Tuesday, April 28, 2015

business time

I have spent hours upon hours researching this little business idea of mine because I have bugger all idea of how one goes about setting up a business. Or small, on the side, freelance thing, I should say. Not a fuck it all let's chuck in the day job type thing - not yet, anyway. Working for myself, being my own boss, that is the long-term goal. I resent being told what to do too much to not at least try to go it alone.

But where to start? How to start? HOW? I have been brainstorming and thinking thinking thinking and then chickening out: Oh well, another flash in the pan idea; coulda woulda shoulda. Then I give myself a mental slap because that is my MO. I think of a good idea, roll it around for a week or so and rather than have the conviction to follow it through, I let fear of failure and of just giving it a go get the better of me. This time however, I am determined to try. I did say I would make 2015 my year/bitch, after all. Other things have come together, this may well too.

And the old "if you're looking for a sign, this is it" came into play tonight when I walked into the library and saw on the new release shelf From Passion to Profit: A Step-By-Step Guide to Making Money from Your Hobby by Selling Online by Clare Hughes. If it does what it says on the cover, I should be up and running in six weeks. 



(Really, eek.)

Sunday, April 26, 2015

the mystery of the roses

In order to lead a fascinating life, one brimming with art, music, intrigue and romance, you must surround yourself with precisely those things.

Kate Spade

One of my biggest fears is living an ordinary life. No major excitements, no mystery, no big complicated romances. An average life is a complete and total anathema; it terrifies me. Yet, ask me to explain what I mean by an extraordinary life and I probably couldn't say anything else than I want something more. Kate Spade's quote above says it better than I can. 

Intrigue and romance collided on Thursday night when I came home to find two red roses tied with a bow left on my doorstep. Initially I freaked out, thinking STALKER ALERT and that I would inspire a future episode of Law & Order: SVU when some psychopath made a lampshade out of my skin. After all, there is literally no-one I can think of who would be likely to give me flowers. There is no-one. No-one. (How sad.)

But then I remembered this quote and receiving anonymous roses became quite exciting. Who are they from? Will I come home one night and trip over another bunch of flowers? Why were the two roses and not just the standard single red rose?

And perhaps the most intriguing question of all, was it a case of mistaken identity and they weren't even meant for me at all?

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Some more this and that

I went out tonight for ten minutes. At the most. When I opened the gate to my flat, the security light came on and I saw two red roses wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red bow on the doorstep. A romantic gesture, should one have a gentleman (or gentlewoman) friend. One does not, however, and one finds the gesture rather creepy. One left the stalker roses outside.

Won't this be fun to read if the rose-giver and I end up getting married.

Yesterday I read an article about a man in Colorado who got pissed off, got a gun, took his victim into an alley, and in an act of calculated, coldblooded premeditation, fatally shot his computer. Amazing. He SHOT his desktop computer. "It was glorious," he said. I don't doubt it was glorious - the victim was a Dell computer, the same brand as my laptop that in its short lifetime, went through three chargers before spontaneously setting itself on fire and dying. I don't have a gun and even though my computer was already dead, I'm sure I would get the same pleasure from popping a few caps in its ass.

I think I have found a use for the domain name I bought a few weeks ago. A business idea came to me a while ago, something that I could start so small that it would classify as a hobby that paid poorly but could have unlimited potential. Having said that though, I don't know yet if there would be enough interest in the service I could provide to even get started. Such cryptic, much annoying. It's worth spending the weekend researching.

Ever Googled "How much does ____ cost?"? This map details the most common of those questions, organised by country. Items of concern around the world vary from Panama hats, kidneys, cows, nose jobs, to beer, slaves (come on, Mauritania, get your shit together) and carpets. Apparently Australians are most concerned about the cost of IVF and that makes me sad. via a retweet by Belgian Waffling

I'm the weekend with dinner and a gossip with a girlfriend at a local Greek restaurant. After my sugar-free bandwagon crashed and burned this week, this will be a last hurrah before I start behaving myself. I don't like how I feel when I eat sugary, processed foods. I feel so much lighter, physically and mentally, without sugar in my diet.

Speaking of how food can ruin the party for some, I was talking to a woman who has recently turned to a vegan diet and she mentioned feeling a similar way to me. She took it up a notch though, when she told me about a friend of hers who has psychic abilities (stay with me) and finds that when she eats too much meat, her abilities are dimmed. I guess how can one be in touch with spirits and souls when one are eating another being that has a spirit and a soul itself? It would get so murky all up in the psychic bits. I find it fascinating and haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Hooray for Friday, I was ready for you yesterday.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Fun, food and frivolity

I had drinks with my friend Z on Friday night. We drank espresso martinis (why the HELL have I never had one of those before?) and talked and laughed our faces off. We switched to wine and our laughter got louder, and I tottered off to bed just after 1:30am. When I woke six hours later, I felt remarkably fine. Suspiciously fine. Just to make sure I wasn't assaulted by a delayed onset hangover, I stayed in bed for another two hours, emerging with nothing more than a headache.

I had a lunch date with my cousin E on Saturday and seeing as I'd already downed more alcohol in one night than I've had since the start of the year, I thought bugger it and ordered a no-no meal: a big, fat ham and cheese toasted sandwich. Oh, sweet carbs, sugar and dairy. I devoured it, strings of cheese hanging from my mouth.

E and I spent a few hours catching up on the past six months or so of each other's life. Her tales of holidays, past and upcoming, to Bali, Switzerland and Spain, were more exciting than my 'On Monday, I went to work at eight-thirty, came home at five-thirty, and repeated that day for five months' tales but such is life. 

E took off to visit her father and I pissed about for too long before realising I was running late for my next date: a show in Melbourne with H. A quick five-minute makeup job, a frantic search for misplaced keys, and I was fanging up the highway, telling Siri to shut up at regular intervals (that Siri bitch - last time I used her for directions, she told me to abandon the car on a main road and walk the remainder of the trip and then later on my unsolicited behalf, Facetimed a woman I'd unsuccessfully interviewed with months earlier).

H and I went to see Tommy Little whose hour-long stand-up show, Enter the Weapon, is a part of the 2015 Melbourne International Comedy Festival, and absolutely fucking hilarious. I wish I hadn't have gone on the Festival's penultimate day - if I'd gone sooner, I could have bullied everyone I knew into going along, as well as going many, many more times myself. He has a kind of naughty schoolboy charm and he is kind of easy on the eye too. H and I had a discussion I have had many times before, about how a man can go from goodlooking to achingly hot if he can make one laugh until their sides hurt.

We followed up the show with Mexican and margaritas at Fonda in Flinders Lane (highly recommend. We both had the chicken burrito and though we agreed we could have shared one, we shoved it all down nonetheless because it was so delicious), where we stayed for two hours, talking about nothing and everything.

It rained all night and was still raining when I woke this morning. I pottered around for a while, undecided what to do with my day, until I read on Twitter that Jonathan Crombie who played Gilbert Blythe to perfection had passed away from a brain haemorrhage, aged 48. I went out to get a coffee and came home to sit in front of the heater and watch Anne of Green Gables for the billionth time in tribute. 

Now I'm showered and with freshly painted nails, curled up on the couch, watching Poldark. Frankly, I have no idea what the show is about because I'm mainly just marveling at the beauty of Aidan Turner's lovely dark Irish good looks, but there's something of love triangle, something to do with Cornwall mines, and a wipe yer nose on the back of yer hand, fiery redheaded kitchenmaid. It's enough to keep me amused for an hour and the perfect way to end a perfect weekend.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Pretty Average Good Friday

The table was set, fish and salad had been prepared, stomachs were rumbling: all was ready for the Good Friday feast and then plans were set into disarray when my aunty phoned to say that my 88-year-old grandfather had stacked it and face-plated the concrete ground. "Blood everywhere ... ambulance ... neck brace and stitches ... hospital" were the keywords when my mother related the message.

The remainder of the day was spent listlessly loping around the house, waiting for updates from the hospital. We didn't dare eat lunch, just in case as soon as we finished, we would get the phone call to say they were on their way home. We managed to hold out until 5pm.

Pa's injuries include a nose broken in several spots, a huge gash on his forehead in the shape of his glasses frame, and two spectacular black eyes. Thankfully, his neck was given the all clear, as was his brain, but they kept him in overnight so they could keep watch on his dicky ticker. To everyone's relief, he is being sent home this afternoon.

Yesterday's incident, combined with the news that the mother of one of my parents' good friends passed away, made for a pretty bloody average Good Friday indeed. 

I miss the days when I would sleep in late, get out of the shower just in time for everyone to arrive for lunch, and then proceed to get inappropriately tipsy on champagne and eat altogether too much chocolate. 

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Happy Easter! Happy Long Weekend!

Happy Easter to those who celebrate it, happy four-day long weekend to those who don't!

My oh my, am I looking forward to four days off. I am feeling a little bit exasperated with people in general so think some time away will do me the world of good.

I'm going to my parents house tonight after work, a magical mystical place where it's always warm, food is plentiful and internet speed isn't snail-pace. I have made my chocolate spiders and for quality assurance purposes, tasted a few, and I can confirm once again that yes, sugar still gives me a headache, however delicious they may be.

I'm going to visit my cousin in Peterborough - he has recently bought miniature cows! Their coats are curly! - and hopefully, venture out into the countryside somewhere further. Not sure where just yet but I've got a hankering to see some autumn leaves. We will see.

I have two books for the weekend: Kathleen Tessaro's The Perfume Collector and one of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, I can't remember which one. The third one, maybe? I have Amy Poehler's memoir on my iPad (which is flat. My book is flat. Technology) so I think I'm set for weekend reading.

Three and a half hours until knock-off time! Come on, come on, come on.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

In which I become a sugar-free bore

For an assortment of different and varying reasons that I shan't bore you with right now (isn't shan't the most deliciously snooty word? Rarely heard these days; I resolve to use it more often, do my bit to save it from dying out of the modern vocabulary), I have been off sugar since January.

At the risk of sounding like one of those health-obsessed, bandwagon-jumping bores, I have never felt better. Ever. I didn't even realise how good I felt until I had some of my father's birthday cake earlier this month and the following day, suffered through the worst headache I have had in recent memory. It could only be put down to the now-alien sugar and was confirmed when I went back for another go a couple of weeks later.

Avoiding sugar, by default, also means avoiding processed foods. Imagine finishing a meal and feeling maybe not full as such but satisfied and definitely not feeling bloated and heavy. You may know what this feels like but shamefully, I never have felt this for any extended period of time. I wish I knew sooner how amazing it feels. How much lighter, more energetic, better I feel.

So, knowing all this, why why why would I be planning to make these chocolate caramel gooey cookies and these chocolate spiders (that I last made during my three months of funemployment) for our family Good Friday meal? Why? Maybe it is the same reason I am planning a big plate of nachos for lunch (despite the fact I don't identify with any particular religion, I can't bring myself to eat meat on Good Friday): the memory of food.

Such a powerful little thing, memory. (How painfully simple is that sentence.) I remember what it used to be like to eat and enjoy certain foods: the taste, the texture, even the social aspect of a shared meal, but I have yet to commit to memory the dull headache and painful stomach that results from eating "bad" foods. I write about the whole nasty experience in my journal, in the hopes that if I ever find myself seduced by the cruel, sugary mistress again, I will instead turn to the pages and be reminded that I will, absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, feel like five different kinds of shit if I do give in. But I don't read over the journal entries. I forget. But through repetition comes perfection, so try, try, try again, right?