Tastes like ageing

Today was my birthday.

All day.

I awoke to find an enchanting flock of origami cranes hanging from the dining room ceiling. Nearby, a paper elephant and peacock offered me birthday messages.

Chatty paper birthday origami

I had breakfast with friends and the dude at the cafe gave me a birthday slice of tart for freesies.

I did some birthday study and was obviously channelling birthday wizard power ’cause I totally kicked an essays ass. I then went birthday op shopping and scored some birthday bargains. Then I came home to find birthday flowers and birthday tea!

Birthday flowers on not so birthday tv

Terrible birthday pop music was played, enjoyed and danced to. I went for a birthday walk and felt the birthday sun warm my cheeks as it touched the petals of nearby birthday roses.

Birthday Sunset

At home, Kate (she of the mad hatters dinner party and also the one responsible for the paper menagerie) cooked me a birthday dinner of birthday basa,

birthday fish

and a birthday cake.

birthday cake..

and birthday Kate.

I have had a birthday whistle in my nose for the last little while, but feel it ads to the festive tone of the day.

birthday me.

I’m reasonably birthday sleepy now. I will sleep soon, which is birthday wonderful.

birthday brie and birthday unicorn

Oh and because it is my 29th birthday I am posting my list of shit I’ve got to do before I’m 30, entitled: The Art of (my) Gentle Revolution tonight.  Stay tuned for action packed list crossie offie posts.

Rest easy tonight, interwebs, squooshy and comfortable in the bosom of the knowledge that I had a kick ass day and am for the first time in a long while, looking forward to my age.

Peace out.

When the internets made me cry

I have this disease where I compare myself to anyone I come across who does or has or is something that I want to do have or be. Like there is a race, or a board game where everyone has to be awesome and I’m sussing the competition and being like “dude. No way. They have this in the bag”. Gah. So very year 11.

I just looked at this blog called THXTHXTHX, and it is lovely and it is the kind of idea I wish I’d had. It is this girl Leah and she writes a thank you note a day to things like Anything I Eat After Surfing and Request For Me To Cut Your Hair. It is funny and sweet and honest and I like it a lot, but immediately I thought “damn. She’s done it. She’s better than me” and I actually got a little teary about it.

Geez.

The thing is, I actually have a blog of my own, about daily things I’m grateful for/happy about, but what my brain did when looking at her blog was to think that her way of being grateful is somehow more hip and edgy than mine. Because a blogs hipster cred is obviously the most important issue here. I’m such a douche sometimes.

I think though, that the reason I got teary was (at least partially) that a. I cry with relative expedience at all manner of things and b. I am so glad that the world is populated by women and men who see the beauty and the excellence around them and want to celebrate that. This is brave and good and makes me a little emo.

And I am now going to endeavour to grip hold of my individuality as something to be proud of, not mourned, and others creativity as an exciting expression of Good Stuff. Ok? Ok.

That’s all, I reckon. But check out her blog, and celebrate with me the wonder of humanity and of thank you notes.

Bless.

And now for something completely different

If you’re thinking “mmmm, slam that in my gob”- you’d be right

Wanted to take a moment out of our busy, work-a-day lives (read out of my night watching old eps of the OC) to let you in on the secret of an occasional treat I partake in, one that made me so happy on the weekend I literally had a little skip in my step.

Ok. Here it is. Get ready. Cue Space Odyssey drums.

Custard,

just wait for it ..waaaaaiiiit..

.. .. and rice bubbles*

(Bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum buuuuuummm)

Together. In a bowl. With a spoon (the two latter ingredients are really a matter of taste and convenience, obviously. It’s the primary, more edible ones I want to focus on). Yeah.

I know what you’re thinking, and what I will suggest is this: sit your tiny inner sceptic down, or take your large inner sceptic for a nice walk to the shops or whatever and patiently explain to him/her that new experiences are beneficial in various sort of lifty spirits, puppy in an old folks home kind of ways and furthermore custard is inherently lovely and so a snappy, crackly and poppy version of this wonderful goopy yellowness is surely just abundantly more of a good thing.

Thank me later.

*I actually used Home Brands Rice Pops, for my nocturnal delight on Saturday. You’ll find that imitations actually do still manage to provide the same audio pleasantries we’ve come to expect from our cereal.

He ain’t boring, he’s my brother*

While a lot of the TV I watched when I was younger has become part of the fuzzy clothes dryer of my brain, half remembered bits of twins? something about destiny? something about medallions? and gold? all flying around together and moulding into an indistinguishable mass, some has stuck in there, clear as day. I can still remember Penny in her green pants and sturdy sneakers opening her computer book (computer book! I KNOW, right?!) and Vanilla Icing the hell out of Inspector G’s problems, I remember wanting to date Michealangelo SO HARD (though now I’m more into Raphael, I feel like he gets me) and having no small amount of envy for April O’neills yellow jumpsuit. Oh man. She was the straight up– COOLEST.

I also remember digging on Sesame street, something that hasn’t changed a lot.

I always loved the street more than the school (it seems to be one or the other, a sort of Home and Away v Neighbors polemic). Playschool was adults talking to kids, taking time out of their busy days to condescend to me, whereas Sesame Street was friends (my friends, the crazy ass monsters) talking to friends.

I don’t remember if there was a character I resonated with more than any other, I just remember enjoying the hell out of it. And the ladybug picnic.  As I have grown older, someone stuck with me, grew sharper and more focussed through the haze of my childhood and has taken his place as my favorite from the street.

I have a crush on Bert. My mono-browed, skivvy wearing hero. Sure he’s oft overshadowed by his more fun, more imaginative, more easy going bud Ernie, but in Bert I’ve sensed something worth noticing, worth celebrating. When I picked up the above issue of T-WORLD magazine I realized what it was that kept me coming back** to an oval-nosed paper clip obsessed freak.

There was this article celebrating Sesame Street and they got several different artists to create original designs based on their favorite characters. The one that did Berts wrote that Bert was the guy that told us it was ok to not be the life of the party.

YES.

Everyone knows that Ernie is more likeable. He is fun and silly and innocent and joyful where Bert is dour, boring, practical and snappy. But everyone also knows you can’t always be Ernie. Sometimes you need to be practical. Sometimes you’re sleepy. Sometimes your room mate is talking to an invisible person on a banana and it plain shits you off.

What is wonderful about this skinny little man-puppet (aside from his love of pigeons, which is something we have in common) is that he offers an alternative to the go go go crowd pleasing of the other residents and permissions kids (and 28 yr olds) to be proud of their face eatingly boring habits, eg bottle cap collecting, their lack of constant childlike joy and their visionary dance moves (pigeon dance anyone?).

There is nothing wrong and in fact a lot that’s right with being an Ernie. I’m not going to knock that kind of lifestyle (tee hee). But I’m voting team Bert, because skivvies are sometimes a practical and stylish wardrobe choice.

*Nothing depreciating or untoward should be read into the title as far as my actual brother goes, he is great and fun and helped foster an understanding of the brilliance of S Street and all other Jim Henson associated media.

**and seriously, coming back cos once when I was travelling I left my Bert doll in Gimmelwald, this town on the side of a mountain in Switzerland. And I took a cable car, a bus and a boat across the country before realising. So then I took a train, a bus and a cable car back to fetch him. No one gets left behind. I’m oddly sentimental about things.

I just, I need to get this out of my system

There is, friends, a great and a glorious thing that exists among us. Humble, unassuming, taken daily for granted, but beautiful beyond reason. The very face of God staring at you from your Royal Doulton dinnerware.

ham & cheese on multigrain– elegant in its simplicity, no?

The sandwich, man. Can’t. Go. Wrong. What, I ask could be better at being a meal in your hand? The Sandwich. Splendid, mighty, piquant.

The Widow Maker (ie tomato, cheese, avocado & cucumber. not for feint of heart.)

If you can’t grasp the lofty concepts I’m tossing about like so much baby spinach, allow me to break it down for you.

Sandwiches are one of the better things that exist in the world.

They save my life and they do this by being totally awesome and also edible. I suspect that there may be some who are still unconvinced of the vast and boundless magnificence of the sandy, and for those, I will now drop some knowledge.

double decker PB&J (no I am not an American, I am however a fan of the acronym and potentially lethal sandwich filings).

Why sandwiches kick other things asses:

1. It’s everything you need, and it’s all together in bread, that’s why.

2. It’s the food of the working class. No piss-farting around with knives and forks and all the other bullshit the bourgeois wants us to think is necessary and impressive. You just pick it up and you jam that sucker in your face.

smiley face fritz & salad on white –note the controversial “horizontal cut”

3. The sandwich is the single most impressive invention of the modern age. What’s that? Penicillin? Oh, oh, the printing press?

You can put anything you want between two slices of bread and eat it for your lunch.

Boom.

When wonder calls your name while doing menial household chores

I remember when I was younger (and by younger I mean a couple of years ago) and I still believed in magic  (and by when I still believed in magic I mean of course I believe in magic I’m wishing for a unicorn so I can make a wish on its horn for a fairy),  I used to crave Narnia. This severe, almost tangible longing for a land of magic and beauty and heroes and ADVENTURE would rise up, usually when peering into the dark realms of a wardrobe, or catching sight of a fir tree or you know, anything else.

I knew that it wouldn’t happen (because one of my faults is the ability to produce logic in situations where it is not desired) but I would want it SO. HARD. Wish just for a moment, a long moment where I wasn’t quite ready to exhale that I was wrong. That small but weighty belief that surely if you squink your eyes shut a little tighter, reality will be replaced by lovely, purpley wonder and you’ll be the one, you’ll be the kid who gets an adventure.

Sigh.

While sweeping my house just now, a similar longing popped out of the secret garden of whimsical and stupid desires that will never be realised and said “Look at me! I’m freaking glorious!”. This time it was the often unacknowledged but always present wish that life could just once, JUST ONCE be a music video.

(OHMYWORDHOWGOODWOULDTHATBE)

And you know what? How hard can it be? It’s not like I’m asking for an alternate world full of talking beavers and scary-ass ranga queens any more, I can still be sweeping my kitchen, just then we all take turns singing and have better lighting and are intrinsically cool and detached and stuff. And always know the lyrics.

… Sigh.

Things I’m average at No. 365: Liking the right stuff

I was having a little Facebook tete a tete earlier, via the comments section on a link a friend of mine posted. Apparently the video, an allegedly hilarious clip of Cowboy Hiphop as yet unwatched by me, has been removed from YouTube because of a violation of its use… or some such . Anyhoo, a friend of the original poster commented that he had seen the video briefly on Glee before violently throwing up and passing out, a response to his obvious hatred for the show. I wrote that I was bummed that not only had I missed the original video, but an episode of Glee too to which he replied (in a sort of companionable tone, one show choir hater to another) that Glee is the worst thing in the world. At this point I had to confess to him, and also to anyone who is reading this, that I was in fact, serious.

I love Glee.

There. I’ve said it. And actually I’m completely unashamed. It’s fun and light and involves singing and dancing, which I love (except when involving children under 12 as that is only creepy and uncomfortable) and it doesn’t take itself too seriously and I am ridiculously entertained by it.

Now, the crowd I run with (side bar to state that I don’t run, am not a character in The Outsiders and am not sure at all why I chose that phrase) are often a little bit cool. They’d deny it, say surely I’m talking about someone else, but they know deep down, that a lot of their opinions and tastes are the “right” ones to have. They hate Muse now that they’re doing songs for the Twilight soundtracks, they love Arrested Development and use text lingo ironically. I say all this not to make fun of them, I share a lot of their loves and their disloves, but to point out the kind of people I’d be offending if I came out as a Glee fan. As it happens I don’t actually care and most of them are interstate which means the subject doesn’t come up much, but if it did I’m sure I’d get some heads shaking. That’s just the way I roll. I’m a maverick.

More things I shouldn’t love but do:

Kevin Costner

Romantic Comedies

Possibly Beyonce, although she hovers over acceptable sometimes. So hard to tell.

Vampire related books, movies and TV shows

Kevin Costners Field of Dreams

Friends, the show not the people, although of course I love that kind too.

Rod Stewart

John Denver

Guy Sebastions Like it Like That

Some R’n’B

Cougartown

Some Hip Hop

Kevin Costners Waterworld

And I could continue. I used to say (as recently as last week) that I’m allowed to like some shit because I like so much good stuff, but it’s more accurate to say who the hell cares.

When it comes to film and television I’m supposed to like Seinfeld and hate the Vampire Diaries. I’m supposed to love the indie music, except when it gets too popular, and hate the Miley (I do, hate her, by the way..). I’m supposed to roll my eyes at misspelled text messages and if I’m really good, I’m supposed to forsake Facebook all together because of its obvious affiliation with all that is naff and its clearly pro-Stephanie Meyer leanings.

I don’t do all that very well. And this post is actually a good reminder to myself to quit once and for all taking social currency so seriously. Liking shit along with the not-shit keeps me in fun pretty much constantly. It is almost inconceivable how easily entertained I am, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Cool means too much work, not enough show choir.


Two things

Spotty bottle… Spottle!!


Hey. Hey everyone. Come see my new water bottle. It’s all metal and cool and means I don’t ruin le environment with my constant water bottles made of plastic buying anymore. Yeah. Note that it’s sitting on this awesome sheet of vintage paper that I found on the sidewalk in Coburg.