Category Archives: You don’t even know

The Sound of My Gentle Failure or The Art of My Gentle Revolution part 2: the reckoning

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I posted a list a little over a year ago, of things I would attempt to do before I turned the “give up on your teen whims” age of 30. Below are the results. Forgive me.

 

1. Start dancing lessons– nope. Thought about it a lot, even googled things, but not one. Sigh.

2. Practice self control (particularly as regards eating, spending, wasting and watching)- look. I lost this one for a while. Nearly a year, actually. But, in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been controlling my appetite for the junk food, walking to work and walking other places too. This counts. Money I’m still bad at. Sigh.

3. Bake a Pie– HA! Hahahahaha! I baked TWO! In your face 30!!

Pie the first- pear tart; lumpy yet satisfying
Pie the second- Pecan; possibly ill-advised yet flavoursome

4. Start learning French– je ne comprends pas? Je suis fatigue. Yes these are phrases from a learn French iPhone app. But, if someone French was to ask me- in English- if I would like more food or the cheque, I could respond with l’addition s’il vous plait. Counts.

5. Save money-…. cough. Oh GOD why am I so crap? In my defense, a lot of stuff came up this year that was somewhat unexpected and further to this, I am really really shit with money. I did buy plane tickets to a whole other country for next year, so I’d better figure it out soon.

6. Read at least half of the books currently unread on my shelf and do not purchase new ones until that has happened Secure second bookshelf and make every effort to purchase every book I like, love and think possibly looks interesting or pretty to fill said bookshelf (important caveat, books can be purhased for me)– Doneski.

7. Watch less TV –hmmm. Tricky. I did watch less TV shows actually on the TV set. And I was a whole hell of a lot busier than I have ever been before so I’m going to assume this means I had less time to watch stuff and call this a check.

8. Take more chances – why do I do this? Stupid vague and inspirational goals. How is this quantifiable? Well, I talked to boys I liked, I got my hair cut very short on one side, I submitted pieces of writing to the uni mag Farrago, I wrote honestly and sometimes embarrassingly on my blog, overtook large trucks on a highway and allowed myself to be awkwardly auctioned off for charity. Done? Sure.

9. Give one night a week to writing– straight up, didn’t happen. I did write more… This is something I need to get amongst. Onto it, accountability matrix.

10. Walk daily– Yes! …iiin the last two or three weeks. But I did it before I turned so, counts. Ha.

11. Talk less and listen more– I sort of have this covered on account of my job, although it can be startlingly easy to get through a day at the drop in without having a decent convo. I try to make listening a priority (but could still do with some more work on the “I have the attention span of a spaniel and am frequently caught out not actually listening to my friends” front), and I am finding I’m enjoying it more. I still talk a lot, though. A lot, a lot.

12. Be increasingly comfortable around new people– I think that it’s easier to feel other people will think you’re a freak, if you think you’re a freak. And so conversely, if you git on down with your own unparalleled you-ness and how good that is, then you don’t mind other people copping a load of you. You dig? I’m so at the top of my game (still a ways to go before I’m channeling Beyonce style diva confidence (frankly, I think it would make people uncomfortable (just cos, they’re not used to me being a douche(in that way) and it would definitely come out like that))) in terms of liking Carlynne, which is nice. A few things have fallen into place mentally and that’s really helped, and so I think whilst I can still be intimidated when I meet new people, particularly those of the good looking persuasion, mostly I’m of the opinion that if you’re going to assume someone will think something about you, you may as well assume they’ll think you’re a fucking rad-ball. Or something.

13. Sing frequently– oh man. All the time (In my house, obviously (Possibly to the irritation of my housemates (although my latest, Joe (so excellent) sings actually, ALL THE TIME, ALL THE TIME, which is great and means he can’t be angry about mine, which happens significantly less than his))). I also tried to be put on the singy roster at church, which happened once, and was fun. How good are multi brackets.

14. Take more photos– I took so many photos. Ludicrous, annoying amounts. And I stopped doing my photo a day business, but then I missed it so I started again. More on this later.

15. Catch a barramundi– Alas. I caught no fish this year. I did, however, catch several colds, at least one flu, gastro, and several people’s drifts.

16. Do not use cynicism as a crutch– I feel the annoyingly positive side of me has grown in power and fluffiness this year. Perhaps my cynicism was in my hair, and the shorter it gets, the brighter the bright side. Or, I’ve just been a little happier. –side note, Carlynne, the dark side of the split personality that inhabits my frame, wishes you to know that I am still in the possession of a very healthy portion of cynicism. I just don’t choose to assume the worst when I can about things like religion, other people, and where possible, myself. Still working on assumptions about the state of the government, the state of the environment, certain activists I know, and one of my parents. We’re only human.

17. Throw out one thing a month– yes! (does this count if it was done like, in several big piles scattered throughout the year that surely added up to more than 12 things) (I think it does)

18. Buy clothing and footwear only from vintage/recycled shops where possible– eep. Mostly, yes. Totally beautiful dresses, MIND BLOWING jumpers, even perfect jeans (op-shop holy grail). So much purchased from oppies that I had to impose trade embargoes on myself and Savers. There were exceptions, though, which I feel I was mostly driven to by fat days and wedding attendances. I’m sorry. Honestly.

19. Understand what it means to grow up – I believe I covered this in one of a series of self indulgent word vomits.

20. Eat at this allegedly fantastic Japanese place my mate Brad went mental over– Bam. With two days to go- locked down.

21. Make my blog look a bit nicer- woo hoo! I think it does. I don’t know about the blog fanciness, alright? It’s not my bag. But I gave it a red hot go.

22. Judge less– again. Judge less? Less what? Judge who less? It’s such a subjective, cloudy thing. Look, I generally think that if one of us is shit, then we’re all shit. Because you know and I know, all the shitty things we’ve done and are capable of doing, deep down. So, if I get to walk around and not be kicked in the face or spat on or sneered at or sent to prison or whatever, then I don’t think that I want to do those things to other people. I think I put this in because sometimes I can get all neggo about Christians and socialists, and ladies who wear leggings as pants. And I still do, way more often than I should. But I’m trying not to, and I’m thankfully arriving more often at the conclusion that maybe everyone is at least a little broken, and that compassion doesn’t actually cost me anything, and that everyone can do what the hell they like and it’s not up to me to make decisions about their pants (but seriously, leggings are essentially an undergarment, I’m telling you this for your own good).

23. Send more postcards, inc’ to people I don’t know–

I violated several postcards with several cheerful and possibly inane messages several times, then left them to be taken by other folk. Counts.

24. Talk to people I recognise instead of acting like I don’t see them– this has also become easier because of my work, and the fact that I spend a lot of time near where I work. If I see Mr Talks to Himself in the street, or Mrs Smells of Pee, it’s flat out not nice if I pretend I don’t. Plus they’re fun to talk to. And even when they’re not, when I’m tired and I don’t want to “work” it’s easier. I don’t every time, for every person I know, but mostly, and with peeps from other scenes, I say hi.

25. Spend more time chatting with my Grandma– this one is a little rough. She died last month and one of the reasons that is shit for me is because of this list and the fact that I obviously registered a need to do this because maybe she wouldn’t be around forever, and then I didn’t do it. The most I learnt about my Grandma, I think ever, I learnt in the week following her death from talking to my family and watching them bury their mother.

26. Buy film for my polaroid and use it – I tried. It’s sooooo expensive, I just could not justify $40 for like, 8 photos. But, I did buy one of those cool oldie looking plastic cameras and some film to get developed and I will be doing that a lot from now on. Sah Indie.

27. Go out dancing at least once a month– Probs not once a month, but, I have shook what my mama gave me on the dance floor well over 12 times this year at least three different clubs (six or seven times), three houses (three or four times), three different weddings and once, three times in the same weekend.

28. Develop less irritating and useless crushes – don’t even get me started.

29. Attempt to make dolma – just.. just move on.

30. Learn to play that Turin Brakes song/ any song on guitar– what? What do you want from me?! Guh.

31. Figure out how to get around hating on church in general – Bam-a-lam. Covered a little in this entry, and only progressing really. Still a lot about traditional church that doesn’t gel with me, a lot I find extraneous and irrational, but I like mine. Despite the fact that it sort of doesn’t suit me at all. They’re good people, my church.

32. Get to know family I don’t keep in touch with– please to refer to overly long blog post here.

33. Jump out of a plane bed– done! I’m sometimes a lot better at mornings now. Sort of.

34. Take an interest in the world both around me and across oceans and not hide from the truth of it – this actually really happened. This was the year I took larger interest. Fortunately I know a lot of passionate, intelligent and interested people who help me learn and stay involved. My interest has only so far extended to some ABC watching, some reading of news articles and some protest attending, and what I don’t know about could still fill a lot of scarily large books, but I’m not content to not think about thing any more, despite the fact that it’s a giant cesspool of awfulness and mean people and oil-spills and greed out there (I don’t really believe that. Now more than ever I think, I KNOW there is the capacity for GREAT LOVE within people. Yes).

35. Talk to strangers– like a dinner, baby. Plane guy, Irish guy, old lady on tram 1, Irish guy 2, drunk people on street, drunk guy at pub, guy on tram who looked like a bearded Dylan Moran (Oh Lord), old lady on tram 2, drunk Canadians x 2, tram driver, several ladies in ladies bathrooms (you know how that goes), girls on dance floor, dude on tram 2, many café staff and I’m assuming several retail assistants in several workplaces of theirs.

36. Knit things– two parts of scarvey things later, I’m a knitter again. Getting better too. I want to branch into crocheting now. But I won’t like, make a dramatic list about it or nothing.

37. Be kind – who knows. God I hope so. I feel like I like people a lot, and am fortunate enough to keep on meeting them. It’s often hardest to be kind to yourself and those close to you though, and I’m still working on that.

And this of course is the end. I could ad several things to the list that I did do this year, but it’s late and I have even bored myself.

So the tally stands at:

Carlynne- 27 or 25 or 26.5 or something;

Doing Things-10 or so.

Victory is MIIIIINE.

 

thanks for listening. I promise I’ll never do this again.


Things I have learnt in the past week

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-I can be an “active” person

-getting out of bed when ones alarm goes off IS actually possible

-I crave approval like I crave hot beverages

-cheese; yes

-beer is still awesome, though

-when one comes upon a beer named “black lung” one should follow ones instincts and walk away

-protests can be tricky and rough and odd and divisive

-giant demon babies populate my city

-I am not as good a dancer as I think I am

-intentions don’t write essays

-the heady thrill of making friends with fun people is still like a drug to me

-balloons are magic

-tram inspectors are people too

-naps get better with age

-my memory is shit

-Paul Mercurio checked me out

-that last one was a lie

-flight booking ladies (I can’t remember their name) are very personable

-married men are good company (and I don’t mean that how it sounds), though

-being bid on and purchased by a married German is not not awkward

Slightly below slightly above average

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Oh Internet. Let me tell you a little something.

Turns out me making a list of things to do before I’m 30 was a great idea in theory, but a really poorly thought out one in the staggeringly disorganized reality of my day to day existence.

Hahahahaaaa uugh.

I will not, you can be sure, get all of the list done. I can say this with some certainty as my birthday is less than 3 weeks off and I am yet to even conceive of how to fish, let alone catch a barrumundi, and of course have not leapt from a plane. I have no plans to do either of these mid-assignment time and can also not go back in time to stop myself buying new books, bully myself into walking daily and take up both French classes and dancing lessons. Le sigh.

I do however have a couple of important updates along the “perhaps I’m not completely useless” line. Squee!

No. 36. Knit things. I, have been knitting up a sort of casual and spaced out storm.. or more accurately two flattish pieces of knitted wool that could become scarves for either people or, I’m hoping, bike racks. I have to tell you- it’s all about knit one purl one. Who knew.

28. Develop less irritating and useless crushes. Ha! hahahahaHAHA! I’ve done it! I don’t even really know how, but

I HAVE FOUND THE SWITCH

It’s amazing. When I see a dude on the tram and he’s all sporting a beard and wearing an excellent shirt or reading a good novel instead of staring at him at intervals, inner voice manically repeating “lookatmelookatmelookatme” while trying to simultaneously sit up straighter, suck in gut and turn face ninety degrees so he sees my hair properly OR  even more embarrassingly, trying to casually reveal one of my tattoos (shame spiral); I now don’t give a crap. Ha!

AHAHAHAHAHA!

See I’ve realized something very important. Not every guy I see on the tram/the street/at uni/at a café is going to fall madly in love with me. Say, whaaa? I know.

Most aren’t even going to notice me and this is ok. Mathematically speaking (can I do that? Do I need a licence? Don’t tell anyone), all of these dudes I notice around the joint, and even the ones that I more than notice, that I meet and am friends with, aren’t going to be someone that I will wind up biking cutely down Bruswick street with. And, even if they are someone that that is going to happen with, chances are they’ll work it out when we’re hanging out and I’m being normal, rather than when I’m swishing my hair slightly and hoping they can hear Cold War Kids coming from my iPod speakers.

I cannot will these connections and I no longer want to, especially when willing them leaves me feeling stupidly shitty and hurt for the twenty-seventh time because I’ve decided from a series of secret and hidden clues that boy x is in love with me but has not told me yet because he needs me to be more available and less intimidating.

If boy x is indeed in love with me, or as is more likely, wants to grab a beer, then he can ask me, and we can hang out, and I can not be a giant overthinking spaz ball who ends up analyzing every word he utters, comparing herself to every girl he talks to and crying because the mean man didn’t have the decency to like her back.

You see this way, and here’s the best part, I get to enjoy myself, something that was largely shat on by my citizenship in the land of liking.

So catchya round, Crushton, hopefully not for a long long while though.

32. Get to know family I don’t keep in touch with. Whole other entry just posted.

And most importantly I think- 19. Understand what it means to grow up.

I never wanted to be one of those people who every birthday shrieks and covers their faces screaming “no oh god why me why is it always me” or, as is more realistic, complains a little about getting older every year. It didn’t make sense to me. Birthdays come whether you complain or not, and it seemed to me, you don’t want to complain away the one day a year you get presents for essentially not dying, you want to eat all the cake.

Despite this, a few years ago, I came perilously close to being that person.

I turned 26 and the knowledge that this would keep on happening, that though I still felt 19 and was for all intents and purposes, homeless and unemployed, I was no longer in my early twenties, and that there was every chance I would grow old and die dawned on me with a horrific thud that resounded deep in my viscera. No one told me it would be utterly terrifying.

Mild break down later, I went on to be a 27 year old, with a similar but less intense freak out about officially moving in to my late twenties, then, surprisingly, I turned 28. It was here that myself and a similarly aged friend did the maths and realized we were 12 years off of 40.

We very nearly lost our minds.

Since then I have been dreading 30. Not because I won’t party any more, not because of my skin sagging and the jokes from friends, but because I am most definitely not a 30 year old.

I believe I’ve made no secret of the fact that I feel my moving into adulthood has been some sort of embarrassing paperwork error on someone else’s part. I am stupid, laugh loudly, still enjoy slurpees and cartoons etc etc.

Though I joke about it, there has been many a moment of real fear in there as I contemplate my life after 30 watching people wear beige and be convincing about things they understand as I tie up my cons and move on to another in a series of casual jobs.

When I was newly 26, and lying on the floor in a morass of undignified horror, I paused in my wailing to ask my good friend Caryn, if she ever freaked out about getting older. “do you ever feel like you’re not the right age?” I whispered down the phone.

Caryn, a beacon of hope in a stupid, probably sugar induced frenzy, sagely replied “actually, I feel more like myself every year.”

At the time I was stumped but had the good sense to hope that one day I would understand how or what she meant.

And now that day has arrived. Somehow, slowly and insidiously, without really noticing it happening, I’ve arrived somewhere calm. Somewhere I’m happy to be, where 30 is actually something I’m really excited about. It snuck up on me like a sneaky little maturity ninja or responsibility ghost and now I feel like 30 is something I want to put on with my favourite shoes and go dancing in.

It’s a whole mess of things that have not all come together at once, but have rather been growing in me and around me, some for nearly 30 years. It’s about how I have a job now that I love, and that helps me to feel like I can do things for the first time ever. I am excited by the new things I can learn and encouraged by creativity rather than intimidated by it. I am comfortable but still challenged by my faith and though I’ve had times this year when I thought it was all a bunch of shit, I am happily trapped here once again. I live in a fabulous area of Melbourne that helps me feel alive and connected. I write more than I did before and I feel like I do an ok job sometimes. I am the happiest and most satisfied with who I am, how I look and how I spend my time that I’ve ever been- in short, I feel more like myself than I ever have.

I am still a huge spaz of course, but I’ve learnt that everyone does everything differently and the way I do 29- 30 doesn’t have to be the way that others have. I completely dug my 20’s and it will still be surreal when I meet various 23 year olds and I tell them I’m a whole different survey box, but if 30 means more of this learning how to be myself bidness, then bring that shit on.

So that is all the things I’m writing about for now because my internet was weird and i’ve been busy and tired (and at the microbrew showcase) and I will do more writing later. Like you even care. Shut up.

…Love you. x

Things I’m Average at No. 7: Being in any real way a “grown up”.

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I am ageing.

I know this comes as a shock, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am awkwardly side stepping out of my twenties now, something I’d so infrequently thought about when reading the Babysitters Club or fatting my way through high school. I’m courting age, something that is outside of my control, moving stubbornly alongside me (or standing stock still as I run in stupid meaningless circles around it, depending on your perspective) stuck to my skin like a fungus (ew?). It’s a hand perpetually on my arm, blah blah blah, ooh inevitability, blah blah, happening to us all blah bliddy blah.

It’s the circle of life blah.

But- despite the continuous and unpermissioned propelling toward my grave, my adult self has, in an alarming display of self sabotage, largely refused to play and is sullenly sitting in a tree house, batting half dressed barbie’s heads together and muttering about how “it’s a dumb game anyway”.

I grow older, but not up. While I inhabit the body of a 29 year old, my old skool, puerile habits rear their heads with shocking frequency. Honestly if they continue to just let people grow older without any sort of standardised testing, there’s really no one to blame but the system.

Here’s what I mean.

I will continue to like boys

Boys, though. Like, why, when all other women over 25 started dating bankers and marrying and having children I completely missed the memo and thus am still mooning about, glaring at my phone, whining to my friends about how I just don’t knoooow and giggling over text messages, is of course beyond me. And, how many 21-23 year olds can I possibly meet, you know? A constant parade of kontiki aged males who go to uni and maybe shave a bit does not a mature, Austin-esque heroine make.

I will continue to giggle inappropriately

This guy in one of my classes last semester would insist on pointing out the surname of another girl in the class which was, unfortunately, Wang. I wanted to tell him to stop and that it was not cool, man, but I had to wait till I stopped snickering like a child first.

I will continue to be stunned that I have a job that carries any sort of actual responsiblity

Seriously. Who’s idea was this? I’m not like, endangering anyone, and some days I actually feel like I’m doing it well, but just the whole “do the things when they need to be done”, “best attend to those emails now”, “Oh I’ve got another meeting that night” thing is something that’s taking a lot of getting used to. It’s odd for a girl who’s used to filling her hours with a variety of dalliances with a variety of characters from a variety of fictional media and the assembling of an occasional sandwich. Very odd.

I will continue to throw my money away

I just love to spend money! Or more accurately, I just don’t care. I’ll just spend it. I shouldn’t go to brunch again, but I will, because I don’t care. I shouldn’t buy another stack of paperbacks from the second hand book store but I will, because I don’t care. I shouldn’t use my phone as a modem without pausing to think about the cost and then end up paying a $1300 bill. Whoops. Other people I’ve heard of or read about, they keep some of their money all together in a pile of some sort and sort of, save it, if you will. From the spending. Heroes.

I will continue to like candy

I gave up sugar for about two months. Then I started eating it again because my life is infinitely better when I can have the odd chocolate bar, gob stopper and bowl of vaguely sweetened breakfast cereal. I don’t know if I’m supposed to stop liking junk food at some point and move on to just nibbling daintily on olives and pesto or whatever but I just can’t see how that will happen without some sort of combined tongue/brain transplant. Presumably when I’m 40 I’ll get the package containing my new tastes in fashion, television and food along with my Opinions and Responsibility that got sent to the wrong address about five years ago. Then I’ll eat it.

And I will continue to HATE homework

Because it suuuuuucks sooo harrrd. I don’t WANT to research. And everyone knows it’s lame and whose idea was this anyway and no one ever says to smart people “prove you’re good by making a totally sweet sandwich or playlist” so how is it faaaair? Huff.

So… Done now.

Just wanted to get this all registered (you know, on the internet) before I’m actually a 30 year old. Ludicrous.

 

 

 

Things I’m average at no. 763: Being Academic

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(I wrote this after assignment time around two months ago and was unable to finish due to shame induced blog amnesia so it’s a little out of date now. Here it is.)

 

I’m having essay regret. Not the regret that comes around every assessment time shaking its head saying “what the frick are you studying for anyway, you should have stayed stupid”, although I get that too, this regret is the regret that comes from handing in a piece of work you know is shoddy, you know is under researched, you know is basically a ramble of thoughts and words so loosely related to a topic they may as well have just brushed past it in the shops. I’ve handed in a pile of Arial fonted shite.

Oh God Oh God Oh God. Why.

Every time I think about this essay my mouth does this thing. It goes into a line, a thin tight line that pulls a little to the left. Like a wee little stroke of shame. My mouth is trying say “oh god oh god I can’t believe I handed that up oh god” but all that  is appropriate for most social occasions is the slight twitch.

Also, I liked my tutor. I don’t want him to think I’m a git. We had drinks together, he listened when I spoke, and now, inevetably he’ll read my essay and think “why in the hell is that seemingly intelligent girl handing in what is essentially a tenth grade book report?” Oh man.

You need skills to be good at this study thing, I guess. Time management and all that shit, but also, the ability to do it. To put down the remote, or the novel, or the table tennis bat (I don’t know) and turn to What You Need To Do and friggin DO IT. I have a very limited grasp of this skill. Even now, I’m on holidays and I’m not doing that right. I have books I want to read and stuff I want to write and I’m watching a shit load of Greys Anatomy because I am so crap at telling myself to fucking DO IT.

I honestly believe I have some undiscovered form of learning disability that manifests in a squirrels attention span, a large lump of brain play-dough that sits in front of a concept I need to grasp making it nigh on impossible and a near complete inability to express thoughts that I do understand.

And the thing is, is I did understand this. I listened to my tutor and read the books and got it but when it came time to get down.. holy shit. Everything broke and I submitted the academic equivalent of Twilight.

Oh God oh God.

Anyway, sorry to whinge. It’s not so bad. Luckily for me this grossly malformed learning gene hasn’t stopped me from memorising copious pop-song lyrics, hundreds of movie references and the way to the toilet. I’ll be fine.

Sigh.

 

Dear Baking, Sorry we’ve not been friends.

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I know a number of people, people that I respect, who love you. They love to stand in their kitchen and move pans about and find ingredients and look in their pantries and make things for those they love. I’ve always thought that’s fabulous. I love the idea that people can be not lazy. That they can make food for themselves. It amazes me. And some of them really love it. Like, they LOVE it. They want to be with you, Baking, a lot of the time. Your sometimes painstaking methods seem a sweet price to pay for the result they get.

Not so for me. It’s not always been that I hate to cook. I don’t even think I do. It’s just never occurred to me to like it. I will certainly grab a spatula or wooden spoon and do my half assed duty, but the idea of cooking as something that’s fun to do, of YOU as an interesting way to spend my time has, on occasion, seemed laughable.

I hope this isn’t offensive… It’s not you exactly, it’s just that why would something that seems almost chore-ish be fun for me? Putting flour and salt and other shit together in exacted quantities just doesn’t get me going.

But.

As you may or may not be aware (I’m sure you’re busy with Nigella or Masterchef or something but you may have read my blog..) I decided I wanted to make a pie. I decided this around seven or eight months ago as a part of my quest to do some shit before I turn 30. I have after all, always been a huge fan of pie  -one of your finest works, I think- and the making of one, crust and all, seems like such an insignificant and obvious part of other peoples lives that the lack of any experience making one in my own began to look ridiculous.

The pie making scheme sat latent within me, swallowed by laziness, fear and my super human ability to forget things and be easily distracted for many a moon. Then, one unsuspecting Friday night, at around nine, I began to think. I began to think pie thoughts. I began, Baking, to dream pie dreams. We didn’t have a lot of fruit, so I googled pear pie recipes lazily, still not entirely committed to the revolution.

I found one. It looked good. I sat, and read it and thought and read it some more and then, when my self esteem thought all hope was lost I said “fuck it, I’m doing this” got off the couch, took my place in the kitchen and, may I say, my place in history.

First, as you will know, I made the crust. I took the crust part of another recipe as the one I found was all American and saying things like Wholewheat Flour and stuff. I hoped the recipe wouldn’t know I cheated. The dough freaked me out when I took it out of the food processor as it was a little wet and greasy. Convinced that I had fucked even that small a part, I divided it in two and put it in the fridge to set. Or whatever.

Next! The filling. Several sloppy pears dripping all over the bench later,

I know, right? Nutmeg and cinnamon and honey dude. Damn.

So. Once this was done and after a few minor interruptions in the way of facebook chat and freaking out a little more over the fate of the ill-begotten crust, it was time to like, assemble this sucker.

Here is where the trouble started. I placed the pear mix in the middle of my very nicely rolled (I thought) pastry. I began to pull the edges of the pastry over the pear to form a little tart case thing. But woe! The pastry was too thin and the pear too juicy and small cracks began to form in the newly soaking dough. I would smoosh one crevice together only to catch another forming on the other side. It stuck to the bench and looked unlikely to ever make it into the oven. Somehow though, the lumpy pear boat was placed hastily on a tray to await fate and my surrender to inadequacy.

 

I moaned aloud, I told friends on facebook this was sure to result in horror, I lamented my danged decisions to attempt anything ever as the little pear boat waited for me like an unassuming time bomb of floury doom.

I waited.

Something peculiar happened. When repeatedly checking the pie, I noticed it had begun to look..golden-ie. Sort of baked and delicious. It looked, dare I say it, edible.

Not letting myself dare to hope, I paced the kitchen some more and then…

… it was born. My first pie. And I cut into it, and I ate it, and Baking my friend, it was good. The crust was crumbly and baked through and not dry and the pear was succulent. I was exultant. Where there had been no baked good, I had made baked goods.

And now here I stand, on the other side of my great adventure, humbly asking for your forgiveness. I’m sorry I thought you were naff, Baking. You gave me pie and for that I will be forever grateful. I now look forward, almost, to spontaneously deciding to try you late at night again, and possibly at other times when we might combine to make other pies.

Here’s to a long and healthy friendship,

Carlynne.

 

 

An Open Letter to People With Children, Partners, Or a Combination of Both.

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Hi.

Look, I think I probably like you. If we’re friends on facebook that is most likely the case. If I haven’t met you, I’m willing to bet you’re ok, you’re a stand up guy or girl, you dote on your kids and your other half and pay your taxes and all that. This is not intended as a go at your way of life, your decisions or the way you wear your hair. This is intended only as a means of communicating some facts that I think will help us all get along a little better. Ok? Ok.

I think, if you have babies, then more power to you. Babies are great and, I hear, when done well grow into people who will dote on their partners and pay their taxes and so on. I have no issues with babies, in a general sense. I, being a person of 29 years of age, have picked up from a combination of televisual aids, contact with baby making family and friends and common sense, a vague sort of understanding that the job of baby making and raising is difficult, not to be undertaken lightly and as Juno says, “quite the time suck”. While never making the claim that I understand the delightfully web-like intricacies that make up the parent-child relationship (I am genuinely baffled by the core-deep feeling parents can shoot from their mouths like flame should their progeny be in danger), I get that it’s a big deal.

Now, I don’t have children- which you may have picked up already. This is largely the result of me never having given birth to a human, but the fact that I am unmarried (or unpartnered, if you like, I’m not trying to make value statements for other people- just myself. I honestly think a baby will do better with two, than it would with me and my two housemates) and am yet to meet someone who deems me worthy of carrying his seed, has a little something to do with it also.

I am aware that as much as I faff about this being nothing to do with me, that my childlessness has sprung (not altogether suprisingly) at least in part, from my choices.

My not having children affords me certain benefits, which I will outline for you briefly. I can sleep through the night mostly, and on days I don’t have to work, I can sleep in. I have a small amount of disposable income and don’t have to spend it on nappies of the same name. I can go out at night willy-nilly.

Now- before you hurl your computer against a wall in outrage at the pomposity that sees me tricking you into reading self indulgent swill about my life sans children, please, there’s a method to my self gratitude.

This is going to be difficult to hear, it is going against the grain of every person who has ever changed the nappy of someone who’s every inner part seems to have been shot out of their arse in an explosion of greenish brown, or been woken at all hours of the night by the screams of some sort of shrieking ghoul who’s posessed your child but I’m reasonably certain there’s benefits afforded you too.

If in conversation with me (or someone who, like me, has not given birth or come across a child in another way) any of  the following subjects come up: Sleep, Poop and my desire to stay away from it, Staying out late, How I rarely see a morning before eight o clock– and your response is any of the following:

“Oh, well, YOU obviously don’t have children”

“‘Ha! You should try having kids. That’d change all that”

“I was up at *insert godawful hour here like some sort of sheriff-of-the-morning-itself badge*. Can’t believe you sleep till 8!”

“Your lifestyle indicates laziness to the point of negligible sloth and the priorities of a madwoman. You should have babies so as to become more of a productive and safe citizen”

..that hurts. The subtle implication that my life is in some way less serious or valid is annoying to say the least. Let’s imagine a scenario in which I talk to my friend Janie about how her day has been.

me- Hi Janie! How’s tricks?

Janie- I’m pretty good, but baby number 1 has a cold so I was up most of the night.

me- yeah, you look like shit! you should have tried not having babies. Like me! I slept like a mo fo last night, similarly to how I sleep every night when I’m not out till all hours having consequence free fun and laughing with my friends about how lucky we are.

Janie-… I hate you.

You see how this sort of competition is hurtful? I live what’s known as a different life. I work part time, and study part time. It keeps me pretty busy, but not so busy that I don’t enjoy a weekend.

On the other hand, I have no one that runs to me when I come home, that I lift into my arms to hold and feel their extraordinary weight. I have no small person or persons to charm me daily with their wit and their incredible heart. I have no one to whom my soul seems inexplicably joined and who’s every breath I feel as though it were my own. So when you remind me of my difference to you, let’s not forget- I already know, just as I’m sure you do.

Now to the other thing. I’m what’s known as a “single woman”. I am from a land, let’s call it Churchland, where marriage is the holy grail, and not marriage is a sort of confusing state of being leading to a horrific wasteland of bleak solitude that one would never choose to stay in and certainly one would want to leave by the time they’re 25 at the latest. I have not left yet. I am something of a scholar in the art of not marriage. This is not solely by choice, the line up of men who wish to join me in the quest for the grail, an analogy I now wish I hadn’t brought up, is slim or, um.. invisible, to say the least.

I am sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. Yes, I am “putting myself out there” if by “putting myself out there” you mean like, walking around, doing my job, going to the shops and generally sort of, living my life without too much hiding in my room, afraid to face to world without a man by my side. I am not on a dating site, nor do I want to be any time soon. This is not because I don’t approve of them or find those that do in any way mockable, but to be frank, I don’t think I’ve got the time or the right amout of can-be-arsedness to get into dating people so that I may end my single career.  I am also not hitting on men in bars, mainly because that’s terrifying and altogether un-me, but also when I’m in bars I’m fairly busy having a good time with my friends.

I promise, if someone comes along who is awesome and finds me so, I’ll do what I can to snare him in my talons with my wily girl charms, but you need to know, I’m not sitting around plotting how to join you in married bliss. I’m trying to enjoy myself.

And furthermore, if I wax lyrical about my future as some sort of insane spinster, weaving things from the skin of possums I find dead by the side of the road, then let me! For a start, talking about my imagined future, joking or no, will not make it come to pass. The likelihood of a Husband sneaking cautiously to stand behind me, his hand raised to tap me on the shoulder and whisk me away to some sort of roadkill free wonderland overhearing my statements about future desire to throw full cans of food at all that pass my mansion of horror looking vaguely happy, and deciding that I am, therefore, not the woman for him are shockingly slim.

Secondarily, get ready for this, I may in fact never get married. Gasp. Sometimes, I know it’s hard to deal with when we’ve been raised with Anne and Gilbert and Jo and the Professor and Lois and Clark and every movie in the world telling us that generally, people find the Love Of Their Lives and kiss and ride into sunsets and such and even the freakin Baby-Sitters Club had boyfriends from like, eleven, but sometimes people are alone for a long time. Sometimes forever. I’m not being dramatic, it is a fact. I also have narrowed my chances by my desire to pick from a specific pool, going along with my desire to be with someone who understands me and my heart, so it may well be me.

I am not being self-deprecating. Nor am I trying to garner your sympathy. If I use the conjunction ‘if’ before talking about some sort of fantasy future wedding, or married life scenario, please don’t roll your eyes, or feel you need to save me from my depressed ramblings. I may need to be able to talk to you about these things.

On the whole, I like my life despite the lack of love of a particular kind, and have accepted the possible future of singledom that may lie before me and for the most part am ok with it. I think you can be too.

And so, married/partnered/childed beloved, I hope we can move from here into a future of mutual understanding, growth and respect. I can baby sit for you and you can invite me round for tea, despite the fact that I’ll make the numbers at the table uneven. I can listen to your fears about marriage or child rearing and you can listen to my fears about dying alone, safe in the knowledge that I will not be trying to woo your husband when you go to the bathroom.

Here’s to the future,

Carlynne.

…but a bitch ain’t one.

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Hey internet! How ARE you?! Have you put on, like, stacks of weight? Oh, don’t be mad. It looks goo- Fine. Huff all you want.

A lot has occurred (if when you read “a lot” you understand that I mean “a series of smallish things that ad up to a reasonably boring sort of life filled with smallish things”) since the posting of the list and also the last decent post I wrote before my very minor laptop related breakdown.

The list posting was a momentous thing for me. I was taking a step towards control of my future, shaping it in the way I wanted it to be, the person I wanted to be. I would be self controlled, my time would be organised and portioned appropriately, I would be able to rationalise my perceived need for things like books and food and other easily purchased goods as momentary spells that I could walk away from into the dawn of a new Carlynne, who would also be fitter, kind of glowing from the inside and probably able to fly. Yeah.

The very first thing I did after I posted the birthday list was to purchase a book, stop walking daily, show no self control whatsoever about what I ate and spend all day every day either writing assignments or deliberately not writing them, all of which equals a big poo on numbers 2, 6, 9 and 10 and on the glowie me who is now limping along, muttering and stuffing her face manically. Great intentions, little shaky on the dismount.

I felt like shit, too. Which is fortunate, because it reminded me why it’s a terrible idea eating whatever I like all the time and not exercising. And going mental. So I stopped.

Also, the book I bought I have already read, so it doesn’t ad to the “need to read list” so I’m calling it a wash, deal? Deal.

Now, invisible reader, if you’ll cast your mind back, you’ll remember a particular piece of  drivel I spewed forth under the guise of whining about not getting a job then attempting to come to terms with it. This being the GOOD JOB that I’d heard about in legends and fairy stories, so that when I didn’t get it I threw a tanty and made a cave in which to dwell, clutching my misery forever to my chest like a balding stuffed rabbit with one eye (before I got over it).

So they rang me back about two months later and gave it to me.

I started the day after I handed my last assignment in and now spend a goodly portion of my week sort of running a drop in centre in Brunswick. I say sort of not as a light batting away of any kind of responsibility, a way of making sure you know, once again, how very average I am, but because it really doesn’t feel yet like I do anything besides hang out with these absolutely gorgeous people and make them coffee occasionally. Ok there was a bit of light batting there, I do more than that, but it really doesn’t feel like work a lot of the time.

The interesting thing about that (or one of many interesting things about that- I have an interesting job now, sorry, punch me if you see me in the street, I’ll be the one looking outrageously fulfilled) is its correspondence with the posting of the list and the implications therein. Allow me to expand..

A- Number 5 on the list is save money. I’m so extraordinarily shit with money it is actually something that scientists should study. It should be a meme. I’m the queen of “but clearly I need this muffin/dress/notebook/stuffed dinosaur and it’s only this once”. One of my spiritual gifts is the ability to justify the spending of any amount of money. It’s true. I think something that helps this is my consistent run of casual jobs that I either don’t get enough work at or just don’t bother going to. Now, I have responsibility which means I’ve got to go, and permanent hours which means budgeting will be a distinct possibility. Nothing saved yet, but I’ve got a good feeling about it.

B- Number 31 is “Figure out how to get around hating on church in general”. This was included because though I don’t go very often on account of I strongly dislike most churches and more importantly the services they run and often organised religion on the whole, I feel like there could be something good there, and sometimes I want to hang with peeps that celebrate the same stuff that I do, that hope for and in the same things*.  So I went and got employed by a church and paid to go to a service twice a month. So there. Forced attendance. Check and mate.

C- My job means I meet all sorts of people, a lot of whom have a lot to say, and all of whom have a place to say it if they want to in the form of my workplace. We provide a room and chairs and coffee and snacks and people can drop on in and chill out and be listened to. This is important and lovely and often difficult, particularly when you are as good at “ooh that reminds me of some shit that happened to ME this one time” as I am. Number 11? Talk less and listen more. Oh yeah. Heaven help me.

D- I think in general, having something regularish to do, while already nearly melting my brain (I am not used to being relied upon, I leave that for those who are helpful in some way. I take care of the pop song lyrics and humour as a defence mechanism side of things. Yep. Got that) will assist greatly in the coming to grips with the important parts of being a grown up. Having people depend on you is a deal. A big one. Also it should help with being kind.

E- The church is a fifteen minute ride from my house, which, while not walking, is … exercise! Yeah.

So though I failed at the list in a kind of epic and immediate way, I’m going to keep at it, because I think good stuff is happening and because, what else have I got to write about, huh? Yeah that’s what I thought.

Ps I ‘ve talked to two strangers thus far, not counting those who come to my work. The first was a spectacular success. Names and witticisms were exchanged, it was lovely. The second was a surly Irishman who didn’t seem to understand why a rando girl was chatting somewhat awkwardly to him on the train home from the U2 concert. She will persevere.

Pps I think that being tired and having your mind occupied with stuff helps with things like “what does every boy/man nearby think of me?” by rendering your brain too busy or fatigued to give a crap, which in turn should help with the “idiotic crushes” disease I’ve been afflicted with for many a year now. More on that later, feeling good about it.

Ppps: U2? Amazing!

Pppps: I did go out dancing once in Nov, which keeps me five by five on the “dancing once a month” front. Cool. Just making sure you know. That’s it now. Good night

*Just so I’m clear, why I would care about church is, that while I don’t believe a specific denomination or group is the right one, or that church attendance is necessary for an individuals journey, or walk or whatever religious speak you want to regurgitate, my life with the creator is something that matters to me, as I believe in Jesus is found the only truly revolutionary way of living and for me, it makes the most sense. I’ve heard church helps sometimes. That is all.

Things that are not my friend

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  • My brain
  • Any man, woman, child or animal who has any part whatsoever in the production of Two and a Half Men in any way
  • Johnny Depp, despite indications to the contrary within narrative of recent dream
  • Kate Moss, see above
  • Self’s lack of appropriate time management skills
  • My necks, arms, legs and torsos refusal to act like they are in fact attached to a rock god and not reduce me to limping feebly about my house after a night out
  • Child performers whose uncanny skill and warbly vibrato leaves me twitchy and uncomfortable
  • Self’s debilitating obsession with Wonka’s chewy gobstoppers
  • Scatting
  • Apparently carbohydrates
  • Reggae
  • Bloody pollen (bloody being in this case an expression of my distaste for said pollen, not a description of state of pollen)
  • The apparent learning disability that rears its head around assessment time and causes my brain to behave like a startled pony trying to read journal articles
  • This conversation: “Geez, it’s cold today!” “This? This isn’t cold. You don’t even know cold.”
  • Tammin Sursok.
  • My ovaries, odd non pimple that never goes away and ridiculously unfounded crushes on people I will never meet
  • Snot

I am a ninja

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So I haven’t written much in a little while*, which I know has left my one and a half readers just out of  their minds with worry and withdrawal induced skin picking, but I’ve been busy. Mainly busy with a shite-load of assignments, but also with being

incredibly stealthy and awesome.

Let me tell you a story.

Weekend before last I thought I’d pop over to Adelaide (side bar to state that this is a smallish big deal, as I live in Melbourne and don’t see my friends and fam as much as a good ninja should). So I did. My aim? Surprise the hell out of BOTH my mum and my mate Caz.

Two surprises in one weekend, Carlynne? Surely you jest! No. I don’t.

It took all of my powers of long distance stealth (and a lot of assistance from my ninja cohorts Ms Oz and also my fam who conspire like it ain’t no thang) but I managed to hook it up. My mums took place at my bro’s house where the poor dear was coming to “babysit” straight from work.

She came in to find all of us in there including me and she flat out lost her shit. It was fantastic.

I did Caz’s a little on the fly as a last minute gig (Freakin Clare Bowditch man) came up that NCH (Ninja CoHort) Ms Oz wangled free tickets for (Ms Oz’s band Cheer Advisory Council supported-they wail). Surprise numero two-oh went down in a pub toilet, as all decent ninja activity should. Caz was thrilled (as well as obviously amazed at my ninja-ness) and it was brilliant.

So I had a rockin weekend, psyched that my two Epic Captain Magic Stunts had come off without a hitch. Ninja retired.

But. Little did I know that I would need my super powers once again for an

Epic Captain Magic Hosted Dinner Party

in my driveway that I discovered -by way of a vision- I needed to host.

Firstly, my housemate Kate is both awesome and alive, being that she was born a little over 29 years ago now and has managed to stay… born.

Secondly, I recently read Don Millers A Million Miles in a Thousand Years and became quite enamoured of it (as well as of Don but that’s fairly old news). He talks about our lives being like stories and how if we want memorable moments, maybe we need to make some. I wanted to “make a moment” for someone and I thought “why not for Kate’s birthday, why not in the driveway, why not hats and a dinner party in the driveway for Kate’s birthday”. Bam.

So I gots some crew together, recruited some more NCH’s to lure Kate from the scene (not leaving me with a whole lot of time, but a ninja takes what she is given) and prepared a sort of Mad Hatters Feast and Kate, Kate had no idea a party where she would wear a feathered headdress awaited her in the front of her house when she got home. If you don’t mind me saying, it was totally boss. Yeah.

That’s all for the minute. I’m just going to quietly melt into the night now.

ps post to follow detailing the “moment” I made with my ninja carpentry skills. This particular post was just showin off. Yay!

*I wrote this entry mostly before I wrote the entry about Brook. I think Brook would have liked me being a ninja, so I republished it after, so things don’t seem so gloomy.