Friday Five: New Year's Day Activities

We kicked off the new year with what is now our traditional (we've done it twice) recovery party on New Year's Day. This year's theme was the Medieval version. It was, of course, a competition, and included the following games.

1. Quoits
2. Shield Design
3. Tilting at the Rings
4. Mead Tasting
5. Him Outdoors in the Pillory
6. Jousting
7. The Quiz (Which witch)

I will explain in more detail, but here are some images so you get the picture. 

Tilting at the rings

Shield designs

Him Outdoors in the pillory

Hobby horse jousting

Life and Death: The House of Broken Angels

The House of Broken Angels by Luis Alberto Urrea

Little Brown

Pp. 321

Big Angel (Miguel Angel de La Cruz) is planning his last birthday party before he succumbs to the cancer that is killing him. And then his mother dies. The family gathers to commemorate her life and to celebrate his over one Rabelaisian weekend of relationships and recriminations in San Diego. Among the guests is Little Angel, Big Angel’s half-brother, who shares the same father, Don Antonio, but a different life: his mother was not Mexican as the rest of the family are, and the racial resentments are evident as stereotypes rub shoulders with sensitivity.

The party is raucous with lots of food and all its cultural associations, and the novel is peopled with a host of characters; there are so many people (and lots of children), that it is hard to keep up with who is related to whom by marriage or previous entanglements, especially when people have nicknames too. When Little Angel arrives he has a notebook in which he keeps a cheat sheet; this is a great idea and one that is highly recommended for the reader.

The divide between the Mexicans and the Americans is blurred. Little Angel wants to speak Spanish to his family, but they don’t accommodate this wish. “He tried, and they insisted on answering him in English. Though they knew perfectly well that he spoke Spanish as well as they did and better than their children did. Each side had something to prove, and none of them knew what it was.” Two different worlds and cultures collide in an unspoken competition. Little Angel feels torn between the nationalities and he refutes the glib assumptions that one has for the other. For many, America is better, but for others, Mexico is superior in its transparency.

The brothers share a father and the memories of his toxic masculinity. Although he was a dominating brute who abandoned both of their mothers, Big and Little Angel loved him and learned some of their behaviour from him. They share experiences in a series of picaresque reminisces. “The brothers lay side by side, shuffling through so many memories. So many imperfect scenes. It felt as though they had opened a box of old photographs, each of the pictures torn and tattered.”

Big Angel also thinks in scents and smells, which trigger memory. As his body deteriorates, other senses float forward: “Early morning before dawn was best, when he didn’t remember he was dying. For a moment, he thought he had a future. And he savoured his past. Today, it tasted of butterscotch.” The novel is elegiac, but it also fluidly distorts linear timelines. It is a riotous, messy book that depicts a celebration and observance of both life and death with a backdrop of cultural confusion. Perhaps we shouldn’t have to identify with one thing or another, but can select the aspects on which we would like to focus, and drift along on currents of abandon.

Friday Five: The Name Game

Liz de Totth, Front of House and Paddington Bear

On the day after final night of Blithe Spirit, we hosted a get-together for all cast and crew involved in the production. It was relaxed and casual. I made martinis, tzatziki rolls, and citrus-chicken skewers. We ate, drank, talked, laughed, and played animal charades and the name game, as I know it, or 'celebrity heads' as I also heard it called. Here are some of the people who showed up:

5 Celebrity Heads:

1. Paddington Bear
2. Richard Dawkins
3. Christopher Marlowe
4. Genghis Khan
5. Xena Warrior Princess

Andrew Kay, Set Design and Construction, and Xena Warrior Princess

My newest favourite thing: Quelf

When friends were down in Queenstown the other week we went round to their house for drinks and laughter. Of course, we began by catching up on the gossip and dreams of everyone there; how some had come true and others were still distant visions. To stop things from getting serious, as they can occasionally, we played a game to keep the entertainment factor high.

We played Quelf, although not exactly as intended. I believe there is a board and dice and little characters that you can move around as you progress or take backward steps. We just used the cards in the pack and took it in turns to pick one.

Some of the cards are straight-forward true or false, or trivia questions - which are actually very easy. These are kind of the relief squares.

There is also a category called Scatterbrain which requires you to pick one of two topics and hope that not everyone in the room can think of something different under the heading (such as lipstick names or thigns that you wear on your hand) - because that means you win.

Of course, it's all about making a fool of yourself, or laughing at your friends who are doing just that. One of the categories asks you to mime, sing, act, or (my most testing of all) interpretative dance! Marching and saluting while whistling a merry martial tune was particularly difficult - it's harder than you would think to laugh and whistle at the same time.

The best category, however, is the one which gives you a bizarre rule or stunt to follow. Someone had to make their belly button talk, someone else had to laugh whenever anyone else did. At the same time someone had to slap her thighs every time someone laughed and say, 'whacka, whacka, whaka'. Her thighs were red by the end of her round - everyone was laughing so much. It doesn't sound so funny when it's written down, so you should just try it.

I had to point at people and say 'I have you now' each time I made eye contact. This led to laughter (which led to more laughter and whacked thighs). Each time someone spoke to me I had to salute and say 'Yes, sir!' or 'Yes, maam!' depending on the gender. Andra had to hold her tongue whenever she said anything. Often many of these things all happened at once, which really did lead to much hilarity.

It is the sort of game that you have to play with people who are just a little bit extroverted and not too precious about letting go - I'm sure it makes no sense when you're sober and probably isn't half as much fun. How would I know?

Cocktail quotes

Last weekend we had a cocktail party to celebrate my birthday. A whole day's preparation in the kitchen paid off with an evening of music, dancing, conversation and carousing - not to mention drinking.

My favourite quote was from my friend Jo who suddenly 'had to go'. I blame the Long Island Iced Tea - always a favourite of hers, which seems to use every spirit in the cupboard and results in a murky brown colour.

She blames the blow job (Bailey's/banana liqueur/kahlua - "if only the real thing tasted as good"). In the interests of gender equality/marital harmony, I also offered one to both of our husbands.

Jo spent the entire next day on the sofa, unable to move. She was puzzled as to why she felt so rough - "It's not like I mixed my drinks; I stuck to cocktails all night!"

Perhaps she should have heeded Humphrey Bogart's (alleged) last words; "I never should have switched from Scotch to martinis."

'Tis the season...

... for the office Christmas party. This time of year is frantic with parties and drinks and get-togethers. The papers are full of helpful articles about how you should go to your partner's party if you suspect he or she may be having an affair with someone at work; not revealing too much personal information that can be used against you at a later date; how to avoid making a total prat of yourself in front of your boss and colleagues by throwing up on your new shoes or snogging someone entirely inappropriate just because you got bored and drank too much. Thanks for that. If you got past all that, you might even go to a work party or two; some are decidely more fun than others.

We had a departmental one. Someone from work organised it - a meal in a pub, which we paid for ourselves. We went and had a few drinks beforehand and did the $5 secret santa thing. It was fun. although some people complained about the cost ($40) and pulled out at the last minute. Unfortunately the caterers didn't know this - it was really last minute - so we still had to pay for them. The fairest way to do this was to share the cost among us all, which we did. One of the people still refused to pay, so everyone else had to stump up the cash for them as well. This has created some tension in the office, as you can imagine.

We had another 'do' for the entire national office. There was a talent quest at which we had to perform some skit or other. This was held in an old church hall without any stage facilities and peeling paint murals informing us that God directs us in all our ways - not in the skits though I should imagine. Some of them were dreadful. I can say that, because we won, and we were pretty dreadful too. Then we went for a sit down meal (free to staff; $35 for partners and you paid for drinks on top).

I also make some contributions (by way of book reviews) to Radio New Zealand National. I was very kindly invited to their place one evening for drinks and nibbles. We all stood around in an office room for a couple of hours with sticky lables attatched to our shirts and glasses of wine in our hands, introducing ourselves to people we didn't know and striking up various conversations. Everyone was very nice there, and it was a pleasant evening, apart from trying not to dribble sauce and flaky pastry all over the place whilke looking polite and interesting. And how do you eat canapes, shake hands and hold a glass of wine at the same time while standing in the middle of a table-less room?

Him Outdoors had a 'do' for his office to which partners were invited. This was held at Mac's Brewery Bar on the waterfront. We had the set menu - I can recommend the enormous bowl of green-lipped mussels gently steamed in garlic, white wine cream for entree, and the glazed pork belly with red wine jus, roasted gourmet potatoes and a medley of vegetables for main. I think this was $60 per head, there was a tab at the bar and it certainly proved that the boss really could organise the proverbial.

Last night was the Stagecraft end of year bash. People brought a plate or contributed money and there was food to be had. You brought your own booze and those who wanted to performed pieces of theatre to the rest of the audience. After a couple of awards and speeches, there was dancing in the theatre and discussions in the green room. We did our own washing up. It was fun.

This sort of thing happens every year, but I mention it here because this year there is much hand-wringing and talk of cutting down on costs due to the current economic situation. Some companies are apparently getting their staff to volunteer at some community organisation instead of having a 'do'. Others are cancelling parties and gift-giving all together.

One lady told me that her company had decided to hold a picnic and simply invite all the workers' children - the workers provided the food and there was naturally no alcohol. Although she has two kids herself, she was furious at this news - 'You mean, I've been working hard all year and you want to give my kids a party? What have they done for you to deserve it?'

And therein lies the problem. What is this end of year bash about? Is it about the bosses thanking the workers and showing their appreciation for the work they have done all year? They might say there is no need - they pay them and that is appreciation enough. Is it so the workers can get together themselves and let off steam, in which case how much is healthy and when does it turn into a hothouse situation? Is it to impress clients, in which case a tatty old church hall isn't going to do much for you, although displaying your heart on your sleeve through some public display of charity might.

Before one of the 'do's we went to the Malthouse with a couple of friends. We drank the fabulous Golden Boy, the latest offering from the Yeastie Boys. It's incredibly like a true English summer ale and has a slight citrus taste. They use Maris Otter malt (the same as used in the fine-tasting Emersons' Maris Gold) and hops from Nelson. The colour is golden and the experience refreshing and delicious. I wore my t-shirt with pride for the rest of the weekend. I digress.

But this is the 'do' I remember most. Good friends; good beer; good venue; no need to provide any sort of entertainment or pressure to make conversation; and you could leave any time you liked or eat whatever you wanted. In fact, it was just like any normal Friday night. But it's at Christmas. It doesn't have to be big and it doesn't have to be clever, but it does have to be enjoyable.

My newest favourite thing: Flowers

Okay, so flowers aren't a new favourite thing; I've loved them forever. They are beautiful and calming; they fill a room with scent and colour. They are the ultimate in interior decoration, as every real estate agent and magazine photographer knows. And you can chage them depending on your mood - wild and exotic or plain and simple; ordered from a hot house or picked from a hedgerow and displayed in a fancy arrangement or a humble milk bottle.

But I have them in the house so rarely. I don't buy them for myself and him outdoors reckons they're a waste of time - "They just die; I'd rather buy you a beer." Actually, I'd rather you bought me both! Men don't seem to get it - women love flowers. It doesn't mean that you've done something wrong and are apologising, or at least, it wouldn't if you ever presented them. His favourite excuse is, "I won't buy them on Valentine's Day - it's commercial nonsense. I should be able to buy them whenever I want, not because some marketing campaign says I should." Indeed you should, but you don't.

And they do have to be live flowers, so of course they die and maybe that's wrong but I don't need expensive bouquets. A couple of handpicked daisies would do! When I worked as a teenaged check-out chick, my manager gave me a bunch of dried flowers. He was creepy anyway, always offering me lifts home in his car - although he lived 12 miles in the opposite direction - and I have always associated these dead flower things with dodgy men and dust. You just can't get rid of them.

I love doing shows, and one of the reason is that you get flowers on opening night. There's nowhere to put them but they are gorgeous and they burst with good luck wishes into the dressing room and make you feel like a star, if only for a few weeks a year. When you take them home, you transport a little bit of that thespian glamour to your mundane existence and everything really does seem to be coming up roses.

Last weekend we had a party and a friend brought me an orchid tied with a ribbon. It was simply gorgeous. Most people bring bottles of wine or packets of crisps (actually, I think she brought these things too) but few people take flowers round to someone's house anymore and I think that is a shame. Wine and food you expect to share, but flowers are for your hosts' pleasure alone and will last long after they have cleared up the mess, hoovered up the crumbs and wiped up the spills. The excitement and the fun of the party will tangibly linger for a little while more.

Of course I could buy my own. One year my sister told me that her New Year's resolutions were to always have fresh flowers in the house and to write to me once a month. I bleieve she still has fresh flowers in her house, although the second of these resolutions had fallen by the wayside before three months had passed, as New Year's resolutions tend to do. And my mother routinely adds them to the shopping list so the family home is always bursting with carnations and fresias.

Incidentally, I heard that there is a gene that allows you to smell fresias, and some people don't get that heady scent. This must be an urban myth as it seems a particularly useless genetic quality to adapt and inherit. It's not as if it's going to save the species in the long run, is it? Or maybe, those with a genetic predisposition to appreciate flowers in all their rich sensuality are more likely to breed? Now that's a theory in which I could believe. Survival of the fittest and the floral.