Being Santa’s elf sux

Being one of Santa’s elf sucks. All year we elves help Santa and Mrs. Claus make presents for all the world’s children. Well most of them; the poor kids in third world countries don’t have the luxury of a fantasy life underpinned by rampant commercialism and consumer avarice.

Anyway, back to my job. It’s a bad deal, because elves are paid on delivery and that’s only once a year. We need to revisit our Enterprise Agreement, but it’s difficult getting proper union representation when you’re in a sweatshop.

                                                                                    

Take last week. The conveyer belt broke down, the heating went on the fritz and the robotic arm went ballistic under the pressure. It put the all the Ken doll heads on the Barbie dolls’ bodies. This created another problem. Instead of just chucking the rubbish, Mrs. Claus came up with some crazy idea so we didn’t waste the components. Now we have to repackage all the dolls for the trans-gender market.

And what’s my reward? Bad pay! I get paid millions, which sounds good; but I can’t buy anything, because it’s monopoly money. That’s because one year the games were overproduced and we had all this leftover toy currency. Mrs. Claus (Cow!) decided not to be wasteful.

The work environment is a pain. It should be politically correct and accessible to all vertically challenged people. This isn’t the case. Sure, there’s an EEO policy, but it’s pinned at the top of the notice board and we elves can’t see it. And there are no chick elves. This brings gender imbalance to the workplace, which has ramifications for our capacity to develop sensitive relationships or an understanding of the whole male/female thing. Worst of all, the bottom line is there are no lady bits to look at. I may be an elf but I have needs.

Recreation facilities are a bummer. The workshop is smoke free so when I want a fag I have to go outside into a North Pole blizzard, which always puts the cigarette out. My mum told me smoking was bad for my health; she said it would stunt my growth. She was wrong about that, because at 4 foot 2 inches, I’m the tallest of my seventeen brothers. I do always have a cold from being outside next to the bin with the sign that reads “Smokers Please Extinguish Your Butts Here”. My poor butt’s already extinguished by the cold. Even my testicles have shrunk to the size of peas – well three of them of have.

The benefits in this job are rank. Take the cafeteria - Mrs. Claus makes Santa bring home all the uneaten cakes and biscuits left out for him on Christmas Eve. She uses these to stock the staff cafeteria shelves. We have to eat them all year. Do you have any idea how bad stale mince pies taste?

You’re getting a whole new understanding as to why those two never had any kids, hey? Personally, I think it has a lot to do with that reindeer herd. Far too chummy with that Rudolf character if you ask me. And I don’t care what anybody says, the red nose is alcohol related.

We used to have more elves at the workshop, but we downsized. I think some of the work was outsourced to elves in China, but the boss is pretty cagey about that. He’s nervous about the words “exploitation” and “Santa” being used in the same sentence. So we all have to keep this a BIG secret or he would be out of business before you can say Shang Dang Lao Ren) which in Chinese means "Christmas Old Man." Probably ‘cos no-one knows how to say “Big Fat Bugger” in Chinese. I tell you those Clauses are definitely the Patrick Stevedoring of the elf world.  

To top it all off, they’ve been trying to implement some kind of ISO standard. Idiots! It’s a one-off operation. Who else is going to need to be ISO 345567 North-Pole-Workshop Quality Accredited? They even tried to get the Heart Foundation Tick of Approval. Let’s just say the diet didn’t hold up - nor did the sleigh – we had to reinforce the steel frame this year when it went in for the 15 zillion kilometer service.

So, festive people take a reality check. On Christmas morning, as you mess up your homes with wrapping paper, thanking each other for stuff that you secretly hate and are planning to put into a Salvos bin the first chance you get; just remember that I have to live my crappy life so you can indulge in food, drink and credit card debt.

Merry Christmas!

The twelve malaise of Christmas

My humble offering for those whose Christmas spirits are sunk in commercial mire...

The twelve malaise of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
An over-budget stressed-out family

On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Five credit cards
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Six ‘sold out’ postings
Five credit cards
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Seven bargains begging

Six ‘sold out’ postings
Five credit cards
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Eight shoppers shoving
Seven bargains begging

Six ‘sold out’ postings
Five credit cards
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Nine bills arriving
Eight shoppers shoving
Seven bargains begging

Six ‘sold out’ postings
Five credit cards
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Ten gifts for loathing
Nine bills arriving
Eight shoppers shoving
Seven bargains begging

Six ‘sold out’ postings
Five credit cards
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Eleven heads a throbbing
Ten gifts for loathing
Nine bills arriving
Eight shoppers shoving
Seven bargains begging

Six ‘sold out’ postings
Five credit cards
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Twelve bah-humbuggings

Eleven heads a throbbing
Ten gifts for loathing
Nine bills arriving
Eight shoppers shoving
Seven bargains begging

Six ‘sold out’ postings
Five credit cards
Four ‘What to get fors…?’

Three bouts of panic
Two thousand ads
and an over-budget stressed-out family

A string of Christmas pasta

Today, up went the Christmas tree. It took me an hour to arrange the branches which had been squashed into their storage box. It took me half an hour to untangle a string of Christmas lights. By then, I was irritable. It took Bing Crosby crooning Silent Night in the background to restore a pinch of my Christmas spirit. With that, I started to add decorations, keeping it as simple as I could; just some gold and silver baubles, and strings of opaque pearls. As I added each piece I started to think about past Christmases in my life, especially my childhood ones.

My mother was our home’s Christmas engine. She started preparing for Christmas early. We didn't have a lot of money so we were unable to buy ready-made what was needed for Christmas celebrations. Mum made everything herself. It was a month of cooking; curing meats and making sure that as many eggs as possible were collected from the chickens in preparation for the baking that needed to be done. One of my main memories is of home-made pasta that would be strung to dry over dowel rods which were balanced on the backs of our dining room chairs. This tradition continued into my adulthood.

The first Christmas without my mother nearly 10 years ago was hard. I thought my heart could not break any more than it had. A few days before that first motherless Christmas, I woke up to find pasta drying throughout the kitchen. My son, a chef, had worked through the night to prepare it for me. I have never forgotten that demonstration of his understanding. It started to put my heart that together and has become one of my enduring Christmas memories. It taught me a great lesson about small acts of kindness that belong, not just in the Christmas season, but throughout the year.

As I watch the lights twinkling on the tree, the initial vexation decorating it caused me has dissipated. I'm warm with memories of past Christmases and Mum’s pasta. If I had some now, I hang it to dry on the tree.

Ghosts of other readers

Today I received in the post a book that I had tracked down via a second-hand bookshop in Queensland which advertises "gently used books". http://www.carlasbigbookshed.com.au  

It felt like opening an early Christmas present! The book pages are yellow with age and it has the additional surprise of being signed by the author. I love the feel of it. I love the smell of it. I love the fact that I will be able to nod off to sleep at night with my face buried in it.

My e-book reader allows me to take a portable library wherever I go but give me a used book where I can meet the ghosts of other readers.

Lost for words (Lessons from NaNoWriMo)

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) has become a worldwide phenomenon for writers of all levels of experience. The concept is simple: churn out 50,000 words of a new novel in the month of November. 

I’d heard lots from writers who’d taken on the challenge but never thought about doing it myself. On impulse, I registered. To my surprise, I discovered a NaNoWriMo-me. She taught me a lot. With this year's event about to start, I'd like to share some of what I learned:

 

Meet the challenge: An eager novice, I gave myself an appropriate user name ‘whatamithinking’ and sat at my blank screen filled with a mix of trepidation, optimism and a good dash of caffeine. With one part of my brain singing my mantra ‘what am I thinking?’ NaNoWriMo-me argued, ‘This could be fun. Get to know me.’  So, I wrote.

Persistence pays: First day, I churned out two thousand words. I was on my way! (Until Word crashed and consigned my document to an inaccessible part of the PC) I’d need the entire ‘Without a Trace’ team to have any chance of seeing it again. So, its only day one and I’m ready to chuck it in. But hey, at the time, I was on the Gold Coast and sunrise is around 4.30 am. I figured rising early would give me a chance to catch up. By day two, it was clear that holidays and dedicated writing don’t mix well. Sun, sand and surf, beat out the screen each time. ‘You’ll find time if it’s important,’ said NaNoWriMo-me. I found pockets of time during the day to write—five minutes here, ten minutes there. The word count climbed. I kept writing.

Carry a toolbox: The NaNoWriMo website provides lots of tools for the writing journey. Graphs and charts to measure your progress, a merchandise store (where, not surprisingly, the book ‘No Plot? No problem’ was the only ‘sold out’ item). There are regional groups you can link with, writing buddies, events to attend and regular ‘rah-rah’ emails from mentors. NaNoWriMo-me didn’t use all those resources, but it was good to know they were there. I kept writing.

Tell someone who cares: Each day I’d give my husband an update of the numbers popping up in my word count. ‘That’s great,’ he’d say not taking his eye off the news broadcast. Don't get me wrong, he loves the fact that I write, even though he doesn’t entirely get why I’d write all those words and not use them. A number of non-writers friends agreed, giving me a blank-faced ‘Why?’ when I told them of the 50,000-word aim. NaNoWriMo-me learned quickly who was on My Team. She didn’t talk much; instead she conserved her energy for the page. I kept writing.

You don't have to write well, you just have to write: Here’s the thing; I never had a plot to lose. I had one-dimensional characters, most of whom I decided I didn’t like. Don't ask me about landscape, setting, or theme. My timeline travelled more than the complete series of Dr Who. Dialogue, seemed to flow, but sensory detail was absent. My inner critic screams ‘Loser!’ in an amplified voice. NaNoWriMo-me ignored it. I kept writing.

Don’t look back: My tale started with a contemplative woman in her sixties, who though some convoluted story lines reflects on her days as an unwitting porn star. Don't ask. I didn't. Despite my lack of direction, I wasn’t tempted to edit, focussing on pouring the words onto the page. Would I get to the word count Holy Grail? I pushed on like a desert explorer moving toward the oasis mirage. I kept writing.

You CAN be brave at your keyboard: our writing class was advised to write about what we’re afraid of writing. So I did. Prim and proper me wrote sex scenes. My inner critic tried talking me out of it. What if your kids see it?  What if someone thinks that’s what YOU do? But NaNoWriMo-me did the cheerleader thing, ‘Go for it!’ Sometimes I’d laugh out loud at the sheer drivel I wrote; sometimes I was surprised by the eloquence of a line. I kept writing.

Enjoy your destination when you get there: my writing GPS may have been wonky, but I managed to hit 50,000 plus words on day 22. My progress bar on the official website turned from blue to green. I did a little jig and gave myself a round of applause. I’d be getting that PDF certificate in which I could write in my name and hang on my wall. I’d met my goal. I took a deep breath… and decided to stop writing.  

Celebrate the surprises: The big surprise was how much NaNoWriMo-me taught me about my process as a writer. I know where I get stuck. I know what excuses I use to put off getting those words down on paper. I can tell you exactly at what point my brain will tell me its ‘coffee and cake’ time. NaNoWriMo-me tells me it’s ok to write really badly without my perfectionism gene going into overdrive. She gives me permission to not have structure and plot all cemented in place before I start. She tells me that in their absence, I can still write.

After doing NaNoWriMo, I found new energy for my other writing projects. I don't know yet how much better I am as writer for the experience but I’m okay with that. What I did discover is that I can commit and I can get a story onto the page.

Would I do it again? I will. I wouldn’t mind spending another month with NaNoWriMo-me. I quite like her. 

She’s never lost for words.

Falling off my Tw**ting perch

So—I've been off Twitter for ages. Not by choice. Somehow I even managed to pick up a few new followers! Thanks guys. Overall, I'm not sure that anyone noticed. Despite falling off my tweeting perch I still love Twitter. There are opinions left, right and center. There’s shock value and things to ponder on: to react or respond to. I've become better at managing my Twitter time. I used to get caught up in reading all the websites that I'm directed to by other Tweeters posts. There was always the chirp of the next post in my ear, distracting me from the tasks to which I should have been committing my energy. I've become a more selective and found that things in small doses can work just as well. One of the things that is great about Twitter is that it forces me to refine what I'm want to say and for that has helped with my writing in general. It's a kind of inbuilt editing mindset. I've appreciated that twitter makes things tight. I'm back on my perch now. Tweet!
 

Good medicine

I thought my fingers would never navigate the keyboard again. They were unpractised at finding the right letters, slow in the keystrokes. I’d been away from writing for a month. I’d spent most of that time fighting an acute illness, dosed on antibiotics, feverish and flat. I spent some of that time catching up on my reading list; including Henriette Anne Klauser’s ‘With Pen in Hand: The Healing Power of Writing’ a great reminder of how writing can make thing better. These events reaffirmed that I don’t function well when I don't write regularly. Even if I'm their only audience, I need to spill words onto the page. My fingers are getting more limber, the words are starting to flow again. It’s good medicine; take as needed.