Phone conversation yesterday morning:

Me: Hi, mom. Can you please get me the number for dad's chiropractor?

Mom: God, you sound awful! What happened?!

Me: Did something to my back. Hurts like hell right now.

Mom: Now what have you been doing? You see! I told you not to get into kungfu! But you never listen! Look what you've done to yourself. I saw you put your rugby ball into the car. Were you playing rugby?! Why do you keep playing such violent sports?! You see, now you've hurt yourself! I told you so, I TOLD YOU SO!

//Pause//

Me: Actually, I just bent down to start the car.

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While paying for these:



Salesgirl: By the way, these are indoor shoes.
Me: What does that mean? I can't wear them outdoors?
Salesgirl: You can. But if someone tries to rob you, take them off before you start running.
Me: ...

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It's MONDAY!!!

I jump out of bed and run over to the laptop. I eagerly type in the url to Overheard in New York.

Did I win did I win did I win did I win?!

(The week before, I had submitted an entry for the site's bi-weekly Headline Contest. Winners get a copy of the Overheard in New York book. I'd much rather have a PostSecret book, but I'm much too gracious a Winner to snub their gift, less-favoured though it may be. Because I am, you know, a Winner I mean.)

I scan the main page. Odd, the quote's not even up yet. Then I notice the date on the most recent entry - 2007-01-14. Curses! Belatedly, I remember that New York is 13 hours behind Kuala Lumpur. Slackers.

I potter about on the page a bit. New Yorkers might be sick of always being late and decide to make it Monday. I hit the refresh button. And...no. I potter about some more. Refresh. It's still Sunday there.

Bugger this. I'm not gonna hover in front of my laptop waiting for it to turn to Monday in bloody New York. I've got uberly important things to do (e.g. give the dog a bath and take her to the vet). I shut the laptop down and go off to grace some lives with my presence.

I return at 10pm. Surely it's Monday everywhere already! I enter the OiNY site again and scroll down to the quote.

Did I win did I win did I win did I win?!

I didn't win. Curses! I'm not even a runner-up. Curses!

This means that I was wrong. I am not a Winner after all. I am a Loser.

I crawl into the Corner of Loserdom. At least The Codes will be there to keep me company.

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I miss Perth.

I miss getting phone calls from KI.

I miss donner kebabs.

I miss Waterford Wednesdays.

I miss just lounging around on the grass.

I miss movie nights.

I miss unexpected dinner invitations from people who know that I can't cook to save my life.

I miss waking up every day, feeling like I was on an adventure.

I miss so many things that it's pathetic. And it's only been a month since I left Perth. And a month and a half till I fly back. Pathetic, I tell you. Imagine how I'll feel after I graduate.

Maybe it's the thought that I might be missing Moments. Great, sparking, significant, engine revving, prancing-about-in-a-tutu Moments. And these might be crucial Moments. But I'll never know, cuz I'm not there.

Still, it's a comfort to know that I can count on friends to make me more Moments,

In an email detailing a party that'll be thrown after I return to Perth:

"There will be booze, I will be there and you too, or someone will be sent to
retrieve you with a pointy object."

Thanks, Matt.

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like passing out in a crowded bar.

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I've always suspected that my father is a little bit shady. Oh, he thinks he can fool me with his Volvo and his golfing. But anyone who was so proud of a letter from the government advising him not to leave the country that he wanted to frame it should be watched.

As always, I was right.

A couple of days ago, I joined my father for dinner with some old friends of his. And as you do with friends from three decades ago, they started reminiscing about the things they used to get up to. At first it was little things like how they used to sneak up to the roof for drinking sessions and do you remember your first car, the one with the detachable gearbox? It was fun to learn these little tidbits about my father's past.

Then they started addressing my father as "tai kor" (literal translation - "big brother"; also slang for "senior gangsta"). Now this could be taken in two ways - 1. They were just acknowledging his status of being two years older than everyone else; 2. My father used to be in a gang.

Next thing I knew, they were laughing about the time two of the group were arrested (mistaken identity, or so they claim).

Ha ha...christ, it's probably #2.

But there were still deeper, darker secrets to reveal. Near the end of the night, someone piped up, "Hey, have you heard about the time your dad set fire to a shop?" No, I hadn't. Do tell. Apparently, they'd been mucking about with fireworks when one went off in the wrong direction and zoomed right into a shop. The shop promptly went up in flames and they promptly fled the scene. A little dishonest, but fair enough given the circumstances. Then it transpired that they didn't stop there. Not long after that, they did the same thing again to an abandoned house.

My father maintains that both incidents were accidents. But honestly, how much can you trust these criminals?

Still, it does make for damn good leverage:

Dad: You came home at 4am this morning. I really think that's a bit too late.
Me: You set fire to a shop AND a house. Do you honestly want to compare?
Dad: ...abandoned house.


My father 30 years ago?

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We dance. I lean in for a kiss.

And at the last moment, he turns his face so that I kiss his cheek instead.

What's wrong? I can't kiss you, he says.

I ask him if he's gay. He laughs. No, he's not.

What, I grin cockily, I'm not hot enough? He half-laughs again and tells me that I have no idea how sexy he thinks I am. Then he adds that he wishes that he had met me ten years ago.

I pull back a little, my hands dropping from behind his neck to his shoulders. How old are you exactly?

He gives me a wry smile. Probably twice your age, he says, I'm 34.

Ahh. I tell him my age and he shakes his head a little. Where were you ten years ago, he repeats with the same wry smile.

Ten years ago, I was very, VERY illegal. Is it the age thing then, I ask.

He says that it is a little bit. But not really.

Then what? I am very curious now. But he doesn't want to tell me. I run my hands down his arms as I try to think of another reason. Maybe it will be easier to pry it out of him with more alcohol. I grab his hand to pull him to the bar...

And my fingers hit a ring.

Oh.

Damn.

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Another one of those text conversations.

Me: So. My kungfu instructor. He's fun. I like.
Mom: He's fatherly. Is that why?
Me: What?! Christ no! He's 29!
Me: I DO NOT HAVE DADDY ISSUES!
Mom: What's he like then?
Me: Well, he's hot, athletic, makes me laugh, loves dogs...I dunno...
Mom: Hmph. Minus the dog bit, he sounds like your dad in his heyday.

In other news, I'm off to New Zealand on Monday. Back in a couple of weeks!

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