Sunday, May 1, 2016

How long has it been since you saw Tootsie?

If you have to think about it, it may have been too long.

"Chunts up with that?"

The podcast Hello From the Magic Tavern is... maybe not for everyone. If you're a cold, heartless monster who hates to laugh, for example, it may not be for you. If not... well get onboard. It's delightful.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

First world problems

Is it racist and/or offensive to tell someone he looks like Lin-Manuel Miranda? Because there's a waiter at Vans who looks a shiteload like him and I mean that in a good way - I think LMM is fiiiiiiiiiine - but it feels vaguely racist in the vein of that Seinfeld episode where George thinks his black boss looks like Sugar Ray Leonard.

I opted for silence. Always the safe choice.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Things I miss out about not living in my neighbourhood right now:

1. Breakfasts at Sayers. Okay, yes, I have still gone to Sayers several times since moving out two weeks ago but when I lived on the same freakin' street as this lovely cafe I was there... a lot. I miss my chocolate muffins and reading the paper before work for no reason other than I needed a little pick-me-up.

2. My running park. I run several times a week and most of those runs, with the exception of a weekend long run, used to be taken at a local park. Not only was this park the perfect distance for a 7km run it was always busy, even very early in the morning, so I felt safe. Now I run along the beach, which is nice and all but somehow feels about 100 per cent more creepy. Plus it's always windy as shit, what's up with that?

3. Being close to my life; the cafes and shops, friends, my library and gym. My whole life is set up around my old 'hood and frankly driving 20 minutes at 5.30am to get to a body pump class on the other side of town really isn't happening. Not today, anyway.

4. Proximity to work. This isn't even just about the daily commute, although that is a bear, but the convenience of being able to pop home in my lunchbreak when I forget my lunch, meds or laptop, which... seems to happen a fair bit actually.

5. The twinge of hope I get coming home and thinking maybe, just maybe, Mr Whiskerley will have found his way home today.

Disclaimer: Lest I sound ungrateful I should mention that my lovely brother-in-law and his wife are doing Andy and I a HUGE solid in allowing us to stay in their home while we're between houses. Seriously, I am endlessly grateful and not being able to stuff my gob with chocolate muffins five times a day is a very small price to pay.

“you’ll be han solo, i’ll be boba fett. I’ll cross the sky for you”

Via Rainbow Rowell this is just terrific

Eat me

People sometimes ask me why I'm veggo - after 15 years it's really only people I've just met - and I usually mutter something about "animal welfare" and insist that it doesn't bother me at all if they want to order a steak sandwich (which it seriously doesn't). 

The truth is that animal welfare is a huge part of it but there's also another element to my decision that I find hard to articulate. It's the reason I wouldn't eat a chicken even if it's spent most of its life running around a field, happy as Larry. The way I usually describe this element of my reasoning, assuming the person who asked hasn't moved on already, is that I don't want to cause pain/fear/death to animals if I don't have to and in 2016 pretty much nobody has to eat meat. But today I came across a sort-of lovely line in an old Jack Monroe column that said it much better for me.

Quoting an old Indian cookbook Monroe wrote: 
Ayurveda, the ancient Hindu wisdom for health, is described by Panjabi as the single greatest influence on Indian cuisine. “Flesh has the force of violence in it, and the negative emotions of fear and hatred … it has no place in the sattvic diet.”
Bammo, that's so very much it for me. I can no longer imagine sitting down to a nice piece of chicken or steak or bacon - however much I do from time-to-time think fondly of the taste and the sheer bloody ease of eating meat - without thinking about the pain and fear that had brought the meat to my plate.

Of course I'm vegetarian, not vegan, which makes me a hypocrite but if I can't be self-righteous and hypocritical on my own tiny blog then where can I be?

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

The least professional thing I said to a work contact today:

"Uh I'm just going to pick up a Nutella doughnut while I'm here."

I regret nothing.

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Bad life choices I made today:

Eating approximately one-quarter of a jar of sun-dried tomatoes for absolutely no reason. And I don't meant I ate them as an accompaniment to crackers or cheese or anything that would make sense. I ate them with a fork, right out of the jar like a savage and it was not beautiful.

Dear Andy Samberg,

I fell for you in Celeste and Jesse Forever because that is my idea of a perfect romantic movie and I love the fact you're with Joanna Newsom but when you are like this my love for you finds a way to grow deeper.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

"We want you to be cool, and silent, like a real cocktail waiter."

I read my first Helen Garner book this month, This House of Grief. How embarrassing to have spent so many years thinking of myself as A Big Reader and never having read a word of Garner. I am, truly, a boob.

Now, as is often the way with these things, Garner seems to be everywhere because she has a new book of essays out. Financial constraints mean I won't be rushing out to buy it (I'm sorry, Helen) but I will be putting down my name at the library. In the not-too-distant future I hope and trust to have it in my hot little hands.

Meanwhile, I (and you) can enjoy Garner's so good essay on ageing over at The Monthly for nothing. Seriously, if this doesn't make you want to read more of her work she's probably not for you. Also you may be a lunk:
The insults of age had been piling up for so long that I was almost numb to them. The husband (when I still had one): “You’re not going out in that sleeveless top?” The grandchild: “Nanna, why are your teeth grey?” The pretty young publisher tottering along in her stilettos: “Are you right on these stairs, Helen?” The flight attendant at the boarding gate: “And when you do reach your seat, madam, remember to stow that little backpack riiiight under the seat in front of you!” The grinning red-faced bloke who mutters to the young man taking the seat beside me: “Bad luck, mate.” The armed child behind the police station counter unable to conceal her boredom as I describe the man in a balaclava, brandishing a baton, who leapt roaring out of the dark near the station underpass and chased me and my friend all the way home: “And what were you scared of? Did you think he might hit you with his umbrella?”