box of crayons

a new one

2012-02-15T13:52:00.001+11:00

When I booked this upcoming trip to Vietnam, I gave no thought to my passport at all. I mean, they’re valid for ten years, you just kind of forget about an expiry date. But I eventually checked and to my dismay, it expires on 6 March. I fly back home from Vietnam on 7 March. Annoying. And not just annoying but expensive too. Especially because I left it until three weeks before our departure date before I got around to having it renewed and therefore, had to pay the extra fee for speedy delivery. Serves me right, ya.

I love my passport. I love thumbing the pages, looking at the stamps from different airports around Europe, seeing the date and feeling mild surprise at just how long ago it was. I love seeing the working visas: one fancy-looking UK visa and one Irish visa, handwritten in a hurried scrawl. My favourite is the entry visa for Egypt. It takes up the whole page and the stamp was so wet with excess ink that the facing page has mirror image stamps on it.

This new passport has an entry visa for Vietnam to grace its pages first. Immigration dudes had better stamp it too, if they know what’s good for them. Over the next ten years, I hope the pages are full with stamps from airports from all over the world.

And sidebar, in ten years' time, I’ll be forty-two. Holy fuck.

which would you rather?

2012-02-09T22:14:00.001+11:00

image from Zo they say, original source unknown

Uni starts back in two weeks. I’ll be away though, doing my tour of duty in Nam so I sent an email to my four lecturers, explaining my absence and asking if there was anything I needed to do to make up for it. I’m still to hear back from one lecturer, one lecturer replied in minutes, saying everything would be hunky dory. Another, the Associate Dean of the School of Education and Arts, replied and made me feel like a naughty school girl (in a bad way). This is his email (his bad grammar included):

Dear Annelise,

This is quite unfortunately and will set you at a slight disadvantage. One bit of advice I would give is to prepare for the fortnight you will miss in the time before you leave. This involves:

1) Getting a hold of the textbook and making a start on the readings.

2) Carefully reading the course description (attached) and familiarising yourself with the requirements of the course.

3) What time is your tutorial? I can put you in touch with the tutor who will give further advice about the two tutorials. One possibility is that you may miss some preparatory work for the first assessment task which will occur during the second week's classes.

University dates do vary from one year to another. 2013's calendar is now available online. I would suggest carefully planning your vacations around future calendars in future.

I would also suggest doing this for other courses you are enrolled in for semester one.

I might be feeling a bit touchy but is there not a disciplinary tone in this here email? Thank you, Associate Dean, I shall carefully plan my vacations around future calendars in future.

An hour or so later, the following email popped up in my inbox from the lecturer of Indigenous Societies in Contemporary Australia (once again, poor grammar lecturer’s own):

Oh No, in the first two weeks I ALWAYS hand out fifty dollar notes, latte coffees with bush tucker chocolates neatly poised on the saucer...
i am very envious that you are going to Vietnam and I am in Ballarat but I will get over that. The best thing to do is to actually read the readings that will be outlined in the course description. They are all available on line. I will be posting the course description on moodle hopefully tomoz or Monday. Look out for it! great stuff, it will rock your socks...well ok it might be of some minor interest.
have a great time and see you when you are in th rat. [should read: back in the ‘rat, as in short for Ballarat]
nb you will miss the group work meetings so you will have to ingratiate yourself in with a group in your tute. use your charm.
cheers
fred c

Now, tell me: which course you would rather?

boss of the world

2012-02-03T23:07:00.001+11:00

LET ME HEAR YOU SAY 10 via weird fish

Last Saturday morning at work, while I was condemning the people who use the same wet spoon for both the coffee and the sugar and thus leaving either brown or white little clumps in the opposite, to an eternity spent in the fiery depths of Hell, I made mention to Lisa-Marie on Twitter that I wished I was the boss of the world so I could sort out the disgusting people who find it too hard to dry a spoon. (Worst sentence ever, by the way.) And then I thought ‘Ooh … boss of the world, that sounds like fun’ and with increasing delusions of grandeur, I began creating a list of all the rules I would enforce, ~~should I~~ when I become Boss of the World.

1. People must use their manners. Please and thank you and sorry. It’s not hard, motherfuckers. Table manners also. Swearing will be totally acceptable, FYI. Except the c-word. Except when it is delivered with hilarity, such as the way Kristen Wiig delivers it in Bridesmaids. Then it can be used with gay abandon. But only then.

2. Mosquitoes be damned! I’ve been harping on about how these high-pitched buzzing, biting, blood-sucking vampire insects are the bane of my existence, and that when I become stinking rich, I’m going to commission a team of scientists (commission? hire?) to make the bastards (or is it bitches? I think I read somewhere years ago that it is the females that do the biting. Sluts) extinct, therefore earning me a Noble Peace Prize. But now that I’m B of the W, I wouldn’t have to worry about paying anyone to eradicate an entire species, I could simply command them to do so with a wave of my wand (oh, there will be a wand. Maybe even a cape. Depends on the weather, obviously). The people will appreciate my altruistic endeavour and I will still be awarded the Nobel. While they’re at it, the scientists will also end the snakes’ reign of terror, once and for all.

3. Thou shalt not be a dickhead.

4. ‘Parking inspector’ will cease to be a valid employment option. See No. 3.

5. Scientists will find a way to make chocolate a non-fattening foodstuff. Sidebar: how great is that word? Foodstuff. Foodstuff. FOODSTUFF.

6. Ugly shoes are banned. Also with regards to feet, people shall be responsible for maintaining a high standard of personal footsie hygiene. Nails shall be of a short length and well-groomed, heels shall be regularly pumiced, odour shall be kept under control. Failure to meet these requirements shall result in three written warnings and finally, a toe being amputated for each offence thereafter. Tough, but fair. Hygiene is important.

7. Everyone will learn the difference between their/they’re/there and to/two, et al. And they will use them correctly because, damn, people: you did graduate primary school, did you not? It’s not rocket surgery.

8. Vapid fame-whores (Kardashians, I’m looking at you) will be free to exist but without polluting our televisions, magazines, bookshelves, or internets ever again.

9. When it comes to religion, live and let live. You know. No more wars in the same of God, no persecution for believing one thing in particular – except for Scientology. That shit is the first to go. Seriously. Written by a science fiction writer? Tom Cruise? Come back to me in a thousand years and then I might relent and relax the rules, L. Ron.

10. It will be a helluva lot easier to find one’s mate. There’ll be some kind of registry or something. Details to follow.

So. Boss of the World. Pretty cool, yeah? All those people who use a wet spoon for both sugar and coffee, this is your notice.

1.45 monday afternoon

2012-01-30T15:22:00.001+11:00

When they find out that I work only one day a week, people often ask me ‘What the sweet hell do you do all day?’ The answer I give them is usually ‘Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that’ which is just code for reading and looking at shit on the internet. I don’t mind this life. Sure, more money would be nice but there will come a time when I’m thrust back out into the grown-up world and I’ll be working full-time in a job that destroys my soul, one mind-numbing day at a time, until I can retire on a pension because Lord knows any talk of superannuation puts me to sleep. So for now, reading and looking up shit on the internet is pretty damn good.

During one of these internet binges, I happened across one of Kristin's pins on Pinterest: a delicious-looking lime sorbet tequila-type margarita. Ooh, that looks tasty, I said to myself, and promptly forgot about it. Until today.

The weather is crap. It was 27 degrees just before midnight and when I had to go and have my passport photo taken (because who doesn’t renew their passport until just over three weeks before their departure date, I ask you?), the humidity made my hair stick to the back of the neck and my makeup slide off my face. Now, after a quick torrential downpour, we’ve gale-force winds. This weather is conducive for precisely bugger all, except for making lime sorbet tequila-type margaritas so that is exactly what I did.

YUM. I generally have quite a strong dislike for tequila on its own because it’s so friggen vile, but mixed in with the lime sorbet, it was the perfect treat … at 1.45 Monday afternoon. I’m going back now to make another one because who knows at what other stage in my life I’ll be able to drink lime sorbet tequila-type margaritas at 1.45 Monday afternoon?

shit that needs to happen in 2012

2012-01-25T14:58:00.001+11:00

I said I was going to make a list of goals for 2012 in my last post, beginning with 1. Finish list. And three weeks later, I finished the list. Well, I think I did. I did for now, anyway. See, I think this is the kind of list that will keep changing and evolving as the year progresses. Some things may not be as important in August as they are right now, or in October, there might be something that I absolutely must have to cross off my list.

Anyway, for the sake of making myself accountable (and because I’ve got a seriously blank mind when it comes to blogging at the moment and can’t think of anything else), here’s my list for 2012:

HEALTH RELATED:

________
________
run 5kms
train for 10kms
________
________
________
________

(The blank goals are the ones I’m not quite comfortable sharing with the world just yet – so much for keeping myself accountable! Maybe I’m not comfortable with sharing yet because of the high importance I’ve placed on them. I don’t know. When I do reach them – because I will reach them – I’ll be sure to unblank the blank.)

ACADEMIC RELATED:

finish essays at least one day before due date: no more all-nighters!
obtain High Distinctions for all subjects, both semesters (big call but with appropriate study, it’s not out of my capabilities)

MONEY RELATED:

live within my means
pay off the mothereffing credit card
save at least $_____
sort out tax. Blah.

LIFE AND FUN TIMES RELATED:

move out. For the love of God, move out
write mothereffing novel
have mothereffing novel manuscript ready for submission by December 2012
write one blog post a week (FAIL)
be social: plan something at least every second weekend (I like being a homebody and I like spending time by myself but I do need to get out more)
say yes to more invitations (or as Nat would say: don’t sit in a puddle and then complain that you’re wet)
do one new thing a month
take more day trips
take at least one other holiday this year
read 30 books, at least half of them classics
cut down on the mothereffing swearing
do more arty-farty things: Melbourne is a writhing mess of artiness so why not take advantage of it?
be more creative (granted, this isn’t really a quantifiable goal, but it’s something that I can explore further over the year)

So that’s them. The goals. I think they are all fairly realistic and achievable.

What do you want to achieve this year?

hip hip hooray

2012-01-10T00:03:00.001+11:00

unknown source.

Today is my birthday. Hip hip hooray!

I am thirty-two. 32! It blows my mind to say that. I feel nineteen most of the time. I act nineteen most of the time. I’m not convinced that’s a bad thing.

Yesterday, Sunday, we had celebrations with all the people I love best. It was full of laughs and pavlova and champagne and barbeque and chocolate ripple cake and butterfly jelly cakes (and sore tummies and sore heads) I intended to take photographs but didn’t even realise I hadn’t done so until the end of the day. Just being present in the moment was far more important. And far more enjoyable.

I’m making a list of things that I want to achieve over the next twelve months. Not resolutions (I will eat healthy! Pah) but quantifiable goals. I’ll post the list when I’ve got it sorted: 1. Finish list.

Thirty-two!

BITE! BITE! STING! BITE!

2012-01-04T00:54:00.001+11:00

Last year, I wrote about being stung on the foot over the 2010/11 New Year’s holiday. Would you believe me if I said I was stung again this New Year’s Day, once again on the foot? The same foot, as luck would have it.

In the end, I lost all interest in New Year’s Eve. The thought of spending it with a bunch of coupled-up luvahs did nothing for me and instead, I stayed in and watched Bridesmaids (I did laff, Natasha. I laffed good. Especially at the bit when she gets fired from her job. I laffed so hard, I nearly choked) and it’s a decision I thought I would regret, but didn’t and still don’t.

I woke up on New Year’s Day feeling fresh as a daisy. What a novelty! It was lovely and warm so I took my book out into the backyard and read in the sun. The grass was thick and spongy and green and I decided to lay down on it to read, too lazy to go inside and get a towel. A page in and something jabbed me in the arm: some plastic off one of Woody’s broken toys. A few more pages and I felt a similar jab of pain in my right foot. I kicked my foot out, irritably, but the pain intensified until,

“JAYSUS CAH-RIST,” I yelled out. Sitting up, I saw something – a bee? a wasp? – fly away and the pain got worse and worse, and I was screaming out, “BITE! BITE! STING! BITE!” while hopping around on one foot, going blind from the pain.

Now. I think you all know I drop the f-bombs with regular frequency (because sometimes it’s just funny to say fuck. And sometimes, no other word does the job well enough. Sometimes, it’s nothing other than being really, really satisfying to say) but I thought new year and all, I should probably cut the usage down. Just a bit. Keep it tucked away for special occasions. Let it get some of its shock value back. But then, you know, BITE! BITE! STING! BITE! and it’s all shot to shit.

I did tweet my reaction but during The Great Stinging Incident of 1 January 2012 post-mortem held later that evening, it was unanimously agreed upon that I didn’t actually swear once. All those naughty words, I just said them in my head. I AM A GROWN UP. (… an effing grown up ... )

Anyway. So Doctor Dad (who, once upon a time, was christened Doctor Fucknuckle by my brother because of Dad’s blood pressure machine, his favourite toy, and his penchant for whipping it out at the dinner table to measure the blood pressure of guests. I only wish I was joking. And casual f-bombing obviously runs in the family) did his thing with the cotton wool, Betadine, and tea towel full of ice cubes. I kept the ice on my foot for about half an hour, got bored, and because it wasn’t hurting so much anymore, went for a bike ride. I went to bed, feeling awfully smug that I didn’t turn the air blue earlier in the day with my potty mouth.

And then I woke up to this:

DUN DUN DUN! (Oh, my God, go to that link. Best link ever.)

My foot had ballooned overnight. I couldn’t walk on it; if I put any pressure on it at all, it felt like the skin would split, and my toes were so swollen, I could bend them only a fraction. It was all red and painful looking. I kept it elevated for periods of time (until I got bored and uncomfortable) and covered it in Stingoes because it was like the biggest, most intense mosquito bite evah. Finally, at 9pm, Dad made me go to the doctor. The doctor drew the purple outline around the redness and told me if any red escaped outside the line, to report back to him the following day.

And it did escape today. It escaped about another inch or so, right up to my ankle. Dad was doing his best scaremongering act and said my foot was probably going to ulcerate and then I’d have to have it amputated. “Pfft,” I said, but secretly imagined what it would be like to have a plastic foot. I scared myself so back into the doctor we went tonight.

This different doctor believed I’d been stung by a bee, not a wasp like I had thought. I thought it couldn’t possibly have been a bee because I’d been stung by a bee in high school (on. my. thumb. My thumb!) and didn’t have this insane reaction, but she said because there was a stinger left behind in my skin, it was a bee. Wasps have stingers, apparently, but they don’t leave anything behind after the stinging orgy.

I am now armed with antibiotics in case of infection and a cream, and have been told to keep my foot elevated for a few days (smart-arse cousin wrote on Facebook what he assumed my reaction was to that news: Thanks Doc, so just keep doing what I’ve been doing for the last few months? I’d be angry if it wasn’t true) so I’ve been watching movies, lying on the couch with my foot up on the couch’s back, laptop precariously balancing on my stomach.

Being incapacitated is boring. Bee stings hurt. Lying on your back all day is uncomfortable. It’s hard to drink a cup of coffee when you’re lying down. But the cruellest part of all of this? The new shoes that arrived today from the States, the shoes that I am head over heels in love with because they are so fucking beautiful (I just added that f-bomb because baby steps, that’s why), are totally and completely useless to me right now because my big fat stupid foot won’t fit into them. The left one is comfy, the left one is perfect, but the left one is useless without the right one! So they’re just sitting there on the floor, in all their prettiness, mocking me and my gammy foot.

Life is cruel. Bees suck. Happy new year.

n.y.e.

2011-12-30T17:27:00.001+11:00

Sad face.

Did you know it’s perfectly acceptable to invite someone to a party for New Year’s Eve and then cancel said party on 30 December, thus rendering invitee (uninvitee?) without any plans for the biggest party night of the year?

Neither did I, but apparently it is because it happened earlier today. And now I’ve got nothing. All my other friends are either away or doing things with other couples or their own families because that’s what usually happens when one reaches this age – they’re either part of a Smug Married with plenty of other Smug Marrieds to have happy fun times with, or they have children and do grown-up family things like go on family holidays with other families.

So being neither a Smug Married or a Smug Married With Children (and therefore a leper/loser), I have nothing to do on New Year’s Eve. I contemplated going out and celebrating my loser status by buying fifteen or so cats – to hell with it all, may as well just succumb to the cliché – but I’ll probably just sit on the couch and watch a DVD. I hear there’s a really funny movie out called Bridesmaids, maybe you’ve heard of it?

Or perhaps I’ll just sulk all night about being nearly 32 and still single.

Regardless of whatever hardcore partying I get up to, I wish you the happiest of happy new years. Talk to you next year. x

merry christmas

2011-12-22T15:05:00.001+11:00

Jackie Rueda's flickr via Crush Cul de Sac

While you Northern Hemispherians are sleeping through the winter solstice, here in the Southern Hemisphere, skies are blue and the sun is warm.

The temperature for Christmas Day is predicted to be 27 degrees Celcius (80.6F). A warm day, the smell of pork roasting (which I loathe, but oddly, is what reminds me of Christmas. That and pine trees. Obviously) and a house full of people, ages ranging from four months to 85 years. I can’t wait.

Thank you to you (and you) for being exceptionally goodlooking and have such admirable taste and choosing to read box of crayons throughout the year, even though sometimes I only posted once a month. Even though most of the time, I posted complete nonsense. Thank you for the comments you left which have made me smile and made me laugh (you’re also hilarious, but you knew that already, didn’t you? You are also incredibly intelligent). Thank you for your own blogs that make me laugh and think and ponder and envy your writing/photography talents (because not only are you hawt with good taste, funny and smart, you’ve also got mad skillz). Keep up the good work.

Enjoy the holidays. If you can’t spend it with the people you wish you could, then I hope the people you do spend it with are aesthetically pleasing and make you laugh. Be safe. Be happy. Laugh and love.

annelise is a slob

2011-12-20T20:46:00.001+11:00

What a pig. That’s my desk, in all its mess-induced-by-end-of-semester-stress glory. Except university finished up last month. And the mess stayed. With the knowledge that there’ll be twenty-one people in the house on Christmas Day, I decided to tackle the brothel that is my corner of the room.

If you look carefully, you’ll see chewed up tissue under the chair, courtesy of Woody. In the basket on the floor to the right of the photo was a disgusting white-tail spider, who was promptly covered in insect spray, including the majority of the inside of the basket. It – and the spider – was all white. Quite festive, actually, considering.

Check out the candles that have gone all droopy from the heat! Ha. The scarf that’s been there since winter! The wrapping paper since Father’s Day in September!

Christ, I hate cleaning shit up. It’s so boring. But ultimately, it’s worth it.

SO much better! Clean surfaces! Those drawers are going to get a lick of paint early next year, ugly little fuckers. (I’m tempted to paint the curtains too but suspect I’d get a lashing for it) The chair is a little bit ripped and the height can’t be adjusted anymore but it’s wide enough for me to sit cross-legged so it’s going to stay. The map of Vietnam on the wall for inspiration and anticipation. The bowl of fruit and the notebook in which lays the first draft of my novel (positive thinking right there).

Clean is good.

P.S. In my dreams, my desk would look like this but within five minutes, there’d be snotty tissues littered all over the floor, a dirty plate and crumbs sprinkled everywhere, spilt coffee, a swear words written on the wood. Annelise is a slob.

travelling journal: the eagle takes flight

2011-12-19T15:29:00.002+11:00

Calling all box of crayons travelling journal homeboys:

Update! The journal departs from vacationing with Robin in Pittsburgh!

fifty-two books

2011-12-16T00:51:00.001+11:00

thisisrabbitt via pinterest

Sweet baby cheeses, I love reading. I was always that kid who was getting into trouble for not answering the grown-ups when they spoke to me because I was so engrossed in what I was reading. (Hello? Why was I getting into trouble? Why were they talking to me when they could clearly see I was otherwise engaged?) I read anything I could get my hands on and some favourites included The Babysitters Club series (naturally), the Anne of Green Gables series (of course), The Saddle Club series (horses horses horses!) (sung just like Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle), among so many others. When I was a bit older, I got into books like Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird (I have a really ugly, second-hand, bright orange Penguin edition that I don’t think I’ll ever part with. It was the first ‘serious’ book I read that really blew me away), Bonjour Tristesse, and every other similar book.

This year, I decided to set myself a challenge: read fifty-two books in fifty-two weeks. I thought it would be a total breeze: one book a week? Pah! No worries. Turns out I was wrong. Some weeks, it felt like I didn’t read at all. I always had a book on the go but when it came to reading for uni, reading for pleasure was sometimes put on the backburner. But I did it, I read fifty-two of ‘em. Goodreads had a fantastic thingymajiggy set up, 2011 Reading Challenge, and it told me if I was on track. When it told me things like You are 1 book behind, I’ll admit to choosing a smaller book to read next because I knew it wouldn’t take me long to knock it over. I felt a bit guilty, but it’s not like I was cheating, I still read the book. Fifty-two of them.

Favourites

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte: Holy crap, why did it take me so long to read this book?! Loved it. Loved loved loved it.

Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld: for want of a better term, a really lovely coming-of-age story set at a boarding school.

Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey: my favourite of the year. One of the best books I’ve ever read. I started reading it last year (you can see it in the photo of this post) and I got about fifty or so pages in before I put it down. It starts with a really difficult scene, really sad and kind of confronting. It made me feel weird so I decided not to carry on with it. But I picked it up again in January and I’m so glad I did: it made me cry and it made me laugh (Jeffrey Lu is one of literature’s best characters). Please read it.

Twentysomething by Iain Hollingshead. British. Diary-style. Hilarious. Also won the Bad Sex award.

The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins. Thought I would hate them. Loved them. Who knew kids being forced to kill each other in a fight-to-the-death situation would be so entertaining? If you haven’t read them yet, get on it. You’ll want to before the movie comes out in March. The casting is so spot on, it’s almost spooky – Jennifer Lawrence, the Hemsworth brother (Chris or Liam? Effed if I can tell them apart), Woody Harrelson, all perfect but I think I’m most excited about Lenny Kravitz as Cinna. Anyway. One of the very few instances I’m excited about a film adaptation. Usually they’re shit but I think this movie will be just as good as the book.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Obviously.

The Observations by Jane Harris. A potty-mouthed housemaid in 1863 Scotland. And there’s a mystery. It’s great.

Disappointments

The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas. From what I’ve heard, this book polarised people: you either loved it or hated it. I hated it. I didn’t even finish it so it technically shouldn’t be on my list. Maybe I’ll give it another go further on down the track. Maybe I won’t. Whatever.

Chasing Harry Winston by Lauren Weisberger. Whoever keeps publishing her books, please cease and desist immediately. Ugh, it’s tripe like this that gives chick-lit its bad name. Personally, I believe The Devil Wears Prada only got published because it was a thinly-veiled account of Vogue’s Anna Wintour (and just why are people obsessed with that woman who has the Lego-woman haircut?) and Weisberger’s got nothing else up her sleeve so bashes out a few stereotypes throughout 100 000 words or so and for some reason God only knows, people keep buying them. Stop it. Now.

The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht. For most of the time, I was all like WTF? Parts of it were awesome, parts of it were WTF. Maybe it just went over my head. Whatever.

Smokin' Seventeen by Janet Evanovich. I loved this series – up until about book eight. I persisted with them, hoping that maybe something different would happen. But no, some psycho is still out to kill Stephanie, Lula’s still chowing down the fried chicken, Ranger and Morelli are still inexplicably chasing Stephanie, and shit gets blown up. Blah blah blah.

There are a few other crap ones in there, a few meh ones, you can check them out here if you’re bored. It’s kind of surprising to see what kind of books I’ve chosen over the past twelve months. I chose a lot of stuff I don’t normally read, 2011 was definitely the year of the YA novel. And because of that, I’m craving some really good, gutsy reads. They can be funny (I like funny) or serious (Yars. I can be totally serious as well), literary or commercial, anything as long as it’s good.

What did you read this year that you loved or hated? Any suggestions for me? Come on, share.

mr john

2011-12-07T13:21:00.001+11:00

When my brother and I were kids, our mother didn’t subscribe to the idea that the house must be silent once we were in bed, trying to fall asleep. She wasn’t all like “Don’t make a sound, the kids are trying to sleep.” Nah-uh. Once we were in bed, she did her housework – vacuuming, washing, all the noisy stuff – all the while, the stereo cranked up. Because of this, I have a deep affection for Bob Seger, T. Rex, Elton John, Rod Stewart, et al. (And I can also fall asleep no matter the noise level.) One of my favourite memories is being tucked up in my single bed as a child, listening to a pair of jeans in the dryer (you know that noise of the metal button on jeans as it hits the inside of the dryer) and Elton John’s Philadelphia Freedom playing.

I saw Elton John in concert last night at Rod Laver Arena. He was good. He sang all his hits … amazing though how all of his songs sound. the. freaking. same when they’re played all in a row. I mean, I enjoyed it and all, but we committed the cardinal sin of gig-going: leaving before the fat lady has sung (so to speak). We bailed during the encore – but seriously, who plays only one song for an encore before leaving the stage? I’m assuming he was planning to come back out for a second encore but I was buggered if I was going to hang around for another five minutes of piano bashing.

I loved Candle in the Wind and I had to blink really fast for a couple of minutes because it always reminds me of this, and I loved Benny and the Jetssssss, and I loved Crocodile Rock, Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word (which, apropos of nothing, I listened to on repeat on the flights from London to Singapore, Singapore to Melbourne, bawling my eyes out over an affair of the heart), Your Song, Rocketman (though Stewie Griffin's version will always crack me up). I loved them all but I don’t know if seeing him sing them live was necessary. Some things are better left to the imagination.

kleptomania and other nonsense

2011-12-05T18:01:00.001+11:00

image on pinterest via Soul Hunting, original source unknown

When I go to work on a Saturday, I have to take a whole day’s worth of food. I can’t leave the office at all. I do get to put up a Back in Five Minutes sign though that announces my lunch/toilet/coffee break! I know, I know, working on a Saturday AND no break? How lucky am I? Anyway. Sometimes the urge to go through other people’s desk drawers nearly overwhelms me though I’ve succumbed not once. NOT ONCE. (I have though, flipped through a notepad on someone’s desk and felt horribly guilty, even though it was all boring management meeting malarkey). Snooping doesn’t entice me but it has transpired that stealing from my fellow workmates is my bag.

Turns out I have a thing for the complimentary chocolates that are supposed to accompany the coffee one makes with the coffee machine in the boss’s office. Except one does not know how to make the coffee with the coffee machine in the boss’s office and instead, one steals the complimentary chocolates for an afternoon hit to help get one’s self through to five o’clock. I always feel terrified I’m going to get caught, like my boss might jump out from behind his huge desk chair and shout “AH-HA! Caughtcha, chocolate stealer!” He hasn’t done that once and I don’t really expect it to happen any time soon, but the fear is there nonetheless (the fear is no match for the desperate desire, need, for chocolate, to be sure).

Last week, while suffering through the late hours of the afternoon, willing the time on the phone display to click over to 4.59pm so I could put the phone on night mode (4.59pm! Rebel!), the office handyman came in and handed over a packet of Oreos.

“Ooh, thanks,” I say, even though I don’t particularly love Oreos. “Where did you get these from?”

“From the depths of Whatsherface’s desk drawers,” he answers, a cheeky smirk on his mug.

A kindred spirit! Another kleptomaniac! Although, actually, his affliction must be a step up from mine because he feels no remorse in going through drawers. The thought makes me want to dob him in. But then I realise there would probably be a lock put on the chocolate cupboard door and I regain my senses.

Also while at work on Saturday, a man ended his phone conversation with me by not saying ‘Goodbye’ or even just ‘Catch,’ but by saying “Over.” Whoa, wait a minute, buddy, these aren’t walkie-talkies we’re conversing with. This here’s a telemaphone, we don’t need to be saying “Over.” Weird, no?

Later, while I was musing the ways of the weird, I nearly jumped out of my seat when some bogan walked passed the window and kicked the metal letterbox slot box thingy out the front of the office. I looked at him through the window and decided he looked like he would pull my hair – or worse – if I went outside and said politely “Please, kind bogan, don’t be kicking the letter box,” so instead called him a choice of four-letter words from the safety of behind the reception desk.

Later, the bogan returned and came up into the little alcove thingymajig next to the office front door to light a cigarette. I considered going out to ask him to move on because when people smoke their cigarettes out the front of work, it fills up reception with stinky secondhand smoke and I’m forced to use Glen 20 to try and get rid of the smoke, only to remember once again that Glen 20 friggen reeks and I’d much prefer the cigarette smoke. Anyway, while this debate was raging in my little brain box, I watched the Bogan stick his fag in his mouth, pull one of the fake flowers out of the window display (sounds pretty tacky but the fake flowers out the front of work are actually pretty nice. Someone from one of the local art shops does it every couple of months), put the flowers under his arm and march off down the street.

The bogan stole our flowers! Kicked our letterbox and stole our flowers! Blow me down, this calls for a stolen chocolate or two. OR FOURTEEN.

In order to rebalance the chakras (I don’t even know what that means), I attended a garden party-style housewarming on Sunday at Girl Cousin’s new house. I was firm yet polite: “No champagne for me, thank you very much,” only to be tempted and seduced by those cold bubbles and consequently quaffed enough champagne to lull me to sleep on the car ride home. Before that though, as we were sitting in the garden, chatting about pleasant, nonsensical things, an unknown someone uttered some words that caused Boy Cousin and I to lock eyes and have one of those moments where you don’t even need to speak because you just know. The words? “Short-sheeting the bed.”

Moments later, after checking the coast was clear of the Girl Cousin, I slipped away inside the house, deceiving everyone with my powers of deception that I was attending the lavatory. Boy Cousin joined me mere seconds later in the bedroom Girl Cousin shares with her boyfriend and we attempted The Great Short-Sheeting Incident of 2011.

But as Boy Cousin recounted to everyone except Girl Cousin and Boyfriend of Girl Cousin, “there was too much laughing to achieve anything of consequence.” However poor our short-sheeting skillz are, surely we caused enough of an inconvenience when they collapsed into bed to relax after the exhausting exercise of hosting a garden party, only to become tangled in a mess of sheets. As I pointed out in Twitter, one simply cannot attend a house party without short-sheeting the hosts’ bed. Is simply bad manners not to.

And here ends my epic post of BS.

How was your weekend?

2011-12-02T15:16:00.001+11:00

photo taken with Instagram, I’m annelisekate if you want to follow

I took a walk this morning along the waterfront. I also took my Flip video camera and shot a few minutes of pretty little scenes: the promenade, the pier, the Ferris wheel, the palm trees, the Christmas tree. I spent roughly four hours trying to figure out how to edit it, finally got it into a state I wasn’t overly happy but fuck it, enough is enough, this will bloody well do, went to Vimeo to upload it: Sorry, your file is too small.

You know that feeling when you want to punch the computer screen, throw the whole contraption through the window, and then go and eat everything in the pantry because you hate everything technology-related?

That.

So in a fit of rage, I deleted all of it. And decided to use this picture instead. Now I’m going to sit outside in the sun and read my book while repeatedly counting to ten and scowling at the animals.

Have a fantastic weekend, anyone up to anything interesting, exciting, festive-like?

a letter to the bloody dog

2011-11-26T11:27:00.001+11:00

Dear Woody,

Please be advised of the following:

My shoes are not toys
My pink knickers are not toys
My sports bras are not toys (and I would appreciate you not taking any of the above for a run around the backyard again)
My computer cords are not toys
My trousers are not toys
My cat is not a toy
My bed is not to be slept on
My shoulder is not to suffer an attempt at dislocation when I take you for a walk
The cows in the paddocks a few streets away do not need to be herded despite your obvious thoughts otherwise

Your cooperation in these matters would be appreciated.

Kind regards,

Annelise

P.S. Stop stealing the fucking tissues from the bin. It's disgusting.

fiesta (and a journal update)

2011-11-22T00:39:00.001+11:00

The weekend weirdness ended with the green fairy, more’s the pity. But there was drinking and dancing to a Spanish band and that awesomeness made up for it.

My first day of holidays and I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I watched Candleshoe instead. It’s a 1977 Jodie Foster movie about old English houses and lost treasure. (Treasure hunting movies just may be my favourite.) Have you seen it? I recommend it for when you’re at a loss with what to do with yourself.

I also attempted some writing, like I said I would. Except after a page and a half, I realised that I don’t really know the characters anymore. So I read over what I wrote last year and my original vision has been completely lost. I need to spend a day or so to reacquaint myself with those old friends, find out how they’ve been entertaining themselves in my absence, and then start playing God with them all again.

So, the journal. We’ve hit a snag already so I’m going to get another one happening. I’m just wondering, though, if you would rather wait until Christmas is over and done with? I’m more than happy to send it out this week or next, so if you’re up for receiving it between now and 25 December, let me know. Otherwise, we can wait til the dust settles on 2011 and kick it into gear in January.

Did anyone do anything exciting on the weekend? Anything green-fairy-weird happen to you? Do tell.

2011-11-19T13:44:00.001+11:00

So, I'm sitting here at work, looking out the window, watching all the people go past because it's Gala Day and there's a thousand kids bashing on the glass and it's annoying me but then I see a man and I notice he has a hook for a hand, just like Captain Hook, except this man doesn't look like a pirate at all and as I was thinking this would be the highlight of my working day, a woman dressed as a green fairy walked into the office, carrying a coffee which she had bought for one of my workmates except he wasn't in the office so she gave the coffee to me and it's only 1.52pm and I'm excited in case anything else bizarre happens today and I'm going to Nat's house tonight in Melbourne and we're going to have some drinks and go out and I really hope that more weird stuff happens up there because I really love it when weird stuff happens.

that’s that done then

2011-11-18T18:03:00.001+11:00

Image source unknown

Classes are done for the year. Hallelujah, praise baby cheeses. Done until March. Done until I get back from Vietnam. Done done done. With the exception of an entire subject that I just never got around to starting and of which I have the pleasure of completely over the holidays. So, actually, I’m not done done done at all. But still. Kinda done.

I have plans for these holidays in order to prevent this from happening again. I think the key is to keep busy. Keep my mind ticking over. Do stuff. Keep active. I saw this the other day and it struck a chord with me. I love sleeping in and staying up late, I’m most definitely a night person but I do find it hard not to feel guilty about wasting a good few hours of the day by being in bed. So this week, I’ve been setting my alarm for 6am – not necessarily getting up right then but within the hour. Gotta start somewhere, right? The day is longer and I’ve felt more tired at night (though I still do continue to fight tiredness like a toddler). The times that I’ve looked at the clock and have been surprised that it’s only 10am have been worth the annoyance of the alarm disturbing me from slumber.

I have the usual list of things I would like to get done over the holidays (including washing my car. My cousin, the smartarse, asked me a couple of months ago if Stevie Wonder had washed it and I still haven’t touched it) but what I’m really going to concentrate on is writing. Last year, I wrote 20 000 words of a novel and only managed the tiniest amount this year so I’d really like to get stuck in to it over the next couple of months. I have all these characters in my head, telling me about the their lives and I need to get what they’re saying onto paper. And besides, if I do this writing thing, then that will justify me not looking for more work over the holidays! Yay!

Happy Friday, friends.

another offering

2011-11-10T01:41:00.001+11:00

I am arse-deep in end-of-year uni crap and this is the reason for my extended absence from this here blawg. But as I've done before (and will probably do again next year), I present a musical offering. If you follow Gwyneth Paltrow on Twitter (and if you’re not on Twitter, you’re missing out. I never thought I would say that, but for reals. It’s fun shit. Get on it), you might have seen her tweet this video was making her very happy. Because I like a bandwagon, I clicked the link and was mesmerised. The video is insane.

Erato, three girls from Sweden, covering Robyn’s Tell Your Girlfriend, using only empty, plastic margarine containers as musical instruments. Their voices are amazing but I couldn’t take my eyes off their hands. Incredible. Watch it, go on. Even if you don’t like the song (gasp!), it’s worth it for the high-five fail at the very end. Awkward.

P.S. Just as Lana Del Rey complemented my Rolling Stones essay a couple of months ago, I’m absolutely positive that these lovely ladies can only have the same effect on tonight’s essay about Bra Boys, a notorious surfing tribe from Sydney. You can watch their shit here if you want. However, if you’re taking documentary-watching advice from me, I’d suggest the Rolling Stones’ Gimme Shelter. It’s from their 1970 tour of North America which ended in a huge free concert in San Francisco and some poor bastard being stabbed by a member of the Hell’s Angels, which can be relived over and over again in all its shocking detail as it was captured on camera – unbeknownst to the cameraman at the time. It’s really worth watching, I flipping loved it. And then, if you watched Gimme Shelter and wondered what the hell happened to the whole ‘sex, drugs and rock n roll’ malarkey, watch the other Rolling Stones’ documentary, the charmingly-named Cocksucker Blues. The quality is crap but the content is mind-blowing and in fact, the Stones sued the filmmaker to prevent it ever being released because they realised just how damaging the images of their debauched lifestyles would be to their reputation. Apparently, though, the filmmaker is allowed to show it twice a year (seems weird, no?) and I guess a bootleg copy got out somewhere along the way. But if watching footage of groupies mainlining heroin isn’t your thing but the Stones still are, the more recent release of Stones in Exile could be more your speed. I don’t have a link to the whole thing, but here is the trailer. It’s about the making of the album, Exile On Main Street, in the ‘70s in a rented villa in the south of France. I prefer the nitty gritty of Cocksucker Blues but each to their own. Oooh, and if we’re continuing this Stones theme, may I recommend to you Keith Richards’ autobiography, Life? I read it a couple of months ago, when this obsession was at its peak, and he has managed to tell his life story seemingly without holding anything back. Especially the drug stuff. (I’m fascinated by this, can you tell? I also loved Kate Holden’s autobiography, In My Skin; she’s a Melbourne-based writer who funded her former heroin addiction through prostitution. Gritty. I like gritty).

Longest postscript ever. Probably too long to be a postscript, really. But it’s 1.36am, I’ve been up since 7am and I’ll be up for a while yet, typing out this ho of an essay (I make it really difficult for myself and handwrite it all first). But at least I’ll have something lovely to listen to. Go on, watch it. Watch their hands. Listen to their angelic voices.

I’m so tired.

23 october 1971

2011-10-23T21:20:00.001+11:00

This is my mother and father in 1970. They were married in October 1971. Forty years ago today.

Happy anniversary, Ma and Pa. I love you both. xxx

P.S. Obviously, I got my love of leopard print from her.

girl crush.

2011-10-20T23:22:00.001+11:00

Since there seems to be a unanimous agreement on keeping one’s blog away from the dirty, prying eyes of loved ones and other hangers on, let’s talk girl crushes! Yay!

In a parallel existence, I think I’d be cool like Leigh Lezark, a DJ with New York City-based trio, The Misshapes. Already she is infinity-plus-one times cooler than me.

Blacker than black hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, cheekbones that cut glass and a way of never smiling when a camera is pointed in her direction that earnt her the very cool nickname of Princess Coldstare by Gawker. Cool.

via The Sartorialist

She makes me want to chop my hair off, dye it black and never let the hair straightener out of my hands. I’d always wear black, always have painted nails – black or red, and never be seen in anything other than five inch heels.

via fuckyeahleighlezark

I would survive on a diet of only cigarettes lit with sparkly lighters and a never-ending glass of vodka. I’d fly around the world, DJ-ing at the best parties and give sassy answers to interviewers.

I don’t know what it is but she just seems so damn cool. Like she doesn’t wear tracksuit pants with the arse sagging down to her knees, while staying in for the eighth Saturday night in a row. She seems even cooler when you find out she dyes her own hair. Hey, me too!

Other current girl crushes include Kate Hudson, Gwyneth Paltrow, Nina Dobrev and Anita Pallenberg in the ‘60s and ‘70s (but without the heroin addiction. No, wait. With. No, gross. Without. Just some acid and pot).

Do you girl crush?

feeling duplicitous

2011-10-16T22:16:00.001+11:00

Image on Pinterest via weird fish (original source unknown)

I’ve only told a few people about this here blawg – not even my family know. I don’t know why I haven’t shared it with them. The fear of judgement or some shit, I suppose. I don’t like sharing what I’ve written with people, especially when I’m face to face with them, but more than that, I don’t like sharing what I’m feeling or people even knowing how I really feel. I guess that’s why I write: it’s a way of getting my emotions out without having to have a conversation with someone. Feelings and shit, ew.

When I started box of crayons, I had planned to tell everyone. Let everyone read. It was a way to get over the sheer terror of people reading what I’d written. So I emailed a few friends, told a few girls at uni … and that was it. Whenever an opportunity presented itself for me to tell my family, the words would be on the tip of my tongue but never went any further. I couldn’t do it. I always figured that if this writing caper ever amounted to anything – as in published work – then I wouldn’t have any problem with letting people read my work because shit would be legit, yo. But just tooling around with blog posts and pretty pictures and talking about my cat didn’t seem all that much to be shooting my mouth off about.

Work friends are slowly, one by one, joining Twitter. I dread them coming across me. I feel like I wouldn’t be able to be myself anymore. Then they might stumble across the blog and I’d die of mortification. I would hate to think that it was casually mentioned at the office. Then I think why would they even give a toss that I keep a blog? They wouldn’t. No-one does. It’s not a big deal – to them. To me, it feels like they would be reading my journal. (Sometimes I take my journal into work on a Saturday. I have panic attacks about forgetting to take it home with and finding out later that someone came across it, photocopied all the pages and put a copy on everyone’s desks. Then they would all gather in the kitchen and laugh about it.)

So I created a cover Twitter account. A diversion of an account. I debate about following the people from work, sort of like heading them off at the pass, but then it doesn’t sit right. I feel deceitful. So I sit, paralysed, unable to make a decision about what to do. I could stick with the fake/real Twitter account and feel comfortable that the work people (who I really like, I do really) won’t come across the blog and I can stay safe in my duplicitous little world, or I could grow a vagina and just not give a damn if people do find out. (I’m not going to go as far as telling people. That ship has sailed, my friend.)

I don’t know. I hate holding back but I don’t think that everything needs to be shared with everyone. What do you guys do? Do people (friends, family, work peeps, the coffee guy) know you blog? How do you feel about them finding out? Tell me because I feel like I’m going to have a conniption at any minute.

2011-09-26T17:23:00.001+10:00

I’m trying out the power of attraction. I have decided I want something and isn’t it funny, how once this happens, little things pop out of everywhere? Kind of like a sign.

A book handed to me and I’m told Read this, it’s fantastic. I look at the cover and see a French address.

Looking through things I’d long ago put into storage and finding a tiny picture of the Eiffel Tower, taken on the ill-fated Paris trip of 2002.

France may hold bitter memories but I am prepared to give Paris another chance. I think it’s only fair.

2011-09-23T16:13:00.001+10:00

Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, doesn’t it? Well. Woodrow and I are not on speaking terms at the moment (he is referred to by his full name when he is in trouble). My lovely baby nephew passed gastro onto seven family members as part of his gracious entry to the world, so while the household was completely incapacitated and comatose, Woodrow had to entertain himself. Apparently, chewing one of my favourite leopard print heels was such a ruddy good time, he went back and chewed up the other one. It’s been almost a week and I’m still muttering under my breath and shooting murderous glances in his direction. The fact that they hurt my feet like a bitch is neither here nor there.

Odessa sent me a postcard from her recent road trip to Oregon! Thanks so much, Odessa! When she posted that she was heading up that way, I lost my shit because Portland, Oregon was where The Goonies was filmed – my favourite movie off all time, bar none. Odessa didn’t make it up as far as Astoria, but the pictures are beautiful. So foggy. And by the way, Odessa has quite possibly the tiniest and most beautiful handwriting of anyone in the world.

I’m on school holidays now for two weeks, except I’ve got so much work to do that it’s making me cry. Serves me right, really, for being lazy and disorganised. It scares the pants off me that there are 99 days left of the year. Wuh? Insanity.

Tonight I’m off to have a farewell drink for a colleague who is moving on, then to a barbeque for my cousin’s birthday. Tomorrow night, I’m going to watch a band that my other cousin is considering having for his wedding. I’m saying I’m not going to be drinking much at all, but I have zero willpower, especially after a particularly enjoyable drink in good company. We shall see.

I’m also praying (and crossing all fingers, toes and eyes) that Hawthorn open a can of whoop-ass on Collingwood in tonight’s preliminary final and make it through to next week’s AFL Grand Final. That would be good.

What have you got planned?

gaol

2011-09-21T22:20:00.001+10:00

I love that fact that part of one of the University of Ballarat’s campuses is a former gaol. High, thick brick walls, heavy iron gates and a creepy-looking watchtower.

The gaol was built in the mid-1800s and included a connecting tunnel from the courthouse for the prisoners. The gaol was demolished in after its closing in 1961 but there’s no mention of whether the tunnel still exists. I want to know! This tells me nothing.

One of the girls in class today said apparently prisoners were buried in the courtyard beyond the first picture’s gates. Buried standing upright. Allegedly, it was to prevent them from ever being a rest, even in death. I’m not sure if this is a myth in a town that saw so much action in the 1800s or if it’s actually true, but I reckon it’s a bit rough to have to stand for eternity. I start bitching after about twenty minutes on my feet.

I always think it’s a little bit ironic that as bratty, self-important teenagers, my friends and I would complain that being at high school, a place none of us wanted to be at, was like being in prison. Now that I’m at school because I really want to be, I go to school in a former gaol.

Also something that my seventeen-year-old self would have loved: just across the way from the gaol gates is another building. The Brewery Building. Yep, I also go to school in an old boozer. This pleases me. A lot.

introductions

2011-09-14T17:06:00.001+10:00

You guys, this is my brand new nephew.

Darcy Aiden.

He was born yesterday morning at 9.12 after forty-five minutes of labour. Minutes. He weighed 7lbs 10oz.

He has a full head of black hair under that little pixie hat. (Babies with lots of hair freak me out a little bit.)

He was born with a bout of gastro, poor bambino, but is recovering well and is otherwise fine.

He is perfect.

I love him.

happy

2011-09-06T22:05:00.001+10:00

We got a goggie. His name is Woody. Woody the goggie. He has a huge smile.

He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback cross Australian kelpie, about eighteen months old and was a rescue dog. The soft squeaky carrot we gave him was his first toy. Ever. Breaks my heart. But along with the carrot, he now has a squeaky duck and a squeaky fox. He adores them. I adored him too until he peed up the side of my car. He’s good with my niece and nephew and can jump fences like a motherfucker.

The awesome Sarah of cracks in the pavement sent me a friendship bracelet which she had made herself. I love it. They remind me so much of summer for whatever reason.

It was sent in a blue airmail envelope, was accompanied by a lovely note written on the back of a quirky card that features rocky cliffs, military men standing on yellow toothbrushes and a bottle of beer. All of my favourite things.

My brother’s wife is due to have a baby in the next three weeks so I’m going to be an aunty for the third time. It’s very exciting.

My friend, Alex, is conducting a survey about modern romance. If you can spare ten minutes, head to her blog, Caterpillar Contemplations, and follow the link. I know she would really appreciate it.

I’m reading One Day by David Nicholls. I’m only halfway through and it’s made me cry a few times already. I doubt I’ll bother to see the movie though because Anne Hathaway is nothing like I’m picturing Emma to look like.

Things are good. The weather is starting to improve. Blue skies and warm spots in the sun. It is a promise of what is still to come and it makes me happy. I paid my debt off in half the time expected which makes me ecstatic. I hate owing money. Centrelink can kiss my arse. Uni is really holding my interest this semester and that just makes life so much easier.

Happy.

an offering.

2011-09-05T12:43:00.001+10:00

I finished my latest essay in the early hours of this morning. Five am, to be precise. Repeated playing of this song, Video Games, by Lana Del Rey kept me going. It’s sexy and nostalgic and slightly sinister-sounding. It takes me away to places in time I’ve never been to (possibly not the best song to be listening to while trying to write a film analysis but whatevs).

I’ll be back maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, with a proper post. I’ve been a fair-weathered blogger of late but I’m bursting at the seems with ideas for posts. Thanks for sticking around. x

this is what i would do

2011-08-20T14:13:00.001+10:00

pinterest, original source unknown

I'd seen this all over Pinterest and it made me snicker every time but it wasn't until I came across what someone had written as the comment that made me really laugh:

THEN RAISE THE FUCK OUT OF OUR KIDS! AND GIVE YOU ALL THE MOTHERFUCKING LOVE AND SUPPORT YOU’D EVER FUCKING NEED. AND PAY THE HELL OUT OF THAT FUCKING MORTGAGE. AND THEN WHEN THE GUTTERS ARE CLOGGED I’LL GET UP THAT FUCKING LADDER AND CLEAN THAT SHIT UP WHILE YOU STAND BY THE KITCHEN WINDOW COMICALLY JUDGING MY WORK. AND THEN WE CAN VACUUM THE FUCK OUT OF OUR CARPET SO HARD THAT WE’LL HAVE TO GET A NEW ONE. WE’LL WASH OUR CLOTHES SO GODDAMN FUCKING HARD. FORGET NO RINSE, WE’LL USE HIGH FUCKING SPEED. BUY A FUCKING MINIVAN TO STUFF OUR BEAUTIFUL FUCKING BABIES INTO IT AND DRIVE THE FUCK OUT OF IT. THEN WE CAN GO SOME FUCKING PARENT-TEACHER MEETINGS AND MEET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR KID’S TEACHER. THEN JUDGE THE SHIT OF HER IN THE CAR. AND WE CAN THEN PILE ALL THE CHILDREN IN THE FUCKING MINIVAN AND GO TO THE STORE AND SHOP FOR GROCERIES SO HARD THAT WE ACTUALLY HAVE TO MAKE MORE THAN TWO TRIPS TO GET ALL THAT SHIT INSIDE THE HOUSE. AND THEN COOK THE FUCK OUT OF OUR KITCHEN UNTIL WE HAVE NO FOOD LEFT AND WE FEAST ON THAT SHIT FOR FUCKING DAYS. I WILL EAT THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR HOMEMADE COOKIES. THEN WASH THE SHIT OUT ON THE DISHES TOGETHER UNTIL OUR ENTIRE HANDS GET FUCKING PRUNEY. WE’LL WATCH OUR KIDS FUCKING GRADUATE AND MOTHER FUCKING TEAR UP LIKE THE BADASS BOSSES WE FUCKING ARE. WE WILL GROW SO DAMN OLD TOGETHER, WE WILL LOOK LIKE FUCKING RAISINS. I WILL FUCKING TELL YOU EVERY SINGLE SECOND HOW MUCH I FUCKING LOVE YOU. HOLDING EACH OTHER’S FUCKING HANDS SO HARD THAT WE SHIT OUR SELVES. UNTIL WE DIE AND ROT AS MOTHERFUCKING CORPSES TOGETHER. TIL DEATH DO US FUCKIN PART. HAPPILY EVER FUCKING AFTER.

Now, if that isn't the perfect love, what is?

apropos of nothing, really.

2011-08-14T21:28:00.000+10:00

it's all happening via pinterest, original source unknown

My computer power cord is dead. Wires poking out of it all over the place. No power cord, no charge. No charge, no computer. How boring. How I feel like I have had my arm (or some other important appendage) cut off. I've been reading what I can of blogs on my phone but it's not the same. I caught up on a few blogs yesterday but I was at work and supposed to be working, not getting paid to read blogs (could you imagine how awesome that would be as a job?!). I hate working.

Three weeks in and uni is already causing headaches and internal turmoil. How am I going to get it all done and get it done good? How could I have left year-long projects to the last three or so months? What was I thinking? Procrastination is the work of the devil.

Because I must obviously be a slave to the devil, can you please tell me some blogs that really pop your cork? Ones that get you all excited when you see a new post. One whose words you devour and savour. I need some new blogs to add to my list. I mean, if you guys had the posts being consistently pumped out, then I would be happy. But I suppose you've all got lives or some shit because I find myself compulsively, obsessively, refreshing my screen to see if you've posted a new blog. So, like a junkie, I need more. More. Moar.

Spill it. Tell me. Shine some light on the blogs you love.

2011-08-11T12:32:00.000+10:00

The eagle has landed. I repeat, the eagle has landed.

P.S. I am semi-computer-less at the moment. I'll be catching up on all your blogs over the next few days.

sand and seaweed.

2011-08-01T00:26:00.001+10:00

I had internet fatigue today. Too much Facebook, too much Twitter, too many blogs, too many shoe sites. I needed to get out of the house – a desire made even stronger by the beautiful blue skies and the disconcerting fact that it was warmer outside than it was in the house. So I took off to Ocean Grove, a ten minute drive away.

It was an unseasonably warm day. Even though I had donned my trackies, a hoodie, scarf and hat, there were people in the water: a couple of wet-suited surfers (though looking at the picture above, I’m not sure what they thought was going on out there), a kayaker and a sailboat. On the sand, fathers were kicking the football to their sons and couples were strolling along the water’s edge, arm-in-arm. Groups of friends threw tennis balls to their dogs, some people strode along determinedly, while other weirdos ran past, checking their watches intermittently.

Even though it was beautiful and lovely and the air was crisp, I was still feeling a bit off kilter. Even this song wasn’t helping me out. In frustration, I took the buds out of my ears.

Once the noise stopped, I felt nothing but peace. Not just the music, but all the white noise, all voices in my head (not schizophrenic voices, thank you). Everything shut off and I was just there.

I don’t know what it is about the ocean. There isn’t anything like a swim to get rid of the cobwebs but even just being by the water is refreshing. Fresh, salty air. It grounds me. I walked to the Barwon Heads point and back, the light fading as the sun slowly sank behind the sand dunes and the transparent clouds making lazy patterns in the sky.

Tonight, I feel tired but rejuvenated. University starts back tomorrow and I am excited to be back. Engaging and challenging my brain. I never want to stop learning.

bon voyage

2011-07-29T21:02:00.001+10:00

I posted the journal today. It’s on its way to one of you.

You can keep track of it here.

2011-07-25T01:24:00.001+10:00

I’ve become an obnoxious iPhone owner, Instagraming and Hipstamaticing all over the place.

Lunch time.

My favourite subject.

The journal before it was attacked with food dye.

My gorgeous niece. I’d have a photo of her brother, the blonde angel of terror, but he doesn’t stay still for long enough.

A tale of the disintegration and demise of two of the most unsympathetic characters I’ve ever read about.

Leaving Nat’s house after a messy night out. Wine and cider, we are no longer on speaking terms.

Apparently, North Fitzroy is an alien hotspot.

Hope you all had a good weekend.

the start.

2011-07-20T21:19:00.001+10:00

artwork from A Vintage Poster via Pinterest

Dudes, I’ve got the journal. I just have to pimp it out a smidge and hopefully, I will have it posted to the first be able to post it on either Friday or Monday.

I’ve been mulling over the best way to organise this little experiment. What I think will work best is if you all email me your postal address (if it’s a home address, don’t worry – I’m far too broke to be a proper stalker) and when the person who currently has the journal is ready to send it on, I will email them the next address of the next blogger on the list.

If you're a bit iffy about giving your street address to complete strangers, for Australian residents, I have checked with Australia Post who say that you can have packages delivered care of the local post office. I’m not sure if this is the same in other countries, but I can’t imagine it would be a problem. Also, if there is someone involved in the project that you particularly don’t want to have your details, let me know and I’ll organise it so they don’t.

I tossed up whether to have the journal posted out in geographical sequence, but then I thought it would be much for fun to have the journal crisscross the globe. And it’s always more fun to receive mail from another country, rather than the neighbouring state. I’m thinking that, ideally, there should be a two-week turnaround (three, if you insist, because shit does occasionally hit the fan).

Other than that, there are no rules. Do whatever you please to the journal. Like the above poster’s sentiments, you don’t have to be all neat and orderly. Go nuts. Release your inner artist/writer/doodler/scribbler/finger-painter. Or don’t. Whatever. You can’t stuff it up, just do what feels right.

So! Email me! annelisekate [at] gmail.com. Send me your details. I will hunt you down if you don’t. Via the internet, of course, because I have no money for a proper hunt. Some angry typing will have to suffice.

Do it! Do it now. Now now now. Do it. And if you haven’t already joined the gang, there’s still time. Really, loads of time. Do it.

2011-07-15T14:48:00.001+10:00

Sometimes I have to fight hard to resist the urge that wants me to do nasty, spiteful things to people. To post anonymous comments on blogs, asking if they think people actually care what the food they ate on the weekend looked like, up close and macro-style, or tell the fashion bloggers the pose they insist on doing has its own piss-take website. To make snarky comments on grammar, about how plurals don't need apostrophes (photo's!) or to email them an edited version of their post with all the mistakes and changes highlight in red. And in bold. Sometimes when I'm in a clothes shop, I want to push all the neatly folded t-shirts onto the floor or to let the clothes fall off the hanger onto the floor and walk away without making any effort to pick them out. I like to imagine what kind of noise a wine bottle would make as I gripped its neck and smashed it into the sharp edge of a brick wall, or what it would feel like to run my key along the length of a shiny and expensive car. To tell someone to piss off and carefully watch their face as their expression changes, taking in what I've just said.

I don't do these things though because I'm not a sociopath or an arsehole. But sometimes, I'm tempted.

**Edit: I feel I should point out I don't want to make snarky comments any of your blogs; I don't follow blogs which annoy me.

today was A Good Day

2011-07-08T23:06:00.002+10:00

pinterest via let's dance to joy division, original source unknown

Things have a way of working themselves out, it’s true. The financial woes turned out be not nearly as drastic as I thought. That will teach me for jumping to the worst case scenario and not listening properly to all the information. Automatically, when something like this happens, my brain just starts jumping around and shouting ‘Oh shit, oh fuck. This could not possibly get any worse. Look what you’ve done. Oh shit, oh fuck.’ Now that I’ve calmed down, found out the facts, I’ve realised it isn’t as bad as first thought. The woes are still there but instead of being daunting, it’s turned out to be quite manageable. Praise sweet baby cheeses.

The essays back in June that caused me so much grief that I wanted to want to dig my brain out of my head with a spoon couldn’t have gone too badly because I found out today my overall semester marks: a distinction for Modern Texts and a high distinction for Australian Literature. I sat here on the couch with a big stupid grin on my face, thinking that all the swearing and weird, tearless crying I did was worth it to get good results.

The good day continued when I stopped to let a woman reverse out of a park that I wanted. As she pulled out, she drove passed me really slowly and wound down her window. I cautiously wound down mine but was taken aback when she held out her parking ticket, telling me it still had an hour left on it. Win!

I bought myself something frivolous to celebrate my good marks. I went to the supermarket and walked straight to an empty register. My niece pointed her finger at me quite aggressively and said “You are my friend.” It was such a great day and I felt like running down the street, high fiving every person I saw.

I am so excited about the travelling journal. I’d love for more people to join in, so if you didn’t see my last post and don’t know what the sweet hell I’m talking about, you can check it out here. The more, the merrier.

I’m off to Melbourne tomorrow after work. I’m going to spend some time with my bad influence of a friend and let off some built-up steam. It’s going to be fun, expensive and cause me a headache on Sunday and I cannot wait.

Any exciting adventures planned for you?

stuff and an idea

2011-07-06T18:02:00.001+10:00

nathaniel russell's artwork via whose truths

I love the internet, even though I regularly curse its existence – but that’s more to do with my extreme lack of willpower when it comes to knowing when to stop clicking on links. However, I like to think that if I did know when to stop, then I more than likely wouldn’t have found the following sites:

Make everything ok found via @bamaloo. On those utterly craphouse days, this button would be worn out.

Dear Photograph found via freefalling me. Nearly every single one of these photographs and the one or two simple sentences that accompanied it made my eyes well up with tears. The one with the dad in the window reflection? The dad with the little girl who was his ‘chemo’? Holy moly.

Who is the cutest? Seriously, it’s true.

Save The Words. Limitless amounts of words that have fallen out of daily usage. Adopt a word to save it. The word I adopted was scaevity and apparently hasn’t been used much since the 1600s (stupid spell check doesn’t even recognise it). It means extremely unlucky. I like it and I can’t wait to use it. I imagine it will make me sound intellectual, well-read and ever so pompous.

The Disposable Memory Project. It’s been around for years so chances are you’ve probably heard of it. Disposable cameras are scattered around the globe, just waiting for someone to pick them up, record a few moments in time and either pass it on to someone else or send it back to HQ where they will develop the photographs and post the images on the site. Over 300 cameras have been released but only 28 have been found. Check here to see if any have been released near you. And then find one! And then send it to me!

I love these community art project thingies. The camera one and ones like PostSecret. I love them so much, I want to start up my own. A mini one though, nothing too huge. I’m thinking of a travelling journal, a kind of Day/Weekend/Week in the Life of <insert Blogger’s Name here> type one. Whoever has it has free reign to do whatever they want: they could write in it, draw in it, put empty sugar packets from cafes in it, stick in photographs. Make it as plain or as arty farty as they please. Whatever. Then when they’re done, they can contact me and I’ll tell them the next address to send it to. It could be a total surprise as to where you are on the list to receive the journal. We could record the journal’s trek around the globe with its own blog.

What do you think? Would you be interested in doing this? I would love to have something physical, something I could hold in my hands, to remind me of all the bloggers out there around the world who have given me so much inspiration and friendship. Do you think we, as a group, could make this work?

wanderlust

2011-07-05T12:00:00.001+10:00

Remember when I said I was a cautious Capricorn who never said Fuck it and booked plane tickets to faraway destinations? Turns out I can rebel every now and then.

here via pinterest

Every few weeks or so, in a frenzy of masochism, I look up the cost of flights to places like this or this and then get myself into such a funk, it’s hard to see how I’ll even be able to afford to catch the train to Melbourne. Asia has never really held all that much interest for me – I don’t know why, maybe because of its close proximity to Australia? I’m more attracted to the places that take 24 hours of travel to reach – but the other night, I idly checked the prices of flights to Vietnam and caught my breath: UNDER $600 RETURN??

My heart started racing and my fingers started shaking as I started to think that I could afford to do this. I walked away from the computer, telling myself not to be silly, that money needed to stay in the back Just In Case. I jumped around for a bit, checked that the dates would actually be quite convenient (might miss the first week back at uni but whatevs, right?), told myself a thousand reasons why spending the money was a bad idea.

But I did it anyway. I threw caution to the wind and flipped my Capricorn traits the bird. I booked flights and emitted a strangled squeal when the confirmation email showed up in my inbox. Fourteen days in Vietnam, from 23 February to 7 March. Adventure! If I can’t find adventure in South-East Asia, then I’ve no hope. Or imagination.

Have you been to Vietnam? I don’t know much about the country at all so any tips or advice would be greatly appreciated. I’m arriving and departing at Ho Chi Minh City and at the moment, I’m thinking of catching a plane on the first day to Hanoi and then making my way back down south over the two weeks, but any suggestions are more than welcome. I may have also convinced two friends to come with me. Finances are being worked through, final decision pending. I don’t mind travelling alone but travel companions are not to be sniffed at.

Vietnam! A holiday! Adventure! This is what my soul has been craving for too long. New ground to set foot on, a cure for these eternally itchy feet. But just how long is February going to take to roll around?!

the other list

2011-07-01T15:46:00.001+10:00

Sometimes it’s easy to focus on the negative or the downright annoying (as seen here). One of Alex’s suggestions for pulling myself out of this shitty crappy mood was to start a gratitude journal, listing fifteen things each day that have made me happy or thankful. I’ve tried this thing before and have never made it passed the third day but this time, I’ve kept at it. Except for yesterday. Yesterday, I was knackered after carrying my big-for-his-age eighteen-month old nephew around (and when I say ‘big for his age’, I mean it. He weighs more than his three-year-old sister. He’s not fat, he’s just sturdy. And gorgeous) and couldn’t lift my arm for love nor money.

Here are a few things that have brought a smile to my face this week:

You guys, obvs.
The looks of joy on my niece and nephew’s faces we go to visit – it could warm any heart.
Being snugly in a warm bed when it’s freezing outside.
An afternoon of window shopping with Mum.
Finding a new series to read – The Hunger Games. Have you read these? I can’t get enough which is kind of bizarre because as much as children irritate me, I didn’t think I would enjoy a book about a contest where they have to kill or be killed. Oddly enough, I have loved it.
A day that included both lemon tart and lemon meringue pie (my favourite).
A father who can fix broken bathroom pipes (whoopsie. I may have caused a fountain of scalding hot water in my bathroom cupboard).
Being able to read until 2.45am without the worry of getting up for work in the morning.
A mother who knows more than she lets on.
Crisp air and blue skies: the perfect winter’s day.
Realising I had spent way less than I thought and then promptly buying two bunches of the most beautiful pink ranunculus. Flowers are a fail-safe when it comes to shitty crappy moods.
Watching Dirty Dancing and being able to say all the lines, word for word. I acknowledge other people who watch the movie with me do not feel the same gratitude as I. This is something they have to deal with.

While I haven’t been able to list fifteen each day (is it weird I can’t find fifteen things that have made me happy or that I’m grateful for every day?), I’m finding writing a few things down is a nice way to cap off a day each evening.

So what about you? What’s made you feel all gooey this week?

the fog

2011-06-29T23:41:00.000+10:00

A heavy blanket of fog covered the town this morning. It was dark and eerie until the sun burnt it off close to midday. I had been planning to go into the Gardens and the Waterfront this week to take some photos but in my mind, they were full of bright blue skies. The grey mist, however, was perfectly suited to moody black and white. These photos were taken between 10.30 and 11.00 am and I could barely see 100 metres in front of me.

I think this last photo is my favourite. It’s so eerie and if there hadn’t been a steady stream of runners and the screeching of the colony of flying foxes inhabiting the pine trees, I could easily have let my imagination run wild.

By the time I got home, a whole five minute drive, the sun had broken through. The sky was a clear bright blue and the flowers in the backyard seemed brighter than usual.

thanks

2011-06-27T14:56:00.001+10:00

Thanks for your comments, your suggestions and your emails. Thanks for your virtual hugs and cups of tea. It is somewhat reassuring that most people can relate. It is less isolating. I have taken what has been suggested and given each due consideration. I can report I am now taking St John’s Wort, have started a gratitude journal, and am making some attempt to leave the house every now and then.

“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world,
and you believe you are living.
Then you read a book … or you take a trip…
and you discover that you are not living,
that you are hibernating.
The symptoms of hibernating are easily
detectable: first, restlessness.
The second symptom (when hibernating
becomes dangerous and might degenerate
into death): absence of pleasure.
That is all.
It appears like an innocuous illness.
Monotony, boredom, death.
Millions live like this (or die like this)
without knowing it.
They work in offices.
They drive a car.
They picnic with their families.
They raise children.
And then some shock treatment takes place,
a person, a book, a song, and it awakens
them and saves them from death.
Some never awaken.”

Anais Nin via And sometimes planes they smash up in the sky

sad

2011-06-23T18:36:00.001+10:00

via piccsy, original source unknown.

I’m a bit sad. A little bit down. Maybe a little bit depressed. I’m on holidays from uni but I don’t want to do anything. And the less I do, the less I want to do. But I want to do something at the same time. I just don’t know what. And thanks to getting myself in a financial pickle, I don’t have the money to do something or anything. Lucky nothing costs nothing. Except perhaps sanity.

I find it hard to concentrate on anything. Like my mind is thinking eighty different things but nothing at the same time. I sit down to write, nothing comes out. I try to read but give up when I've read the same paragraph four times. I look up and realise I’ve been picking split ends out of my hair for an hour. I sigh a lot.

I don’t have a big circle of friends but that’s okay, I never have. I have always preferred a small group of close friends to a hoard of acquaintances. But at the moment, I’m feeling particularly lonely. Close friends live hours away or different time zones altogether. Working on Saturdays is causing me to miss out on weekends away with friends. (I resent working on Saturdays but I don’t have much other choice.) I miss my high school best friend who lives a ten minute drive from here but because we have both changed so much, seems so much further away.

Part of this harks back to a craving for adventure. I need some change, of routine and scenery. Something to inspire. Something to shake off the dust and to get my heart beating faster. I don’t know how to find this, to do this. Even if adventure was free, who would I adventure with?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just lonely. But until I find someone to make me not so lonely, how do I know that’s all it is? Maybe it is something else, something more, something worse? I don’t know and it makes me feel anxious. And sad.

some advice

2011-06-17T18:23:00.001+10:00

Sometimes, there isn’t anything better than some no-nonsense good advice:

Julie Morris Design via Eclecticist

Have a good weekend, friends.

nostalgia

2011-06-16T14:06:00.001+10:00

I went back to Peterborough over the long weekend, though this time, I stayed at the house that my great-grandparents bought back in the fifties. Its name is Palmyra but we have only ever referred to it simply as The House.

My childhood summers belong to that house and that tiny little town. From the day after Christmas to just before school started back in February, we lived there. Hot days and warm nights, sandy feet, suntan marks, the smell of bacon and eggs cooking, the sound of the waves crashing on the beach that we could hear while trying to get to sleep.

Then things changed and we stopped going for a few years. When we did go back, it wasn’t to the house but to the caravan park which started a whole new set of memories. The house though, the house held a special place in my heart, so stepping inside for the first time in about 23 years was like going back in time.

I had forgotten its smell. Old furniture smell. And I had forgotten how high the door knobs were – chest height. In my memory, the kitchen was a lot bigger but the stripy carpet in the lounge room was exactly the same.

The built-in seats against the walls are full of old magazines and books. I pulled out a copy of Reader’s Digest which was dated 1976.

The only rule of Peterborough is that when you drive over the bridge to reach the town, you must take a left and head up to the Point. No matter what time of day or night you arrive (a few years ago when we would stay at the caravan park, Dad would finish work at 2am. We’d pick him up, drive the two hours to Peterborough and be sitting in the dark at the Point at 4am, just listening to the waves. Then we would go to the caravan, get four or five hours sleep before the day started. Memories.). So on the way home, I stopped at the Point and took a few photos, even though I have thousands that look exactly the same I can’t help myself. Don’t be fooled by the lovely blue sky, it was fecking freezing.

Over 800 ships were shipwrecked along this coastline back in the day.

This is the golf course, right on the cliff top. I always said if I won the lottery, I would buy the golf course and build a great, big, stinking house with 180-degree views of the ocean. The fact that it is crown land or whatever is irrelevant.

A lot of people don’t see the attraction to Peterborough. It only has two general stores and a pub but what else do you need? It’s my favourite place in the world – besides Italy, naturally.

how to cope with essay writing induced stress

2011-06-10T17:53:00.000+10:00

The following tips will only be successful if one tells oneself any or all of these statements:

I have plenty of time
I work better with shorter deadlines
Fuck me, I don't want to do this

I maintain as a qualified medical professional* that these dealing with stress tips have been repeatedly tried and tested, and have proven to be efficient techniques**

Do not wash hair or wear clean clothes. Dirty manky hair and smelly tracksuits will discourage you from a desire to leave the house, thus ensuring more time spent at work station.
When feeling overwhelmed, scribble a series of expletives on glass-top desk. Later, idly muse over just how permanent 'permanent' Sharpies really are. Add more expletives as needed.
Paper and books strewn across the entire floor's surface is quite frankly the only filing system that works.
As constant studying and research is inexplicably related to making one ravenous, it is recommended that one sates ones hunger with limitless amounts of chocolate, chips and licorice (alternatives may be substituted as one sees fit). Wonder later why self feels a strong desire to expel foodstuffs from body in a variety of methods, as well as why clothes no longer fit comfortably.
After essays are bashed out in frantic manner, celebrate by consuming copious amount of alcohol of personal choice.***

Once have awoken from alcohol-induced unconsciousness, life may resume as normal. Which, as from now, it does.

*This is a filthy dirty lie.

**This is also a filthy dirty lie.

***This is the only tip that I can stand by.

you’re my favourite mofo

2011-05-24T17:38:00.001+10:00

A few weeks ago, late on a Sunday night, I realised I hadn’t looked at my phone all day. Not once. I picked it up, pouted and said in an indiscriminate accent, ‘Ah, nobody love me.’ No texts, no missed calls. Nothing. I put the phone down, forgot about it and kept watching television. Later when I went to bed, I picked up the phone again to set the alarm and I saw a text message from Dad. I love you, it read.

fantastic card from lemonswithapea.

I haven’t meant to have a blogging hiatus. It just happened. And then I realised I had only posted once this month and I felt lazy. Lazier than usual. And then Naina kindly asked if I was taking a break and it felt nice to have someone go out of their way to ask where I was.

I have an idea for a post swimming around the murky waters of my mind but the words are being stubborn mules. They won’t come, no matter how I entice them. I’m working on it. I’ll bribe them with something. Drugs or alcohol or something (kidding) (about the drugs, not the alcohol).

the list

2011-05-06T14:19:00.003+10:00

On Wednesday, a coffee date (hello, Alex) turned into lunch, three coffees in three hours and conversation that never stopped for breath. Later, while suffering a severe case of latte-induced jitters, I realised that most of what I had to offer was bitching about people or things that had pissed me off. And I think I do this regularly which is a little bit alarming. You’ll know all about my pissing and moaning if you follow me on Twitter (apologies for clogging up your feed).

It reminded me how I used to have a list. If I spoke to someone shitty on the phone at work, I would hang up and say ‘Well, they’ve just gone on The List.’ Everything and everyone was on it; sometimes they were aware of it, mostly they weren’t.

More for my own benefit than yours, I’ve decided to document The List so that when I decide to launch my own personal jihad against those who have wronged me, I’ll know exactly where to start. I’m not going to balance it out with a ‘happy’ or ‘grateful’ list either. I’m just not sunshine and unicorns and cupcakes and sparkles like that.

So here it is. Feel free to unfollow the blog if you wish (you will risk being added to said list) and feel free to add your own to the list because I can almost guarantee that they will piss me off too.

The List:

6. Morgan.

5. General lack of manners. Please and thank you aren’t all that hard, mofo.

4. People who sneeze and then don’t acknowledge the bless you you say to them.

3. Cameron Diaz (although I did watch the R-rated version of the Bad Teacher trailer last night and now can’t wait to see it which just really confuses me because I can’t stand Diaz with her stupid Joker grin but she was hilarious in this trailer and I think it’s probably just safer to leave her on The List just in case).

2. Screaming babies (see No. 1).

1. House guests (see No. 2).

You know, I’m just going to leave it at five for today. Don’t want to overwhelm you with my levels of barely contained, simmering rage. Ahhh though, it does feel good to get things off ones chest so go on, say it, get it out: what pisses you off?

lovely.

2011-04-30T20:15:00.001+10:00

We’ve all seen the dress so I don’t need to clog the interwebz up with more re-postings. I thought it was perfect (lace sleeves!) and the whole spectacle was so much better than I expected. These are a couple of my favourite images:

Could you imagine walking into this? I remember walking into Westminster Abbey a few years ago and uttering a few choice words under my breath that probably should have struck me down on the spot. I can’t imagine seeing it all pimped out and full of people full of their own importance.

Seriously? This blows my mind. All the royal guards lining the Mall, the cavalry, it’s such a formidable sight.

And some fun. How cute. I thought this was a really lovely and fun touch to the formality of the day.

So … didn’t Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice looked awwwful? Who let them in like that? Ooh, and David Beckham with his old-school movie star hair? The hotness. I think my favourite though was the grumpy flower girl. No, wait. Prince Harry. He’s always my favourite.

And now, let the royal baby bump watch commence.

Did you watch it? Like it? Love it? Hate it?

All images from Mail Online.

easter adventure

2011-04-26T15:17:00.001+10:00

I needed some adventure. I posted my demand on Twitter and along with another tweeter (twitter? Seriously, what are we called? Suggestion of ‘twats’ will be not be accepted), I decided this five-day Easter/ANZAC Day long weekend would be the time to seek something out of the ordinary.

Peterborough. It’s a teeny, tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it beach town along the Great Ocean Road. It has two general stores and a pub which I think is all a town needs. My great-grandparents owned a holiday house there when they were still alive and we spent every summer and long weekend in between at that house. The carpet was more sand than fibre and the bedrooms had those old-fashioned candlewick bedspreads covering the lumpy mattresses. My brother and I would use the furniture in the lounge room as an obstacle course, the toilet was outside and for years, the smell of bacon would take me back to that kitchen with the mint-green cupboards.

I haven’t been back to The House for years but I’m lucky enough to visit my aunty’s holiday house every now and then. It looks out across the lake, has cows for neighbours and is a five-minute walk to the beach. The perfect place for adventure.

As much fun as I had, I didn’t find much adventure. We had a bonfire that kind of died in the arse, despite having petrol thrown on it – out of a wine glass nonetheless. There’s nothing quite like being rugged up, wearing gumboots, drinking beer and poking a fire with a big stick.

Behind the fire, that hill is a sand dune. A steep one that involves a precarious climb down to the beach.

The ocean looks calm enough in this picture but the day before, waves were crashing over the rocks. Of course on Monday, the day we left, the sun was shining but that’s always the way, isn’t it?

I still need an adventure. Something to get the heart racing, some adrenaline pumping, to make me feel alive. Like really living. I think my subconscious felt sorry for me because while I was away, I had a dream that I was in New York City. I remember turning my face to the sun, to the traffic, the hustle and bustle, and feeling completely in the moment. I know my full-time student situation doesn’t particularly lend itself to international travel but sometimes I feel like saying Fuck it. Bugger the savings, let’s go. But then my practical, cautious Capricorn nature kicks in and I don’t book a flight, I don’t look for cheap accommodation, I don’t buy a guide book.

I need adventure.

that time princess diana waved to me

2011-04-22T00:56:00.001+10:00

I had a little obsession when I was a little girl. One that Mum says cost her a small fortune in magazines. I was fascinated with Princess Diana. I had a scrapbook:

My three-year-old self would spend the day with Nana and together, we would cut out pictures and spend hours pasting them into the dog-eared book.

Look at the date! It’s 28 years old! It’s from Melbourne’s The Herald newspaper, a huge ‘souvenir’ poster of Prince William as a baby. It’s folded into quarters and pasted in carefully.

A couple of years ago, Mum and I came across the book when we were having a clean out. ‘Chuck it,’ I said dismissively, but she protested so loudly that I relented just to keep the peace. Now, I’m so glad she made me keep it. It makes me love that three-year-old.

A lot of the pictures are from the royal visit to Australia in 1983. Here’s one of Charlie, sporting a fetching safari suit:

Given my age, I don’t really remember much of the cutting-and-paste time with my grandmother but this following picture and the shitstorm about it, I do. There are photos on the reverse of the pretty in pink princess and thinking she was doing the right thing, Nana started chopping her way through the page until I completely lost my shit because Princess Di’s torso had been sliced and diced. Quick thinking and resourceful as grandmothers tend to be, Nan pasted half the page down, letting the other half to be turned over like a book. Another magazine was sourced and the rest of the picture added to the book. I was placated.

This page was my favourite. Look at the hat! Look at the collar! The daisies! Love.

I’m not sure what Wills did to deserve having his page ripped off.

They came to Melbourne during the royal visit, the Prince and Princess. And she waved to me. I asked Mum how she knew Princess Di waved to me and not somebody else and she said ‘You were the only child held up about two foot above everyone else’s heads. There was nothing else to wave to at that height.’ Isn’t that sweet? Princess Di waved to me.

Although the scrapbook habit died out, I loved Princess Di and I was devastated when she died. I was at work and a woman said to me, ‘Word is Princess Di has died.’ This is really corny but as she walked away, the song playing over the PA system at the time was The Pretenders ‘Hymn to Her’:

And she will always carry on
Something is lost
But something is found
They will keep on speaking her name
Some things change
Some stay the same

It sill brings tears to my eyes :)

I’m so excited about the wedding. I don’t even care if people think it’s ridiculous. I can’t wait. One of my friends is having a party, complete with champagne, gloves and tiaras. She thinks she may even wear her wedding dress (totes tongue-in-cheek) because ‘when else am I ever going to wear it?’ Absolutely. Rock that white dress, sista.

We’re having our own little wedding party here at home (though I’m thinking more pyjamas than frocks). The time difference is perfect: Friday evening. I can’t wait for the dress. I’m predicting lace sleeves. Even though I don’t like the whole ‘blue blood’ aspect of royalty, I think it’s so romantic that Kate is leaving her hotel as a shitkicking commoner in a car, only to leave Westminster Abbey a princess in a carriage. It’s right out of a fairytale.

Will you be watching? Do you even care?

2011-04-18T12:03:00.000+10:00

I have this gif saved on my bookmarks bar and sometimes, when I'm not paying enough attention, I accidentally click it instead of the address bar. It surprises me and makes me giggle each time. I don't know who I love more: the guy at the front right or the woman in the middle wearing white who appears to be doing The Chicken. The poor loves, forever dancing. Surely that guy's neck would be giving him grief by now.

Also, thank you so much to those who voted for me in the Best Australian Blogs 2011 competition. If I could take you out for margaritas and nachos, I would. There is still time to vote - you have until Friday 21 April (don't forget Australia is ahead of most of the world, time-wise). x

vote?

2011-04-17T11:55:00.000+10:00

I feel a bit silly to be honest. And I've never done this kind of thing before ... but if you were to vote for me in the Best Australian Blogs 2011, I should be very grateful. The competition is an initiative of the Sydney Writers' Centre and there are some incredible blogs on the list. Voting in this round is open until Friday 21 April, after which I will take down the badge and pretend this never happened because, you know, this isn't something I do, don't draw attention to yourself, Annelise. Of course I don't expect to get any more than five votes, but five votes? I would love those five votes like they were my babies.

done

2011-04-15T19:06:00.000+10:00

Picture found via pinterest but original source not known.

I handed in two uni assignments today and am now on two weeks' holiday (and for the record, Charlie Chaplin and Henry Lawson can suck it. Just like Oliver Twist did last year). My plans for the next fourteen days include announcing Monsieur Frog's mantra daily, learning how to use my D-SLR camera (that I've only had for four years ...), reading books books books and seeking adventure. That makes me happy.

A love story makes me happy too. You should all probably read Natasha's love story. Start with this one and then read this one. If a tear or two don't come to your eyes, you're probably made of stone.

Have a lovely weekend. x

2011-03-28T23:25:00.000+11:00

It's 10.30pm Monday night and I'm about to start this sleep schedule all over again for the coming week. The stupid thing is I'm so tired, I'm fighting extreme fatigue like a prize ... erm ... fighter, I suppose. I don't know why I do this because I know how awesome sleep is.

I had a fantastic weekend. New friends and a party that carried over into the early hours of Monday morning. Question though: if the party goes for about 31 hours, how long does the hangover last?

These are good days. Life is good. Have a good week, friends.

bye bye, eddie

2011-03-10T18:19:00.000+11:00

Eddie

1991 - 2011

Mr Ed. Our ginger ninja. What a good crack you gave it: twenty years!

I knew you belonged with us. I just knew it. Advertised in Saturday's paper as a 'runaway, free to a good home,' I pestered Mum like only a 12-year-old can for a whole week until she finally gave in. Okay, she said, I'll call. But don't get your hopes up, he's probably already gone, she warned. But I knew.

You were lucky to have been found by cat lovers along that long and dusty, scarcely-inhabited country road. Not so lucky that their dog didn't like you. You were forced to live that week on the shed roof with a constantly barking dog as your only company. They were cat breeders, those people who found you, and they gave you a cat breeder-type name: Swirly Ed, due to the patterns in your thick ginger coat. We screwed our noses up at the 'swirly' but Ed was perfect. Eddie. You made yourself at home straight away so that when Dad came home from work and saw you quite contentedly cleaning yourself on the family room floor like you belonged, all he could say was 'We have a cat now.'

It wasn't all roses though. How could it be, living with two teenagers who were convinced cats existed solely for their own entertainment? You suffered the indignation of being dressed up in baby clothes or when the season called for it, Christmas decorations. You gave as got as you got though, Ed; you had some spunk, you feisty redhead. Many an ankle latched onto, many an unsuspected attack. You had fastest right hook imaginable when you'd had enough of being petted. No warning shot from you. My high school friends were scared of you, you know. Probably from when they sat on those ugly cane stools we had at the old house and you would stand on your back legs to swipe at the backsides through the holes in the seat. Squealing high school girls, that'll do it every time.

You made us laugh - even though it was occasionally at your expense. Remember when we decided that you needed a bath? We fell about laughing, clutching our stomachs and gasping for air as you, looking like a drowned rat, stalked across the backyard, flicking your tail wildly and hissing every few steps. You looked beautiful when you dried but I'm not sure that was a consolation to you.

You must have loved the 'treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen' mentality that we had because you stuck with us for 19 years. Nearly two-thirds of my life. You got so old, Ed; when did that happen? Your lovely coat lost its shine, your white bits not so bright. No matter how much we fed you, you still lost weight. I joked that you had lost your mind because we sometimes saw you in the yard, curled up in the sun, meowing to an invisible companion.

We knew the end was coming, we used to pause by the window when we saw you sprawled out, just waiting for the rise of your tummy. We would let out a breath we didn't realise we were holding and then smile to ourselves. But on Sunday, I must have known something. I sat with you for a long while, making sure you ate your dinner and scratching that eternally itchy spot under your chin.

That was the last time I saw you, Ed. When you didn't show for breakfast, we felt mild concern but said you'd probably had a night out on the town and needed a sleep in. But not showing up for dinner? Unheard of. When you were a no-show on Day 2, we started preparing ourselves, bracing ourselves.

Dad found you, quite by accident, nearly two kilometers away. How'd you get so far?! For a cat who rarely left the yard - investigating what the neighbour's cat had for dinner the only exception - you certainly hoofed it along.

I thanked Dad for bringing you back home. He said it looked like you were sleeping and buried you in the backyard. I found these old photos and this is how I remember you.

The others loved you but you were always my cat, Eddie. xx

thank you

2011-02-28T21:26:00.001+11:00

Dear little black goat,

Last year, you were my favourite part of the hour and a half-long drive to university. Somehow, you made something as silly as standing on a blue metal drum seem dignified and seeing you made me squeal out. But then you disappeared and semester two wasn't the same. All those winter months with no miniature goat to cheer my bleak morning. But imagine my surprise last week when, on my way to uni, I saw you standing proudly on your blue drum watching the traffic whiz by! I was so happy that in a moment of unbridled joy, I took my hands from the steering wheel and clapped, yelling out HELLO, GOAT!! Thank you for coming back, I missed you.

Yo. Psychic Bikie,

Thanks for telling me not only what I wanted to hear, but what I needed to hear.

Dear Sixteen Candles,

Thanks for being awesome. I apologise, I had forgotten. But I've watched you twice since yesterday and I can assure you that we shan't be separated again. I'm in love with Jake Ryan and I want to go to one of his parties - but only if Long Duk Dong is going to be there.

you can go your own way

2011-02-10T22:07:00.000+11:00

‘You’re like Benjamin Button,’ he said.

I cocked my head to the side. ‘Eh?’

‘Benjamin Button. You’ve done everything arse-about.’

It’s true, what my cousin said to me. While my friends were partying away their early 20s, I was paying off a mortgage. While my friends were settling down in their late 20s, I was partying in Ireland. And now, while my friends are into their early 30s, I’m starting my second year of university.

I seem to have done everything back to front, against the usual of what is expected. Surely by now, I should have a good start on a superannuation fund? Surely by now, I shouldn’t be living with my parents?

I try not to compare myself to others because everybody's story is different but that can sometimes be hard. I look at my cousin, who at 26, already has four properties. I could have had that, I think to myself. But then I remember how beaten I was by that 25-year loan. How I felt tied to, and suffocated by, that house with its bare walls and rooms empty of furniture. And how houses or money might mean success to someone else, but they don’t necessarily equal success for me.

I’ve been working over the summer break. While I appreciate the money and the opportunity to engage my brain, office life is not for me. At the moment, I’m acting PA to the company director, complete with my very own The Devil Wears Prada moments: Oh, crap. He wanted Diet Coke for lunch, I didn’t check with size bottle. Small or large? … Hmm … Should I get the little one? What if that’s not enough? I’ll get the large then … But what if that’s overkill? Why didn’t I ask before I left the office? Small or large? … Small or large? SMALL OR LARGE??? Don’t get me wrong, he’s nothing like Miranda Priestly but there’s still a bit of pressure not to fuck everything up.

While I was preparing the newspaper advertisement last week, I realized: I don’t care. I don’t care if the ad deadline has passed, I don’t care if the exclusive sale authority has expired, I don’t care if we’re out of toner. I just do not care. I thought my lack of giving a shit was just down to a poor work attitude but when I realized that I was chomping at the bit to get back to school, it made sense.

Hating any job I had was like a full-time job in itself. None of them made me happy. I've written before about how going back to school was the best decision I ever made but this summer has really rammed that fact home. I've finally found exactly where I need to be. Where I want to be. I'm on the right path and knowing that is exhilarating. I can't wait to go back to school because that's where I'm supposed to be. My friends can have all the houses and all the babies they want and that's okay because that's their path. Living at home, single for longer than I care to admit, and being back at school while everyone else my age is being a grown-up is okay because this is my path and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is my path.

Australia Day Round-Up

2011-01-27T16:25:00.004+11:00

I woke this morning, still fully dressed.

My left foot was covered in drawings done with a black marker.

A cupcake was mushed up into the mobile phone pocket in my bag.

A half-drank beer stood up in my bag and magically not a drop was spilled.

Red pen marks streaked up and down the legs of my jeans.

One of my thongs (flip flops) was broken.

Vague memories of drawing penises with black marker over the chest of random American guest.

Good times.

egyptian fixation

2011-01-24T00:07:00.003+11:00

20 January 2008

Three years ago to the day, I was in Egypt.

Does anyone remember seeing the Sesame Street skit of Bert and Ernie in the pyramid? And every time Ernie went into another chamber, the Bert-lookalike statue would tap Ernie on the shoulder, scaring the bejeebus out of him? And then they did that dance and singalong together? And then the statue did that creepy, raspy laugh at Bert ~~that gave me nightmares for months~~? You can watch it here.

I blame Bert and Ernie for my Egyptian fixation. Ever since seeing that skit, I've been obsessed. Ancient Egypt always fascinated me. I wanted to be an archaeologist when I was at primary school. The Mummy is one of my favourite movies. I had the Egyptian key of life, the ankh, tattooed on my wrist.

It was a country that completely overwhelmed me. As soon as I walked into Cairo Airport, I knew I was way out of my comfort zone. The shouting and the jostling of the taxi drivers to be the one to take me to my hotel rendered me incapable of speech. I watched with increasing fear as the other plane passengers made their way out of the airport, leaving me to fend for myself. Where was my hotel transfer? When I finally saw a piece of cardboard with my name scrawled across it held into the air, I almost cried with relief.

The colour, the chaos and the commotion of Cairo left me overawed. There was no order to anything. Cars screeched through the traffic and men leered at me when I ventured outside. I ran back to my hotel where security kept guard, a gun across his chest. I thought the mosque outside my hotel window was beautiful and exotic - until the 5am call to prayer blared through the loud speaker and I would wake with a jolt, in a tangle of sheets and my heart racing.

Culture shock subsided eventually and I let myself be overwhelmed by the history instead. I went inside the Great Pyramid of Giza, able to overcome crippling claustrophobia to stand inside a structure built over 5000 years ago. I let my imagination run wild as I walked through the creepy Egyptian Museum. I rode a camel in the Sahara Desert named Micki Maus. I spent the night on a felucca as we cruised down the Nile under a starry sky. I looked down at the Valley of the Kings from my sunrise hot air balloon flight. I saw Tutankhamun's mummified body. I left with a thousand memories.

I haven't been on new ground for a couple of years. I'm starting to get itchy feet again. That restless feeling I've kept a bay for so long is creeping back. Feeling nostalgic as I look through old photos will have to do for now, the obligations of the every day taking priority. For now.

lost things found

2011-01-13T14:53:00.000+11:00

Image by Patrick Demarchelier

I lost my rose gold bracelet on 23 December 2009. I had been at the work Christmas party all day. When I got home at 11.30pm after a solid nine hours of drinking and laughing in 30+ degree heat, I promptly fell face down on my bed and woke the next morning, still fully dressed - including one shoe, still firmly attached to my foot.

It was in the morning that I realised I didn't have my bracelet. All searches were in vain. It was gone. I tried not to think about it too much over the next few months. The bracelet didn't hold any emotional significance, the links were dented and the safety chain was broken. One link even had a hole in it, right through the gold. Deformities aside, I still missed it.

A year and two weeks later, a sequence of random events were falling into place. On Sunday, I was sitting in the backseat of Mum's car, bitching that my camera needed new batteries. Rather than leave the flat batteries in my bag to get mixed up with the new ones, I left them rolling around on the backseat, making a mental note to throw them out at the end of the day. Which I then went and completely forgot about.

Yesterday morning, this La Niña bitch, who is causing all kinds of weather havoc around Australia, made it rain so hard that I knew I was going to get soaked on the run from my car to work, so my beautiful mother offered to drive me into work.

"What if you get called into work?" I frowned.

"What if, what if," she shrugged.

When she picked me up at the end of the day, she said that although she had gotten the groceries, she forgot the chicken kievs for dinner so we made a stop on the way home. Getting her purse from the backseat, something caught her eye: a battery that I'd forgotten to throw out. I told her that the other one was probably in the hole where the seat belts were. She dug in and said, "Oh, Annelise..."

Irritably, I replied, "I meant to get it out."

She didn't answer me but instead handed me something. My beaten up rose gold bracelet. Lost for over a year. Hidden right under our noses - or butts, as the case would be. A quick dip in some jewellery cleaner has made the dents eye-catchingly shiny.

Image from pinterest

In a similar way, I found my creativity again after a few months of being AWOL. School finished and all I wanted to do was nothing so that I would have plenty of time to write and blog. And nothing was exactly what I did. I couldn't think of anything to write about and all blog posts I typed out were deleted before published. I wasn't working, I wasn't engaging my brain. Then, at the start of this year, after nearly two months of nothingness, I was offered more hours at work. After two days, I wrote a post for the first time in almost a month. And another the next day.

My mind started filling up with imaginary people and their stories. Characters who had already told me some of their story started talking to me again after giving me the silent treatment for so long. It feels so good to have them back, even though they keep me awake at night and distract me from my work during the day.

Photo from Twitter

Queenslanders have lost so much. The flooded area is twice the size of Texas or over five times the size of the UK. More than France and Germany put together. So many stories of loss. If you can, please donate. You can do it here. It doesn't matter how much, they have so much to rebuild.

PS. I know I've said it before, but I am Losing. My. Shit. at Blogger. What's with the extra line-break between paragraphs, bitch? Sometimes it does it, sometimes it doesn't. Does anyone know why it does this and how I can fix it? Or is it just time to give up the ghost and move somewhere else?

a perfect night

2011-01-07T21:19:00.001+11:00

Last night, Melbourne hosted the perfect summer's evening. Sultry warm air kissed our bare shoulders at midnight. We sat in a rooftop beer garden surrounded by the glow of fairy lights, in the company of new and old friends.

Today, I took a walk around Fitzroy in the morning heat to take some photos. The story I'm working on is set in the neighbourhood so I thought it would be good to have some visual reminders.

I love Fitzroy, it's so vibrant and interesting.

Graffiti or art?

This is my favourite house. Every time I walk past it, the desire to see behind those wooden doors grows. My friend has seen behind the doors once and she said it opened onto a courtyard. And that car? I would drive the shit out of that car.

Oh, hello, friend. Apparently, Ronald is holding up a severed finger. Kind of wish I had made the effort to walk down the lane to see that.

I had the day to myself so I lingered over a breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs on toast and two cappuccinos (Red Tongue on Brunswick Street, your scrambled eggs blow. Aren't scrambled eggs meant to be light and fluffy, not thick and slimy?). I wandered along Brunswick Street, in and out of shops, eavesdropping on other people's conversations. I bought myself a bag. I said Bless you to a man on the street who sneezed. He grinned and thanked me. It was a good day.

And what's this? Two posts in two days? I've lost all control.

numero uno 4 2k11*

2011-01-06T15:14:00.000+11:00

Oh. Hi. Hello. You're still here? Every time I log into Blogger, I wait with dread, wondering just how many of you have decided to unfollow (what a stupid word, by the way), having gotten sick of waiting for a new post. None of you have though and for that, I am grateful.

Truth be told, I haven't had anything to write about. Sure, despite all of my Christmas bah humbugness (what? That's a word), the day was great but you don't want to read about the mentals that make up my family. I went away to Peterborough for six days - my favourite place in the world - but you probably don't want to read how we milked every politically incorrect joke for its worth or how I got bitten on the big toe by something called a 'skipjack' or how I saw the new year in by having a five-person dance party beside the car at the Peterborough Point.

And even though I'm struggling to think of things to write about and even though I don't make New Year's Resolutions, I'm going to make an effort to blog once a week - at least once a week - because, sod it, I love blogging. I love reading your comments, I love reading your blogs, I love the emails I get from you. Love love love. And I've been pretty slack on all fronts and that's a change I would like to make.

*Hahaha, WTF?

Ho, Ho ... Humpf ...

2010-12-10T20:17:00.000+11:00

Well, good goddamn, it's December. Who let that happen? It's also been over two weeks since I last posted anything. Going by that post and the silence that followed, you would be forgiven if you thought I had been busy, doing all kinds of wonderful things. I haven't, of course; I'm far too lazy - and broke - to do any such thing.

I've been having trouble getting motivated for Christmas. Or caring. The thought of going shopping makes me homicidal. Buying stupid novelty Secret Santa presents for work colleagues is borderline depressive.

Trying to save money means I've been staying at home as much as possible. It's getting boring and I'm scared I've become a boring person. Don't only boring people get bored? But seriously, what is there to do when you're broke and everyone else is at work? The couch has an imprint roughly the size of my arse.

Next year's timetable means I'm staring down the barrel of my tenth (for realz: tenth) change of address in six years. Instead of getting excited about finally moving out of my parent's house - again - I'm worrying about how the effing hell I'm going to be able to afford it.

Tomorrow night, I'm going to try and shake it all off with a girl's night out. There will be dancing and there will be some drinking. And I will shake it off, this bah-humbugness. I will, I will, I will. Damn it, I will.

life is good

2010-11-22T21:23:00.000+11:00

I got this picture from Pinterest, but I don't know where it came from before that.

Right now, life is good.

I finished university for the year on Friday. There was an amazing feeling of accomplishment and it just re-enforced that the decision to take a risk, quit the sucky full-time job and chase a dream was the right one. I've met some wonderful, like-minded people this year (you know who you are) and I can't wait to see them regularly next year.

The weather, it seems, celebrated with me by putting on a glorious blue sky, sun-shiny, perfect 28-degree day. I took my book (The Secret History by Donna Tartt - loving it) and laid out in the sun. The sun got too hot for the backyard so I high-tailed it to the beach.

Being three o'clock on a Monday afternoon, the beach was pleasantly deserted, save for a few. The water was like ice and the first wave was so strong, it pulled me under and pulled down my bottoms. I misjudged the next wave and it broke as I turned side on, feeling like a car had slammed into me. It was wonderful. I stayed in the water for over half an hour, floating on my back, swimming with the waves, getting salt water up my nose. When I left at 5.20pm, the sun was still hot.

Now my skin is warm and prickly, a socially unacceptable shade of pink. I'm slathered in Palmer's Cocoa Butter. Tomorrow is forecast to be 31 and I'm heading back the beach.

I love holidays. I love freedom. I love that feeling of having no obligations, knowing I don't have an assignment that I should be researching or a book that I should be reading. I've told work not to even contemplate calling me for two weeks and I have things planned. Stuff to do. Stuff like writing, putting three-year-old photos in albums, reading, relaxing without guilt.

Mr Wilde said it best

2010-11-16T11:59:00.000+11:00

With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?

I've been stockpiling books for the summer break in the same way a squirrel packs nuts away for winter.

This is my To Be Read pile. I've never before had so many unread books. Usually, I might have another up my sleeve to start as soon as I finish one, but to have this many is overwhelming. Too much choice, which do I start with? As we speak, I've started Summer Crossing, Dead Man's Chest, Lolita, and The Secret History, dipping a little into each before I commit to one. Having this many books to read is such a luxury. I feel sorry for people who don't read. How much they are missing out on.

As well as all of these, I bought a Kobo e-reader a few weeks ago. It comes pre-loaded with one hundred of the classics. While I'm not sure I'll ever read War & Peace, it's nice to know that it's there, in case I ever feel the urge.

I've also been reading The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes on this nifty little thing. I never thought I would be one to get an eReader. The whole thing about how can you curl up on the couch and read a book when it's not paper? I said that, others have said it. But, you know, once you're reading a good story, it doesn't matter if it's printed on pages or if it's on an electronic handheld device. It's still a good story. You can still get lost in it. And the Kobo isn't back-lit like some other readers, which gives a matte finish so there's no glare. I love it.

Of course, it doesn't replace a bookcase of well-thumbed novels - of which, I'm fighting the urge to colour-code ...

Oh. And, um, speaking of books ... I may have had a story published in one lately. Well, yes, I did. It's the University's Anthology, Montage. A real book. A copy will be sent to the National Library of Australia. Me, my name, it's going to be in the Library. It's very exciting.

Having people read my writing hasn't gotten any easier. When my parents picked up a copy of Montage, I flipped: Don't read it now! Not in front of me! God! Even when they told me the next day they'd read it, I still went all funny. They may have well told me they had spent a few hours reading through my diaries. It's such a weird feeling and one I know I will have to overcome. Eventually. These things can't be rushed.

Gah, I think Blogger is still being a bitch and adding too many line spaces. Your days are numbered, Blogger.

Oy...

2010-11-08T18:55:00.000+11:00

(image from here)

This is how I'm feeling. I have so many posts up there in the noggin, but there is sweet f.a. chance of getting them out. The next week is going to be a total biatch. I'll be taking my frustrations out via Twitter: apologies in advance if you are already following me and if you aren't, it's probably wise not to start now.

Four o'clock next Friday afternoon, I love you already.

the eternal struggle

2010-10-26T21:47:00.000+11:00

I'm booked in to have my hair done next week. I get a cut and colour every six - seven weeks, and every six - seven weeks, I start asking myself the same old questions: lighter or dark? Longer or shorter? It's never-ending. Most of the time, when my hairdresser asks, ''So, what are we doing today?'', I say, "Oh, I don't know... What do you think?" I usually end up doing whatever she suggests and have subjected myself to weeks of indecision for no reason.

Over the years, my hair has been blonde, red and brown, and nearly every shade in between. When I think back to the pre-dyed days, I don't know why I ever touched it: it was brown, and had shades of chestnut when the sun hit it, as well as lighter, almost blonde, highlights around my face. I can't buy that colour.

At the moment, it's brown with some lighter foils. I like it, but as the appointment sneaks up on me, I start it all over again: should I go lighter? It's coming into summer, lighter hair looks good in summer. It looks good as it is, but could it look better, even lighter? What to do? What to do? I try looking to the internet for inspiration, but that just adds to the confusion:

Brunette, sultry and mysterious:

So I think Excellent, this is what I'll do! but then I see the blondes:

and I can't decide. I think I've learned my lesson with red, but I then see a bombshell like Christina Hendricks and I start to wonder Maybe...

Does anyone else do this to themselves? Or are you all content with what you've got? I drive myself crazy, never able to decide. Gah, first world problems...

Photos are from all over the joint. If they're yours, let me know and I'll give credit or take them down.

feeling grateful

2010-10-17T17:47:00.000+11:00

The other night, I was complaining (as usual). My feet were sore and they ached. I picked up the day's paper and saw the name of my old personal trainer. He was in hospital, after an accident saw him get knocked off his motorbike. Apparently, his leg was pretty mangled and although surgeons performed surgery, they weren't sure his leg could be saved. He's now lying in bed, waiting days? weeks? to find out if he has to have part of his leg amputated. My aching feet didn't seem to be such a big deal after all.

That news, combined with this picture, certainly helps to put things into perspective.

top five regrets of the dying

2010-10-12T00:20:00.000+11:00

A while back, I came across an article titled Top Five Regrets of the Dying, by Bronnie Ware, who worked in palliative care and spent her time with people who were in their final days of life. She asked them what were their biggest regrets in life. The following are the top five:

I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

How many of you can relate to this? You do some stuff to please other people and before you know it, you've lost yourself. Follow your instincts, follow your dreams, stand firm on what you believe in. It is your life to live, not anybody else's.

I wish I didn’t work so hard.

Apparently, this was what every male patient of Bronnie's said. The traditional role of the male is to provide for the family, but at what cost? Slow down and enjoy life. It goes too fast (I am in no danger of ever working too hard, I'm all about the work to live, not live to work school of thought. It also means that I'll probably be flat-broke for most of my life.).

I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.

Be honest. Tell people how you feel, whether you feel full of love or whether you're just plain old pissed off. Let it out, don't hold onto anger. Tell that person you love them. You'll regret it if you don't.

I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

It is so easy to lose touch with people, but what excuse do we have these days? Email, Facebook, text messages, and don't even forget the old fashioned ways of keeping in contact - calling to talk to someone or sending a letter. Time and effort seem to be the hardest part. As Bronnie says, it's not status or money that counts in the end, but love and relationships. That's all when it comes down to it.

I wish I'd let myself be happier.

Bronnie puts this one perfectly: When you are on your deathbed, what others think of you is a long way from your mind. How wonderful to be able to let go and smile again, long before you are dying. Life is a choice. It is YOUR life. Choose consciously, choose wisely, choose honestly. Choose happiness.

Isn't it all perfect advice? Be yourself, enjoy life, say how you feel, cultivate friendships and be happy. It doesn't sound hard at all.

Read Bronnie's article, she says it all better than I do.

A Little Frivolity

2010-10-07T21:35:00.000+11:00

Sometimes, things get too serious.

Sometimes, you get stuck in a routine.

Sometimes, you feel flat and lethargic.

You need something to pull you out, make you yourself again, bring some playfulness back into your life.

Sometimes those things come in the guise of shoes. Sparkly shoes. In fact, the world's most sparkly shoes.

These babies should do it. Knock Your Socks Off Heel, they're called. They're from ModCloth. They should arrive next week and they are going to help me shake the dust off, get back into the swing of things and bring some frivolity back to my life.

We all need a little frivolity every now and then.

Seven and Seven

2010-10-05T01:51:00.003+11:00

Arjie of One of these mornings tagged me in a "answer seven questions, ask seven questions" type deal. As much as I love awards, I'm running out of random facts about myself to tell you all, so this is kind of perfect.

1. If you could give your teenage self one piece of advice what would it be?
Hold onto your dreams. Don't let the ideas or comments of others sway you. But also know that it's never too late, you can do anything.

2. What are you currently obsessed with?
This is a good one! I get epically obsessed with one subject, read all I can on it for a few days before moving onto something else. Recent examples of this include Mexican drug lords, forgotten music of the nineties (on which a blog post is currently pending) and The Vampire Diaries.

3. Is there any one event you look back on in your life and just cringe with shame?
Most memories have been repressed, but without going into detail, there is one that induces the foetal position.

4. Would you call yourself a feminist?
Yes. And no. I am in the sense that I believe in total equality for women, but it's also nice to have a door held open for you every now and then.

5. What is the one thing that if you don’t do in your life, you will be really angry at yourself for not doing?
I'll be really disappointed if I don't try my bloody hardest to have a novel published. I've banged on about it for years and years, and it is starting to feel like something I could possibly achieve, but I just have stop listening to that naggy, bitchy inner voice who tells me everything I write is crap.

6. Do you get on better with your mum or your dad?
Mum and I have grown closer over the last few years and I'm really grateful for that. I'm going to echo Miz.November's sentiments that my dad and I alike and therefore we clash sometimes, but we also laugh at things that Mum doesn't think are funny. So maybe it's pretty equal.

7. Every music album in the world is to be destroyed and you can only keep one. Which do you keep and why?
Um. Um... Bugger. Last night, I chose Bob Marley and the Wailer's Legend because of all the good memories stirred up when I hear it, but today... I can't choose, don't make me choose. I'd have to make a mix-tape.

So my seven questions to ask are:

1. What are you currently obsessed with? (Shameless question theft from Arjie)
2. If you could live in any era, which would it be? (I'm all about the seventies)
3. What are you really, really good at?
4. When you were seventeen, where did you think you would be in ten year's time?
5. What is your favourite 'guilty pleasure'? (I really hate that term: if you like it, why feel guilty about it?)
6. What is one thing that makes you really, really happy?
7. If you could live in any movie, which would it be? (Sticking with the seventies theme, I'd want to live in Almost Famous.)

and I'm tagging:

Siobhan from Time has told me
Mel from ChinkyGirl Mel
Natasha from she left on a monday
Celia from life according to celia
Morgan from The best kind of buzz
angelcel from AC's Scrapbook
Alex from Caterpillar Contemplations
Robin from life without want
(So that's eight. I broke the rules. Umm-maah.)

Now you know you don't have to do anything with this, but I'm really looking forward to reading your answers, so pretend I didn't say you don't have to do anything because you do.

P.S. I have no idea why Blogger is double-spacing any and every line break, but it's really giving me the shits. I've noticed a lot of other people having problems lately with Blogger. Don't make me move to Wordpress because I really can't be bothered.

Workin' nine to five...*

2010-09-26T23:01:00.000+10:00

Calls go unanswered.

Emails sit in the inbox, skimmed over but not read.

A brand new diary, its pages still blank.

The Hound of the Baskervilles rests on the bedside table, Chapter One read but long forgotten.

box of crayons gathers dust and hemorrhages followers (Well. One follower).

It's all because of work.

How I resent work. Having to work, having to represent someone else's company. Having to smile and be polite to people who are rude to me, who think that because I answer the telephone, they don't need to use their manners. I resent the office divas who demand all but the caller's underwear colour before deeming to have a phone call transferred. I resent the skirt I have to wear and not being able to get further than ten steps away from the desk before the phone rings again. I resent the paper cuts and dry hands from folding and enveloping over nine hundred letters. I resent the seven hundred-plus phone calls I've answered. I resent the sore throat, I resent the sound of my own voice and I resent people who say, "Oh well, just think of the money."

I shouldn't complain, I work with some really lovely people. My bosses are good employers who thank and recognise their staff. But this past week reminds me how much I hate working in an office. It just serves to remind me how right the decision was to quit full-time work and go to university.

Today, Sunday, was my first day off in six days. And it is my only day off for another six days. I felt a sense of panic and anxiety all day: do I sleep in or get up early to make the most of the day? Do I laze on the couch or do I go out and do stuff? What should I do, what should I do, what should I do? When I was sorting out some boxes in storage, all I wanted to do was curl up on the couch with Sherlock Holmes, but when I did that, I felt guilty. I needn't have worried too much though because the day was over before I knew it. How depressing.

One simple pleasure of the day however, was finding my hammock, hidden deep within the depths of the storage shed. As soon as it was checked for nasty spiders, I strung it up between posts of the pergola.

The sun was shining and the sky was blue. It felt like forever since that had happened. It was enough to lift me out of my shitty mood. It was a promise of what is to come, maybe both literally and metaphorically.

I have another week of answering the phone ahead of me so I expect this blog will remain just as lifeless during that time. Sorry for being a crappy blogger and thanks for hanging around.

*Sorry if that song is now stuck in your head... Did you just check what the asterisk related to? Are you now singing the Dolly Parton song? Workin' nine to five, what a way to make a livin'. Are you singing it now? You are, aren't you? Ha! Sorry.

I do love an award

2010-09-11T14:01:00.000+10:00

Miss Habebi of The Constant Search for More gave me an award! Yay, thank you! And for the three (two? three?) other lovely bloggers who have given me awards, I do appreciate them, I'm just ridiculously lazy.

So the rules are to divulge five secrets facts about myself and then pass the award on to another five.

1. I can't touch cotton wool. The whole texture of those fluffy white balls is physically repulsive. If I do touch it, my hand instantly gets the shakes and I have to do that whole shake-the-hand-furiously to get the sensation out. I don't know what it is, but my grandfather was apparently exactly the same.

2. I never really cared much for children until my niece was born in April 2008. I was living in Ireland at that time and didn't meet her until the last couple of days of the July. In the car on the way home from the airport, she grabbed hold of my little finger and didn't let go for the whole hour. I was a goner. She was even given the same middle name as me: Kate. Now, along with her brother who is nine months old, I'm coming around to the idea of children.

3. I am not a morning person. I eat breakfast in the dark because I can't stand the light. I grunt if someone dares to ask me how I slept. I thought I would grow out of this surly-teenager act, but apparently not.

4. I am shamefully too well-versed on the lives of celebrities. I don't need to add anything else.

5. My first movie-star crush was on Christian Slater. Heathers and Untamed Heart were two of his best.

And now to pass the award onto five other bloggers. I'm going to break the rules (naughty!) and pass it on to only three blogs. The three most stylish bloggers, in my opinion:

Carrie at this free bird

Valerie at Red Vines for Breakfast

Naina at style'n.

Thanks again, Habebi!

Father's Day

2010-09-05T23:02:00.000+10:00

This photo was taken in August, 1981 when I was eighteen months old and Dad still had brown hair.

I love you, Dad.

The Light

2010-09-02T13:53:00.012+10:00

Back in high school (feels like just yesterday...), I did three years of Photography. This was before digital cameras and Photoshop took over the world.

We used old Pentax cameras that looked like they were from the seventies and we spent hours in the darkroom, bent over trays of developer, watching the image slowly appear on white paper. The red glow of the safelight illuminating the room.

Enlargers, light-sensitive photographic paper, rolls of film, filter 5. Black and white.

The smell of the chemicals, the processes, the romance, the pure creativity of it all. Sitting at a computer just isn't the same (it's no surprise that when I'm writing, I handwrite, instead of typing. I just don't feel as connected to the words). Don't get me wrong, the technology in the photographic world just blows my mind, but it still makes me sad that a practice so wonderful is dying out.

I'm taking Photography this semester at university. I thought all the knowledge of years passed would come back to me in a second. Instead, I get frustrated and swear, sometimes loudly, sometimes under my breath. Nevertheless, I'm beginning to look at everything in another way: Would this make a good photo? I'm framing, thinking in the rule of thirds and considering light.

And amazing light is what immediately came to mind when I stumbled across the photographs of Metin Demiralay on deviantART.

My eyes linger over these photographs. The flare in the first, the silhouette of the second, the simple prettiness of the third, and the softness of the last. There are so many more at Metin's site, check them out. Some are a bit nudey-rudey, so if your workplace isn't accepting of boobs being viewed (even artistic boobs), it might be best to save it for home.

I love photography. I love how talented people are. It makes me sick with envy.

PS. Sorry if this post has turned up fifteen or so times in your feed, Blogger and the html codes are being a complete expletive.

Oliver Twist Can Suck It

2010-08-31T16:58:00.000+10:00

I have a 1500-word essay to do: developing an argument about the representation of the treatment of children in Oliver Twist. It is due a week from Thursday. Other than reading the book, I've not done a thing. Instead, I have wasted valuable time by:

I have:

watchd this dog destroy 74 balloons, over and over again

developed an unhealthy obsession with Pinterest

bitten my nails, while simultaneously despising myself for doing so

printed this and stuck it to the wall, at eye level in an attempt to inspire me to do something

opened The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Victorian Age several times, only to close it, using the excuse that my brain has liquified.

watched Archie (the original Archie, that is) with unbridled jealousy and wished, not for the first time, that I had his life:

The Best Feelings

2010-08-26T12:35:00.000+10:00

The three best, free feelings:

The feeling of eye drops in sore, scratchy, tired eyes
The feeling of pure relief when you finally pee after hours of holding on
A hot shower with perfect water pressure.

Three simple things feel so good. There are others, like the first mouthful of a cold beer on a hot day, or the refreshing feel of washing your face, but I keep coming back to these three as The Best.

I don't think these three can be trumped, but you can try. Go ahead... Discuss.

Imitation Copy

2010-08-19T15:23:00.001+10:00

Remember when you were a kid and another kid would do something exactly the same as you? Wear her hair the same way, wear the same clothes, say the same things? And because you were a kid, you could yell Stop copying me! and get away with sounding petty because you were just a kid? Remember that? It's a lot harder to get away with as an adult.

I have this cousin; she's from the 'other' side of the family (I think every family has an 'other' side, don't they?). From about the age of thirteen, right through until I was twenty, we were best friends. When I was eighteen, I noticed things started to get weird. I would mention in passing that I wanted to buy a particular piece of furniture and a couple of weeks later, she would say Hey, guess what I bought? I said I wanted to buy a black Daewoo Lanos (hey, this was in 1998. Those cars were cool back then.), she pulled up in the driveway in a black Daewoo Lanos. There were other little things, but these two particularly stand out in my memory.

When I was twenty, I met the daughter of one of my mum's friends and we hit it off, so I introduced her to my cousin. We would hang out as a group and for about a year, we had so much fun together.

But then it all turned a bit Single White Female. Slowly, my cousin would start organising a night out and say to me, Oh, you have to work, don't you? Too bad. Oh well, there's no reason why we can't still go out. And off they would go, out together, until she finally dropped the pretence and just organised stuff for the two of them to do. I stopped calling either of them and funnily enough, I never heard from them either. Seven years later, my cousin was bridesmaid for the friend when she got married. Needless to say, I wasn't invited to the wedding.

We haven't been friends for ten years. I've only seen her a handful of times over the years, at birthdays and weddings. I miss the friendship, but I don't miss her, in a nonsensical kind of way.

Dad came home the other night from visiting his brother (Mum and Dad came home from their eight-week holiday two weeks early, by the way. Grr.) and told me my cousin has a new dog. So? I asked, wondering what his point was - I've told him in the past that I only want to hear about her if she's stacked on the weight. He tried to make me play Guess What the Puppy's Name Is, but I cracked the shits and demanded that he just tell me.

Archie, he said.

That's my cat's name. She named her dog the same name as my cat. The cat that I've had for over six years. My cat. The name I thought up and loved because I didn't know anyone else who had a pet named Archie. The name that is both cute and cool. My cat's name. (And before you ask: no, there is no way that she didn't know Archie's name beforehand. She's met Archie. Archie didn't like her.)

STOP COPYING ME!

Isn't it bizarre? I'm kind of astounded as to why she would want to name her pet the same as mine. I would imagine that even if you really liked the name, you just wouldn't because... well, it's rude and frankly, it's creepy.

I'm really disappointed at the moment. And a bit out of joint. It's weird! I keep yelling in disbelief to Mum and Dad (I'm sure they're ecstatic to be home early. Serves them right.). I feel a bit like Charlotte from Sex and the City when she founds out that an old friend has named her baby Shayla, when everybody knows that Charlotte has baggsed that name.

The injustice of it all!

Has it ever happened to you before? Was it friend, family or foe?

Little Miss Sunshine

2010-08-16T20:10:00.000+10:00

It's award season in the little box of crayons. Over the last couple of months, some lovely bloggers have passed on some award to me and my blog (incidentally, the word blog sounds just plain gross).

The Sunshine Award comes courtesy of Louise at Lou, Boos and shoes. Louise's Things of Beauty, which she posts on a Friday, are something I look forward to each week.

So the award. Seven random things about me. Feel free to tune out now...

1. I generally don't have anything better to do than write a post on seven random facts about myself.

2. Each week, I make a donation to a different charity. It's not much, only five dollars, but that's really all I can afford at the moment. I started doing it this year because I felt really lucky - lucky to be able to quit my job and follow a dream of going to university, lucky enough to have parents who let me live rent-free and therefore only have to work one day a week, lucky not to have any debts (well, other than that pesky credit card debt...). Just lucky. So I decided I would give what I can to those who need it. Some are have personal relevance (the Cancer Council, the Heart Foundation, the MS Society), others are humanitarian (Amnesty International, the International Women's Development Agency), others for ones who don't have a voice (RSPCA, OzChild), but all are important and deserving.

3. I have a small tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. It's an ankh, the Egyption symbol of eternal life. I've had a long fascination with Egypt (pyramids and mummies and hieroglyphics - oh, my!) and did an eight-day tour of the most overwhelming country I've been to back in November, 2008. The tattoo was done on a whim when I was living in Galway, Ireland: I'd returned from Egypt a couple of months earlier and was walking down Shop Street and in typical Irish fashion, the rain started lashing down. I started to get really pissed off (getting rained on was a daily incident and one that was fast becoming tiresome) but then I stopped in the middle of the street and laughed, thinking, Well, this is life! and went straight to the tattooist. He would draw the design and I'd say Smaller. Definitely smaller, to which he would grit his teeth and start over again. Five minutes and fifty euros later, I was inked. Sometimes I love it because it reminds me of that time in my life; sometimes I wish I hadn't done something so permanent; sometimes I think about what I'll have done next.

4. My nickname is every variation of Lou: Louie, Lou-Lou, Lisey-Lou, Lucy-Lou, Lewis. You get the picture. It started when I was a newborn, so to be called anything other than Louie by family feels odd. If they call me Annelise, I snap my head around at them, ready to fight back because I think I'm in trouble, but to be called Louie by most other people doesn't feel right. My uncle has never called me anything other than Lewis.

5. I can't click (or snap, whatever) my fingers. I've tried and tried, but it just doesn't happen. A common misconception is that coming up to me and clicking your own fingers in my face will make me suddenly be able to do it. It doesn't.

6. I have discussed at length with my family that I want Tom Cochrane's Life is a Highway to be played at my funeral, with my cousin playing the harmonica (unimportant fact: he can't play the harmonica). Christ, if Wind Beneath My Wings or Sarah Maclachan's Angels is played, I will haunt. I'd also love to see the celebrators (because it will be a celebration of life, not a mourning of death) do the Mexican Wave.

7. I can recite all the lines from Dirty Dancing, word for word. My favourite scene is when we're introduced to Johnny. Ahh.... And then he tells Robbie off: You just put your pickle on everybody's plate, college boy, and leave the hard stuff to me.

So there's seven random facts. The award rules are that I pass it on to three more bloggers, so I've chosen:

Habebi of The Constant Search for More
Sarah of sarah b. says hello
Kristin of Skinny Jeans and a Chai Latte

Please don't feel obligated to do! I'm just passing it on because someone liked my blog and in turn, I like your blogs. I also have another two awards and I haven't posted them, not because I'm ungrateful, but because I'm lazy.

Enough of Winter

2010-08-11T18:16:00.002+10:00

I'm craving sunshine. Summer.

weheartit.com

I want to feel the sun warm my skin. I want to lay on the beach in the sun for days.

weheartit.com

Be as brown as a berry. Smell coconut oil, mixed with sunscreen.

weheartit.com

I want tan lines and freckles.

swissmiss, originally from sgoralnick's flickr stream

It has been raining all day. The heater is on, so are the woolen socks. Weather warnings for the region have been on the six o'clock news. I feel chilled to the bone. I've had enough.

Summer, you need to hurry up.

Living Alone: What I've Learnt So Far

2010-08-09T22:41:00.000+10:00

I can't cook. I don't want to cook. I hate cooking. Several nights have seen the house full of smoke, the ceiling fan switch on five, and the glass sliding door wide open, even though it's only four degrees outside.
In lieu of a hammer, a meat mallet will work just as well to hang pictures.
When hanging pictures, it is advisable to have a second person to ensure straightness.
Fitted sheets left outside on the line for over two weeks will see spiders making homes in the corners.
The garbage bins don't take themselves out.
The vacuuming doesn't do itself.
Said vacuuming needs to be done more than once a month, lest you be taken over by Archie's shed fur.
If you get home, flop down on the couch, reach inside your clothes to unhook your bra, pull it out through the neck hole of your t-shirt and then throw the bra on the other couch, to then completely forget about it, chances are someone (probably your brother) will come over to visit, sit on couch beside bra. Attempts to stealthily remove bra from couch will fail.
Living alone gives you far too many opportunities to talk to yourself.

Tales of Heartbreak

2010-08-01T21:04:00.000+10:00

"You will break my heart one day," he said to me.

"No! No, you will break mine," I said to him.

Heartbreak #1

He was going to propose to me in Paris. I suspected the top of the Eiffel Tower would be the place.

"If you're planning to ask me something later, don't do it," I said, as we walked through the streets of Paris.

"I wasn't going to," he said, kicking a stone onto the road.

Heartbreak #2

The text message. It wasn't good. In fact, it was so bad, I woke him from sleep.

"What's this?" I said, holding his phone in his face.

"That's my phone," he said.

"Just tell me what happened," I said, an hour later.

"Nothing happened," he said.

We sat on the bed, not looking at each other. Around and around in circles, we went.

"Tell me what happened," I would say.

"Nothing happened," he would say.

"Tell me what happened," I said.

"I kissed her," he said.

In the end, I suppose we broke each other's hearts.

When Dreams Become Reality*

2010-07-29T21:55:00.001+10:00

*In a bad way. In a really, really bad way.

Have you ever had the dream in which your teeth crumble and fall out of your mouth? You catch them in your hand and stare at them, a feeling of sheer panic coursing through your body?

It's not a dream anymore. It's really happening.

I've lost three bits of my molars. It started back in December but because it didn't hurt and I have a odontophobia**, I pretended it never happened. Then a couple of months ago, another chunk of tooth got mashed up with whatever I was eating at the time. Monday's salad sandwich claimed the third.

Being a follower of the 'three strikes and you're out' mode of living, I knew it was time to call the dentist. I didn't feel so bad about leaving it for over seven months to make an appointment because I couldn't get in for a week anyway. There's still another four days of imagining all kinds of steel torturous devices being jammed into dental cavities.

So why are my teeth literally falling out of my head? I have good dental hygiene. I brush, I floss, I use mouthwash (which burns like a mofo, incidentally).

I think I grind my teeth. Clench my jaw, at the very least. In my early twenties, I had a mouth guard professionally made because I was clenching during the night (that sounds vaguely dirty...) and awakening with an aching face. I put the guard in the other night for the first time in years, but my teeth must have moved because it hurt so much, I had to take it out after half an hour.

I stress about grinding my teeth. Grinding tends to happen when you're stressed. It's a vicious circle, so I bought some Bach's Rescue Remedy to try and help relax me before going to bed. I don't know if it has helped with the teeth or not, but I know it hasn't helped with the nightmares. Last night was the spiders-as-big-as-cats dream, the other night it was the been-happening-for-years-and-years snake-in-the-bed dream. Last semester, I had a recurring dream that I had completely forgotten about a whole subject I was supposed to do and would then get all stressed out in my dream. No doubt that would lead to some clenching and grinding (it's not even sounding vaguely dirty now. Clenching and grinding sounds like pure filth).

So four more days. I'm praying that the dentist doesn't tell me I need a root canal because that shit will. not. fly. Nah-uh. I'm praying that the dentist doesn't tell me I need my teeth extracted and replaced by falsies. (I went to high school with a guy who had dentures. He was cruelly nicknamed Chompers [not by me]. I don't want to be known as Chompers.) I just want to go on Monday morning, have the dentist to glue my molars back together or something similar and then leave, high on happy gas.

I would also really love for the snake and spider dreams to eff the eff off now, too. Please.

**Odontophobia is, predictably, a fear of the dentist. It's not as exciting-sounding as althaiophobia***.

***Althaiophobia is a phobia to marshmallows. For realz. Freaks****

****Sorry to the althaiophobics reading this. I guess I'm just ignorant to the pain of althaiophobia. I really like marshmallows.

Jane Austen Fight Club

2010-07-27T17:16:00.000+10:00

It's had over 300,000 hits on YouTube, so chances are you've already seen it. But if you haven't and you love a good bandwagon, I definitely recommend you jump on this one.