Fiume Tevere

Not surprisingly, considering my advanced state of jetlag when I signed up for Yuletide, I made what nearly turned out to be a fatal miscalculation: "Why, I'll just make offers in all the fandoms I'd be delighted to receive a story in!"

MISTAKE.

It's one thing to enjoy a Bollywood film as a cultural outsider, and another thing entirely-- as a cultural outsider-- to attempt to write an insider-perspective of two desi characters interacting with each other. Two Yuletides ago I wrote the Snake Agent story This Sweet and Bitter Orange Mood, which is set in a fantasy Singapore that's a lot like 1960s Hong Kong, and I remember how I could hear the characters-- I could make a reasonable guess at what they'd say and how they'd say it (and in which dialect), how they viewed the world, how they conveyed their understandings of belonging and not-belonging. Scratch all of that this time around. Not only could I not hear the characters (a problem exacerbated by the fact that they speak Hindi), I had barely any understanding of their cultural context. It was actually quite a distressing experience, because it's not like I wanted to be faily, but I didn't have the capacity not to be (nor the time to do the research that might have remedied that). Call it Yuletide karma for that time I bitched about how Snake Agent doesn't properly represent Chinese culture.

I nearly ended up defaulting, but the Yuletide gods were merciful to my recipient and I somehow managed to enlist the endlessly generous azuire to, essentially, co-write the story with me. Everything that's right about it is due to her efforts, and everything that feels off is solely my fault. azuire, I can't thank you enough! I also owe dhobikikutti for her valuable input and advice-- thank you, Kutti.

Anyway, if you haven't seen Dostana, you're missing out-- it's a delightful romp based on the Pretending to Be Gay trope, and I like it a lot. If you're interested, my introduction post (with pretty pictures!) is here. The sequel is due out this year, but-- hmm, I honestly suspect the only place this franchise can go is downhill.


Krabi Province, Thailand. Ironically, I found out after I'd written the story that this is where 'Kaho Naa... Pyaar Hai' was actually filmed.
When the Lamps are Lighted (4077 words)
Fandom: Dostana (2008)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Kunal Chauhan/Sameer Acharya
Summary: Maybe this is their love story.

So, I didn't see this one coming at all:

My flatmate's dog went through my bag (which was on the floor of my room), found my menstrual cup, took it out of its little bag, and proceeded to take it into the living room and chew it in full view of a bunch of my flatmate's visiting friends.

AWKWARD.

Ever since The Boy and I started recording all our expenditures in Gnucash after getting back to Australia, I've been noticing how Westpac has been charging me some truly ridiculous fees-- always a different amount each month, always completely uselessly labelled. And each month I'd get outraged and try and figure out how the fee system worked from the information available on their website, but no matter how high I tried to keep my minimum balance, or how many deposits I made in a month, I would always get hammered with these bizarre charges that Westpac seemed to be making up on a whim.

To cut a boring story short: I finally called them and demanded an explanation. Basically: Westpac's current suite of accounts are the ones advertised on the website, but people like me-- who opened accounts with them years ago-- were never informed that we could update our old accounts to the new, cheaper versions for free. This never bothered me when I was overseas, as I rarely used that account, but for the last two years I've paid over a hundred dollars in fees that I didn't even have to!

Having complained volubly, I received a refund of the last three months of fees ($36-- nearly two fucking percent of the average balance!) and had my account switched over. STILL.

PSA: Call your bank if you don't understand how your fees work. And even if you do know, call them anyway and ask if there are any better alteratives to the account you have now. Because if there are, THEY ARE NOT GOING TO VOLUNTEER THAT INFORMATION TO YOU UNPROMPTED.

In other finance-related matters, remember how they say 'friendship has no price'? Well, in deciding whether we should live by ourselves or join an established sharehouse, The Boy and I have determined that it actually does have a price, and that price is... a very large amount of money. As in, we would be paying-- and paying substantially-- for the privilege of sharing a less-than-impressive kitchen with three other people. I mean, I thought the idea of sharehouses was that you (a) pooled your resources for a nicer place than you could afford individually, and (b) lived with people you liked. What the hell, Sydney!

So we like these people, but I guess now we have to figure out how much we like them.

When on earth did trick-or-treating become an Australian pastime? What's next, Thanksgiving?

Admittedly the carved pumpkin on our doorstep-- courtesy of Pink's American girlfriend fuckbuddy ladyfriend-- may be an exacerbating factor in the frequency of the doorbell-ringing, but... oh my holy motherfucking god, just please make it stop. My nerves are shredded, and all I have on hand at the moment is blue cheese, spicy roasted homegrown beets and hash brownies (not mine). Although at the rate this evening is going, I may actually have to medicate myself with some of those brownies to make it through intact.

I really like my new job, so far! I, just. I'm not down with thigh-touching from colleagues, whether innocently intended or no. But then again, I grew up in a very hands-off environment, so my comfort level regarding interpersonal physicality is probably on the lower end of the spectrum. (Getting used to European-style cheek kisses for greeting took quite some getting used to-- sometimes I still freeze or flinch, if I'm not expecting it.)

I always forget how fast things move outside of government, where it can take a full year between submitting a job application and walking in the front door. I interviewed on Friday at a sensible little NGO, and they called me back on Monday: "The job is yours, if you want it."

"Well," I said. "I do want it."

"When can you start?"

"When do you want me to start?"

"The sooner the better!"

So, come Monday, I'm moving to Sydney on a one-way ticket. Which is a little unexpected. On the other hand, this year has been a complete waste-- I wanted to take it off and achieve things (nb: always a good idea to know what one wants to achieve, beforehand), but instead spent most of my time doing annoying menial labour for my much-unloved previous employer, applying half-heartedly for jobs, and doing a lot of not-writing. It's about time for a fresh start, and I suppose this is as good an opportunity as any.

On the down side, I feel quite sad at having to leave my husband and garden and Thursday evening writing group and Melbourne's bike-friendly streets. I also still have to find somewhere to live-- which, given that the choices seem to be limited to "non-stop party house in Bondi!!" or "we need an eighth person to fit into this inner-city apartment bedroom!!", is a task hardly filling me with enthusiasm. Did you know Sydney is apparently second only to Hong Kong for having the least affordable housing of a major metropolitan market in the English-speaking world? (Although I do remember reading somewhere that Angola has one of the worst disparities in the world between average incomes and average housing prices, so I shouldn't complain. And you should have seen what USD3000 a month would get you in Dili.)

In other news, during our Sydney trip I discovered the wonderful Kage Baker (courtesy of kaneko), who writes wryly funny novels containing all my most favourite things: timey-wimey angst, time-travelling cyborgs, and the Tragically Doomed Epic Relationship (not a spoiler). If you're a T:SCC fan, they're totally worth checking out. I'm feeling a bit exhausted due to powering through six books in about three days, but I have to know how it ends, goddammit. Three more to go! Pity my eyesight and my iPod battery.

I had a terrible job interview today. No, I don't want to talk about it. (Let's just say my incompetence-humiliation squick was triggered good and proper-- and by incompetent and humiliated I mean me, not them.) Instead, have my thoughts on a variety of trashy and not-so-trashy genre books.

Magic University: The Siren and the Sword, by Cecilia Tan. [Fantasy/Erotica] Saw this recommended somewhere on my network, and as it was on sale at Amazon (USD0.99/AUD0.93) I grabbed a copy for light train reading. I... did not love this book. In fact, I still haven't finished it because all the eye-rolling was starting to hurt my face. I've now finished it! And I'm still not in love. It's basically HP-redux: a magical university, four houses, broom riding (not an euphemism), a protagonist raised by a non-magical family and entering the magical world for the first time, a sneering pedigreed (and canonically gay) rival whose middle name may as well be Draco. I found myself perplexed as to who the intended audience was: on one hand, the protagonists read really young, even though they're supposed to be in university (and the writing style seems more suited to the younger end of the YA spectrum)-- and on the other hand, there are the explicit sex scenes. I have nothing against graphic detail, but I really couldn't detect any chemistry between the participants that might have made the sex remotely interesting to me. The world lacked plausible detail, none of the characters seemed to have much going on in the way of an internal life (especially the protagonist, who couldn't even muster interesting reactions to the revelation that magic exists), and the whole Chosen One/prophecy business was painfully heavy-handed. I could have taken a great fantasy world with a mediocre romance, or a great romance with mediocre worldbuilding, but mediocre on both counts? Pass.

Sex, Straight Up, by Kathleen O'Reilly. [Contemporary Romance] Got this on a rec from Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, which occasionally turns up the kind of contemporary mainstream het romance I really dig. It's always a bit of a gamble, and I didn't love this one-- I suppose it was merely adequate in the time-whiling-away department, with a few touches I liked. The slightly daring premise is well-handled: a normal guy, living a normal life with the love of his life, suddenly loses her in the tragic events of 9/11. After years of grieving, he finally meets another normal girl and realises that perhaps it's possible to love two people (equally, differently) in one's life. As I've said before, I love quotidian romances! Dude is an accountant: decent, quiet, competent. Girl is an art historian: nice, talented, slightly insecure. They have fun sex; there's a very slight plot involving corporate corruption; there are awkward workplace misunderstandings, eventually resolved. On the downside, the writing is stock-standard Harlequin in its most pejorative sense; it was more of a novella than a novel; there was a throwaway joke at the expense of trans people; and (as far as I could tell) apparently only white people live in New York. Oh, except for the people who sell you fake handbags.

To Say Nothing of the Dog, by Connie Willis. [Sci-Fi/Comedy] Light-hearted time-travelling hijinks to an era of steam trains and straw boater hats, and occasionally WWII. My experience of it was a bit idiosyncratic: I could tell it was good, and there were feliticious turns of phrase that I loved, but I couldn't really get into it. It's more of a plot story than a character-driven one, I suppose, and I've always been one for the big emotional payoff. If you like whimsical clockwork mysteries and time travel, though, I'd recommend it.

The Foundling and Cotillion by Georgette Heyer. [Regency Romance] I've always told myself that I don't like Regency romances-- I guess it's just a period of history I'm not hugely interested in. (That said, I'm even less interested in 15th century Europe, and I've recently fallen for Dorothy Dunnett's ginormous House of Niccolò series-- curse you, freece!) So these were the first Heyers I've ever read, and I was pleasantly surprised. Speaking strictly with my romance-reader hat on, I think I preferred Cotillion, which had a more classic romance arc as well as a super-charming tongue-in-cheek quality. But for characters and hijinks, I liked The Foundling as much, if not more, and it certainly had the faintest hint of a slashy vibe. (Did you know resonant has written Foundling fic? Now you do! Gilly and Gideon: Natural.) The Foundling did have more than a few moments when I wanted to scream with frustration-- at the characters, not the book itself-- but I was kind of simultaneously charmed in my frustration, so there you go. Both books are packed with practically incomprehensible period dialogue and detail, but I had fun looking everything up.

Silk is For Seduction, by Loretta Chase. [Regency Romance] This is the other kind of Regency romance, in which there is much anachronistic sexing in carriages and alleyways, and the dialogue is possibly somewhat less than period authentic. Less charming than Heyer, but more trashily fun. I liked the spunky, business-minded dressmaker heroine and her glowering apathetic duke, and the meticulous descriptions of her many different outfits were just delightful. This is Regency as dress-up paper dolls, and I have no problem with that. (I also tried Chase's Mr Impossible, but quickly gave it up as I have absolutely no faith that the dress-up paper doll technique in colonial Egypt is going to end up as anything less than fail. Feel free to correct me if it's not so bad.)

I'm looking for some more trashy reading for this weekend's wedding extravaganza in Adelaide; anyone got any recs? I prefer everyday contemporary romance with older characters (at least in their thirties), but if a historical romance is particularly good I'll give it a try. (FYI: Don't like Crusie, have already read all the Brockmanns.)

Today was my first day volunteering at the local crisis accommodation centre for homeless men (in a rather unfortunate coincidence, it shares a name with a well-known prison on HBO. Inside, though, it looks more like my old residential college, or a well-worn Canadian YHA). I've been assigned work in the kitchen, which suits me just fine: it's fairly arduous, but constantly busy with the kinds of repetitive individual tasks I find quite pleasant-- things like "please break these ninety eggs into this bucket," or "go through all the pre-packaged donated salad and pick out the slimy bits."

So I generally like food prep, but I have to admit there's one very mundane task I loathe-- I mean, I'd rather skin a bucket of chicken necks or whip six pavlovas worth of egg whites than have to do this. At home I always make The Boy do it; when we have guests, I make them do it. So you can guess exactly what happened the minute I stepped into the kitchen. Yep: the coordinator handed me an apron and six kilograms of cheese and said, "The food processor is broken; can you please grate all of this by hand?"

SIX. KILOGRAMS. OF. CHEESE.

It was uncannily like the universe looked inside my head to find the one thing that would truly test my resolve to keep volunteering. But I mean, what can you do but laugh and get the hell on with it? I think the other volunteers wondered why I found grating cheese so hilarious, even after I grated the tops off both my thumb knuckles.

But then, when I got home, I found that our local supermarket had mailed us a random little promotional freebie: precisely two high-tech new Bandaids, the perfect size and shape for my wounded knuckles.

So if it was a test, I guess I passed.

How can someone have published this piece of disgusting, racist crap? I normally like Sedaris, but he really needs to stick to writing about the US and, I guess, France. The story starts bad and just keeps going. For pages and pages. I want to punch him in the face.

Chicken Toenails, Anyone? (David Sedaris in The Guardian)

My trip reminded me that we are all just animals, that stuff comes out of every hole we have, no matter where we live or how much money we've got. On some level we all know this and manage, quite pleasantly, to shove it towards the back of our minds. In China, it's brought to the front, and nailed there. The supermarket cashier holds out your change and you take it thinking, "This woman squats and spits on the floor while shitting and blowing snot out of her nose."

Wow, those Chinese sure are animal-like! If only they had civilisation to improve things!

My objection to cat meatballs is not that I have owned several cats, and loved them, but that I try not to eat things that eat meat. Like most westerners I tend towards herbivores, and things that like grain: cows, chickens, sheep, etc. Pigs eat meat – a pig would happily eat a human – but most of the pork we're privy to was raised on corn or horrible chemicals rather than other pigs and dead people.

Last I checked, chickens weren't actually herbivores. Neither were many fish, such as salmon. I've heard a lot of Westerners attempt to rationalise a dislike of eating non-herbivores due to 'parasites', but you know what kills parasites-- including our friend the pig-borne trichinosis? Cooking. Can we just admit already that all cultures have arbitrary and artificial ways of categorising animals as edible or non-edible, and no one of these is proof of civilisational superiority?

Most of the restaurants in China to me smelled dirty, though what I was smelling was likely some unfamiliar ingredient, and I was allowing the things I'd seen earlier in the day – the spitting and snot blowing, etc – to fill in the blanks. Then again, maybe not.

Apparently Chinese food-- all the food in China-- smells literally like mucus and shit.

I'm used to standard butchering: here's the leg, the breast, etc. At the Farming Family Happiness, rather than being carved, the rooster was senselessly hacked, as if by a blind person, a really angry one with a thing against birds. Portions were reduced to shards, mostly bone, with maybe a scrap of meat attached.

What barbarity! No method could possibly apply to the madness of turning one's back on Standard Butchery!

Jill was American, a Peace Corps volunteer who'd come to Chengdu to teach English. "In Thailand last year? I ate dog face," she told me.

"Just the face?"

"Well, head and face."

I'm so glad there was room in this piece for a sensible, non-emotive discussion about the consumption of both cats and dogs.

Via Boing Boing-- just, wow. One of the most joyful, entertaining dance routines I've ever seen.