Shakespeare Nerd Moment

Twelfth Night in a single frame thanks to Dwellephant.

And I will also take this opportunity to say that 'twelfth' may be the word in the English language that I consistently find the hardest to spell.  Or at least that I find I am the least certain about.  (Did I just end a sentence with a preposition?  Argh... cursed grammatical doubt brought on by spelling doubt).

The Friend I Will Miss

The intellectual snob in me curses Richard Curtis for using that most apt poem 'Funeral Blues' in Four Weddings and a Funeral, introducing Auden's words to a generation of snot-nosed literature dodgers whose only experience of 'bewdiful words' prior to the film came from Hallmark cards and folk art.

On the other hand, had I not watched that movie repeatedly in my own snot-nosed, literature-dodging teens (my juvenile self thoroughly appreciating the first few minutes dialogue containing only 'fuck' and it's derivatives), I may never have come across it.  For even with my EXTENSIVE English Lit education (cough* easy marks *splutter), I never came across it elsewhere... not even in the Seven Centuries of Verse that was required reading for English 101.  Nor have I ever come across a better way to describe the experience of a mourner.

So hot on the heels of the death of Daniel came the passing of my friend Nicky on the 23rd of December last year.  At her funeral I learnt that her battle with cancer had been going on for nine and a half years... which equated to a quarter of her life.  That is too much for one little body to hack... and she was exhausted and had only optimism fumes left to run on.  It is not that she had given up: it's that she was as aware as anybody who knew her story that every day left in her life was going to be a fight.  The last time I saw her she was weakened but exuberant, rattling the front door impatiently as she waited for me to make the trek from the living room to let her in for tea and turkish delight.  Her speech was not entirely back to normal from her previous drastic treatments for tumours in her brain, but her personality was all there in all it's affection, excitement and warmth.

Her very good man said that by the time she lost the fight, the overwhelming feeling was relief, but the world has lost a very lovely, funny, sweet, kind, quirky lady and I'm glad I could call her my friend. 

New Years Revolutions

I'm not a big one for New Year's resolutions generally.  That is to say I am not a fan of 'resolutions' made specifically based on the idea of a new year bringing a clean slate:  'resolutions' I make daily, if not more often... though they are rarely memorable and even less commonly followed through.

That said, it's the 4th of January now (so barely qualifies as NEW YEAR) and I have had a week or so of home time to think about things to be done, so let me present a list for your amusement/perusal.

1) Finish writing the post I've started about Judy Blume's 'It's Not the End of the World'.  I read the book in one sitting on the 8th of November, 2010 and started writing about it a couple of weeks later... and then stopped.  My memory is dimming, but my resolve is somewhat strong.  Somewhat.

2) Write generally more often... both here and in other places.  It makes me happy and it should therefore be something I do almost as regularly as washing my hair (I was going to say brushing my teeth, but that would be twice a day and that would cease to make me happy).

3) Have a baby.  Shouldn't be too hard given my head start.  Go on, kick away in support, little tummy friend.

4) Go to the Dentist and get my tooth filled.  I admit, I was wrong to think that a clearly broken tooth that didn't initially hurt was not a dental issue, but I have learnt my lesson (thanks to almost daily toothaches for a fortnight) and been punished enough by an almost universal Christmas/New Years break that has left me hanging for the 10th of January when my Dentist returns to work.  Sigh.

5) Materialist Australia... everything.  More effort, more marketing, more learning, more enjoyment... more success.

Hoping to see more of you here in the tweens.

First Death of a Peer

I suppose I should be glad to have made it to 32 without having lost a significant friend or acquaintance of my own age, but instead I am bewildered by my despair at the news of the death of my friend Daniel Barnacoat on Sunday night.  I must assume that the depth of my sadness can be partially attributed to pregnancy hormones, but this man... or boy as I knew him better... has left indelible ink on the pages of my personal history and as such I feel a tremendous feeling of loss, not the least because he was a kid with so much talent and potential when we knew each other well.  I feel somewhat fraudulent to be grieving so deeply, but Daniel and I have seemed forever on paths determined to cross, even when our worlds and ambitions seemed to deviate, and I feel so sad that they will never again meet at the self serve check-out of Marrickville Metro Woollies.

Daniel was the most exceptional kid at our primary school - the apple of every girl's eye.  He was the smartest, the sportiest, the most artistic, the best looking... the nicest kid Chatswood Primary had to offer in the late 80s without rival.  I must admit my bias in this respect, for he was my long term crush throughout primary school...  but I am compelled to acknowledge (somewhat proudly) that my feelings were not altogether unrequited (which was the last time that would be true for about 15 years).  In year 6, Daniel and I were doubles partners in handball... but we all knew what that meant (wink wink, nudge nudge).   In fact, I had cause at some stage in 1990 to confront him when he had been sharing his handball prowess with another (ironically the girl who was to inform me of his death some 20 years later), and rather than reject me for my jealousy and irrationality, he fell back into line and we unofficially attended the Year 6 Dance together (I seem to have a vague recollection of taking him behind the hall to insist that he invite me as his 'partner', putting an end to the unspoken nature of our relationship once and for all).  For me, and I think for everybody else in our year, Daniel was a standout.

At high school, we went our separate ways until debating, or prefect functions or something equally upstanding and nerdy brought us back together.  I remember Daniel telling me of his mother's delight that I was back in his life because he was 'off the rails', having been recently demoted from his position as prefect at NS Boys High for his alleged use of recreational drugs (surely not!).  By 'back in his life', I mean long angsty teenage phone calls the likes of which I have not been remotely tempted to repeat since those days, but I guess Mrs Barnacoat worried that Daniel had 'fallen in with a bad crowd' and I perhaps therefore might be a 'good influence' on him.  Have I missed any parenting cliches?

After that, it was mostly chance that brought our paths back together.  We attempted to rekindle during our uni days, but discovered that our friendship was better historically than it was practically and we lost touch again (in the way that the post-email/mobile generation could never understand).  In our mid-twenties, we ran into each other one day on the North Shore while he was wearing tight leather pants and he referred vaguely (almost defensively) to a motorbike by way of explanation.  I left the encounter with two thoughts: firstly, 'oooh, my first boyfriend looks like Orlando Bloom', and secondly, 'how far away from an alleged motorbike can a man in leather pants be during mardi gras without being gay?'. I think I also left with his business card... but I can't remember ever doing anything about it.

Earlier this year, I saw Daniel again.  By now, Facebook had revolutionised 'historical friendships' so we were back in touch and had a vague idea of how life was going for each other, yet what followed was an awkward, stilted conversation.  I reflected at the time on the questionable nature of Facebook friendships, recording or certifying 'friendships' that apparently in person you cannot fulfill ... until I ran into Daniel again in August.  He seemed genuinely happy, and genuinely happy to see me (as I was him) and came rushing over to say how embarrassed he had been the last time we'd seen each other because he had been 'incredibly stoned' and unable to rub two words together.  I told him about my morose reflections at the time that Facebook  created virtual friendships between people who apparently had no business being bonded and I remember him smiling at me and saying 'nah... we've got history'.  In other words, we are friends for life, no matter which way our worlds take us.  I came home and told my fella all about Daniel Barnacoat, the exceptional human and wunderkind of my youth, and I enjoyed Daniel's Facebook movements from that day with more vigour and renewed justification.

Daniel was killed on Sunday night when he was hit by a car on McEvoy Street in Alexandria and came off his no longer 'alleged' motorbike into the path of a car coming in the opposite direction.  It was a hit and run and I understand from the news reports that he died before the ambulance got there.  He was living around the corner from me with his girlfriend and working as a tattoo artist - he told me in August that he had worked briefly for one of the bikie gangs but that he quit because it was 'just Southern Cross tattoos' and hearts with 'Mum' written across them.  I thought that was both intriguing and hilarious.

Now, Daniel's Facebook page is a memorial to him.  A compelling and miserable page that I find myself returning to over and over to see the photos and videos his 'practical' friends are posting on his wall, as well as the messages from the people who knew him.  I have not written anything. 

He is a very special part of my history and I will remember him forever, and as I wrote in a card to his family this morning, if my future kid can have just a little bit of Daniel in him or her, I will be a very lucky lady.

RIP Daniel Barnacoat... my old and true friend.

One Sentence Story

 Remember a while ago I told you about talking to a 'writer' (a realio trulio 'paid cash money to write' writer) that told me writing was a muscle that needed to be exercised?  This rings in my ears a little bit lately as I find myself caught between occupations, waiting for the enterprise to grow legs while protesting loudly to anyone who'll listen that 'I do not work in TV anymore'... not to mention the six month deadline growing in my abdomen.  Of course, just because conditions are right doesn't mean inspiration is complicit, but I just 'stumbled upon' a short term remedy in the form of www.onesentence.org/.  A collection of one sentence stories - 'telling the most interesting or poignant story possible in the fewest number of words'. 

This is me extending an invitation to myself and to you to participate - I intend to open a new word document right this minute, choose Calibri, size 12 and write a nice big heading 'One Sentence Stories'.  Perhaps if the results are anything to write (far from) home about, I will share some with you.

File Under 'For Safe Keeping'

Regular reader(s) would perhaps expect a post like this to show up on my OTHER blog 'We Like Things', but somehow this one feels a little more rambly and 'hey, look at this'.  So... hey, look at this! 

Some guy called Florian Pulcher has designed these rugs called Land Carpet that are inspired by aerial shots of rural countryside in four different styles - Europe, USA, Netherlands and Africa.  Aside from the fact that I like the idea, I like how the 'styles' are so general, except for Netherlands... those poor little anal souls with limited land and even less gradient.  I've always loved aerial photos, particularly after seeing an outdoor exhibition under the Eiffel Tower in about 2002 (oh yes... I have travelled internationally, don't you know), and I'd love to see a carpet inspired by the Texas landscape and it's centre pivot irrigation.

One would have to have a pretty special house to accommodate a rug as modern as this, and you'd pretty much be signing up to a life of Schleich-related presents, but I think this is the first time I have ever liked a rug that cannot be loosely classified as 'Persian', so that was worth a bit of a ramble.

In other news, I made the Pelmeni using chicken thigh mince at your suggestion and it all worked out okay.  Interestingly, while there was no sign of turkey mince anywhere, the 'chicken' shop did sell turkey legs and wings... but the rest of the bird was notably absent.  And the dumplings were stodgy and just what I felt like, but I won't need to make them again for a while.

One Track Mind

I'm embarking on this post with no intention or plan, but... the horror... July 27 was my last post?  And it's October?  Practically mid-October?  Practically my primary reader's 30th birthday?  Say it ain't so!

The truth, dear reader(s), is that it is VERY hard to write at all when every single thought in your head is inappropriate to share with an anonymous and unrestricted readership.  I am not under any misconception that this humble blog receives more attention than it does, but while the welcome mat is out, one must keep one's house tidy and ready for guests... with all the fluff and body hair discretely under rug swept.

Putting that aside (in an expression that makes it sound easier than it is), when I last was on US soil, I visited a friend in Seattle and he took me to a funny little place over the road from Pike Place Markets that served Russian dumplings with vinegar and sour cream with a big bowl of borscht.  I remember at the time not being particularly 'whelmed' by these things, but in the way that I suspect only a pregnant woman can, I am fixated with them right now and will not be cured until I've made them, eaten them and been similarly underwhelmed.  To that ends, I have been sent a recipe for 'Pelmeni' by that friend, but I need your help to de-American for me: the ingredient list calls for '1lb of turkey (you need to get 15% fat turkey because lean 7% is too dry; ground chicken is overly dry too'.  Aside from being a CRAP load of fowl... what is this in Australia?  Do I buy chicken thighs and mince them myself?  Or some sort of turkey limb?  This fat percentage thing is a little too obscure for me... and given that the only other ingredients in the filling are one brown onion and some water, I suspect it is important to try and get it right. 

On another note, does fresh pineapple sting the crap out of your mouth? 

The Catalog Tales of Gary and Elaine

Gary, I can tell you’re chewing something and I told you the mossballs are for our guests!

A friend has lent his support to my latest initiative with a list of web suggestions that will take hours or perhaps days to get through, but he singled this one out and I couldn't work out why from it's rather unassuming title of Catalog Living.  If you require explanation in order to coerce you to follow the link, expect captions that reveal the motivations of the fictional characters (Gary and Elaine) that allegedly inhabit the constructed worlds of interior design catalogues.

File this one under 'keep here for safe keeping'.

Turning Passing The Time Into A Career

I have been tempted during my recent sojourns into the world wide web of international design to start a new blog that could be singularly devoted to the worship of 'things'.  It would not be the first of it's kind by any means (I strongly recommend this one, and this one, and this one), but it would give me the chance to share with you some of the things that have been making my heart skip a beat in the wee hours of the many a recent morning.  For now, my discoveries are dutifully recorded in an Excel spreadsheet, but hopefully, before too long Materialist Australia will be a fully functioning retail store, and with it a companion blog to release those discoveries from their monochromatic temporary home into a technicolour wishlist.  I might even invite people to vote for what they want me to import... or at least invite them to comment on my impeccable taste in 'things'.

But this one couldn't wait.  I suspect it will never be viable to import them, but aren't these rings simply smashing?  Made from the pages of [your favourite book], set in resin and polished to a high gloss finish, these rings take literary nerditude to a whole new level. 

Make mine The Faraway Tree, thanks.  Or perhaps Catch 22... because I would love to walk around with my finger wrapped in an enigma wrapped in absurdity.

Web Gadget to End All Web Gadget

A Little Junkie Chic For Your Neck

I just stumbled across this website/online store. Aside from being a cool artisan slash designer 'enterprise' (sound familiar?), Wire and Twine sell scarves made... by hand... by KELLEY DEAL!

I heard an interview with this lesser-loved Deal once in which she described her life as full time carer for her aged mother. When I see these objet d'craft, I can't help but imagine a drug-ravaged, but still pretty rock star busily handcrafting her way through mid-life in an attempt to escape the daily grind of administering sponge baths and mashing vegetables. Then again, maybe it's a rehab thing.

Anyway, there are only three left, and I suspect they are the last three for a reason, but owning one would be like owning your own bespoke little piece of rock memorabilia.

Home Game

Every day I wake up late... and slllowwwww. 

As I delay the inevitability of another day, I consider its possibilities and set out to fill it with productiveness and leisure in almost equal measure.  Aside from being keenly aware that the 'devil' makes work for idle hands (and worse yet for an idle mind), I value getting shit done a little too much to dwindle away the preciousness of unemployment entirely in a fog of midday movies and young adult fiction.

With 'the enterprise' gradually gaining momentum, the line between leisure and productiveness is blurring (which is somewhat inevitable when trying to start a business around something you do for fun), but cooking is still on the right side of that line and slow cooked lamb is the latest in a dynasty of cooking fads to which I have succumbed (one that was immediately preceded by 'Bill Granger's Pork Belly').  Surely it is pure coincidence that it requires the time available to the likes of the me to supervise the many hours of cooking time?

With our household already in the grip of this fad, the Good Weekend published this incredible recipe in their most recent issue, and it bears repeating in writing here for repeating in kitchens elsewhere.  Pictured above at the halfway mark, I followed the recipe faithfully but for the cut of meat (lamb shanks), a reduction in the oil by half, and the addition of some eggplant in the final few hours of cooking... which I also stretched out to six and a half hours at a slightly reduced temperature.  Cooked in a heavy cast iron pot with a lid and served with spinach, sweet potato and homemade tzatziki, this was possibly the best meal I have ever prepared... and it don't half make the house smell good.

Good Weekend Greek Lamb
Juice of 2 lemons
2 tsp Dijon mustard
1 cup Olive Oil
2 tsp Greek dried Oregano
6 large sprigs thyme, roughly chopped
6 large sprigs rosemary, roughly chopped
5 cloves garlic, crushed
1 boned lamb shoulder (about 1.5kg), some excess fat removed, but not all of it.
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Begin this recipe the day before.

In a large bowl, combine all the ingredients, except the lamb, salt and pepper. Add the lamb, making sure it is totally covered with the marinade. Refrigerated for at least 12 hours, and up to 24.

Preheat the oven to about 150°C (the temperature will depend on your oven). You can increase the temperature if you need to hurry it up.

Place the meat in a roasting tin and season well with salt and pepper. Roast the lamb for 3-4 hours, basing it from time to time with cooking juices and fat.

When the meat is cooked, leave it to rest for 20 minutes before carving or pulling apart.

n.b. my latest trick is to spoon a generous amount of the liquid from the cooking pot into a small saucepan, and boil it on high until the sauce is reduced so that it can be served separately and poured over the meat and veges.

If You Notice This Notice You Will Notice That This Notice Is Not Worth Noticing.

Apparently writing/creativity is a muscle that gets stronger with use.  A writer told me that, and by 'writer' I mean someone who actually gets paid to write, not someone who is trying to avoid her stalled career as a television producer by expressing an interest in becoming a writer. But here's the thing: I'm struggling with motivation, or perhaps more accurately, a complete lack of disclipline that traces right back to a school career spent dodging assignments and taking the easy way out (report cards with A for result, D for effort).  So, by way of sating the Gods of Creativity (and in a hope that my creativity muscle will one day bulge), here is a haiku about my bad cold.

Tissue in nostrils

To slow the persistent drip.

I snore when I'm sick.

Blubber Is A Thick Layer of Fat that Lies Under The Skin And Over The Muscles of Whales

Grab your vuvuzela... I'm back on message.

This one has taken me a while to get through.  Not in the sense of the time it has taken to read (because that, as usual, is somewhere under the two hour mark) but in the sense that I have allowed a lot of time to pass between reading sessions.  I fear my reflections have suffered for it... but watch as I disguise that with overfamiliarity with the most recently completed chapters.  Wool, over eyes, pulled.

There are two things a child could take away from this book.  The first is that there are worse bullies out there than you, and the second is that there are kids out there being bullied way worse than you.  I have never EVER been as mean to a kid as the girls in this book are to Linda/Blubber... and trust me... I've been pretty mean to kids.  No sense losing sleep though, because kids have been pretty mean to me too... but on reflection no kid I've ever known, even Jessica Whiteside who was MY Wendy, was ever so mean to me as these girls are to each other either.  To the sometimes bully and the sometimes bullied in all of us, this book gives some perspective to the cruel years of early high school, making the crimes committed seem somewhat moderate and the persecution experienced comparitively mediocre.  In other words, I don't need to track down Rubina Whatsit from school to apologise for my part in encouraging her to flash her minge to the whole PE class during an over exuberant display of the 'splits'... nor should I use the medium of facebook to stalk Jessica Whiteside in the hope that she's been involved in a freak merry-go-round incident resulting in permanent facial disfigurement and intermittent incontinence. 

Here's the story in point form.

- Jill lives across the street from her best friend Tracy Wu who goes to the same school but it unfortunately not in the same class.

- She has an annoying little brother who constantly spouts useless information and statistics (I fear I was this younger sibling in my day, though I would intersperse my 'facts' with 'jokes' from my many joke books... ADORABLE).

- Jill's parents don't understand her (stop the presses!) but her live-in Nanny does.

- Jill is a picky eater.  Her primary food is peanut butter sandwiches.

- Each member of Jill's class has to do a presentation on a topic of their choosing and the mildly overweight girl in the class, Linda, chooses to speak about whales.  Her presentation includes the sentence expertly adapted to function as the title of this post and from that moment she is ridiculed by her classmates and nicknamed 'Blubber'.

- Halloween is moments later, and Jill decides to dress up as a 'Flenser', which according to Blubber's presentation, is the name for the person who cuts the blubber out of whales.  Apparently flenser's wear floppy hats and windcheaters and carry big knives... which is not too far from the truth, I imagine.

- In the meantime, Blubber is victimised out the wazoo.  She's forced to introduce herself with her new nickname, is essentially stripped under the threat of physical violence in the girls toilets during lunch break and she is teased about the unhealthy contents of her lunchbox.  She promptly goes on a diet and is teased for that too.  Points to Linda at this point for not killing herself.

- On the night of Halloween, Jill and her friend Tracy crack rotten eggs into a mean old man's letterbox.

- Despite their disguises, which sound dangerously similar to the outfits often chosen by the Klu Klux Klan, Mr Machinist manages to identify the perpetrators and they are enlisted to rake up the leaves in his yard as their punishment.

- Jill decides that Blubber must have dobbed on them, and accuses her of it when they are brought together coinidentally at a Bar Mitzvah.  Blubber doesn't understand the accusation, and in the meantime makes great friends with Jill's annoying little brother, which really gets up Jill's nose.

- Shortly after that, during a rainy lunchbreak spent indoors, Jill and the other girls decide that they will put Blubber on trial and they assign roles to classmates.  When Blubber complains, she is locked in a closet and again expertly manages not to kill herself.  A level headed nice girl called Rochelle (the only one of her kind) speaks up to say that Blubber needs to have a lawyer for her defence.  Mean Wendy says no, but Jill says yes, because her father is a lawyer so she, of course, knows all about it.  As Wendy holds her ground, Jill starts to notice how much Wendy throws her weight around, as well as how mean she is as she takes pot shots at Jill and makes a racially insensitive remark about Tracy Wu, so Jill stands up to her and releases Blubber from the closet.

- By the very next day, Jill is an outcast and Blubber is an... incast?  Jill is nicknamed 'Baby Brenner', is teased for her penchant for peanut butter sandwiches... and is about to be stripped in the school bathrooms when she throws a logic grenade at Wendy's henchman that undoes the whole power structure of Wendy's regime.  Caroline turns against Wendy, who tries to win her back by selling out Blubber, who then also turns against Wendy.

- Now blessed with awareness, Jill befriends that very level headed Rochelle and life is sweet.

It may be a little unrealistic that this one girl can hold enough power to decide who is 'in' and 'out', Heidi Klum-style, but geez young adults are just mean waiting to happen.  No wonder 'we' found our Mark's, our Luke's and our Anthony's (?) to get us through the gauntlet of high school.  Boys germs are way less harmful to your health than young womanhood.

Response... What I Learned At College...

Reading that article now, I remember so entirely how I felt reading it for the first time over ten years ago.  Feeling simultaneously understood and defensive, my own feeble version of feminism challenged a little by some of the extreme statements and specifics of this author.  In part, I can see that this is a symptom of my own indoctrination at the hands of 'college socialisation', but on the other hand... I do think that I (just me... not everybody) had a different experience of college than many other women, and that maybe, in some very minor respects ('deck chairs on the Titanic' minor), our college was ever so slightly different.  I do feel I have to reserve a special sentimental spot in my heart for college because it gave me you... and you... and lots of other worthwhile people and experiences.

Firstly, and I invite response to this, I didn't feel that our college had a 'fuck-a-fresher' culture exactly, though I concede there was certainly a feeling that a new batch of first years brought new blood...but for everyone. For a group of a hundred or so sociable people who had lived closely and intensely for at least nine months,  we were both keen to see who was next to join our social spiderweb and worried about the threat they represented to it. Weren't they just a bunch of new faces coming into a world that lived so like family in some respects that any relationship was tantamount to incest?

As you(se) know, I heartily agree with the assertion that outdated college norms are handed down from one generation to the next, completely independently of, or even regardless of, progress made in the wider community.  That people (men?) reinvented themselves in the image of their college seniors is also not going to get an argument from me: the descriptor 'Hell Men' is so easily replaced with 'Top East Boys' as to not warrant any further comparison.  But I am challenged a little in that these people were my friends, and I did feel that the 'brotherly' protection offered was genuine and that I (personally) did not hand over any sexuality, feminist belief or independence at the door to gain their respect.  In this, I feel a little self-conscious: it feels  like shaky ground because I suspect that my loophole was that I was adopted as 'the honourary bloke' so therefore not seen as a 'woman' per se.  And that perhaps I was too guilty perpetuating the regime myself, a regime that I was comfortable in, to see what was happening to other women.  My experiences as a woman at college are not necessarily the experiences of other women at college. 

I also don't feel that the comments about eating disorders was particularly relevant at our college... but at the same time... why was there even an expression 'B... H... Butt'?

And a final mention for the Indoor Sportsman and Sportswoman of the Year.  Weren't they both revered and disapproved in equal measure regardless of gender?  Wasn't the man actually considered a little pathetic for 'trying', which we all know is not something that was to be admired by our generation?  Was it maybe just that the woman didn't particularly like to be identified for that?  Regardless... how horrible that we did that... and found it funny?!?  Yes... we really were out of step with what was acceptable behaviour and got away with murder away from public scrutiny, didn't we?

College... I loved it... I hated it.  I got out, just like the article said, when the gloss wore off and it was no longer fun to be living under such scrutiny and in such an outdated patriarchy.  But in truth (self conscious truth) I was cooler at college than I ever was before and ever will be again, and it is hard to not have some sort of sentimental attachment to that.  It made me... until it didn't and then I got out with just enough sting in my tail to reject it without rewriting history to delete the good things entirely.  Were I a different person, the experience could have (would have?) been completely detrimental.

How To Be A Woman: Things I Learned In College

I read an article of this name at Uni and have spent the eleven years since wondering which Sociology subject it was for (Collective Behaviour and Social Movements?) and which 'brick' it was in.  A couple of years ago, my vigor was renewed when I recommended it to my Aunt as she puzzled over my much younger cousin's experiences at an all male college in Sydney.  At that stage, I launched a fruitless search of the boxes of uni notes in the attic and I think even googled 'Fuck-a-Fresher' to see if I could find it but I was easily distracted with articles about panic and cults and so forth, so a few stones were left unturned... until now.

It is too late for me to read it right now, but I never want to lose this link again, and this is a safe place for right now, and yours are safe brains to share it with.

How Do I Love Tina Fey... Let Me Count The Ways

Just home from seeing Tina Fey in Date Night which was wholely satisfying on the 'umour front.  Maybe overall, it did lose a little in the ending, but I love her.  I love her today like her loved her when we first met in Mean Girls.  I love her with Amy Poehler,  I love her WITHOUT Amy Poehler. I love her as a Producer, I love her as a barren single woman, I probably even love Sarah Palin a little bit because of her physical resemblance to Tina.  Here's what I love about Tina:

1) Big bum curves... which I have read she attributes to her Greek heritage (who knew!?  I wonder if she knows about spoon sweets?  If I ever meet her, I'll ask her that)

2) Intriguing scar... which happened when she was five and a stranger slashed her while she was hanging out in her front yard in Pennsylvania.  Usually scar stories are boring, but that is just about the best scar story ever, which is only fitting for our Tina.

3) Self-consciousness.  She just seems to always have a little of it in her performances which help make her a little bit human and familiar.  A sex scene with Tina Fey would, I imagine, be a little similar to a real life sex scene... like when someone's elbow is leaning on someone's hair and that someone can't lift their head off the pillow until the other someone moves, or when somebody throws in a bit of a movie quote or cliche at the crucial moment to try and make the other somebody laugh but just gets in trouble for ruining the mood.

4) She writes, and nothing gets me green like a lady writer.

5) Elizabeth Stamatina Fey.  Her real name according to the internets.  I love celebrities with made up names.  I especially love knowing their real names in case it shows up in the Good Weekend quiz, or at a trivia night.

6) Late Starter.  I can't believe she's been interviewed about it, but apparently she was 24 when she lost her virginity.  The implication for me is that she came to cool late, and I think that just makes her even cooler.

7) Umm... ooh... err... I know!  She's funny.  She is not a comic actress that holds her own opposite male comedians cum movie stars, she is genuinely deep down funny.  It's hard not to sound lame on this point, so it is here that I must sign off from this post... a quivering mess.

I heart you, Stamatina... you are right in all sorts of way.

Here's A Cool Thing... Eames House

I think I'm going to need one of these... I just wish it was a dollhouse and then I could waste hours sourcing miniature Eames furniture and staging beat poetry evenings with lego people sipping Fimo soy lattes.  I could probably make cravats too.

The Record Stays Still... The World Spins Around It

Before you read on, you may need headphones and time in order to fully participate in this post.  I am become a musical wanker, and the prose below is my soft porn AND my yacht rock. (Pumps chest with fist).

Listen to this ... thank you Dazza Hanlon for the title for today's blog post.

I have rediscovered my love for music.  Not Gaga, nor La Roux, nor whatever other horrid 'new sounds' are currently being pushed by hipster friends on Facebook, but quirky, feelgood folk/pop (and a hint of feelsad folk/pop for good measure).  It has been a bloody long time since I've heard a song and wanted to know it with the intimacy I reserve for my late 90s favourites (Heavy Heart, Unsent Letter, Glory Box et al), but this song by Darwin Deez provided the very beginning of a spark and a few days away with friends with guitars provided the kindling for what is now a raging fire of musical enthusiasm. 

In recent years, I have let the growth rate of my admittedly already plentiful CD collection dwindle with fewer and fewer additions (more often just an album here and there to fill a gap in the back catalogue), but I realised last week, as we sat on a balcony wrapped in doonas and staring off to sea, that the playlist of late night guitar favourites needs some updating (though Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead and Red Hot Chilli Peppers never fail to slip on like a comfortable old shoe).  So I went looking.

The amateur guitarists from the doona/balcony scene told me it was akin to herecy that I had not yet embraced The Shins, so I dutifully jumped online and ordered 'Wincing The Night Away' upon my return from the South Coast Buddymoon (r).  Seeing as I was already logged in and all, it seemed a shame not to throw in Darwin Deez and The Drones, so I did. 

The Shins album arrived today... and as it did it's first lap of the CD player I was reminded to listen to the Fleet Foxes album that somebody gave me a copy of once, so I did.  A bit of online research later, I found myself smitten with a Swedish duo of sisters called 'First Aid Kit' and their cover of Tiger Mountain Peasant Song.  So I was on their MySpace page and they were 'friends'/label mates with some band/artist called Peggy Sue, and that sounded good too, and THAT reminded me that I have often wondered whether I should buy some Joanna Newsom, as I usually like what I hear of hers. And I still do.  Then I saw that Fionn Regan had a new album out, and I really liked his last one, so I clicked on that one too.

I also remembered to look whether Chaos had the Rockabye Baby albums of popular band's well known songs done as lullabies, because I have been meaning to give these as gifts to every child I've known born in the last six months.  And they did.  So click, click, click.

Exhibit A - The Order

 

Now I just have to wait for them to arrive.

n.b. Decemberists... Mountain Goats... you're on my radar too.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for... Spoon Sweets

Knock knock
Who's There?
Jess
Jess Who?
Jess hold your horses and I'll explain the spoon sweet thing, 'kay?

*sneaks off to kitchen to replenish her 'spoon sweet'*

*plop*

(waits)

*slurp*.... ahhhhh.

The Greeks have been keeping something from us.  Simply put, it's a little sugary something you lick off a spoon, but what distinguishes this magical stuff from Nutella, Peanut Butter or whatever other substance the uninitiated might 'lick off a spoon' is the delivery.  I could just come out right now and describe said delivery, but I think that given my extended absence from this blog, now is not the time for being concise so instead here is an explanation of how I came by it.

*slurp*

Working, as I was, on a cooking show, you see some things.  On the one hand you see food that doesn't interest you (egg enveloped chicken as per 1400AD), tupperware products you never knew existed (flour sifter and storage in one), and bad personal hygiene habits (tea-towel wiping sweat from forehead THEN the dinner plates).  On the other, you see ideas so simple you can't believe you haven't been doing it for years (cutting chives with scissors), presentation that makes you wants to make all your dinners look fancy (stack stack stack drizzle) and then... spoon sweets.

Dessert was served and coffee orders taken when the foxy Greek hostess returned to the kitchen to chill the glasses.  'Wha?' thinks I.  'What is going on here?  This wasn't in the brochure?'.  With the glasses chilled, she adds iced water to the glass before scooping a teaspoon into a jar of white stuff and 'plopping' it into the icey water to harden.  Even before the guests offered their reviews, I just knew this was something I would like.

She explained to them that it was called 'Vanillia' and that you lick it while you have your coffee and that she lived on it when she was a kid.  One guy chewed it off the spoon in one hit and asked for more.  Another said 'mmm... icing sugar' but later revised his description to 'a mintie left in a hot car'.  I was left in no doubt from their reactions that this was my kind of thing and I vowed to track it down.

It took two attempts before I got the right thing, but that jar is now all but gone.  It is sweet, it is vanilla-ry and you lick it off a spoon, and that's a tick in every box.  An English sticker is put on top of the Greek one that says 'Pastry Cook's Filling', but the picture on the label is the sweet on the spoon.  The hostess had described it as a 'mastic', so I googled it which is where I came up with this description... which also implies that there are OTHER spoon sweets out there. 

Rest assured, dear Reader, I will not rest.