Post Christmas...

http://www.pe.com/imagesdaily/2007/12-08/wham_400.jpg

Bonsoir my lovelies.

And how were your Christmases, may I ask? Too much food, so annoyed at family members, full of extreme dvd watching? Same here. But on the whole, mine was fun- time for a brief rundown? O-kay: here we go. Warning: It's a long one.

On Friday I woke up and promptly watched an episode of Gossip Girl (Season 2). Jenny Humphrey was sacked from Eleanor Waldorf's atelier. She flounced out, Eleanor Waldorf gaped like a stunned mullet and Nathaniel stared brooding with his sideswept fringe as sideswept as ever. On that dramatic note, I trundled off to breakfast- a special breakfast courtesy of BigSister, consisting of fabulous blueberry and strawberry pancakes (Jamie Oliver's American Pancakes), a bunch of Grainwaves and a handful of lychees. Nutritious. The night before BigSister had already made a start on the Christmas dinner and we sneaked a taste (or five) of the berry trifle she had masterfully put together. Attempt #1 resulted in some berry trifle icecream (i.e. too little gelatine + the freezer = berry trifle icecream) while attempt #2 had enough gelatine to make the trifle tower. She was proud.

Then we showed dad what we had gotten him and mum for Christmas- a brand new HD, LCD Panasonic television. Flat screen and everything. Dad crooned and was suitably appreciative. Mum got home, frowned a little and proclaimed:

"But I don't know how to USE it!"

Well there's gratitude for you. Saying thank you never really was my parents' forte- it may be an Asian thing- they get shy and flustered and find it easier to say something peculiar rather than consider that it's the thought that counts.

[By the way, not really related to my Christmas but one of my mates at work gave his own spin to the annoying family rearing its ugly head on Christmas Day:

"We went and visited relos in Geelong and whenever we're around my grandparents, my parents put on all these weird airs and graces. I was just eating my food and my mum kept on saying "Take your elbows off the table". I felt like yelling "F*cken hell I always eat with my elbows on the table, leave me alone!"

You had to be there to hear it and laugh because this was coming from the cheeriest guy at work who wouldn't say boo to a cow. ]

Miffed and rolling her eyes into her orbits, BigSister retreated back into the kitchen where she worked on the prawn, radish and apple salad with home made mayonnaise while I delved back into the Upper East Side. Five episodes later and my head dizzy from too much tv, I joined her in the kitchen and helped her make these special potatoes where you fry them, season them, then submerge them in chicken stock and bake them in the oven. So good. We made the snapper and waited and waited and drummed our fingers on the kitchen top. Where was Dad? Christmas dinner is ready on time for once.

My dad was working on Christmas Day and said he'd be home in an hour. Dangnammit all that well timed organisation for nothing. We may as well have been disorganised, cooked with our eyes shut and watched the entire season of Gossip Girl without stopping.

Eventually he got home and we ate a feast. Dad said it would've cost $300 in a 3 hat restaurant while my mum kept on asking extra peculiar questions such as:

"And how much did this fish cost?"

"And how much was the television? Did you get it from Bing Lee?"

Again: there's gratitude for you. How about:

"This meal is awesome, and I love the television"

... now there's a thought.

Needless to say, everyone enjoyed the trifle. Hands down, the best dessert to date. Well done, BigSister.

The next day was Boxing Day and BigSister ventured into the scary world of Post Christmas sales, at the equally scary hour of 8 am, while I slept blissfully on. I snuck back into the world of xoxo Gossip Girl while my sister returned home victorious- shoes, sparkly Collette Dinnigan jacket and a wool dress all for a third of their original price. We ate leftover Christmas dinner and I exited Boxing Day feeling a little annoyed that I had wasted the day watching dvds. But then I considered that there wasn't really much else to do, and it was fine.

On Sunday my sister and I visited our old next door neighbour. She's 85 and her husband is 88 and they're the cutest couple you ever saw. We gave her a sushi making kit for Christmas and raided her fridge for some exotic chunks of cheese, bread, pickles, capsicim and Mango fool (it's mango chopped up into tiny pieces mixed in with milk). Yum. I kick started my New Years' resolution to drive more and drove up and back from Castle Hill. Proud as.

P.S I have six words (and eight items of jewellery) for you: Castle Towers Diva- Best Purchases Ever.

On Monday I moaned about the whys and wherefores of going back to work while BigSister told me to Snap out of it! and just ignore the impending gloom that is, the day after the Christmas break. But I don't wanna go back to work! I yelled, to anyone who would listen.

I met my sister's boss- a judge in the Supreme Court. Jovial, articulate and a food lover himself, we enjoyed the best Japanese that China Town has to offer at Menya. We slurped down our noodles, marvelled at the amount of soup he had spilled on his shirt "Just pretend it's the rain!!" before saying au revoir and leaving him to navigate his way back home through the city.

To top off my four day weekend, I caught up with my old friend Miss Louise, from high school. She's living the dream: working in Geneva, travelling the world, actually doing something adventurous with her life. If you know what I mean. We talked, took silly photos, cringed at the weirdo waiter who clearly had a crush on poor Miss Louise and wanted her digits and yammered on and on like the good old days. I love catching up with her and can't get over the fact that even though we go for loooong stretches of not seeing one another, each catch up is like a continuation of the last one gone by- we don't miss a beat, there is no awkward crevasse to bridge each time we speak, and it relaxed, easy and fun.

Like I said, on the whole Christmas break was a lovely mix of people, food and family politics. Today I returned to work sad and unmotivated. In fact, I probably declared from the moment I stepped into the office, that today with be a highly unproductive day. Work can start with a vengeance next year. It's still the festive season after all, right? right???

The day before the day before the Day.

http://www.ticwatches.co.uk/warhol-nothing-special-episode-unisex-andy113-1174-3663_medium.jpg


Today's the day before Christmas Eve which is the day before Christmas Day.

In other words, today's the day no one takes notice of because it's like an extra toe- you could live without it.

Here are the ten things I noted on the day that I would otherwise overlook simply because it's the day before the day before the Day:

1. Myer is open for 24 hours of non stop shopping


2. My work shoes have got a hole near my right big toe. They're just hanging on. I refuse to get new ones. They need to see this year out


3. Everyone at work mooched around declaring "I'm so unmotivated today"


4. I wore purple eyeliner simply because the dress code didn't seem all that important


5. The trains are empty


6. People meandered as they walked to work. No urgency to speak of. Meander away everyone, you deserve it


7. A little toddler sat in the seats near the train doors and proceeded to squash her nose all Miss Piggy-esque against the plastic barrier. She then giggled uproariously for the next ten minutes and made the whole carriage laugh


8. A general vibe of laidback excitement. Christmas Carols galore.


9. It's hot. It's sticky. It's too hard to move too fast


10. My bank account is in the depths of despair and I need to get paid pronto

Tomorrow is a half day at work and mufti day- double jammy of fun !

Tis the season to be sil-ly fa la la la la la la la la...

http://blog.lib.umn.edu/marty031/meredithsblog/christmas.jpg

Christmas is meant to be the silly season. You're meant to eat lots, relax and forget about the reality that January is but a mere handful of days away. The silly season is over almost as soon as it began and the year looms ahead. Bah Humbug! I hear you say?

Well sure, I'll admit that it's the Pessimist's Take on the the World's Best Time of the Year. But I actually think it's a mix of trepidation and anticipation. I sort of prefer June and July over January and February because I'm already in the thick of things- on the treadmill that runs to the end of the year... whereas, Christmas and the New Year mark the start of a giant hill that you have climb; conquering challenges, the humdrum, dealing with the everyday waves that trip us up and occasionally drive us to despair.

Having said that, as long as I push that trepidation out of my mind, I'm having a ball and I'll be honest, this weekend was crazy awesome. And I mean the most crazy awesome my weekend has been in a long time. Not crazy and awesome as in, "I went stir crazy and the food was awesome", but more in the, my travel bug was reignited and I'm excited about doing lots of different things next year way. Man from Mars' mates from Exchange came to visit Melbourne- one's a Dutchie and the other is a Frenchie. They're super cool and nice. I love people who love to travel- they're always excited, open to adventure and non-judgmental. Most of the time they're also laid back and fascinated in absolutely everything, which makes you realise that all it takes is a plane ticket to anywhere, to get you feeling the exact same feeling, stoked about life, places and people- invigorated, exhausted, craving a soft bed. Appreciating the world for what it is.

We watched "Weird Science" at the Rooftop Cinema, sipped chocolately coffee at Brunetti's, had burgers in Federation Square, went to Japanese where two police paddy wagons stood out front for the better part of our meal and talked and laughed and listened. They shopped while Man from Mars and I bid farewell to our lovely friend who is leaving us for London- a teaching sojourn that will leave her Melbourneless for a year. She's nervous, excited and apprehensive- like we all are before the start of something big- but like it always turns out: the best time ever.

I can't wait to hear her adventures and I can't wait for my own- I wonder what the year will bring. This morning I sat next to my next door neighbour on the train ride into work. He was going into town to go to the dentist and had been chosen to play Santa at the local shops. With his fearsome bushy white eyebrows, a mustache grown especially for Movember and a slightly less than rotund belly, he was a perfect pick. He stared down at me and furrowed those eyebrows until they couldn't go down no more:

"When the opportunity presents itself, grab it with both hands. The youth is wasted on the young. You don't want to live with regrets."

And with a stirring shake of his fists he grinned widely. I grinned too. Every year will have its aeroplane highs, it's shitsucks lows and its terrifying moments of baulking in the face of a challenge. But at the end of the day we'll get through it, we'll wake up the next morning and do it all again.

Merry Christmas to you and to you and to you. Hope the Teens (this decade was the "Noughties" so moving onto the Teens) are good to you.

Different wavelengths...

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For Man from Mars and I, the Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus dichotomy becomes most clear when it comes to the subject of driving.

I hate it. I'm a nervous driver who feels pressured by the driver behind me, rushes through lane changes and feels like the world is doomed as soon as I step wheel into the cramped and hectic hell that is, the car park.

Save me, I'm begging you.

Meanwhile, Man from Mars classes driving as his "me" time. His time for introspection and calm; an escape from the buzz and wild times of a share house and life in Canberra.

I love it, he says.

Love is a very strong word, I point out. It shouldn't be chucked around loosely and in my opinion, driving definitely isn't worthy of such high praise.

The Sweet Park that led to nowhere...

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On Tuesday, the Sartorialist (http://www.thesartorialist.blogspot.com/) was in town to promote his new book and we wanted to be one of those well dressed, nonchalant but secretly excited people who was lucky enough to get his autograph without even trying. My sister bought the last copy at Kinokuniya and we both left work early to get to Sass & Bide on Oxford Street quicksticks.

We roared around Oxford Street, found a sweet park, sweet parked and trotted excitedly up the hill. The book signing began at 6 pm and we were pretty punctual- it was only 6:30 pm after we'd wormed our way through the side streets and began the pavement pound en route to Sass & Bide.

But as we drew closer and closer our hearts sank to our knees. The line ran halfway down the block, past Scanlan & Theodore and all the way around the corner. We were like O M G . But like I said before, it was still really early- the book signing would go until 9 pm, and we were still optimistic at this stage. We took our place at the end of the queue and eyed the other people in the queue. An eclectic mix. There was one guy in a tailored cream suit and a trilby. He looked like he'd walked straight out of the Sartorialist's blog and I presumed that his intention was to be photographed by this revered fashion commentator. Then there was the girl in the black strapless jumpsuit. She looked cool, and I heard her telling her friend that it was the only thing she had which would be appropriate for this occassion. Directly in front of us were two girls carrying Valentino handbags. They were pretty annoying because they both worked in law firms and they kept gushing about how intense work is, but on the other hand how absolutely fascinating it is to be working in such a commerically successful law firm. Y a w n.

At the beginning my sister and I could ignore the painful throb as we stood in our heels. We thumbed through the Sartorialist's book and pointed out outfits we liked and others that were interesting more for the people wearing them. But as hard as we tried to amuse ourselves, the queue could not have progressed any slower than it did. Every ten minutes the line would creep forward by a couple of people. Everyone would shuffle forward patiently. It would be worth it in the end- our book would be autographed, we would go home and in 20 years' time our book would be a collector's item.

But as the minutes ticked by and we used up the hour allocated to our sweet park, the wind began to howl, rain threatened to bucket down and we were still hours away from the front of the line. Our mouths turned downwards and we muttered about the possibility that the following exchange was taking place between the autographer and each and every autographee:

Autographer: Hi, I love what you're wearing

Autographee: (Squeals) I love your work. Your photos are incredible. You are my idol. I am overwhelmed. (Swoon)

Autographer: Thank you so much! Your support means so much to me

Autographee: Anything for you Mr Sartorialist, care to take a photo of my outfit?


And so it would probably go on.

The whole situation was a disaster and by the time 8 pm had rolled around, my sister and I had had enough. It wasn't the Sartorialist's fault. It was the way the whole thing was coordinated. Lines spewing out from both directions of the store entrance. Confusion. Disorganisation. Plus, we were famished, and when you're hungry, there's no going forward. We were going home.

That's not to say that we were defeated. As we walked down Oxford Street passing all those other people braving the gale force winds and still waiting in line, we linked arms and pretended that we had indeed obtained the coveted autograph of the Sartorialist. We flipped open the book and I feigned pointing at the non-existent signature, all the while proclaiming "Wow that is sooo coool!" Juvenile and immature, I know- but it was the least we could do to redeem this failed night which had begun with so much anticipation and promise.

The Rogue (Birthday) Trader

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The exact date of my dad's birthday has always been a bit of a mystery to me and probably to him.

He was born in the late 1940's, somewhere near the end of the year when South Korea was going through some unstable times and records weren't kept all that well.

He has a bunch of siblings- the oldest of which is approximately 20 years older than he is. He's the youngest.

His driver's licence states that he was born in April. When I was in primary school, he declared the end of December to be his birthday. Then he changed his mind and for reasons only known to him, he decided that December 7th would be the way to go.

And so that date stuck.

Until this year.

As we unveiled a strawberry custard masterpiece and presented our gifts, Dad stared up confused and declared:

"Naw! You got the date wrong- now it's the 24th of November! I found the records and that's my actual birthday!"

You don't say.

He chuckled indulgently- as if to say "You guys are so absent minded!" and proceeded to croon at the card we got for him. One of those ones where you open it and the card launches into a song- in this case Disco Inferno by The Trammps (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_sY2rjxq6M&feature=related).

Over and over, he whipped that card open. Each time he whopped at the ingenuity of the card's design.

And so we played Disco Inferno eleventy more times, in place of singing Happy Birthday for him.

He was the birthday boy after all- I suppose he has a right to do whatever he wants.

He declared this birthday to be the best ever and the day ended on a high with my mum and dad jiving to the jukebox that was, his birthday card.

Not on my belly's life...

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Stomach bugs are the worst. Especially when you get hit by them the day before your work Christmas party which is being held at the Shangri La- Cafe Mix- Buffet.

Yes. Buffet.

I stayed up all Thursday night feeling horrid and dizzy, all the while declaring the situation completely unjust and unfair. How was I going to eat like the king with this lurgy in tow?

I wasn't. Obviously.

So I missed out on the mountains of seafood, the chocolate fountain, the shelves of beautiful pastries and cakes and had to make do with a bowl of miso soup and two pieces of "safe sushi"- as in, nothing complex; the cucumber and avocado kind.

Oh woe is me.

I've heard that those buffets are $200 for two people.

Wasted.

What do you do when you have a giant pimple?

http://www.2dayblog.com/images/2009/june/stig_helmet.jpg

Don't wear a helmet, put toothpaste on it!!!

It works like a dream.

I got a phenomenal pimple on my chin on Friday and had heard that Pamela Anderson swears by this au naturel remedy. So I tried it and that sucker was obliterated faster than I could say "volcanic eruption on my face".

Balmy weekends...

It was my turn to head down to Canberra this weekend.

On Saturday we went to Bookplate, which is a little cafe overlooking the Man made Lake of Canberra that is, Lake Burley Griffin.

I had the lamb curry and Man from Mars had a savoury pancake. We should've swapped meals, because mine was the size of Australia, while Man from Mars' was the size of Tokyo. Geography works well for the purposes of comparison, hey?

Anyway, the food was surprisingly delicious, even if Man from Mars' salad almost blew away with the accompanying gale force winds. We ate, we drank and then we waddled down the steps back to our car.

This weekend had mixed results in the shopping department. I've been eyeing these black wedges (you know how I love my wedges - http://angstonlegs.blogspot.com/2009/10/where-in-stiletto-does-appeal-lie.html) for donkey's years and on Saturday Man from Mars, being the supportive fellow he is, challenged me with a:

"Why not?"

in answer to my monologue on the wedges:

"I really really like them, except they're so high. I can't walk in them when they're that high. But they are wedges, so they're not nearly as impossible as other high shoes. Also, they're $30 off and I've been checking them out for so long. What do you think? Do they look good? Are they too high? Do I walk unco in them? Do you reckon I'll be able to walk well in them? All SATC- like?

http://www.betts.com.au/ (Shoe name: "Bondage")

So, Man from Mars' nonchalant reply persuaded me to purchase these funky shoes.

I got home, put them on and attempted a strut.

My knee practically flipped.

"Aww this is so tricky!" says I.

I gave it my all. I walked up and back, tried jogging on the spot, tried standing up nice and tall. But nothing in this life time would have made me feel like I could endure those shoes for more than 3 steps.

"D'you reckon it's really bad if I want to return'em?" I ventured.

"Nah, why not? If you don't like'em, then do it. I've done it before, it's fine" says Ever Supportive Man from Mars.

"Okay, let's goooo."

So we went. And I substituted those knee flipping wedges for some cute tan sandals.

Check'em- they're these but tan:

http://www.betts.com.au/ (Shoe name: Heckler)

In other news, Man from Mars' super tall housemate had a big night last night and blew chunks this morning. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a scaredy-cat when it comes to anything chunder; whether it be its smell, sound or appearance. So this morning as the sound of him blowing chunks echoed down the hall, I cringed, winced and sympathised.

Meanwhile, Ever Nonchalant Man from Mars just rolled over mid-snore and murmured: "Is that someone being sick? Hmm must've had a big night..."

Geez. You think?? I shoved my head under the pillow and tried to block out the noise with the sound of my own snuffled breathing.

The Aging Computer

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Why do computers become slower as they get older?

I use my computer the same way I used it yesterday, the day before that, the week before that, the year before that. And yet today my computer took half an hour just to get to Google and a decade to download some critical update.

I'm livid. I'm hot. My computer is incompetent.

I asked Man from Mars a while ago and he explained it in terms of caches, defragging and you just need a new computer.

Why?? Why do I need a new computer? Why can't it just keep working like my toaster? My toaster has lasted 4 years without a single mishap. Some day down the track the spring won't push down but that day ain't today and it probably won't be for another 4 years. Touch wood.

Meanwhile my computer is 3 years old. Barely a toddler.

I don't understand and I absolutely refuse to empathise. My computer has a whole desk to itself. It's been treated with TLC. It has no reason to go all geriatric now.

Come on Computer, dig deep- you can recover, come back stronger than ever... If Serena Williams did it- you can too.

Not too bright...

For the second time in 8 days I left my wallet at home.

For the second time in 8 days I trudged up Town Hall's steps, with millions of unworkable solutions roaring around in my silly head:-

I'll just run through the ticket gates behind someone else. Or else I'll just tell the ticket guy that I left my ticket on the train, or in my other jacket, or in my boyfriend's jeans or maybe I can just wait until the train guy goes back into his little room and maybe I can just sneak through then.

F!ck. I'm so dumb, I can't believe I did it again!

In true "will I never learn?" style I even left my wallet at home in exactly the same circumstances that I did last week. I emptied my bag to fit my lunch in and replaced everything but my wallet.

Smrt. Damn you, lunch.

Any-hoo. Long story short, I caved in and decided to be honest again.

"I left my wallet at home which has my weekly ticket in it"

Cue: an apologetic shrug, a "what can you do?" cock of the head and a forlorn downward look at the ground.

"Hmm okay, I'll let you through now, but when you come back to go home, you have to buy a ticket".

Hallellujah! Of course I'll buy a ticket on the way home!

And I motored through the gate: wheeeee! Free!

I've made an executive decision with myself that I absolutely have to get my brain together. If I find myself in this situation again next week, then I will officially ban myself from placing my lunch in my handbag. I'll just have to go lunchless, that's what.

Alan Becker's Amazing Animation

Today's post is entirely instructional.

Visit this site: http://www.desistuffs.com/2009/10/animator-vs-animation-by-alan-becker.html

Double click on play.

Watch and be impressed.

Sweltering.

http://www.halfmoonbaymemories.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/12/hotdayinfrance.jpeg

Today was 43C.

Yesterday was 38C.

Tomorrow is forecast to be 21C.

I know:

??????

Anyway, yesterday I went to the Dreaded Dentist for my 6 monthly check up. The appointment was scheduled for 2:30 pm, so beforehand we went next door to the Korean Buffet. All you can eat for $13.

Sadly, due to my nerves I only ate a fraction of what I'm capable of achieving. The Dreaded Dentist got the better of me, and while I ate, all I could think about was Dr D finding another rotten tooth that required yet another filling.

I'm still traumatised by my experience 5 years ago, when I bit into a JATZ cracker and half my tooth broke off. Admittedly, I hadn't been to the dentist in a while (give or take a decade-- I was one of those people who never needed braces okay?? So there just didn't seem to be a need to check my teeth, because they looked fine).

Anyway, ever since that day I feel like I robbed 20 years off the life of my teeth and I dread, fear and hate going to the dentist. The sound of the drill is enough to make me cringe and squirm and I get unbelievably nervous when check up time comes around.

Wired on my nervous energy I make irrelevant chitchat with Dr D and and as he instructs me to lie back, I marvel at the whirring chair as it reclines, and inform him that I absolutely positively hope that there is nothing wrong with my teeth. He stares back at me to say "I feel for you, but this is also my livelihood, so I can't feel for you too much". Fair point. I say a silent prayer as he clips the bib around my neck.

He takes an x-ray, pulses some air on my teeth and gives my teeth a clean bill of health. Save for the existing 5 fillings.

I am estatic and bound out of the room.

Meanwhile, my dad decides it's so hot that he needs a haircut, and so we walk across the street to a tiny Korean barber shop. When we get there everyone is sitting in the chairs where customers sit when they're waiting for their turn. For a moment I wonder where the barbers have gone. As we draw nearer and nearer, all three suddenly bounce up and busy themselves, getting their scissors and greeting us like Koreans do: Ahnyong ha seh yoh! A ha- So they were the barbers.

One particular man wandered in halfway through my dad's haircut. He had the shaggiest haircut, and with his flaming red tshirt paired with his puffing red face, he really looked like a haircut would give him some reprieve from the heat. He chattered on and on, and whilst I didn't get most of it (because my Korean is really that bad), I was super impressed when he went for the full head shave. Nothing left on his head. Not even a whisker. He admired his reflection before leaving a substantial tip and strutting out.

The hairdresser turned to the rest of us and confided that she was guessing that guy might be a little drunk because no sensible Korean man would do that. We giggled- she really was the archetypal gossiping hairdresser.

Today Man from Mars got his hair cut and I got a wavy perm. It took three hours. Tell me about it. But my hairdresser, whose name is a trendy single letter: "J" did a meticulous job and I'm very impressed.

Anyone looking for a perm with great service, go to Ivy Hair Co (9482 5700).

You give'em a picture, they'll give you the haircut without a strand out of place.

Life as a Camera...

Life as a Camera would be the best. Of course you wouldn't be able to pick your owner, but if you could and your owner turned out to be a world traveller, then life as a Camera would be hands down splendid.

This occurred to me today as four of my work colleagues bid me au revoir and I bid them bon voyage in return. Two are going to Hawaii while one is off to Vietnam and the other is going to Japan.

If I were their camera looped around their wrist/neck/fanny pack, I'd be able to capture everything they get to see, without the travel expense, walking and confusion.

Yeah. That would be the best life.

May it please the Court?

Man from Mars had his admission ceremony yesterday and became a lawyer:

CONGRADMISSIONULATIONS!

says I.

He wasn't actually all that excited for it, because he doesn't want to be a lawyer, but he did get to buy some shiny new shoes for the special occasion.

After the ceremony (which was in Melbourne- meanwhile I was in Sydney), he texted me to say the ceremony was done and dusted, yum cha had been enjoyed in celebration of the big occasion, and also on a parting note, a small girl (much like me apparently) rolled over his new shoes with the trolley she was pushing because she couldn't see over the handle bars.

I started laughing when I read that. Imagine, Man from Mars dressed in his Sunday best, striding confidently, a newly minted professional- steamrolled by a little lady with her towering trolley. Lucky he's a lawyer now; if he had broken any toes from the incident he'd be able to represent himself and sue Westfields for making their trolleys too high... or the shoe company for making their shoes too flimsy... or the little lady for not being taller... or himself for getting in the way.

How about that?

Gettin jiggy with it

http://theflaneurist.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/hip-hop.jpg

After work my three workmates and I went to our hiphop class, which is located on the 8th floor of the building next door to the Spanish Club.

It's a "Foundation class" which is meant to be the precursor to the Beginners class. Specially designed for authentic novices such as yours truly.

I haven't been for the last two weeks: once because I was in Melbourne and the next time because I forgot my change of clothes... I was wearing pencil skirt that would've busted with the slightest side lunge.

Anyway, today we had a full class of 9 (as compared to just us 4) and we learnt a bunch of new moves.

Our instructor is Chux and he's like some national champion in a variety of different dance genres. He makes walking on the spot look awesome- he throws in some crimping and slides his head around all funky like. Meanwhile, I get semi-hypotised by the moves he's chucking, as well my vastly different reflection in the wall to wall floor length mirrors and promptly forget everything we've just learnt.

Also of newsworthy mention, today I left my wallet at home. I left it on my bed when I was rearranging the contents of my bag to make some space for my all important lunch. How annoying.

I got to the station, realised my wallet was at home, rolled my eyes at myself and tried to think of some ingenious way to get through the ticket gates. As always the strict lady at the gate was manning her fort like a hawk and I knew that slipping through behind another passenger just wasn't gonna cut it.

It wasn't hard to look stressed and apologetic (because I'll be honest, I sort of was) and I gave it to her straight:

"Look, I've left my wallet at home and it's got my train ticket and I have no money".

Ordinarily, strict lady with the furrowed brow is unforgiving and ruthless. I waited expectantly for her to shake her head and utter those "gotta be cruel to be kind and rules are rules for a reason" words that I don't doubt she would've told many a passenger in the same position as me.

But today, she smiled kindly- almost grandmotherly, and patted me on the arm:

"That's okay, I'll let you through and you go buy yourself a ticket, and come back and show me that you've bought it".

I thanked her a thousand times, but walked through perplexed. What a conundrum. She let me through on the condition that I buy a ticket and show her. Except I had no wallet= no money = no funds to buy all important ticket. She had been so forgiving during this whole ordeal, I felt like I was taking advantage of her goodwill by running off without buying it. So I made a huge display of "calling my friend" at work who I thought would be able to bail me out.

No such luck, the closest person was 20 minutes from the city.

Hell, I had no choice. I ran off without buying a ticket. I felt bad but would could I do?

Tomorrow I'll do a good deed in return and all the karmic forces will be restored.

Banishing my pancake bum...

http://blog.modernmechanix.com/mags/PopularScience/9-1939/third_skate.jpg

It's a proven fact that I spend too much time sitting down. My bum is shot to pancake heaven.

On weekdays I go to work. I sit down. I switch on my computer. I work until lunch. At lunch I might walk, say, 200 m to the park. I sit down on the grass at the park and ponder that the walk was kind of far, considering. After lunch it's back to my desk where I sit down and work again. Then I walk 2 blocks to the station, jog down the stairs (I call this "my cardio vascular component"), get on a train and I sit for another 45 minutes. I get home and sit while I eat dinner and watch tv.

On the weekends I go to Canberra it's almost 4 hours on a bus one way. Watching my trusty dvd player. Then I get off the bus, sit in Man from Mars' car to get to his house all of 3 blocks away, which, frankly if I could've been arsed, I could've walked. My bum is numb, my jeans are uncomfy and when I get to his house, all I want to do is relax, eat food-- sit down some more and chill.

This weekend was the start of the Banish the Pancake Bum Program. I devised it myself-- with the obliging participation of Man from Mars, of course. I'm too unmotivated to do things on my own. I need that proverbial kick up my pancake flat backside- Plus, I never called myself an Independent Can Do Woman, okay??

Anyway, back to my Program. On Saturday, Man from Mars and I went rockclimbing. That's right we climbed rocks. We woke up, had a huge breakfast and revved ourself up to tackle those boulders. There's only one rock climbing center in Canberra- go figure. It was airless, had no airconditioning and it was 35C outside, which meant that it was 38 degrees or something inside. After a quick run through with the instructor we were on our way and I was heaving my body up a high wall speckled with little "rocks".

Damn, it was hard work. I felt almost like Lara Croft minus the ample bosom, trendy outfit and fast reflexes. I think I did about 4 walls before my arms could take no more and I retired to the chairs that old people spectators are meant to use. Man from Mars did pretty well too, although to be honest I don't think he found it as fun as I did. When I proclaimed "That was so fun", Man from Mars ambled next to me and said: "It was o-kay". But then again, most things are pretty o-kay with him, so I couldn't tell if he meant it in a bad way or a good way.

Second part of my Pancake Bum busting program was riding my bike. It's been three weeks since I've ridden my bike and I've almost mastered riding in a straight line- not bad for my third time on my bike ever, hey?

We went to the park near Man from Mars' house and even though I kept zigzagging off the bike path, we rode for a good hour and a half before we went to Dickson to get some good old Vietnamese food.

This morning I ached all over. My forearms are full of lactic acid, my shoulders are tight and my abs feel overstretched. And as for my bum? Well, if bums could speak I think mine would've hurled abuse at me. It was that tired.

Sorry bum, but it's for your own good. I'm going to keep giving you some o' that lovin' and soon you'll be Pancake Bum no more.

Ketchin up with Mussus D

http://www.carvercreationsandcards.com/images/CC%20B%20and%20W%20new%20mum%202.jpg

Remember Mussus D? I mentioned her here (http://angstonlegs.blogspot.com/2009/05/timed-to-perfection.html) a while ago. Mussus D's a Cool Property Lawyer from New Zuhland, who helped me stay in Cool School while I was working in a Boring School Law Firm. But then fate intervened, and saved us both. She went on to discover more rewarding things to do such as having a baby girl called Little O (aka Ebony Ray), while I went on to go to a nicer workplace with Cool School people all around.

Just FYI, Mussus D and I prefer to speak in ocker New Zuhland and/or Aussie accents, and that's why everything's spelt phonetically in this post to represent how it would sound coming from a True Blue Aussie/New Zuhlander's voicebox. Just in case you thought I didn't know how to spell "catching" and "New Zealand".

Anyhow, in May when I caught up with Mussus D, Little O was only four months old, but now she's hit the 9 month mark, streuth she's a enchanting bundle of personality, she is.

She beams hard enough to show all of her two bottom teeth, and purses her lips all "kiss-kiss!"-like when she's thinking hard. All you have to do is chuck a funny face and she busts out into a breakdance of wriggles, shooting her arms up in the air and waving'em around like she just don't care. It makes everyone else laugh and in the sunshine of the Wednesday afternoon, you're stoked by how skilled you are at making her laugh.

It was a right treat ketchin up with Mussus D. We decided we have to do it again. It better not be in a billion years' time, otherwise Little O won't find my faces funny anymore, and I'll have to resort to my extra juvenile ways to keep her entertained.

Science is so scientific...

http://www.physicalgeography.net/fundamentals/images/water.JPG

One of my workmates has finished his college of law exams and was ready to "what comes before part b? PART-AY!"

So we went to Arthouse for $12 cocktails, got super tipsy on the Two Faced Angel and proceeded to march across the road to Han Kook Restaurant. This is my favourite Korean food haunt- it's cheap, tasty, and one of the waiters once rescued my phone (that I had left behind, forlornly tucked underneath my bowl of dumpling soup) in typical Korean male fashion: he followed me out the door bellowing "HELLO? HELLO? HOW ARE YOU?" into the phone, as if he were talking into it. Meanwhile my friend and I were chattering away, proclaiming to each other about how low the crotch of her harem pants could go (with a full demonstration to boot) and tried to walk faster to get the hell away from this scary loud man. We never turned around, so we didn't know it was him- just that he was inappropriately close behind and being too noisy. Anyway, eventually he groaned and shouted "You left your phone!!" and we all cackled hysterically like goons as the realisation dawned.

The seven of us ate and ate and ate, before going our separate ways. I took the train with two others down the Epping line, and as we sat in the 6 seater tipsy, tired and fuzzily happy to not think, my friend who has retro black and white framed glasses mused out loud:

"If you had a cup of water with ice cubes floating on top, and the ice then melts, would the water level rise or fall?"

I blinked slowly. Open. Shut. I scratched my head. I'm schleepy.

I squinted my eye and tried to do the visual thing. I imagined a bucket of water with ice on top. Then I watched it melt. My video stopped there and I never got to see what happens to the water level.

I'm stumped.

"I reckon it rises cos when the ice melts, the particles go further apart, and so the water level would rise because there's more particles spread around" I said staring at the roof.

"Hm. I suppose, but I think it'd fall" he said staring at the other people on the train.

Meanwhile our other friend was engrossed in her IPhone game- some strategic game that centres on shifting fuzzballs.

"Can you google it?" we whined.

"Nooo! I'm really stressed right now, I'm on a time limit!"

And so we exchanged "Man I dunno the answer" looks and settled back into our seats struggling to keep our eyes open.

Eventually after half an hour of debating, wiki-ing and listening to our Fuzzball Champion describe some interesting facts about ice (without ever googling the right thing to let us know whether the water level rises or falls) we resorted to asking my friend with the retro black and white glasses' dad, who's a scientist:

"Hmm, well it would rise, wouldn't it?" was his answer.

A question answered with a question is always helpful.

My friend agreed, and said he'd be home soon.

"What was his explanation? I asked

"Hmm, I didn't ask. I just thought, he says it rises, so it's right" my friend with the retro black and white glasses answered, as if to shrug and say I did my best.

"You didn't ask him for the explanation?!"

"Nuh!"

And so we all started laughing like you do when you're tired and drunk: in that floppy unrestrained way. The whole point of this debate was to understand how water works.

Having established absolutely nothing that whole train ride, we got off and my friend with the retro black and white glasses drove us all home.

Today at work, in a clearer frame of mind, he googled it and found the answer instantly:

"So I found this really obscure website [http://www.seed.slb.com/v2/FAQView.cfm?ID=1166] in like 10 seconds, and it says that the water level stays the same".

We cackled like goons again. If only we'd all paid attention in year 7 science.

Learning while I sleep...

http://www.summersdale.com/images/Italian-Without-Words-300.jpg

On Saturday I bought this "Teach Yourself German" deluxe set that contains 2 CDs and a workbook. All for the princely sum of 50 bucks.

I learnt German for 5 years when I was in high school and like most things that aren't compulsory, let it fall to the wayside as I buzzed through uni in a blaze of fun times, travel and study. But then one day as I lay back in my chair at work, I overheard my boss lamenting the embarrassment that comes with being an Aussie- linguistically speaking, that is. Aussie's excel at lots of things- sports, music, meat pies, Harbour Bridges, barbies, beaches and marsupials... but learning lots of languages doesn't really seem to be one of them.

Sure, you learn French in year 3, and beginners Indonesian in year 7, but it's not like the Europeans where English is compulsory from the time they can walk and French, German and Spanish are taken on as they progress through their schooling. Unless you're brought up in a household where English isn't the native tongue, most of us go through life thinking English is enough... which it is- most of the time.

But there's more to be said about the fact that knowing another language takes you out of your comfort zone, arms you with a whole new set of words and makes you feel like you're equipping yourself to engage with the world. Which is a pretty nice feeling at the end of the day.

That doesn't mean to say I'm the exemplary student. This morning I plugged my mp3 player in and settled into my seat all comfy-like. I was a little apprehensive- listening in German had never been my forte. I put the volume up really high and steeled myself for some rapid dialogue.

It was pretty rapid, that's for sure. And I was only on the chapter that goes through how you say "Hi, how are you? My name is Brigitte Herzberg". All the straining and listening spent my brain power and within 10 minutes the lull of the German dialogue sent me drifting off to sleep.

Whoops. So much for furthering my linguistic education.

Amazingly though, it was the best sleep I've had on a train ride to date, and as I woke up almost on cue to get off at my stop, I sent a little wish to whoever's listening in the universe that my brain, in its sleepy subconscious state picked up on a few vital words and phrases to help me on my Foreign Language Learning Crusade.

The Battle of the Early Riser...

http://tell.fll.purdue.edu/JapanProj/FLClipart/Verbs/wakeup.gif

Man from Mars and I have mismatched body clocks. Especially when it comes to waking up. We're out of funk. Big time.

On weekdays I wake up without the assistance of an alarm clock. On weekends, I'm ready to roll by 9 am at the absolute latest.

Meanwhile Man from Mars seems to live for the Big Lie In.

On weekdays he's not so bad. Work calls from 3 blocks away and he rolls out of bed relatively quickly. He shuffles into his long pants and slippers and mooches to the kitchen where he slurps down his cereal with his eyes half closed and his hair spiked in all the directions of the compass.

But on weekends nothing, not even my persistent whining (which, let me tell you, is designed to drive even the most saintly person up the wall) can lift his heavy head from the perfect contours of his two pillows. The lure of the porcelain throne is only a temporary interlude to his otherwise blissful sleep.

I tickle his feet, I blow in his ear, I peer up his nostrils, I tug at his hair, I declare that the day is being wasted, I bounce up and down on the bed (the way you're not meant to, it's not a trampoline is what any responsible adult would say), I use my stern principal voice, I pull the doona off, and denounce his hairy legs. All for a response. Any response. The slightest retaliation.

But it's never to be. The most Man from Mars ever does is half open one eye, give a sleepy smile that's meant to rid me of my woes, and reaches out inviting me to partake in a cuddle. All so he can go back to sleep again.

The first 3 times I oblige. After all, cuddles are always nice. But by the fourth time, I have reached the end of my "WAKE UP!" tether and decide to paint my nails. The whiff of nail polish should make him wake up- just like smelling salts are meant to rouse the unconscious-- right? right??

Unfortunately, Man from Mars has a perennially blocked noise. So no, he doesn't really smell the nail polish. He only smells it when he opens his eyes to investigate why I have suddenly gone so quiet. I specifically ask him whether he can smell anything. He sniffs and sniffs and sniffs until finally he detects a diluted whiff of that acrid acrylic smell that girls know too well: "Ohh yeah, I smell it".

That's it. The final straw. Ultimate non reaction. I give up. I am officially exhausted. All I want to do is lie back down and have a little nap.

Meanwhile, Man from Mars has succumbed to my efforts and lurches upright to get up: "You're so bossy" he murmurs.

I frown, he laughs and we both shuffle down the corridor to get some breakfast.

When Man from Mars comes up to play... we eat and eat some more

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When Man from Mars comes up to visit from Canberra, all we do is eat. We wake up late and we eat. Two hours later and all this shopping/lying around/dvd watching has stirred our appetites and it's time for Lunch. We shop/flop around/dvd watch some more and we're revved up for some Arvo Tea. Then in the grand tradition of ending on a high note we celebrate the final meal of the day with no less than a 4 course banquet.

This weekend was no exception. We made a special trip into town to bestow Man from Mars with the chance to sample the culinary delights of Burgerlicious (you may recall that I have raved about this eatery in a past post- a popular haunt of my work mates, it never fails to satisfy). I had the Bostinian beef wrap, Man from Mars had the Munaco chicken wrap, we both got the most chicken saltiest chips you ever laid eyes on and a fizzy drink to balance out the salt and the grease. All for the bargainable price of $11 bucks each.

Satisfied we were, and we lugged our two tonne bellies down the street for some veritable purchases. I spontaneously felt inspired to pick up on the German I learnt 5 years ago and bought some German language CDs. Meanwhile, Man from Mars tapped into his lyrical/hardcore rocker/whimsical pop side and purchased an electric guitar. That's right, an electric guitar.

Then we lugged our two tonne bellies along with a one tonne guitar to Arvo tea where I had a chai latte, Man from Mars had his regular latte and we both dipped into the Apple and Rhubarb Crumble. As we sat there pondering our painful feet and massaging our swollen bellies, it occurred to us that it was fast approaching 5 pm, and that we better get outta town quicksmart if we were going to even have the chance to put in a strong effort for dinner.

And so we motored home and were greeted by my parentals, eager for some "Altogether now, it's Family Time!" time.

So we went to the local RSL and had the hugest servings of the most heartiest meals available.

I kid you not, if humans could roll (without getting scratched, bruised, mangled and travel sick), I guarantee you we could've rolled faster than any car on Valvoline.

Anyway, so now we're back home and we're about to embark on a hardcore Movie Night.

But come to think of it, movie nights aren't the same without movie food... I suppose that it'll just have to be accompanied by some chips, ginger ale, and some chocolate. All in the name of enhancing our cinematic experience, of course.

Self help is happy help

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At work we all had to attend a half-day training session on postive thinking.

Apparently positive thinking will enable us to be less affected by everyday stresses and take on those bothersome aspects of life with the poise and collected cool of Princess Mary (okay, bad analogy there since royalty is paid to look unaffected, but you get my story homies).

Anyway, so one of the things our presenter highlighted to us is that we have a lot of negative self talk which stops us from dealing with annoying situations properly, makes us hold onto anger longer and prevents us from reaching our full potential.

She asked us to monitor those times throughout the day where we engage in negative self talk, and so today I did just that. Here are the number of times my negative self talk kicked in:

1. This morning on the train I thought "I am wearing the most uncomfortable skirt today, I bet my bum looks convex". I immediately turned my self talk around and said "Who cares if it looks convex, you're wearing a long coat and long coats are classy in a mysterious kind of way";
2. At work, I received a bunch of emails from this one really annoyed person and I thought "Damn I'm a retard, I should've been more prompt with this, I should've nipped this problem in the bud. It should never have gotten to this point." Then my good voice chimed in "But you couldn't have done anything about it before because no one could've known. You're fine";
3. After lunch I polished off two Kitkats and thought "Whoa there Miss Chocoaddict, steady on! Two is two too many!" Then I did my mental 180 flip and reasoned that "Two mini Kitkats is a treat- enjoy, just because it's chocolate, doesn't mean it's bad- it's got happy chemicals all throughout. And you can't just find happy chemicals anywhere. "
4. When I got off the train it was pouring and I turned into a soggy sausage. I thought "I feel like a stray cat, all my stuff's wet and I really really need windscreen wipers for my glasses!". Then I decided that "Look, at least you turned into a soggy sausage on the day that your greasy hair desperately needs washing, and plus, rain opens up your pores."

To be honest, I was happier for it. And I know there are those cynics out there who think self help and positive thinking is a bunch of loony tunes, but at the end of the day whatever makes you feel good is what will make you enjoy life. And really, we're all our own harshest critics. A little bit of self appreciation wouldn't hurt anyone.

Short lived reprieves are overrated...

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On Monday I took annual leave. That meant I had a three day weekend. I most probably was the envy of the office and I won't lie, I was so excited for the weekend to start that I wasn't very (at all) focused on Friday. My mind strolled around lazily in its giant vacuous space. I took doubly long to do things. Then I watched the clock tick to 4:30pm before steamrolling outta there faster than I could say "Hello Melbourne, here I come!"

As I trudged awkwardly with luggage in tow to the station, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a broken down train. The train before my train had become unconscious somewhere in between my station and the next and every train thereafter was doomed to delay. I stared at the train master. How could he do this? Did he not know where I needed to be? Tiger Airways requires check in 45 minutes before the flight. I was incensed and worried at the same time. I stood paralysed on the platform. There was no scheduled train. Only the scrolling message on the train board which read "Significant delays expected." Do I wait? Do I get out of the station and catch a taxi?? Friday night traffic was so bad it would take 45 minutes as it was to get to the airport. And so I paced backwards and forwards like a maniac and chewed on my bottom lip. And chewed. And chewed and chewed. Still no train.

Then I got on the phone and in my irrational blind panic, blasted Man from Mars with impatient abuse which was completely undeserved, given that first of all the dead train wasn't his fault, and second of all, he was still cosy and tight at his house, and therefore poking around mindlessly at his things to get ready for his trip to Canberra airport. In other words, my cantankerous outburst would have burned the tips off his blameless ears I was that annoyed.

By some miracle my train arrived and I made the check in line with two minutes to spare. By the time I got on the plane I was so exhausted that all I wanted to do was go to sleep.

It wasn't to be.

I got my karma for blasting Man from Mars and was put next to this guy who was even more cantankerous than me and let loose a torrent of swear words, punched the seat in front of him and groaned continuously for the entire 50 minutes that the plane sat stubbornly on the tarmac.

Eventually, we flew, we landed and I made it out of the "terminal" (read: shed) that only Tiger Airways would ever think to use. Next stop was a cafe for some food. Cue: the discovery of a hair which looked suspiciously like a pube (all crimpy-like) folded in amongst my chicken wrap. I practically ralphed.

Anyway, that Friday couldn't get much more difficult and Man from Mars arrived on time before we headed to his house.

Saturday was Man from Mars' friend's wedding day. The ceremony was beautiful, the bride was fashionably late and delicately elegant in a strapless floaty gown and cascading veil. The groom was typically jovial and only showed the slightest concern when his fashionably late bride almost erred on the side of being unfashionably delayed (like my train). But she arrived, they exchanged their vows and the congregation cheered with happiness.

Then we all went home, some slept, some played tennis, others cleaned their house before we reconvened for the reception. Excellent food, lovely speeches (some witty, others like the one from the bride's father, so touching I got teary) and some short and snappy dance floor time. We all retired home and suddenly it was Sunday. Man from Mars met up with his mates, I met up with mine, then we motored home for some dinner before calling it a night. Suddenly it was Monday.

And herein lies my point to this rather long narrative, because, Annual Leave Monday may well have been a regular work Monday. I woke up, had breakfast, got paranoid about the emails I would be receiving at work, checked my work inbox, became slightly concerned about the number of emails that would greet me on Tuesday and basically had to go straight to the airport. Four hours of travelling later, I was back at home. I was almost more tired than if I had just stayed in Sydney. But you know, I'm only 25, I should be able to handle going interstate 3 weekends in a row.

Buggered, more like.

On Tuesday I shuffled to work and had so much to do, I wondered whether the short lived "reprieve" that is, one day of Annual Leave, was worth it.

In hindsight, it was. Of course it was. It was a marvellous albeit hectic weekend.

But I just wish there was an extra day in the week that would give me that little bit more time to catch up and have a proper reprieve.

Eavesdropping on Companionship and Good Conversation

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On the train ride home I sat near the doors in that cavity where there are two long bench seats facing each other. It was my mum's birthday today:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUM!!!!

and so I was carrying an orange and poppy seed cake, as well as a box of lillies.

Opposite me sat a man and a woman. Both were in their fifties. He was dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, a light pink tie, with the tie pin clasped precariously on an uncomfortable slant. The two arms of the tie hadn't been aligned properly and the tie pin sat diagonally with the wider arm of the tie sitting halfheartedly on top of the other.

She sat half turned towards him, dressed in a light pink cardigan, a forgiving skirt and comfortable looking flats. Her hair was greying and ash blonde. She fidgeted with a pair of spectacles which constantly slipped from the bridge of her nose and adjusted her hair periodically while they talked.

I could have been forgiven for presuming they were married. They were after all wearing colour coordinated outfits and their familiarity was obvious. For the entire 45 minute trip, they didn't stop talking once. There was no uncomfortable silence. There were no polite enquiries. There was only laughter, snorting and a shared sense of humour as they egged each other on with fast paced repartee, each trying to outdo the other; both collapsing in hysterics when one eventually succeeded.

I couldn't hear most of their conversation but I so badly wished that I could catch a tiny earful of what was so funny/fascinating/controversal. It was only once when the train had completely stopped, that I caught the woman say:

"See if I was married, I would be so miserable, I'd just want to escape. I truly would. I would feel so trapped".

And then the train started up again and I missed the man's response. But, like a detective who can only get so close, I spied his and her ring fingers: empty.

So they weren't married.

When it got to their stop (which incidentally was my stop), I followed them up the station stairs and listened as they finished off their conversation:

"Okay, see you next time, have a good night!"

They waved and that was it, they went their separate ways: he veered off to the ramp on the left and she walked down the street to the right.

The comfort of companionship and good conversation was all they needed. It was all they expected of one another. And it was nice.

So yummy I could eat it.

http://www.nivea.com.au/products/show/1153

I love Nivea. Affordable, light and smells so good. I use the Face Veil Moisturiser, the Tinted Moisturiser (usually mixed together) and the other Apricot scented moisturiser with light reflecting pigments for the summer time.

My work friend introduced me to this stuff- Rich Nourishing Moisturiser. It makes your skin feel so silky smooth and if my pores could sing, I can guarantee you, they'd probably be trilling sweet nothings to their favourite moisturiser.

Try it and see how yummy it is for yourself.

This weekend the Bike became my Friend.

This weekend was super productive even by my standards.

As you may well know, last weekend, Man from Mars got me my very own bike (hot pink) with wicked flames painted down the sides.

What many people don't know is that the Bike has been my psychological nemesis ever since I was gifted with a scooter from my parents, when I was three years old. I got the scooter, my sister got the Bike. My sister mastered the Bike, while there was really nothing to master with the scooter; you just mosied along with a nice easy push of your other foot.

At the time I considered that my parents made the sensible choice in choosing the scooter over the Bike. I was, after all, notoriously uncoordinated, constantly falling over and forever getting splinters and bindies stuck in my knees. The scooter was a safe selection which was comparable to the Bike in that it had the same wheels, handle bars and bell-- just without the instability.

So, I contented myself with my scooter and considered that a scooter was still pretty special, given that no one else in kindy knew what one was.

I'll be honest though, at the back of my mind, there was always that annoying niggling thought: What was so hard about riding a bike that I couldn't have one of my own?

Eventually I comforted myself with the fact that once primary school was done and dusted, I wouldn't even really need to know how to ride a bike. Everyone seemed to forget about their bikes when there were Nintendos to play and gym routines to choreograph. In fact, I went through primary school and high school happily oblivious to the practical benefits of knowing how to ride a bike.

It wasn't until I was 23 (that's right, 23) that the need to know how to ride a bike dawned on me. I was leaving for Canada in two weeks' time, the fitness nation of the World and one of my friends asked me how I'd be getting around campus and the city:

"I'm just gonna walk! It's such a little city!" I stated. Blase as you could get.

For your information, both Montreal and Ottawa are pretty little, but that doesn't mean you don't need something faster than walking, to get around in a semi-efficient way.

"Nah, don't walk, hire a bike! They're cheap and they have special lanes in Canada devoted to bikes," my wise friend advised.

I recoiled in the realisation that my worldly friend was indeed correct. Canada was Bike City! Rollerblade City! Awesome Landscape City! I needed to learn how to ride a bike! Pronto.

As with most things I never got myself organised enough to learn how to ride a bike before I left. So, in week 2, one of my mates from high school (who by pure coincidence was visiting Montreal) roped me into hiring a bike, convincing me that I'd "pick it up in a heart beat. It's so easy".

To cut a long story short, 3 hours later, I was able to pedal on my own.

With the help of Kind Assistant # 1 who held onto the bike while I got on.

With the help of Kind Assistant #2 who helpfully pushed me off to get me enough momentum to get my arse into gear.

With the help of Kind Assistant #3 who ran beside me for the first 20 metres to make sure that I wouldn't just end up flat on the side like the ten billion previous attempts had ended.

I won't mention how many random members of the public shouted their encouragement as I stacked it attempt after attempt after attempt.

Eventually, I gave up when my jeans ripped at the crotch and I was in dire need of a luxury bike seat.

Since that time in 2007, I didn't dare touch another bike. Until last weekend that is.

Last weekend I mastered the Push-Off. During the week, I got the best advice from my work mate:

"Just keep your arms locked straight and your head up, and pedal really fast".

What wise words indeed.

As I mulled over her advice, waiting for the weekend to come before I could visit Man from Mars and take a turn on my Pink Bike with the Hot Flames down the Side, I envisaged myself doing it perfectly.

My first attempt was a failure as expected.

My second attempt was a little improved.

"It's okay, it's okay, I get it now" I insisted, and Man from Mars took a step back.

Fast push off, arms locked, head up and like magic, I cruised down the drive way for all of 50 metres before getting fearful and falling off.

I grinned, Man from Mars looked a little awestruck (okay, I made that bit up), and I got back up to gimme some more of that bike riding feeling.

Done and done. Bike Nemesis was officially conquered.

So that's why my weekend was so very productive. I learnt to ride my bike. Not only that but Man from Mars and I saw Avenue Q which was so funny, so real and so relevant to my life right now- it's probably one of the best theatre productions I've seen.

It was a stupendous weekend. Maybe even tremendous. And next weekend I'm going to do some more of that riding to make up for decades of lost bike riding time.

Where in a stiletto does the appeal lie?

http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/02_03/003shoesDM_468x320.jpg

I hate shopping for shoes.

It's an ordeal. It's boring. I'm always wearing work clothes when I shop for them which means I spend half the time trying to bridge the gap between my legs and my skirt (hello, otherwise I'll flash the entire planet). I feel awkward, hot and pressured by the sales girls who watch me while I ask accompanying friends/sibling for their opinion and squint uncomfortably at the pint sized mirror leaning against the wall.

Shoe fetish? Yeah right.

Today as I left work to embark on some Thursday night "window shopping" (I don't say "shopping" because I sound more virtuous if I use the term "window shopping". It's a more accurate reflection of what I did anyway; 90% of the time was spent browsing, while the rest was spent spending money) I was so famished that I stopped for Maccas and had a McChicken meal. How impulsive. Normally I don't have Maccas unless I'm on some never ending roadtrip to Canberra and I've earnt my right to be greasy and cheap. Whereas today, there was absolutely no excuse other than: I need energy to go shoe shopping.

I scoffed that down and wandered around Wittner, Nine West and Witchery. Most of the time I just had a look, stared at the width of the base of the heel (5mm by 5mm), frowned at the height of the heel (10cm and over) and contemplated that I couldn't be bothered putting them on because I'd probably break an ankle just turning it over it my hands.

So I just looked, and looked and grew more and more discouraged. The one time I summoned the gumption to try on a pair of wedge heels (Note: wedges are amazing, you can run in them, skip down the street and maybe even throw some hoops) I took off my shoe and realised that I was wearing the festiest stockings I own. Guys wouldn't know this, but when your stockings have been worn too many times over, you get stacks of holes and pilly bits everywhere. It's gross even if you're the one wearing them, let alone a bystander having to endure it being thrust in their blameless face.

Anyway, as soon as it registered that today was Festy Stocking Day, I whipped my old shoes back on and zipped out of the shop in record time. Needless to say it was a very unsuccessful shoe shopping trip and I didn't do my Maccas meal justice.

I comforted myself with a trashy mag and tucked my festy stocking-ed feet under the train seat. Who needs awesome shoes anyway? Everyone knows that people only look at your top half anyway! Right.... right???

When the spin off is as good as the original...

http://images.theage.com.au/ftage/ffximage/2009/05/14/masterchef_wideweb__470x316,0.jpg

Spin-offs of series are generally uninspired and disappointing.

You spend the whole time on the look out for characters that are in the original, but not in the spin off and there's always this lurking sense of discomfort because the show's so similar to the original, but yet weirdly foreign and unfamiliar at the same time. It's sort of like visiting Toronto when you're from Sydney. Same sort of city vibe, different country, not as good. You get me. If you're like me, you don't give the spin-off the benefit of more than one viewing before giving up with a dramatic sigh "It's just not as good as the original" because it all just gets a little too taxing on the brain to try and be "open minded" about this rip off series that the executive producers have decided to make in a bid to spawn a never ending chain of successful tv shows. Grey's Anatomy vs Private Practice. Friends v Joey. See what I mean?

The original always rocks harder.

Like most things though, exceptions to the general rule surprise me once in a while.

Celebrity Masterchef.

For me, Masterchef was the highlight television show of the year. I loved the cooking, the contestants, the judges, the host (big fan of Sarah Wilson: classy), the regularity at which it was on. Everything worked. I thought that if there were ever to be another season, the second season would pale miserably in comparison because the first series was untoppable.

But for the past month or so I've been pleasantly surprised because Celebrity Masterchef begs to differ. Badly. In the best way. Every Wednesday I storm home in record time to catch the last half hour, riveted, while I eat dinner.

Today's celebrities were Wendy Harmer, Alex Perry and Simon Katich.

Simon Katich won with an awesome rendition of Stephanie Alexander's 10 layered crepe lemon passion fruit cake. Alex Perry and Wendy Harmer were pretty damn good as well. Alex Perry was so intense I thought his shirt was going to bust open with all that muscle bulging tension. Meanwhile, Wendy Harmer was like the cheeky but diligent student in the back row- taking it seriously, but having a fun time with it. Gotta love her take on whether she's a good chef: "As a chef, I think I make an excellent children's book author (her day job)."

It's kept enough of the things that made it work in the first place, to make it just as appealing the second time around: the uplifting music that chimes in when a contestant is on the brink of gaining high praise from the judges, the suspense, the slick editing, the lovely judges and the high pressure format. It's familiar and new all at the same time.

If only after dinner could come before breakfast...

http://www.dialadrink.com.au/catalog/images/ssvc.gif

Do you think there's something wrong with me if I spend the whole day daydreaming about what I'm going to eat after dinner?

Like today for example, as soon as I woke up I really felt like salt and vinegar chips. Specifically, the packet Man from Mars tucked into my bag for the busride home, but which I never got around to eating because I was too ensconced in Gossip Girl, Season One, Disc 4- The episode where Serena's brother outs that Asha guy who's using Taylor Momsen's character because he doesn't want anyone to know he's gay.

Anyway, because I didn't eat those chips on the bus, I ended up daydreaming about their salty, tangy goodness for the entire day. I refrained from having them for breakfast because duh it's not nutritious, I refrained again from getting a packet at lunch because I knew there was a huge packet waiting for me at home and so as a result, as soon as I got home, I inhaled dinner faster than you could say "Chippies!", smackerooned my lips together until they couldn't smackeroon no more and at long last launched into those delectable crinkle cut ellipses of crunch that are, salt and vinegar chips.

Come ride wit me on my new Harley D

http://forum.belmont.edu/business/Harley%20Davidson%20Bike.jpg

Okay, so it's not exactly a Harley Davidson, but it's pretty damn close.

This weekend I went to Canberra and to hang with Man from Mars and while it's been on the cards for a while, I've always found some excuse to put off the purchase of my new Harley D, also known as a cute pink bike from Big W. The excuses range from:

1. "I don't know how to ride a bike" (I don't- unlike most kids my parents got me a scooter instead of a bike and as time went by I just never learnt, because my scooter was just as efficient);


2. "I can't be bothered"- bothered to learn, bothered to go out and buy one, bothered to endure the discomfort that is involved in inevitably having to learn in a public park where the entire world would know my secret;


3. "I'm just not flexible enough to get my leg over the bike seat"- this is actually true. I don't doubt that I'm officially one of the least flexible people on the planet, and the fact that getting on a bike involves a certain degree of leg spreading, I wasn't looking forward to the prospect of having to test getting on bikes in a bike shop, only to not be able to even get past that point.

So you can understand why I procrastinated.

Anyway, Man from Mars decided enough was enough and nicely coerced me into agreeing that yes, I did want to learn and yes, I would ride it if he could find a bike that I could mount.

Lucky I said yes because he found a hot pink bike with gears and everything. It even has wicked flames on the side and a bell that goes "ding ding!" if some rude pedestrian gets in the way.

So anyway, I started learning how to ride it yesterday at 6pm in the side driveway that runs down the length of Man from Mars' house. As expected, the mounting of the bike was a clumsy and difficult process- my right leg shuddered up as far as it could go and I just managed to get it over the other side. Bike mounted and Man from Mars coaxed me into pushing off. Bad idea. Legs got tangled, and before I knew it, it was hello to the driveway cement. Gradually I mastered the push off the back leg, and just as I thought I could advance to getting both feet on the peddles, Man from Mars declared that it was 8pm. Two hours?- hell I was having that much fun I didn't feel two hours go past.

Having said that, there ain't no pretty way of saying this, but all that bike riding made my loins (and everything else in that vicinity), hurt. Kill. In fact, I absolutely reckon a new bike seat needs to be designed pronto. Preferably one that isn't so narrow you could cut cheese with it.

Last night I even had a dream linked to my bike riding. It wasn't the nicest dream because all my teeth crumbled and fell out. But when I googled my dream on the dream interpreter, it said this:

"Another rationalization for these falling teeth dream may be rooted in your fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of yourself in some specific situation. These dreams are an over-exaggeration of your worries and anxiety"

(http://www.dreammoods.com/cgibin/teethdreams.plmethod=exact&header=dreamid&search=teethintro)

And it's so true. Probably the main reason why I put off learning for so long is because I was mortified that I would have to learn at some bike riding school or in some huge park where 8 year olds would be roaring past me on their 10 speed monsters.

It suffices to say that I'm having a blast and I can't wait until I've mastered it. And Man from Mars has to get special kudos for being so persistent, patient and making me feel like I'll be able to learn it, even if it takes me the rest of the year. And then some.

I love chicken salt...

http://www.masterfoods.com.au/Images/Product/1_ChickSalt.jpg

with hot chips of course!

Best place to get them is Burgerlicious (http://www.burgerlicious.com.au/)- 2 minutes walk from my work, they serve'em big and chicken salty! Mmm mmm! Gimme some o' that!

Most of the time I don't buy them myself, I scab them off other people because Burgerlicious oh so generously makes their servings too big for one person to handle.

Read more about it here:

http://herecomesthefood.blogspot.com/2008/12/burgerlicious-sydney-cbd-sydney.html