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[Tue - 8:41pm (06/09/2009) ] |
*** Possibly boring wedding alert***
I'm not one of those alien girls who dreamed of getting married when I was little. I didn't ever pretend to be a bride and I didn't make my dolls marry. In fact ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) lunaminor and I were talking the other day about how we used to have to make our Barbie dolls bone a stuffed Bananas in Pyjamas doll. I used to think he was really masculine and sexy. Anyhoot, as it turns out I've really enjoyed the few hours I've spent so far planning our engagement party and wedding.
Joel-Michael and I are in the middle of putting together a casual engagement party for our friends and young relatives. I figure I do not want Joel's family to see me take off my dress and pull it back and forth between my legs while dancing on a table to Daryl Braithwaite's Horses. I also don't want to have to get my mum to buy me a kebab before I spew into her cupped hands. So they're not invited and can just look at my mug shot later.
We have a few little fun ideas but my biggest ask is being able to plug in an iPod so we can dance to the music we like. I've just spent a couple of hours looking at function rooms in Sydney pubs and I found it really satisfying to do some investigating. Using advice from the wedding planning guide written by puzzlement I ruled out any place that didn't have their prices online. I also ruled out places that had really bad grammar on their page. So our garage is pretty much the only perfect venue left.
In other exciting wedding news I tried on my first dress today. This is probably the most exciting part of the whole thing for me (aside from all the obligatory love stuff) because I don't have any set ideas and I love shopping and drooling over magazines for looks to emulate. Also, I've never really spent a whole lot of money on one outfit and this is the one occasion I think a splurge is justified.
So yeah, I went into the city for the David Jones sale and found a super cute Marc by Marc Jacobs pale pink/flesh-ish coloured cocktail dress with the most beautiful pleated tulle detailing around the bust and hip. It was half price too. But when I tried it on I noticed a tiny hole in the seam, which I'm sure is fixable but it just kinda spoilt the moment for me. THE PERFECT BRIDE MOMENT. Also, it was a size smaller than I usually wear and I had a montage of all the food I like to eat (burgers, mixed sweets, pizza, beer, wine, burgers, beer) flash crazily across my retinas. I just don't want to spend the next six months or so not eating what I want to eat and hitting my head against a brick wall every time I have a schooner. I also saw some horrid rip-offs on other racks that reminded me vaguely of those girls who leave Randwick racecourse with their knickers stuck to their high heels. Oh, the nightmares. But still, it really was gorgeous and I can't stop thinking about it.
Now to figure out how to pay for all this on top of a planned overseas jaunt. Hmmm. Maybe I'll start playing the pokies
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[Wed - 8:21pm (05/27/2009) ] |
On Monday I was unhappily eating Vegemite toast when I heard Joel's key in the door. I say unhappily eating Vegemite because if I'm going to eat it I'll only put it on one slice and have something else on the other. It's too tangy for 8am. But since Joel left for overseas I barely had the will to bathe, let alone go grocery shopping to buy more breakfast stuff. That's right, I'm pathetic and can't live without him. Either that or I'm really lazy and unhygienic.
Anyway I got up and gave him such a big hug I was surprised he didn't need surgery to get his intestines re-inserted. As I left for work he told me to tell him when I'd be home because he had something planned. I figured it would be a chicken stir-fry or the unveiling of a hideous Batman tattoo. But when I got home, later than usual, he'd packed my bag, told me he'd hired a car and we were going somewhere for the night.
By this point, I'd kind of caught on to what was happening. But I wasn't sure. Joel and I had talked about getting engaged before but had kind of come to the agreement we'd travel first. And when I say we'd "talked" about it, I mean he'd spent years laughing awkwardly whenever I mentioned it and I'd secretly been looking at fun vintage dresses I could get married in.
We arrived in Leura at about 8.30 and it was a cold ghost town. A waitress at a restaurant we tried to get into pointed us towards a Thai place across the road. It was beautiful - empty, with red walls, crisp linen tablecloths and inappropriately loud 80s music, including that "I've been to paradise but I've never been to me" heartbreaker. I ordered a chicken jungle curry and as soon as it was served, the familiar smell of cat wee went right up my nostrils and punched me in the bile bag. It looked, smelt and tasted exactly like fresh wiz. The J-man was visibly disappointed and apologetic. Almost like he was the culprit.
He had booked us into a beautiful bed and breakfast we had stayed in years ago for an anniversary during uni. After dinner we went back to our cosy room and Joel pulled out a bottle of Chandon. I gasped. But never fear, he said - "It's duty-free bebe!" So we had a glass and chatted for a while and then decided to have a spa.
I guess I'd prefer my parents not to know I've ever been naked, but it's an essential part of the story. As I eagerly took off my clothes ready to streak through the quadrangle before jumping in the lovely big tub, Joel said "I have something to ask you". He said I should probably cover up and he gave me some clothes. Then he pulled a giant plastic ring shaped like a tortoise out of his pocket. He popped the question. After first checking he was for real, I immediately said yes. I'd never seen that look on Joel's face before. He was obviously really nervous and scared and maybe a little overwhelmed. The tortoise was because he'd been so slow to ask me. Moments after, I told him I really didn't feel any different.
But the next morning I woke up, looked at the back of his little head for the first time as an engaged couple and it really did feel different. Amazing, really.
We got up and slowly wandered the main street of Leura and had breakfast at a cute cafe called The Red Door run by a cheery French woman. I had a bacon and egg baguette with tomato relish and he had French toast and bacon drowned in maple syrup. Then we looked at all his London photos together in the sun. It was a lovely clear morning and felt as if everyone in Leura - except for the junkie who was abusing an old couple - knew we were engaged.
We kept our eye out for a real ring (the plastic one is more of a 'reserved' sign), I bought a hair clip made from vintage ribbon and some cute pink floral stationery so I could write to everyone to let them know.
Then we came back to Sydney and did the groceries. I bought some honey.
Here's the evidence (of the engagement, not the honey. Thems are a whoooole different set of photos).
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[Mon - 1:37pm (04/13/2009) ] |
One of the fun things about my job is wandering around suburbs I wouldn't usually visit. Today I went and did some hanging out in Kirribilli and my GOD, the people there live sweet lives.
Leafy streets and heritage-looking terraces done up beautifully, a fecking school with a harbour view. Kirribilli residents look as though they never fart, poop or pull on a cardigan they've had since year eight covered in moth holes. It took all my will power not to put some dog poop in a bag, set it alight and put it on someone's door step. That's right, try and scrape that turd from your Sofia Coppola for Louis Vuitton heel.
Yesterday I was in Roseville and had similar feelings of pure wealth-envy. Then I saw this piece of fun:
The world is awesome.
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[Mon - 8:21am (04/06/2009) ] |
It's really immature and narky of me but how the hell do I tell people to quit saying "Bless you!" after I sneeze. This seems like a small problem, and really it would be if I didn't sneeze twice every five minutes. No, for real. I'm allergic to everything. My pillow, our blankets, the carpet, Joel's manfume, Joel's deodorant, my deodorant, the upholstery on bus seats, the Daily Telegraph, autumn leaves, the grey jumper I'm wearing today, my red bracelets, my office, the office fridge, the photocopier ink, my keyboard at work, the ABC AM program.
It sounds like I'm exaggerating, I know. But quit saying bless you. For one thing, I don't need to be blessed. I am already - I have awesome Mississippi mud cake in my bag. For another thing, aren't you bothering Jeebus who has to bless me every five minutes when he'd rather be watching The Sopranos?
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[Sat - 3:42pm (04/04/2009) ] |
Lately I've been thinking a lot about what a 13 year Catholic education and a brief stint at being a believa has left on me. Let me just say first off, that my few months of being a hardcore Christian where in about year 4 or 5 when I thought god could deliver me a boyfriend or a pair of boobs. And my 13 year Catholic education was, I think, because my olds thought the Catholic schools in my hometown were the best ones.
I spent a lot of my late teens being very cynical about my Catholic teachers and my compulsory religious studies classes. I found it frustrating that my school played the Catholic card to harass girls about wearing makeup or jewellery or make boys cut their hair. I remember thinking that, for the most part, Catholic school teachers were total dumb-asses who only got the job because they'd been baptised. Also, sex education totally blew (ha!) Along with a bunch of other things, it made me resent religion.
But there were some things that I think back on very fondly. And one of those things is Easter time. I always loved Easter church services because by this time of year it would usually be chilly and I thought being huddled in a church with a bunch of glowing candles around was really cosy. Also on Good Friday there's a fun service where they turn all the lights out, which gave way to the possibility that you could totally make out with someone while we all thought of Jeebus. Plus they always played us the Jesus movies at school, which because they spanned over the big guy's entire life would block out at least half the day for about a week. In high school, we got to watch the one starring Jeremy Sisto as a mega hottie in robes.
So it's left me with a real love of the Easter season. I've kind of wanted to wander into beautiful old churches and watch the sun stream in through the stained-glass windows and dye boiled eggs and perve on Sisto. I also love Easter at home because as always, my mum puts on a real show with gallons of red wine, warming dinners, good chocolate and candles. My grandma used to do the same. I'll try and re-create the awesome in the office on Easter Sunday. Sob.
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[Fri - 6:52pm (03/06/2009) ] |
Today I held the first baby I've held in lots of years - the last was a high school friend's accidental baby with a grungey name - and now my maternal urges are strongly in the on position.
A poor woman with a toddler and a baby in a pram was in line to get on my bus. She was trying to fold up her pram and make sure her toddler didn't run in front of traffic and just handed her chubby little son to the closest person. He was so cute and had the baby leg rolls. And now I really really want one.
Bah.
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[Wed - 3:55pm (03/04/2009) ] |
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My one and only New Years' resolution was to make sure I remember 2009. I got to the end of 2008 not really remembering anything that actually happened. There were a few highlights - Dad's 50th and discovering Mad Mex in Surry Hills.
The fact that one of the only things I can remember is finding a Mexican take away shop is pretty indicative of how big a problem this is for me. So I started a new thing where every night I write in my diary in red pen what I've done that day. Even if nothing much has happened, it's nice to look back and think 'oh yeah, that was the day I cleaned the house, had a 10am nap and re-loaded my Facebook page 5,001 times'.
So here are some of the 2009 highlights so far - on January 2 I went to muslim prayers in Lakemba; on January 6 I went to my first hip hop class; on January 11 I bought a slushy and walked around in the city; on January 16 I drove to Tamworth; on February 6 we had an ill-fated party; on Feb 16 I passed a test which said I could write in shorthand at 120 words a minute; on February 21 I went to a wedding with free-flowing Moet; on March 1 - my birthday - I went to Avalon Beach to ask people about a shark attack; on March 3 I went to Parramatta Children's Court and had an amazing dinner at Chat Thai.
Already I like looking back because I realise how awesome and varied my days can be. On my birthday I also resolved to start taking random photos to remind me of this time. I know this sounds like I'm writing my own eulogy here, but I worry that one day I'll push out some kids and go and sit behind a desk somewhere longing for the days of adventure and bladder control.
So here is a shot of what I can see from my desk:
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[Tue - 4:55pm (02/17/2009) ] |
Today has been the lamest day in the history of lame days:
+ Wake up late, figure it's better to wait around and watch Ellen and Oprah before venturing into the city to buy a card for Joel's grandma to thank her for letting us use her holiday house as a brothel/meth lab for two weeks. Feel okay about wasting time because I'm going to kill it at hip hop class tonight.
- Ellen Show had lame guests, Oprah was about old people.
+ Look at eBay and find a cute-slash-hideous owl shaped watch. Also find online shop for Melissa/Vivienne Westwood shoes. Consider making purchase(s).
- Decide it is too dangerous to go into the city with money burning a hole in my pocket. Walk to Neutral Bay, where the only shops are orthopaedic shoe boutiques, instead.
+ Buy card, look in Blockbuster and hire Two Days in Paris to fill my evening alone while Joel has dinner with buddies.
- Buy antihistamines for crappy allergies to crappy house.
+ Spot bank branch, judge it excellent time to open a savings account with a good interest rate to help me fund my own trip to Paris. Feel smug and organised.
- Helpful man behind the counter tells me my regular account is so old that no one has one anymore and those who do pay expensive, unreasonable fees. These include charging me for every single transaction, every time I go into any branch and seven bucks each month for, you know, not much. Also says bank will snatch my newborn child from between my quivering thighs and force me to cut the cord with my teeth whenever I decide to reproduce.
+ Helpful man switches me to modern account sans babynapping and cannibalistic rituals.
- Come home to find mobile bill for extraordinary amount, including overdue charges from account I haven't received a bill for.
+ Figure I can claim most of it back from work. Suckers.
- Get text message from hip hop buddy saying she is feeling too lazy to go to class. I go to reply but find that my service has been cut off.
+ Pay bill, call Optus' Indian Bureau, get service re-connected, reply to text message.
- Get a further reply asking me if I'm disappointed in her. Stab out eyes and feed them to nearby Siamese cat rather than comfort hip hop buddy about her laziness.
+ Decide to go to hip hop class on my own for I am empowered and confident, if not a little uncoordinated and lacking rhythm.
- Double check timetable, find class has been cancelled only to be replaced by class at 2.30pm on Wednesdays. Oh, how convenient.
+ Decide to go for a walk instead to make up for bad eating practices during beach holiday.
- It begins to rain.
I start to mentally calculate how much money I've lost to banks/mobile phone companies. Realise I could have bought own apartment in Paris and be straddling French pastry chef right now.
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[Sun - 5:52pm (02/15/2009) ] |
An open letter to my many readers: I apologise openly and wholeheartedly for depriving you of my wit, eloquence and stories of adventure for more weeks than I'd like to admit. I wish I could tell you I've been traipsing around exotic capital cities with Jacques, the man I have left Joel for, feeding each other pastries, Moet and seducing each other in darkened alleys. Instead, I've been living my usual life in Sydney with Joel and our cactus Admiral Fitzwallace. Ah, love.
Some things that are new:
- My job 'promotion'. Means I'll be staying in Sydney for work, which is a relief because I couldn't stand to spend a whole day watching Joel do heavy lifting while I marvel at the fact we have two (two) bottle openers.
- My secret life as a Tamworth correspondent. The end of last month I spent just short of two weeks hanging out in the country music capital of the world (okay, NSW) covering the festival. And it was pretty much the best just short of two weeks of my life. Mostly because I was living with other journos/photographers in a sweet-ass house with air-conditioning. But also because country music artists are some of the nicest people I've ever interviewed. And what I liked best was that every single established artist talked about their desire to help young artists make it. Highlights: A one-legged man asking me to sit on his knee; eating steak at the leagues club with the best mushroom sauce ever while a hillbilly band played Madonna covers; watching Kasey Chambers and Shane Nicholson play (say what you want about country music - I know I have plenty of times - but this couple have a beautiful sound and so clearly love playing together. Sigh).
Joel and I just came back from a two week holiday at Copacabana (incidentally where Kase-o and Shane-o live. Stalker much?) Joel's nan has a cute holiday house up there with carpet art on the wall and bright blue couches. We pretty much spent most of our time walking back and forth to the beach and the bottle-o. Unfortunately, rain in our second week drove me to a damp clothes induced homocidal rampage. Here are the happy snaps.
Conditions were perfect:
( The evidence )
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[Thu - 9:04pm (12/18/2008) ] |
In Orange you rarely have to line up for anything except the dole and methylated spirits. Oh I'm too cynical - mostly it's for clean syringes and bourbon.
Today I queued for nearly an hour to buy a Christmas present and even though it's my second Christmas in Sydney, I knew what I was getting myself into by shopping on the last Thursday before Santa breaks into my house and drinks my boutique Japanese beers.
And holy feck, 99.9 per cent of people are whiners. One woman, about 46th in line, finally got to the counter and didn't take her headphones out while she was served. And she only answered questions with a shake or nod of her head. And didn't make eye contact when they gave her change and a receipt. Then when her moment of pure First World torture was finally over, she moped out of the shop like someone had just forced her to strip naked and top off the human pyramid in the corner while we all took photos.
Then some other feisty babe who dared to wear her sweaty gym leggings and headband in public demanded a terrified staff member named Connie TRAINEE to find her a particular product. So Connie TRAINEE, carrying boxes and answering inane questions from all angles, slinked off to the back room. This is a beautiful trick as a retail worker. People think there's a magical back room with endless supplies of Barbie vans, the second season of Friends and that illusive carton of Winnie Blues. Get a clue - there's nothing out the back except a dartboard with your face on it. So Connie TRAINEE emerged 30 seconds later with the news that no there was nothing out the back and no they were unlikely to get anything in before Christmas. Sweaty pants heard this, rolled her eyes and actually stamped her foot. Stamped. her. Nike. wearing. foot. Sheesh.
I hope the good lord audits the world soon, I really do.
Merry December 18 y'all.
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[Fri - 9:07am (12/05/2008) ] |
Here is installment two of how to have a tubular Christmas despite your dismal pay.
Step One: Collect twigs.
Step Two: Dig out last year's decorations and buy a couple of new ones - like the peg Santas you see below which I purchased for a bargain $2.50 at David Jones (I go there to shoplift and spit on the people buying Wagyu steaks).
Step Three: Arrange twigs artistically in a vase (or, to add charm, a laundry bucket).
Step Four: Decorate y'all!
I saved up for a couple of weeks to buy this:
And it was totally worth it.
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[Wed - 8:11pm (11/26/2008) ] |
One of my absolute favourite things to do at Christmas is buy people one thing they want and another fun thing I think they'd like. So last year I bought my mum a packet of cigarettes and a toilet plunger.
Some of my best finds have been online. Here are some joyous gems of websites I have found in my trawling. www.georgielove.com, www.popgloss.com and www.indie.com.au
Although all of these sites are totally amazing and packed with awesome stuff or links to awesome stuff, I've just been staring at them blankly for weeks unable to find things or, when I do, they're totally out of my price range.
Can anyone recommend any awesome online shops packed with awesome?
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[Wed - 8:45am (11/05/2008) ] |
Doing a meme as your first update in about two months is so lazy, I know. But I'm just about to drive to Windsor for work and I'm pooping in my pants. I need a distraction. Also, clean underpants.
I. Put your iTunes/Ruckus/Napster/Zune/etc on shuffle.
II. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
III. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
1. IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY" YOU SAY?
Like O, Like H (Tegan and Sara)
2. WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
C'Mon Billy (PJ Harvey)
3. WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Plastic (Portishead)
4. HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
Lucky (Radiohead) teehee.
5. WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
Seagulls (PJ Harvey)
6. WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Pizza Hut Ad (Ween)
7. WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Is It Medicine? (The Knife)
8. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
After Dark (Le Tigre) eeerr...
9. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Airships (Metallic Falcons)
10. WHAT IS 2+2?
Goodbye Sober Day (Mr Bungle)
11. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Misfit Love (Queens of the Stone Age)
12. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
The Holy Filament (Mr Bungle)
13. WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Magpies (Joan As Policewoman) sheesh.
14. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
It's Like That (Handsome Boy Modelling School)
15. WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
You'll Find A Way (Santogold)
16. WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Everything In Its Right Place (Radiohead)
17. WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
The Wolves [Act I and II] (Bon Iver)
18. WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Say Aha (Santogold) Quite inappropriate, I would think.
19. WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
For Today I'm A Boy (Antony and the Johnsons) hehehe
20. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Far Away (Martha Wainwright)
21. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Creosote Desert Sessions 9+10
22. WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Free At Last (Antony and the Johnsons)
23. HOW WILL YOU DIE?
What Deaner Was Talking About (Ween)
24. DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?
Secret Heart (Feist)
25. IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Paradise (Le Kingste)
26. WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Honeymoon (Tomahawk)
27. WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS?
Lullaby (Ween)
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[Sun - 11:13am (08/24/2008) ] |
Throughout the Olympics I have been working on a monitoring desk - a fancy way for saying I sit and watch teevee all day, listen to the radio and wait for someone of note to say something of note. So, in other words, I've been doing a whole butt-load of nothing.
Last week though, the Olympics came second to a whale called Colin (I always hate it when people - most likely a commercial television networks - make up cutesy names for things so they can avoid repeating certain phrases) and I was forced to listen to hours of outraged talk-back callers.
I couldn't watch the live footage of the poor little whale calf swimming around and trying to suckle boats, simply because I like animals and it made me sad. It was obviously sick and struggling and I think putting it down was the right thing to do.
So while a bunch of bogans were up in arms about the `cold-blooded murder' of a baby whale that would have otherwise starved to death or been eaten by sharks (which, by the way, is called nature so suck it), I slowly got more and more enraged at my own species.
One chump called up a talk back station and managed to turn the to-euthenase-or-not-to-euthenase debate into a backward discussion about abortion. This `person' asked why the media were so interested in the whale story when millions of Australian babies are "murdered" every year and why didn't journalists report those stories because we'd have thousands of "murder" cases on our hands every day. And to make matters worse, the male host agreed that maybe we should focus our attention on all those filthy sluts who have sex but for now, we were talking about a baby whale.
First mystery caller, are you Tom Cruise, L. Ron Hubbard or Tony Abbott? Secondly, take your butt plug out.
I'm all for people having opinions, that's what makes the world go round. What I'm not all for is for a male - who cannot physically or emotionally understand such an issue - to attempt to set an agenda and make us all slowly take a big step backwards.
Then there was an old hippy woman interviewed on television about how brutal the whale's death was. She said she saw it thrashing around and moving for a while after it was supposedly given its injection. Okay woman - what the hell did you expect? For the RSPCA to produce a magical pink pill that would give the whale wings and it would slowly fly away and deliver us all from evil forever and ever Amen? Of course it wasn't brutal. I didn't see any of the vets take a drag of a doobie, hack the whale to death and make a puppet show with its body parts.
Then there was some guy who said "euthanasation" was illegal. Hang on genius, let me just hock up a chunky oyster and spit in your face. Now I feel better. But I guess he was right, euthanisia is illegal in Australia. I seem to remember something about a string of really old terminally ill humpback whales in the Northern Territory pleading for death and being helped by some guy named Phillip.
Or have I just been smoking doobies and doing unsavory things with the body parts of animals for too long?
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[Fri - 10:02am (08/22/2008) ] |
Moving from the Central West to Sydney was always going to be pretty wack. You know, the electricity, the running water and the gays. But there are far more disturbing things...
- Kissing people as a greeting. This is a fabulous way to catch me off guard and make me far more awkward than I naturally am. And I am awkward. Say hello to me and I blush, cough and hide in the toilets breathing into my trusty paper bag.
I don't understand this greeting unless you are my family or boyfriend. I think there should be an unwritten law about this - unless you have seen me nude you do not get to touch any part of me with your lips.
And yes, I hear you, my family have seen me nude. In the country that's how we say hello.
- Seeing `live' music played on a laptop. I like to call this `cheating'. I get that modern music these days is fill with robotic doo whoop a dops and I'll admit I'm a fan. But it's almost too much to bear when a musician is singing over pre-recorded vocals. I think if you're a solo artist and you can't recreate your sound live without the help of a Macbook you should go back to your toll booth operating career. Or at least get a friend to pretend to play a synthesiser or something. Even that would be more impressive than launching Garage Band. I'd rather sit at the Vic in Orange and listen to someone play Lithium by Nirvana or Disarm by Smashing Pumpkins. Again.
- Lunch hour. Since the beginning of 2007 I've been under the impression that no one actually worked in the city except for I. I'm lucky enough to work staggered hours and so I rarely ever see anyone when I go out and get my reasonably priced $15.50 salad. Yesterday I didn't work and was in Pitt St at 1pm. And ohmigod why would anyone ever live in Sydney? You can't fling a second-hand purse without hitting two businesswoman, a CEO, a cleaner, a homeless man, a child in a pram, a group of emo schoolkids, a nun, a man with dreadlocks painting bad portraits, two secretaries in high-waisted polyester skirts and the woman behind the Chanel counter. As my mum likes to note in large crowds - `imagine all those poos!'
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[Tue - 12:15pm (08/19/2008) ] |
As it becomes more apparent that I am not career-driven I've turned my focus to other things. Namely, being a housewife. There are so many benefits - cooking for my boyfriend, scrubbing my boyfriend's underpants, folding my boyfriend's clothes and waiting for my boyfriend to get home. Other perks include watching Oprah, crying and spying on neighbours. This is all likely to end in the birth of child named something like Dorito Daisy Connolly - and that's just the first son.
I thought I'd share with you my blooming collection of domestic items. I look at these things and I just think - 'this is what life is all about mother'uckas':
Here's a bunch of flowers half tulips, half lilies. I like to think they represent me - pretty but just about to die having been plucked out of the garden of life.
Here's a clock I bought myself. I watch every excruciating moment tick by.
Here's where I keep my dry ingredients for sweet cakes. I twitch slightly when I see the cursive labels on them which say 'sugar', 'rice', 'tea' and 'coffee' because actually what I keep in them is sugar, flour, brown sugar and teabags. But I can't fix the injustices of the world can I?
Here's my collection of champagne flutes and matching ice bucket. Sometimes I drink gin out of them when I'm alone watching David and Kim.
Here's my pink teapot and knitted cosy. Once I found that Joel had hidden the cosy in the back of the cupboard and that's why I threw him in the ocean wrapped in black plastic with rocks in his pocket.
And finally, a piece of tasteful craft that doesn't need an introduction.
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[Fri - 9:06am (08/01/2008) ] |
I would rather bite the gutter and ask someone to kick me in the back of the head than watch, play or talk about sport. Sadly, working in the news means from time to time I have to spend more time thinking about footballers and swimmers breaking up than I do thinking about stuff I love - like clean sheets, home-made hot chocolate and knitted tea cosies.
As the Olympics approach, it's becoming worse. Like suddenly I have to care about some cyclist who chucks tanties and pretend like he's some kind of Messiah sent down to save us all with lycra and conical helmets. But even worse, I have to pretend like I understand why the fact that Sonny Dick Williams has flown to France is just so appalling.
Here's a recent conversation with workmates:
Workmate: You know, I kind of feel sorry for him because he's been betrayed by Willie Mason and his team.
Workmate 1: Yeah, it must have really hurt when WIllie left the Bulldogs.
Workmate 2: Noone ever thought he would leave the bulldogs - I mean, he has a Bulldogs tattoo!! Poor Sonny Bill, that would really make you think twice.
Steph: Wait, why does it matter if Willie Mason decided to play for another team?
(Workmate 1,2 and 3 look at me like I've just captured my wee in my hands and thrown it up in the air)
Workmate 1: Because....Steph.....they were teammates!!
Oh yeah teammates, of course!! My teammates used to kick soccer balls at my boobs or spin bowl cricket balls right into my coochie. So I would totally understand how upsetting it must be when one of them changes teams. Shit, I would probably fly to France, bite the gutter and ask someone to kick me in the back of the head.
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[Sun - 1:18pm (07/20/2008) ] |
I have some super lovely memories of Bill Gardiner, the wet-nosed part beagle, part other who died yesterday after a long life of sniffing, biting, barking, drooling and generally living a dog's life.
When we got Bill I was so little that he could rest his front paws on my shoulders. We got him from a farm, after what seemed like months of going to the RSPCA to look at poor little dogs in cages.
His previous owners had named him Dave, which is my dad's name, so we had to change it because as mum joked - what would the neighbours think when we called out telling him to get ready to go for a walk or eat his dinner from a bowl?
I desperately wanted him to be called Ranger Dave, or Ranger for short, because at the time I was a big fan of the animal show Totally Wild. Thank god I didn't succeed.
Bill went missing one night when there were fireworks near our house and I remember we went looking for him in the car, most of us teary. He would often escape in the first days of being a Gardiner and would harrass female dogs in nearby yards. When he got fixed, he became more of an old man who would definitely wear velour slippers.
Bill could sense how you were feeling a lot of the time. I remember lots of tantrums and teen angst moments in the backyard when Bill would come and sit down next to me and force his head under my arm. He shamelessly loved belly rubs, eating, napping and running after rabbits. He was so sweet and I'll really miss him and his little antenna tail.
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[Fri - 8:55am (05/30/2008) ] |
A few years ago, Joel and I went to a 21st in Bathurst for one of his friends. It was one of those parties that you know you could never pull off yourself. Mainly because not that many people actually like you. But also because it clearly cost a lot of money. It was in a beautiful historic hall, there were free-flowing drinks and more finger food than you could poke a wooden skewer at.
As Joel talked to his many friends, I cruised the food table and came across something that I figured was a felafel. I love felafel. As I bit into it angels sang, waves crashed on the beach and Josh Homme's baby was conceived.
It was a deep fried, crumbed mushroom ball. They didn't really seem to be all that popular, possibly because people saw felafel and no hommus, so I made Joel stash a couple in his pocket and I re-filled my plate over and over. Holy shit, it was fungi heaven.
Since then my life has pretty much been like an awesome episode of Shittake Gardiner and the quest for the perfect mushroom ball. I've searched high and low for recipes, but none seem to fit the bill. I've tried to satisfy my longing for 'shrooms by making other mushroom-based foods. And while mushroom vol au vents are pretty much an orgasm wrapped in melted cheese, they're still nothing compared to balls.
So when I spotted these in Coles, I nearly died:
Turns out that actually mushroom content is .00001% and the rest is peas.
The quest continues.
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[Fri - 3:49pm (04/25/2008) ] |
My patience with old women gets worse and worse everyday. Seriously, most women over 60 need a jolly good rogering and then another one just for good measure.
Today I was covering the Anzac March. I am a true cynic, totally and utterly unaffected by tradition - I couldn't give a rats butt about Australia Day, the Olympics and I've never felt connected with this whole `Aussie' stuff. I'm actually a real bore to be around because I see the fun in nothing.
Today, I stood on my feet for 5 hours and started to feel faint when I realised there were 90 year old dudes who were not only standing, but walking.
Not only walking, but waving and smiling. And these guys have seen, heard and done terrible things we'll only read about in airport novels.
I went up to one digger, who not only tipped his hat to me, but told me all about his service, gave me a great big smacking kiss on the cheek and shook my hand like he had really been happy to talk to me.
It was a turning point. I really felt happy and privileged to be witnessing all these old troopers plodding along and was really proud of them.
It struck me that in 20 years they'll all be gone and Anzac Day will just be about holding up signs saying `we grew here, you flew here' on Cronulla Beach.
Just as I started to really enjoy my day, an old veteran who was feeling woozy was rushed past me on a wheely thing by a cop who had been yelling at me to move. So I did, I moved back towards the barricade for one sixteenth of a second when I heard.
Miserable old bitch wearing emergency poncho: "Moouuuve."
Me: Pardon?
MOBWEP: I said move, how am I supposed to see.
Me: Sorry, I was just making way for that old man.
MOBWEP: I don't care, I can't see. Get out of my way.
And that was it. Poof, I was back to my old world-hating self.
Not only that, but once I had regained my prime position, she kept talking to her friend about how annoying I had been and why did I have the right to stand on the road when everyone else had to stand behind the barricades.
Oh yeah, old lady, because the road is so much better, because I can see every wrinkle, smell every old army outfit, oh yeah, and they're serving me Chrystal up here can't you see?
Check this out - I have a goody bag filled with Anzac Day trinkets. Look! A pure fucking gold statue of Simpson and his Donkey. Oh, and free passes to a five star hotel in Gallipoli! Wait, what's this? Why, it's a lifetime subscription to front row seats to the Sydney Anzac march.
See that's what the `Aussie' spirit is really all about. Keeping the rain out with a sturdy poncho, nabbing the best position and bitching to your friends about how tough life is.
Shit yo.
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