action figure, or how they feel about the addition of Luke's scream as he falls at Bespin in the Special Edition rerelease of The Empire Strikes Back (for the record, I hated it). Whoa. Sorry, apparently those geekgirl muscles aren't as atrophied as I thought. Anyway, even if that whole last sentence was completely meaningless to you I hope the concept is clear enough.
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