Sunday, December 16, 2012

Dear Christmas

Dear Christmas,

You can be a real bitch.

The endless Christmas parties that start in November. NO-VEM-BER (NO-WAY, more like). The obfuscation, in your seasonal fug, of several loved ones’ birthdays I’d like to celebrate on their own merits, rather than as an afterthought to your excessive fanfare. The increased presence of numpty shoppers (I mean, I know not everyone is as prodigiously gifted a shopper as me, but, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, step aside and let me show you how you burn plastic). The increased presence of Christmas carols. The increased presence of misbehaving relations. The increased presence of plastic decorations. The sugar comas. The humidity. The mosquitoes. The pre-packaged turkey stuffing.

Having digested the above statements (the same cannot be said about pre-packaged turkey stuffing), it may be hard for you to believe what I have to say next. But, in spite of appearances, I love you, Christmas, like the way Mark Darcy loves Bridget Jones: just the way you are. And here’s why:
• Shortbread stars, dusted with sugar and wrapped in cello bags;
• MamaK and PapaK’s three cats maliciously eyeing off the Christmas tree;
• Discovering new favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. If you haven’t done so already, get yourselves down to Lonsdale St Traders – it’s a trip;
• Reconnecting with old favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. Mrs Peterson’s new range is swell, and Able and Game are now doing tea towels. Be still, my beating heart;
• Cinnamon and nutmeg, in everything;
• Comparing family chaos dispatches with my most understanding friends;
• Mangoes and cherries, the perfect antidotes to commercial, over-processed food;
• Christmas Morning Craft, an evolving part of our family ritual. This year, we’re ironicaly painting garden gnomes;
• Decorating my writing desk with stars as a cheesy reminder to aim high in the last throes of PhDrafting; and, best of all
• Knowing that, at some point on December 25, something hilarious will go down (it always does), and the six of us will laugh so hard our food-stuffed stomachs will ache till New Year’s.

It’s because of this, Christmas, that I forgive you for being a bitch. In fact, you’re rather grand, and I’m glad you stopped by at the end of a hectic-fantastic (Hectastic?) year.

Because, deep down, you and I both know your secret: that really, you’re alright.

Lots of love,

Peggy

Xoxoxo

Ps in the interests of getting the PhDrafting PhDone, this is my last post for 2012. Merry Christmas all, and a happy new year. I’m sure it’s going to be merry and bright!


Sunday, December 9, 2012

Summer Challenge # 2

Last summer, as those of you who are regulars here know, I set myself the challenge of (re)reading all of John Steinbeck.

Did I achieve my summer challenge? The blunt answer is no. There are still a few of Steinbeck’s books that I didn’t get around to reading.

I did, however, read just about all of them. And thoroughly enjoyable reading it was. I, for one, consider this a challenge met and mastered.

As our days are warming up, getting longer and fuller of parties, Christmas things, and long walks up big hills at dusk to catch the sunset, I’m thinking it’s time for another summer challenge.

But, what should this summer challenge be?

The obvious answer is finishing the first (exceptionally rough) draft of my PhD. I don’t think that qualifies, though, as summer challenge material. Firstly, with a bit of luck and a whole lot of power ballads, finishing the draft is on track to happen by Christmas, leaving January and February un-challenged.

Furthermore, the whole point of a summer challenge, to my mind, is that it’s got to be a teensy bit ephemeral, a little esoteric, and otherwise unrelated to everyday work/study activities. Thus, the PhD, and associated business, is not suitable summer challenge material.

Also, this year’s summer challenge needs to be compatible with finishing a PhD draft, working full time in a new role, and generally getting on with life. Which means it needs to be a flexible challenge, the sort that I can pick up and set down as need be.

Finally, it goes without saying, this year’s summer challenge needs to be fun, preferably a whole lot thereof.

Any suggestions?

Sunday, December 2, 2012

On the Art of Shopping

As we enter December, the month consecrated to the Gods of Consumerism, it behoves me to share my meditations on the art of shopping. Some of my acquaintance would say that I am a prodigiously gifted shopper, with a superior understanding, practical and theoretical, of all aspect of shopping.

I’m inclined to agree with them.

In my extensive experience, there are two distinct modes of shopping. The first is the planned offensive. The second is the stealth strike.

The first type of shopping – the planned offensive– is the tactically safe choice. The most successful planned offensives are the result of careful reconnaissance. Like a gambler studying the form guide, or a trader monitoring stocks, the shopper needs to be aware of who is doing what in the retail arena to best inform their strike and maximise its tactical utility. Online shopping, e-newsletters, and company websites are principal sources of intelligence, and should be regularly consulted.

For instance: back in October, it came to my attention that the Undercurrent market was occurring the last weekend of November, at the National Portrait Gallery. Ten minutes reconnaissance on stallholders websites confirmed what I suspected: that Undercurrent presented a tactical opportunity to do the vast majority of my (considerable) Christmas and December/January birthday shopping in one fell swoop. From October onwards, I began a concerted savings effort to facilitate this retail offensive. Last Saturday, within the space of 90 minutes, I came, saw, conquered, pillaged those markets like Ghangis Kahn raiding a small Eurasian village. All under budget, no less (Wayne Swan: call me).

Yet, while it was immensely satisfying to return home - the acrid smell of burning plastic emanating from my wallet a pleasant reminder of battles fought and won - pouring over my spoils left me somewhat cold. Although it was a technically brilliant piece of shopping, well planned, well budgeted, well executed, last Saturday was missing something critical. It was too tactical, too safe.

For, you see, the true shopper – and we are rare beasts indeed – has an instinct for retail, an instinct honed over years of patient self-discipline, reflection, and practice. It’s an instinct that propels them to undertake rash, bold, sudden action: to stealth strike. Stealth strikes, while illogical at the outset, inevitably result in the most pyrotechnic of victories, provided that the true shopper unswervingly trusts their instincts. Like a fisherman who knows when the trout are running, like the hunter who knows where bears shit in the woods, a true shopper can sniff the air and detect the faintest whiff of smoke that informs them that a sale is on. This is why shopping is an art, not a science: it must be felt. And a visa card must always, always, be kept loaded in preparation for a stealth strike.

To wit: one Friday, typing away at my computer at work, I smelt a sale. Flexing off twenty minutes early, MamaK and I hit the shops (N.B: true shoppers are most often loan wolves, mavericks acting without their platoon, stealth striking in isolation. Occasionally, the art of shopping is passed down through a bloodline, mother to daughter, who shop in teams or packs. This is how dynasties are born). Fortune the bold: shoes were on sale. Our first hit yielded five pairs of leather work shoes for $200. About to head to the car, MamaK suggested that perhaps another lap could yield further results. Never one to deny the instinct of a true shopper, we did another lap. Two more pairs of shoes, on an even more spectacular sale, were secured.

While I acknowledge that my purchase of seven pairs of shoes may be regarded as somewhat rash, I think it is more accurately a masterful display of the art of shopping, and a demonstration of tactical brilliance. For, as Canberra residents know, our supply chains are unreliable: just as you make hay while the sun shines, in this town, you always buy the shoes when they are on sale.