I may have been to two Tori Amos concerts before, but there is something a little more nerve-wracking about taking two non-fans as your fellow seat-warmers. Having lost my concert going buddies Cameron and Zac, I meekly asked my mum and Dan to accompany me in order to perhaps somehow understand what I have been obsessed about for the past fifteen years, and while they may not walk out raving converts, at least think she was pretty awesome. Of course, Tori is a touch of a trick pony, with the piano-stool straddling, the playing two pianos at 180-degree angles behind her back. It was a scientific experiment in a musical theatre, I suppose. And it turns out because of this that the day of the concert I was nervous, first-date-like. I was deeply concerned for my accompaniments’ enjoyment level — as though I was personally responsible for how great the concert was; as though I was playing on stage; as though I was taking my boyfriend home to meet my parents for the first awkward time. One and a half hours is a long time to listen to the plinky-plinky goodness if you don’t actually know any songs. And her singing does get a little breathy at times. I’d booked these tickets when I thought Tori would be touring with her band; without the band energy, my poor little mum and Dan politely clapped at all the right moments.

[The aforementioned two concerts? I am such a Tori novice. Within five minutes of talking to another fan, I realised I was only a B+ level fan in terms of how extreme I was. There is something both collegial and competitive about the way that Tori fans talk to one another at a concert. "Well, you may have seen her live six times, but I've been to two meet and greets and had my incredibly rare vinyl autographed, and I know of two more rare B-sides than you."]

How I ended up in a black ruched strapless taffeta 80s prom dress, lying on boiling hot concrete, in the middle of my city’s mall, in front of several hundred people, about to perform a dance in the front row, is much of a surprise to you as it was to me.

I have always had some weird obsession with Michael Jackson’s Thriller dance routine, and the opportunity to learn it at the dance school I go to was too much to pass up. The catch was it was offered as part of the Thrill The World synchronised performance, and that we had to do it in public. Sure. I can stand at the back somewhere, flub it, and no one would care. But the more I thought about it, the more obsessed I came. The first rehearsal my friend Kirsty and I attended was the right amount of awesome, with enthusiastic performers, cheering at the fun bits of the routine, and learnt the entire thing down pat in 2 hours. Learning the routine came with step names we chanted like children: booty bounce. stomp stomp stomp look left. hold and pause hold head head hold and hips and hands. Kirsty, who previously used to be a competitive ballroom dancer, was enjoying the challenge, and for a gumby like me who is vastly uncoordinated but loves dancing, it was remarkably addictive. And this is the point where I went mental. Zombie costume, you say?

Now I am not one for dress-ups. I am retarded at costumes. But this time I was a touch possessed. I had a Vision for my little zombie alter ego, and raided many, many expensive secondhand vintage stores for hideous prom dresses from the 80s. My little zombie developed a back story; she died from a single bullet wound in the forehead, was the 1983 prom queen (with my not-so-subtle reference to when the Thriller album came out), and had a penchant for fake pearls and fingerless fishnet gloves. Fake blood? Face putty? Holy hell, yes! And for someone who hates dressing up, I was determined to get this right. My crafty little mother even got recruited, making the most pitch-perfect prom queen sash for me, which, after gifting I promptly showed my gratitude by throwing fake blood and smearing black eyeshadow on it.

[Back up a second. the dance school I go to? Oh mercy, where are my manners! I take hip hop dance classes once a week in the city, occupying the experience level somewhere between Beginner and Absolute Beginner. Despite being hyper-evangelical about the whole thing, I have yet to convince anyone to come along to regular classes.]

And then suddenly it was a hot Sunday morning, and all 150 performers zombie-walked from the dance studios to outside the casino, and in our desperation to find loved ones in the audience, we found ourselves in the front row. Were we okay with this? Did we remember our steps? I was a vapid narcissist. Yes please! Look at me, having fun and being scary and hitting all my moves! And bless, it was over in just 3 minutes.

Bonus points:

I am having too many delusions of road trips from my literary excursions lately, and I feel it may be time to detox once I finish The Grapes of Wrath. Yes, a Depression-era novel that inexplicably leads me to want to hop in my jalopy and head across the dusty West, and set up tents in tent cities and fetch water with can-do spirit to wash the travel dust off my face, and then watch a turtle for hours in the dust. But perhaps with more employment and less weird breastfeeding. (Yes, someone wrecked the ending for me).

I don’t know where the theme of weird American Road Novel came from in my literary reading for the past six months. But, upon doing a survey of dog-eared books next to my bed, I have regretfully come to the conclusion that I am a little obsessed with the roads that travel through the US. See: Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (read in nearly one sitting; will probably place in top five books eventually), The Story of Edgar Sawtelle (book club  thingy; enjoyable but exposed me as an English teacher with no working knowledge of Hamlet), Cold Mountain (never wanted a road journey to finish so quickly; ditched novel halfway and would almost put self through a Renee Zellweger movie just to find out how it ends), Water for Elephants (Depression as road motif works well, I see), Bryson’s A Walk In The Woods, Into the Wild, and Looking for Alaska (the last three for some element of snow and nature, I see). Even though I bought it years ago, I have unsuccessfully attempted Kerouac’s On The Road several times, finding it impossibly boring.

So there is a boyfriend who should guard his passport against the inevitable day where I have planned, at some impossibly unspecific time in the future, to drive around North America for a year, living out the back of a car, probably some Subaru Outback-type deal. I have envisoned this little fantasy on several occasions, you know, on the off-chance that at some point in my life I would have enough money to be even able to have the funds for the petrol for such a wistful but hearty and adventurous deal. Yes, I know I have been to the US on two separate but equally loved occasions, and I have already done the Steinbeckian Stagecoach-y pioneering, bison-shootin’ east-to-west coast thing years ago, but I want to do it again and drag my poor Dan along with me. There will be hiking, and camping, and campfires, and Merino-fibre clothing, and snow, and photography, and laughs, and incorrect navigating, and car singalongs, and affection, and bad food. And then I will write a damn book about it.

(Other recent literary sub-genre of note: the literary stripper; see Diablo  Cody, Belle Du Jour and In My Skin. Desire to become stripper not ignited.)

Dan and Tom climbing at Mt Ngungun

One. Watching Gran Torino, comfortable ass groove already forming in the couch, brownout: lights continually flickering and microwave beeping, but strangely plasma TV and computer only things working properly. Plasma dying exactly five minutes after credits roll allowing me enough time to pretend I wasn’t getting a touch sobby at the end. Computer dying after we have made ourselves comfortable on bed watching anime. Moving back to couch and settle in for evening of music with ipod stereo running on batteries. Starting to enjoy blackout. Have poured several vodkas by this point. Making light sculptures on wall with light from mobile phone and menacing-looking metal Alien sculpture. Lights returning seconds after I capture a silly photo of sculpture. Just in time for Iron Chef on the TV. Drinks continuing. Sleeping in Sunday.

Two. This time both days involved getting out of bed before 8, hereforeto unexperienced. The Saturday involved my first visit to the Farmer’s Markets at the Powerhouse, accompanied by Freyja. I made sure to fit in with the fresh-faced, conspicuous but careful consumered fellow browsers, by buying myself a crêpe and coffee for breakfast, some organic lamb sausages, some Sutton’s apple juice, local honey, Maleny cheese, and a big bunch of maroon proteas for Dan. Dan and I settled on the couch for our Saturday night routine of an Iron Chef and RockWiz marathon. We love SBS’s Sunday nights, and resent any social plans that cut into that two hours of couch snuggling. I was asleep by 10.30. Only, of course, to wake up early yet again to go rock climbing in 35°C heat. I am not an easy person to get along with when it’s hot. But climbing was good, at a spot I’d never been before in the Glasshouse Mountains. Once I pulled my left quad muscle again, I resigned myself to stop sweating and take photos instead. Surprisingly cool in the shade. 

I have to compromise with a boyfriend who doesn’t see the point in Valentines Day by suggesting smoothly that a booking at our favorite special-occasion restaurant wouldn’t hurt. Sakura is a Japanese restaurant that lends itself easily to accusations of food porn: luscious, thick pieces of the freshest pink salmon sashimi, sliced exactly so and separated by adorable tiny pieces of lemon. Each slice was doused in excess amounts of soy sauce and wasabi and washed down with a Victorian sauvignon blanc. And as is our custom, we ordered dish after dish to share; Teriyaki wagyu beefsteak melting away from our forks, the tiniest pieces of raw tuna in raw egg and sesame to pick at and fight over, thin slices of beef tataki, and the softest crab dumplings that I get to keep all to myself because of Dan’s lack of like for crab. Our variety of dipping sauces was at the ready, and splashed eagerly all over the table. We were so lost and forlorn when we realised that no more dishes were to be brought out, that we ordered our everyday favorite — gyoza — which easily spanked the usual fare from Sushi Train, five delicious crescents of the tastiest, delicate balance between soft and lightly crispy.  

Then there was the realisation that any V-Day evening can be made a gazillion times better with a surprise showing of Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back on late-night TV, which overall is made even better with the adding of yet another glass of vanilla vodka. And the soft comfort of knowing that I am sharing this rainy evening with an awesome boy who will find these kind of pursuits as entertaining as I.

I wondered just how horrible this new school year could be when on the very first day I had to step in between two kids in my class to break up an impending fight. Two Year 9 boys intent on not even letting me put them into a seating plan, less than five minutes into the class and even before they had a chance to sit down. And as I see one kid turn around and grab the other one by the cuff of his shirt, I am thinking WHAT THE FUCKING HELL ARE YOU DOING ARE YOU PEOPLE IMBECILES to which one could reply YES THEY ARE but I did the professional thing and stepped in between them by the time they were throwing C-bombs in each other’s direction and calmly said DUH YOU CAN BOTH LEAVE MY ROOM BUT IN DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS. It was so unexpected that the kids who would normally be ridiculously over-stimulated by such unscheduled activities would never be able to focus on classwork, but we all got down to work.

And I thought to myself, how the hell is the rest of the year, full of four separate Year 9 classes, going to pan out?

Ways to make an Australia Day long weekend camping trip fail. Oppressive heat, tropical-strength humidity,  excessive traffic problems to and from, sunburn, worst rock climbing technique ever, raining while still climbing, rain not cooling oneself down, thunderstorms, more rain, rain coming through the tent windows and wetting one’s clothes bag, moisture everywhere, heat-induced insomnia, waking up to a beautiful shower of rain and then realising quickly it’s set in and maybe one should put on their rainjacket and pack up everything and go home instead.

Swimming in the creek after climbing was nice though.

outside dan's house

Oh I so do not like this heat. But I feel I don’t have permission to wail about it as, according to the Bureau of Meterology (possibly my most loaded website), just a touch less than 30°C and nowhere near the stifling amounts of humidity that a Brisbane summer is known for. Last night, I kept melting into the couch as Dan and I watched the Vietnam episode of Top Gear. My legs stuck so badly to the leather that I felt I was going to peel away layers of skin every time I stood up. I ended up plonking myself on the carpet instead; even though I was now out of range of the fan, I felt marginally better. Any gains, however, in comfort levels were cancelled out every time Jeremy Clarkson mentioned the humidity while on their bike ride through Vietnam, rising my body temperature at least one degree with every mention.

The reason why even the slightest hint of summer temperature makes me miserable is perspiration, pure and simple. Or rather, I don’t perspire, I do the more ladylike thing of glowing like a pig. I resent those fresh-faced girls who — even after an entire Cycle class — look like they’ve been dusted in powder. I’m the poor person covered in sweat during warmup. But goodness, I overheat while watching TV on the couch. I attempted to go shopping today, but because I was walking outdoors I ditched the idea after two stores. Pathetically, my eyes stung because sweat kept getting mixed up with some eyeshadow, and the cycle of walking from the heat into mildly airconditioned stores was already making me feel grouchy and sick. I came home and dug out a long-forgotten ex-flatmate’s blender to make up a coffee drink overloaded with ice, and chilled while the guinea pigs cheerfully chowing into their kibbles outside.

Swimming would be a wonderful possibility, except for the mathematical probability of me getting sunburned = 100%. 

apricot slice and rum balls. only for christmas.

So there’s this six weeks of holidays ahead of me, and on the second day I wake up at the same time as Dan trots off for work and wonder exactly how I can waste these six weeks. And at 8am on a Tuesday morning, I am wasting these days as predictably as possible. It is a combination of couch, Triple J radio,  my laptop, a rapidly cooling coffee, and a rapidly warming ambient temperature. My laptop is making me cheerful as I got it back from service yesterday and it almost feels like a new computer. It feels positively luxurious to sit anywhere I want and not have to charge the battery for a whole four hours. Also, the keyboard has been completely replaced, to fix an unusable delete key. Although the layout is the same, the keys feel like they have slightly more resistance to them, and they sound different, and they are soo shiny and white again, and I don’t have to use Shift-Option-Arrow to highlight and delete things. I have a single key dedicated to it again. And oh my gosh I just realised that my arrow buttons have been upgraded to have PageUp and PageDown functions. It’s like Christmas has come, one week early.

Christmas and the production of rum balls are inextrictably linked for me. This year, I borrowed (stole) mum’s food processor, so rum balls are so much quicker. I then tried apricot slice, which had Dan declaring Delicious at the smell of apricots and honey simmering on the stove. I thoughtfully made him a small batch without sultanas (he has his weird food things, I have mine), and as I offered him one for dessert he sniffed I don’t like apricots either. Undeterred, the food production line is about to go into Christmas overdrive, with gingerbread, shortbread, toasted museli and an unnamed special treat for the food-challenged boy.

I hope the new camera I purchased last week is going to get used for more than just Martha Stewart Miss Homemaker food photos. I’m about to become One Of Those Nikon D-SLR nerds. I have to admit I only purchased it because I wanted to use a wide-angle lens while taking rock climbing photos on the upcoming annual Blue Mountains trip, and well with a hefty-sized holiday loading in my last pay packet, the well-priced Nikon D40 was mine immediately. 

When not avoiding outside trips to take photos, I will be avoiding making eye contact with my book pile, which has transmogrified from a pile to a big carry bag so it doesn’t tip over. It looks like travelogues, biographies and favorite novels for the next few weeks. I don’t think I’ll be able to get through them, so am already wondering what can be sacrificed out of the 20-strong queue. I’d had ambitions to delve back into the Sandman comics, but I so don’t think that’s happening.

My laptop battery is still on 43% and while the temperature has not turned out as warm as expected, the fan has been turned on. I exchanged my cold coffee for a passionfruit yoghurt, and while I have put on makeup, I still haven’t gotten dressed.

So, now what? I purchased a tennis racquet. I assume people run jauntily around their house with white knee-high socks and headbands and their racquets over their shoulder, asking passersby Anyone For Tennis? The cardboard cutout stuck on the front of mine showcased a resplendent Roger Federer with his hair falling in a halo around his head. His eyes do not look at me; his eyes are focussed utterly on some ball which isn’t actually pictured in the photo. It contains all the modern marketing tools to make me think that I too, using this Wilson Federer Classic racquet, will also play at Number One level.

Oh, my wordy lordy no.

So I admit I’m not very good at these kind of sports, although I think it’s a safe bet to say I’m pretty ridiculous in most of my attempts at sport. Up until only a couple of years ago I have fought pretty heavily against the playing of any sport in public lest I get a sweaty brow or have to get pried away from books or something. I do distinctly remember resenting those once-a-week PE lessons where we trooped down to our school’s unused tennis courts, were rotated through on a single court, and consistently getting that dejected feeling as yet again, I could not hit the blasted ball over the net. I therefore declared tennis all too hard for any future endeavours, and crossed its name off the list of things I could enjoy in public. Sport was something to be endured at school, at least until I thankfully got eliminated and got to sit down on the sidelines with the rest of my nerdy, less prowess-like friends. I am kind of regretting that now.

I have found, through immersion in Dan’s family, that I actually enjoy tennis, in some kind of weird inverse proportion to the amount of shots I actually miss. Dan’s dad owns a tennis court, which means that visiting that side of his family means Doing Things instead of Talking About Things, and has so far meant that Dan will hit the ball around politely with me until he ultimately gets frustrated and shuffles me off the court in favour of some more agile and coordinated male relative. He is fiercely competitive about all things physical such as this, and after seeing him play his dad I can see it’s all genetic. To put it in a wider perspective, there exists an annual Mackenzie Family Tennis Tournament Day. On the surface it looks like a lovely, unstressful extended family gathering around a few beers while people lazily get up to compete in a doubles tournament going on in the background, but I harbour suspicions that it’s just an excuse for Dan’s dad to mercilessly flog all his relatives into the ground on the tennis court. I suspect we’re overdue for this year’s gathering.

Freyja and I (by Freyja, I mean housemate and not Norwegian love goddess) took our racquets today to the unkempt concrete uni campus courts across the road from our house and hit the ball around for an hour. As it had been some time since I’ve played (and by played, I mean kicked off the court by Dan), rallies were short and finished when all the tennis balls had nested along my side of the fence. I have promised to get better, at least until the summer evenings become unbearably hot and sticky and moist. So far she has commented that I hold my racquet funny which has only served to make me dizzyingly conscious of where all my limbs are at one time. No it hasn’t helped. Nor has her comments from a fortnight ago that the longer I run, my right foot starts moving in circles. All of this useful feedback on my neverending quest for physical superiority has just left me tense and hyper-aware and possibly even more retarded than when I started. Suggestions at the rock climbing gym to Just Go Up don’t feel as useful after two months’ absence when one’s muscles have gone to shit.

(Yes, I did have to look up the spelling of racquet. Where did that extranous c come from?)