Saturn's Return

I wanted to love it. I wanted to feel touched, inspired, understood. Instead I sat, eyes fixed on the stage with a perpetually furrowed brow, cringing at the wackiness. To think it started off so well.

Last night I went with a bunch of girlfriends – our ages ranging from 25 to 28 – to see The Sydney Theatre Company’s return season of David Berthold’s production of Saturn’s Return, a play by Tommy Murphy. A play about the astrological phenomenon that takes place every 27-30 years in a person’s life, coinciding with the time it takes the planet Saturn to make one orbit around the sun.

For gen X and Y-ers this ‘return’ in their late 20s can cause havoc to their lives. Some pass the threshold ultimately more assured, while others struggle against the reality of transitioning from youth into adulthood. I get it. I see it in my friends and I can feel the stars aligning for my own journey to the ‘other side’ but I just don’t think Murphy’s play really nailed it.

The story focuses on a young couple, Matt and Zara, who have been together for 7 years. They live together and are content with their own unique take on love and commitment (two years ago they had a threesome with one of Matt’s footy mates… as the play opens they’re planning another, maybe with a girl from Zara’s yoga class). Then Matt tells Zara he loves her and… she hesitates. So marks the end of ‘reality’ and the play spirals into a world of character-changes and make believe. Zara steals a baby, but maybe it was just a doll, and then an old boyfriend pays a visit only to turn into the couple’s child and get taken away by aliens dressed in cardboard, while Zara and Matt are stuck to the wall and floor, respectively. Fuck. It’s not just me, is it? That’s absurd.

Out of the seven of us, one thought she could relate to the feeling of being stuck as Berthold depicted it. The rest of us were still struggling to come to terms with the abrupt ending, and I couldn’t get over the baby – or was it a doll?

There’s lots of semi-nudity, course language and a higher boy ratio to girl (well, there’s three actors: 1 girl, 2 boys)… so it should have been enjoyable to one Boyfriend-deprived, as me. But I was left unfulfilled.

Maybe I’ll ‘get it’ in a few years time.

Saturn’s Return

A play by Tommy Murphy

Director David Berthold

With Toby Moore, Leeanna Walsman, Matthew Zeremes

The Sydney Theatre Company, Pier 4, Hickson Road Walsh Bay NSW 2000

Tel: 02 0250 1700

Note top pic: The cast of Saturn's Return thanks to SMH

Pointed obsession

I have a thing for vampires. Ever since Kirsten Dunst took on Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire I’ve secretly pined for sharp white teeth and a wax-like complexion. Poor Boyfriend has copped his fair share of neck wounds from my overzealous embrace and I’ve been known to plead for dress-up parties in a not-so-subtle attempt to indulge my penchant for playing vamp – so it’s surprising I’ve taken so long to get into the Twilight phenomenon.

Now I’m bitten.

While I covet Robert Pattinson (playing Edward Cullen) and think Kristen Stewart perfect for the role of Bella Swan, I’m determined not to watch any of the films before I’ve finished reading Stephanie Meyer’s four-part series. It won’t be hard. Each night I forsake much needed sleep in order to read just-one-more-chapter. I’m halfway through New Moon and I don’t want it to end.

Thankfully I’m borrowing the series from my gorgeous friend. She’s one book behind and at 6pm last Sunday – such is the level of our obsession – I drove 40-minutes to her place in the teeming rain to trade book one for its sequel. This morning she texted a gentle reminder that another weekend was drawing near… she needn’t worry; I’m hungering for Eclipse already.

I’m not ashamed to admit that Meyer’s books are turning me into a giggly little school girl. I pore over their pages like a teenager possessed; willing Bella and Edward to get it on already and conjuring images of myself ripping into a sultry looking Pattinson.

It appears I’m not alone. Tweeting my obsession and posting Facebook alerts it seems that even the more mature and refined of my friends have succumbed – some have even read the books twice!

More praise to Meyer, she’s planning prequels…

Is it wrong for me to buy the film’s poster for my wall?

MasterChef was rigged

Now, I know, we all love Julie. She’s the cuddly Mumma we all want to cook us chicken soup when we’re sick and make us chocolate cake for our birthday – but she is no master chef!

And it’s not that I’m especially a fan of Poh, either. In fact I don’t think either of the girls belonged in the final two. I’ve worked in enough restaurants to know that the kitchen is no place for a person prone to hissy fits or breakdowns. Good chefs, great chefs are clinical. They’re scary. As a waiter, you wait for them to ding that bell and quickly, cleanly take the appropriate dish off the pass and to the eager diner. You don’t ask questions. You don’t collect a smile or kind word. You say, “Thank you, Chef” and scurry on.

Forget her messiness – Julie puts way too much blood, sweat and tears into her culinary creations. Having spent the past three months watching her toil away behind the bench I’d be worried her ‘home style’ cooking might make me ill. Yes, she’s a lovely, happy lady – but was that the show’s brief?

No. They were searching for Australia’s first Master Chef. A person in the same ilk as Matt Moran (ARIA, Sydney), Emmanuel Stroobant (Saint Pierre, Singapore) and Donovan Cooke (Hong Kong Jockey Club Happy Valley Clubhouse, Hong Kong) – all fine dining chefs who made guest appearances throughout the season.

Every night (except Saturdays) I, along with a couple of million other Australians, sat down to supper eyes peeled to the TV screen. We watched as hundreds of hopefuls auditioned their favourite dish, marvelled at the challenges that saw twenty finalists whittle down to five, four, then seven again (when a second-chance Navy-lunch challenge brought back Tom, Poh and Justine); and we nodded when Lucas and Julia – who’d earlier secured a place in the final week – were swiftly sent packing. It seemed that winning those early master chef challenges worked against them. Those who had stayed week-to-week had become hardened contestants: compared with them, Lucas and Julia were weak.

So came the final four: Chris and Justine, talented, level-headed, reasoned cooks; Poh, whose art background and perfectionism ensured every dish she plated look amazing and tasted fabulous, and Julie, with her flour-flecked face, sweaty brow and inevitably sliced fingers.

Julie, Julie, Julie.

Now the grand ol’ prize for winning season one of Channel Ten’s MasterChef Australia: $100,000 in prize money, the chance to work in some of countries top kitchens, and a cook book deal. It’s this last little ditty that’s got me all in a flurry. Because, it was the cook book deal that sealed the fate of the final four.

Chris’ Snout to Tail, Stout to Ale idea was great, but not really mainstream. And Poh’s Food From Mars Malaysian creations – Century Eggs? No thank you. Justine…? Well, French cooking’s a tad fiddly.

But Julie had an idea that Channel Ten could run with. What self-respecting Aussie battler wouldn’t run out to buy, Our Family Table? Full of easy to prepare at home dishes-with-love. Yep, that was a money earner – even Donna Hay wanted to buy a copy. So that’s how the cookie crumbled.

In the end, it came down to Julie’s marketability. It didn’t matter that Poh’s replications of the final challenge dishes looked and tasted far superior, they threw her to the curb over a teaspoon of chocolate sorbet and gave Julie a bunch of undeserving ‘nines’.

Poor Poh. Poor Chris. Poor Justine.

Although, I’d like to think these guys will go the way of runner-up reality TV contestants-past and make their mark sans the cloud of chef-lebrity. Poh off to LA (with Curtis Stone), Chris with his beer and meat inspired cook book (that celebrity chef, Ben O’Donoghue loved!) and Justine under the guidance of Matt Moran at ARIA.

Julie’s cook book will sell. She’ll open her family café on the New South Wales Central Coast, and her boys will love having Mum back in the kitchen.

I just can’t help feeling a little deflated. Three months of loyal following and the finale fizzled. Master Chef has left me with a bitter taste in my mouth.

Making our mark

Meeting up last night with a girlfriend from my uni days, it was interesting to see how our conversation has evolved. No longer, “Should we go to Café Otto for a mango smoothie in between Contracts and Real Property?” (…we battled through Law together at UTS), now we’re sharing salary stories and swapping realtor contacts.

It seems we’ve both reached that stage in life when owning our own home has become something we are planning towards. No longer a pipe dream, we’re tallying assets, meeting with banks and finding out just how much the financial world is willing to lend us. Though she holds a few more cards than I – having actually gone on to practice law – we’re both going into this venture with our significant others. Yes. It’s all very exciting.

However, I think I lost her when I shouted euphorically that realestate.com.au was better than sex. Though I resisted the urge to argue the excel spreadsheet I’d devised detailing Sydney house sale trends was the equivalent of real estate Viagra, a strange wave of pity did fall over her face. I admit, my enthusiasm may have something to do with the fact Boyfriend is still traipsing through South East Asia, but as a Virgo, graphs and tables really do make me giddy. There’s something so satisfying when information can be broken down into columns and tables: I feel inspired.

When I (calmly) mentioned said-spreadsheet, Girlfriend was intrigued. I’ve promised to email it to her – share the wealth. She may be an associate solicitor and doing her masters, but I’ve got the low-down when it comes to land and sundry.

And for my wisdom I have to thank the likes of Sarah Beeny (Property Ladder, The Lifestyle Channel) and Kevin McCloud (Grand Designs, The Lifestyle Channel). Again, I’m showing my propensity to be a nanna-before-my-time… but I love DIY. Home reno shows, IKEA catalogues, flipping through the pages of Domain on a Saturday – bliss.

So it’s a very nice feeling knowing that soon (very soon), I’ll be able to put all my ideas into action: in a home of my own.

Cadbury Conspiracy

When I was little I was a bit of a show pony. My sisters – six and seven years older than me – would taunt me with the song lyrics, “You’re so vein”, every time I looked in the mirror. Fair enough. I did like my own reflection.

As I grew up I realised other benefits of mirrors and reflective glass: checking for the remains of food in my teeth, confirming appropriate outfits and scrutinising my behind. But it took a longer time for me to realise that not all mirrors are created equal. Not all reflections are true to form.

This is most notable when it comes to the reflections around the office. Working at a magazine publishing house there are lots of mirrors. In the lobby of our building every wall reflects, even the elevator doors are mirrors. Waiting in line for the lifts of a morning checking one’s appearance is a covert operation – humorous, as by then it’s far too late for wardrobe changes, though you can spot a frayed hem or spilt milk before greeting colleagues on your floor. But I digress.

You see the horror of the lobby is that our wall of mirrors makes everyone look stumpy. Having (obviously) surveyed my reflection a fair few times before leaving the house, each day I will myself not to look at the image of myself waiting in line. “Those mirrors are lying.” I chant.

Inevitably my gaze is drawn toward the elevator doors; my image is stretched as the doors open and I embark on my journey to the fourth floor. I feel like crap.

It’s ironic then that my salvation lies in the office kitchen; in the Cadbury’s confectionary fridge, to be precise. You see, selling candy in an office where everyone’s on a diet is a tall order – except that is, when you make the person standing in front of the vending machine appear taller, thinner. Then they’re putty in your hands.

Clever – no?

Note: Above image courtesy of Getty images.

Coco and corsets

About six months ago I invested in my first pair of tuck-me-in-stop-me-breathing undies. And at first I loved them.

Maybe I was a little trimmer (butt less saggy) then, who knows? But lately it seems that my failsafe choice of undergarment is cutting into my butt and upper back rather than cutting the mustard. Charming, I know, but I like to be honest about these sorts of things.

On Tuesday night I went and saw Coco Avant Chanel with a girlfriend. While I’ve always coveted la Maison Chanel and the elegant haute couture designs the House is famous for, I’ve never really known much about its founder, Gabrielle (Coco) Chanel.

Audrey Tautou’s performance is flawless and portrays Chanel’s complexity brilliantly. Staunchly independent and emotionally vulnerable in equal measure, Chanel never married. Ambition saw her rise from poverty and establish herself as a meticulous fashion couturier, paving the way for women – not only in the business world, but also in the fashion stakes. Chanel rebelled against corsets. Rebelled against belts. She wanted women to be comfortable, move freely – like her style she wanted fashion to be effortless. Her heavy smoking habit likely helped her cause, maintaining a very slight frame until her death in 1971.

But, you’d think if it was good enough for Coco, this fashion-choice should be good enough for me. Why then am I again battling with the girdle? I’m uncomfortable and sporting a very ugly VPL (visible panty line) – that’s it! Tonight I’m throwing caution to the wind and ditching my shaper-knickers.

From now on I’ll stick to wearing all black. Coco would like that.

All dressed in white...

In the interim between leaving school and your ten-year reunion, there are seemingly few events that offer opportunity to catch up with old/long-lost friends and reminisce. After the rush of twenty-first birthday bashes most people slink off quietly, many travel – some semi-permanently shifting overseas – and some start settling into adulthood, gaining a mortgage, marriage, maybe even a kid.

With parents no longer funding the parties, guest lists get smaller. You lose touch with the myriad of peeps who saw you through your teenage years and get on with the business of interacting with work colleagues. You grow up.

Then come weddings – in all their grandeur.

At twenty-five, I’m in a committed relationship. He’s lovely. I love him. He’s thirty. We’re not married – not even engaged. I thought I was okay with this.

But on Saturday night I attended the engagement drinks of one of my best mates from school. Based in Hong Kong – where her now-fiancé works – Girlfriend is getting ready to take the next step into adulthood: one orange-coloured stiletto at a time (some brides like white; this chick plans to mix it up a tad).

Regardless of where they are in their careers, I still see school friends through school-uniform-clad eyes: cut-out dolls in tunics. I can’t get over the fact that she’s about to walk down an aisle to the bells of the Wedding March. So you can imagine my shock as I heard the evening updates of who is already married and who has even popped out progeny in the three years I was gone. Suddenly the finger to the right of my left pinky started feeling very light. Weightless. Missing some bling.

Not that it should matter what everyone else is doing – but with school friends it does. You spend six years of high school competing with them in the classroom, on the running track, in the pool, and in the fashion stakes of formals – it’s hard to let that competition go when suddenly you’re playing a more serious deck of cards.

I’m elated for my Girlfriend – she looks amazingly happy – but if I’m honest, I’m a shade of green too.