Superstition aint the way

I opened the front door, fumbling with the key in my haste. As it swung open I dropped my bag with a clunk and pelted towards the kitchen. Throwing open the pantry door I searching frantically. There it was, on the middle shelf next to the curry powder and cinnamon sticks. I tipped a fistful into my right palm and then, with eyes closed, I threw it over my shoulder. I stood completely still, staring at the pantry door, a dusting of salt at my feet.

I wouldn’t ordinarily call myself a superstitious person but that afternoon I was stuck by a premonition so powerful, that I felt drastic cosmic action needed to be taken. I had spent the afternoon having good-bye coffees with friends when I had the idea to duck into borders bookshop to pick up a travel book on Holland. With my head tilted sideways to read the colourful spines, I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice the ladder until I was walking under it.  Bang, seven years of bad luck right there. Or was it 5. I wasn’t bothering with the specifics, I just knew it was bad. Of course the feeling of unease that came from walking under a ladder was  compounded by the fact that I was about to leave on a six month foreign exchange and was standing in the travel section.

I did a bit of research to find out the origin of this particular superstition. Turns out there are two theories about why people avoid walking under ladders. The first comes from similarity of a ladder against a well to a yee-olde type gallows. The theory goes that by walking underneath a ladder, you are signalling your own execution.  The other theory is that by leaning against a wall, the ladder creates the Holy Trinity and walking through the triangle desecrates God and leaves you prey to Satan. 

So there you have it. Not wanting to take my chances with Satan before a major European jaunt, I decided to forgo the traditional “spit three times through the ladder’s rungs” and headed home to throw salt over my shoulder instead.  Spitting in Borders is not my scene.

That was over four years ago and time has marched on. I made it back from my overseas exchange in once piece (although somewhat heartbroken) and the Borders bookshop chain has since gone into receivership. My susperstitions however remain unchanged.

A black cat crossing my path gives me the ‘heeby jeebies’. I refuse to open an umbrella inside and feel uncomfortable when other people do. If I ever utter a sentence I do not want to come true, I will make every effort to touch wood – and this often means reaching under the table to find some unlacquered exposed wood, risking the globs of used chewing gum that might be stuck there.

Superstition is everywhere. Most people believe that breaking a mirror is a bad omen. Children often refuse to walk on cracks in the pavement. I have a Swedish friend who won’t put keys on a table top. My mother believes that if you give the gift of a knife, you should also gift coin, or your friendship will soon be cut/broken. For this reason a few Christmasses ago I was unsurprised to unwrap a bread knife with a 50c piece sticky-taped to it.

According to the dictionary, superstition is an irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear. I agree with the fear part but not the ignorant part; Far more ignorant are those who open umbrellas inside and tempt fate.

But I have to admit that superstition can be stressful. Touching wood is often difficult in today's plastic world. Black cats are everywhere and if you tried to avoid every crack on the pavement you wouldn't leave the house. Perhaps that's what Stevie Wonder meant when he advised, “when you believe in things you don’t understand, you will suffer”.

Maybe I will try and grow out of my superstitions. Maybe nothing bad will happen to me. Touch wood.

Review Series. Maha Degustation

In continuation of the theme of randomness, I’d like to dedicate a few blog entries to a review series. This first review is about my dining experience at Maha with my mum and my sister.

In typically Melbourne style, Maha is hidden down a dark alley. Once you descend the staircase and shrug off the feeling that you are entering a basement, you will encounter a very difficult to open front door. After a few minutes where I struggled to ‘push’ the door open despite the ‘pull’ sign,  the maitre di spotted us and rushed to let us in with a look of pity.

Maha is not for the claustrophobic. Its low ceiling appears even more so with the dimly lit interior. That said, it would make a cosy date spot as the lighting is just dark enough to cover up any blemishes.

After we were seated, mum isn’t feeling the ambiance and expresses concern that I am seated on the edge of the thoroughfare to the kitchen. We relocate to a more comfortable bench table which has the added advantage of being further away from a toddler that has just started to scream.

Not a great start but this is about to change. Our waitress swooshes over with three little cups of hibiscus flavoured Egyptian tea. She suggests we say “Saha”, instead of “Cheers”. After Saha-ing and taking a swig of tea, the three of us decide on a 6 course degustation dinner with matching wines. Ooooo yeah. Mum is concerned about getting too boozed. The waitress reassures us that the 6 different wines will only amount to about 4 standard drinks.

We all enjoy the chilled orange and coconut soup poured over a fresh herb salad with combu and lime pearl. Incredibly, this dish manages to be sweet & sour, salty & spicy all at once. Lipsmackingly refreshing. We are appetized and ready for more.

For the next course Steph and mum tuck into some scallops while I look down at what looks like a minimalist vegie garden on a plate. The light brown foam is apparently ‘toast foam’. Hmmm. Worth a try but not something I’d eat every day. I did enjoy the carrot though.

A few courses later I’ve had quite a bit to drink and my notes are getting more and more illegible. I ask my sister the food critic for a verdict on the meal so far: “I’m liking it. Every element. Is good. For me.” Clearly, the four standard drinks are getting to her too.

During the fourth course we decide to come up with a name for our little dining society.

Fam-meal-y suggests my pun loving sister. Groan.

Sisters (and mum) are doing it for themselves is rejected for being too wordy.

Mastication guild is also rejected because, well, it sounds wrong.

The pig -out guild is void because mum reckons it is too close to the truth.

The name will have to wait as our next course has arrived. Desert is some delectable Turkish delight doughnuts. I admit to eating more than one.

After the meal our waitress spritzes our hands with a Turkish lemon cologne and we sip mint tea to aid our digestion. Woah. We are full to bursting at this point.

The bill is presented and mum has a mini heart attack. We pay and make our way to that dammed front door I had trouble with before I had the four standard drinks. The Maitre Di has anticipated me however and is there to hold it open for us. We are given mini scrolls with our menu and paper bags filled with the Turkish doughnut mix. Clutching our goodiebags we ascend out of the basement and into the crisp Melbourne night.

Maha degustation rates: three out of three incredibly full bellies.

A place to call my own

For some time now I’ve wanted to own a home. Not an apartment, but a house with a roof and 4 walls on some land. I want to legally own the land under my feet.

Part of this ambition stems from visions of domestic bliss. I imagine myself pottering around in the garden, hanging up carefully selected paintings and baking scones. Not that it is likely I would actually do this (I rarely bake and almost always burn myself when I do) but that is my anti-feminist domestic fantasy.

Another reason for the choice of a house and not an apartment is my desire to get a dog. This desire is incredibly propelling. I want one and always have (god I sound like Veruka Salt). This means that my house will need a yard as well as proximity to a dog park. There is my first criteria. My second criteria is somewhere to park my car. My third is a property within a reasonable distance to cafe’s, shops, and all the modern conveniences. I believe in real estate terms, it is called a ‘lifestyle’ investment.

Lately I’ve become a bit of a house inspection pro. My record is 12 house inspections in one day. On that day I planned them with military precision and hit them one after the other. Like a well trained soldier I located each property on the map, surveyed the neighbourhood, entered the premises then moved swiftly from room to room taking in every detail.

In general, house inspections go like this:

-          Once you’ve found the street, it’s usually easy to find the house. Just look for house with large For Sale board out the front

-          You then approach the house, make eye contact with selling agent, give your name and number and take brochure. Small talk is not necessary but a nice-to-have.

-          Ask the realtor “is it owner occupied”, if not, as what a typical weekly rent is. Ask what they are asking for the property. Ask if they are any body corporate fees, why the owners are selling etc. Ask if there has been any renovation recently.

-          Tour the house. Take the opportunity to look into other people’s cupboards (he he). Keep your eye out for dodgy fittings, sloping floors, hanging ceilings.

-          If there is a fountain turned on, ambient music playing or scented oils/candles, asked for them to be switched off/ removed. You do not want to a buy a place and find out that the music was hiding noisy neighbours and the scented candles was masking the smell of rot.

-          If there is a back yard, have a look over the fence to next door. Do the neighbours have kids or a loud parrot that spouts Shakespearian sonnets?

-          While you are there, suss out the competition. Are they mostly couples? How serious do they look? But don’t get too stressed. Most often the people wandering around inspections are just curious neighbours having a sticky beak.

All this can be quite exhausting. Especially if you are doing more than one inspections in one day. Try and find someone to go with you, preferably someone with building or carpentry skills. But remember, you will be the one paying the mortgage in the end, so it’s what you think that counts.

I’m still yet to find the house of my dreams. They say now is a good time to buy in Melbourne but honestly there isn’t a real abundance of supply in the market.

 A lot of house hunting seems to be just waiting for the right property to come along. So I will wait. And attend inspections. And be content with burning myself baking on the stove in my apartment.

Has it really been ten years?

A high school reunion brings on a bout of reminiscing...

When you left school, where did you imagine you would be in ten years? A qualified surgeon maybe, or an astronaut, a movie star or a mum?

Regardless of what career ambitions you may or may not have dreamt for yourself, I’m sure you thought that ten years on you’d certainly be older, wiser and more mature. While I am older, I’m not so sure I am that much wiser or more mature than that 18 year old girl that was once called an ugly duckling. More jaded, yes. More experienced, certainly. But wiser?  

Looking back at the past is like looking the wrong way into a telescope. You can see a small version of yourself standing there, slightly distorted by time, blissfully unaware of the future that lies ahead – that future that you have already lived through.

“You will get your heart broken”, you want to warn yourself, “but you will survive.” Pastyou just stares unblinkingly through the telescope. “You will make some really dumb mistakes, but don’t worry, you will learn from them and they will shape who you are.” No reaction.

Undeterred, you press on: “You’re friends now will not all be there in the future, but you are going to meet some wonderful people in unlikely places who will enrich your life. Getting to know them will be a lot of fun.”

I can almost see my past self looking at me with a know-it-all expression, rolling their eyes at the perceived condescension in my words. “Shut up old fogie” Pastme retorts. “I’ve got it all figured out. You’re just jealous.”

In a way I do envy past me because of all those experiences I’d love to live over again. Oh the things I’d like to have the chance to do, the things I would change! Just think of the words you could take back, or the words you didn’t say that you should have. Hindsight can be cruel.

But then I’d also have to sit through exams again, have an awkward first kiss again, get my wisdom teeth taken out again, go through break ups again. No thanks!

What brought on this reminiscing was my ten year high school reunion that I attended on Friday. Ten years ago we graduated and were released from the all-girl prison we had been trapped in for 13 years. In my graduating class there weren’t any astronauts or movie stars, but there were a few mums to be. The reality is that no one has really changed that much over the past ten years.

Maybe the next ten will be different.

My enemy wears a kilt

Some of you already know that I have a mortal enemy. Oh yes – it’s true. I have a foe.

 The very existence of this individual tortures me. Just the sight of him invokes an intensely angry physical response. I almost feel like a red hot wave of hatred is rising up in me and I might go berserk at any second.

Who is this person? You may wonder. How did they inspire such hatred in me?

My enemy is: The Bagpipe man. Yes, you know the one – the shortish fellow with receding hair who tends to loiter on Prince’s Bridge, heaving his lungs out into that wheezing tartan bag of noise.

The Bagpipe Man incessantly plays his repertoire of 3 songs morning, noon and night, rain, hail or shine. When he’s not on the bridge he’s on Bourke Street harassing shoppers with his noise pollution. I’ve even spotted him pestering unsuspecting AFL goers on their way to the MCG.

Like taking hot pokers to my ear drums, The Bagpipe Man puffs out a succession of out-of-tune screeches (notes?) into vaguely familiar songs. How that cacophony can be called music is a mystery to me. I find it utterly perplexing that anyone would give him money, more still that someone hasn’t yet pushed him into the river.

Now that I have vented my anger against The Bagpipe Man, I will now turn to the other buskers and performers who are a permanent fixture of the area where I live. Some of these performers don’t bother me, some I actually even enjoy. Take the old guy in the electric wheelchair who likes to sing country music – now HE is talented.

The guy with the drum kit made out of rubbish cans does pretty well for himself. The men who do the chalk drawings on the pavement are really fantastic – although it would be nice to see something other than Johannes Vermeer's girl with a pearl earring.

The magic trick people I have a growing animosity towards, especially the ones who use dogs for tricks. The gold painted still lady and the bronze man just look bored. But the fire juggling people are, quite frankly, dangerous.

“We need your support.” They plead to the crowd. “We rely on nice folk like you to support us so we can continue doing what we love”. In other words: “give us your hard earned money so we can continue to hazardously throw flaming sticks around while contributing nothing to society and taking up most of the footpath”.

A musical friend of mine once told me that they had a policy of giving to ever busker, but not to beggars. This got me thinking about the difference between busking and begging. Both are actually very similar. In both instances you are requesting money from strangers in a public place. Buskers, unlike beggars, will give you something in return for your donation.  

But The Bagpipe Man, unlike buskers or beggars, is just there to annoy the crap out of you.

So next time you walk past him, do as I do. Glare at him and block your ears. Let your eyes convey the message: You are not getting a cent out of me.

Mind over platter - the detox challenge

For the past week I have been doing a Detox. What does this mean? It means that for 8 whole days I haven’t touched caffeine, alcohol, dairy, wheat or grain products, processed food, or sugar of any kind. Combine that with the fact that I don’t eat meat and have a restricted sex life means that I am feeling pretty nun-like at the moment.

Why on earth would I do this? Why would I, a foodie, who lives for coffee, cheese, wine and chocolate torture myself in this way? Precisely because I’ve lived for wine and chocolate all my life, and it had to stop. My liver was screaming out for an alcohol free day. My jeans no longer fit me and my belly button was threatening to disappear under my tummy flab.

Apparently the jury is still out on whether detox’s are even good for you. Most nutritionists would say no, especially if you go on one of those Celebrity detox diets or that one where you just drink lemon juice and maple syrup.

The benefits of a real detox, like the one I’m doing, WEED: to remove the bad bugs, SEED: replace the good bugs, FEED: improve my digestive function, and SEED: increase the effectiveness of my body to remove toxins. What are toxins? They are substances that reside in our body that are poisonous. Toxins are either environmental (external) or endogenous (made in your body).

Others say that not only do toxins not exist, but detoxing it is not proven to have any benefit and depriving your body of nutrients can actually be dangerous. In my case, I don’t feel deprived of nutrients. I’ve never felt healthier in my life. The challenge is coming up with a variety of tasty meals I can actually eat!

The detox has forced me to be aware of the nutrients within each food, and I am now much better ensuring I get enough protein. This was particularly useful because often vegetarians end up just living on carbohydrates (Next time you are at a restaurant, check the veggie option. It is guaranteed to be mushroom risotto).

I’m not doing this detox alone. I’m doing it with the assistance of a medical nutritionist and 25 others who signed up for this purification process. We are a virtual team (we will never meet) but keep in touch with each other’s progress via email. The nutritionist has tried to make it fun by creating a points system and setting us challenges.

My first challenge was to eat a meal blindfolded. Actually harder then you may think! Thankfully I had assistance from my ‘support crew member’ Alex who ensured I spooned the food into my mouth and not onto the floor. The purpose of this challenge was to actually taste each mouthful rather than just eat mindlessly. I was also instructed to stop eating when I felt full as opposed to just eating until there was nothing left my plate. This challenge was fun and educational, although quite messy.

The finish line is in sight!

I have 5 more days of this to go. After which I plan on rewarding myself with a glass of red wine, a coffee, some vegemite toast and some chocolate. But not in that order of course, and only in moderation. The real reward will be confidently whipping out my bikini at the Goldcoast next weekend. Waterslides here I come!

If you want to read more, this is a really good article on dextoxes:

http://www.motherinc.com.au/magazine/everything-for-mum/health-and-fitness/exercisenutrition/299-detox-diets-do-they-work

Investing by cartoons

Recently I have started working in the investment business. Do not fear – I am not managing any money (I am nowhere near qualified and I technically I am not legally allowed to do so).  At this stage I am just learning the ropes through research and observation. Because of this, I feel I have a unique outside view to a world that, while not entirely foreign to me, is shrouded by some degree of mystery.

In many ways investing, and funds management in particular, operates like a fraternity. How so? Well, it is a male dominated club or brotherhood of people with similar interests who work for their mutual benefit. Sometimes they may come into conflict, at which point the fraternity becomes divided and factions emerge due to the existence of various alliances. Pretty gangster eh?

Investors themselves each have various styles, and they in turn form networks with like minded investors. These ‘guilds’ often span the globe. For example, an investor with a particular style who lives in Japan may have an equivalent in the US who focuses on US markets.

Some tools and methodologies:

Then of course there is no methodology at all, which is really pure speculation often precipitated by mass hysteria:

The world of financial securities is a funny place. I find it fascinating that companies can be bought, sliced up, repackaged and sold again. So can bonds, or tranches of mortgages. You can then even buy insurance on those repackaged mortgages – If you bought credit default swaps on mortgage backed securities in 2006 you would have made a motza during the GFC.

I find shares a lot less complicated than the other financial instruments. I think this is because companies with shareholders are like mini democracies. When you buy stock in a company you are taking a portion of ownership in that company. Depending on the type of share, this may entitle you to rights; The right to receive dividends, the right to vote at the annual general meeting and the right to call an extraordinary general meeting.

If a company is like a democracy, then the board is like it’s governing council. They are elected to act as a nexus between the company and its shareholders.  They must serve in the best interest of the company, which in turn naturally corresponds with the best interests of the shareholders.

Interestingly, some board members do not know this. They treat shareholders (and funds managers) as adversaries and not as allies. A very few see it as their role to be “independent”, which is quite preposterous as members of the board are able to own shares themselves. Indeed, who better to look after the best interests of a company than someone who has ‘skin in the game’ so-to-speak.

This cartoon illustrates this attitude well:

New Yorker Cartoon  by Joseph Mirachi

So if you’d read this far you are probably wondering what the point of this musing was? It may seem like I am arguing that to be a successful investor you need to be a well networked male with a sophisticated investment technique, that you act in a contrary fashion to the masses, that you focus on equities and only invest in companies who’s board members are shareholders themselves.

Not so. Anyone can be an investor. All you need is a cat.