It's hard to mope when you're choking on bubble tea

Dear me, but the last few days have been a bit grim, haven't they? I should just change the title of my blog to 'Tash Tells a Sad Story' and have done with it. So, just for a change, I'm going to tell you about some things that won't make me cry as I write about them.

Yesterday I had lunch with some people from my office, which was nice, except that someone decided we were going to go to the seventh level of food court hell and eat bain marie Chinese food. Jesus Mary and Joseph, but it was awful. For one, there was the whole bain marie aspect - call me crazy, but I have a tiny problem with eating food that has been stewing in a warm bath of salmonella and grease since the dawn of time. My philosophy of eating is that I should never have to pay money for a prepared meal that I would be embarrassed to serve to someone if they came round to my house for dinner. If I'm paying money for you to give me food, it should be because it's something I can't make myself - I'm not saying everything has to be Michelin standard. I'll happily eat a McDonald's apple pie, because, as much as it only barely classifiable as food, I couldn't make it myself because I lack a deep fryer and access to industrial chemicals. But this Chinese was just crappy. They had about 16 dishes, only one of which was vegetarian. How did I know it was vegetarian? Why, because it had a sign floating in it that said 'Vegetarian Food'. It was spectacularly awful. But while we were having lunch my friend told me some VERY BIG NEWS that I am not allowed to tell anyone, so I won't. Rest assured that it was VERY BIG indeed, and I am honoured that I am among the handful of people who are privy to it.

After lunch we went and got EasyWay drinks, which are billed as 'Australia's healthiest bubble tea'. I will take their word on that. Mine was a taro milk tea, which is a worryingly vivid purple colour, and in spite of the fact that it clearly says on the side of the cup 'beware of choking', I choked on my bubbles. I know what taro is, but I wasn't expecting the flavour, and I can't quite describe it. 'What is that taste?', I asked D. 'I don't know, but I like to think that it tastes like carebears', he replied. Which, somehow, is actually not far wrong.

Then we had a good long bitch session about people from our office, or the others did at any rate. I don't really know anyone else well enough to have anything in particular against any of them, though I did venture the opinion that the Talky Designer Man is a bit of a wanker, and this was solemnly agreed to by all parties, so I feel as if I held up my end of the social contract.

There, that's a much nicer post, now, isn't it? It's hard to be sad when you're badmouthing your colleagues and pretending to drink a carebear.

Dear Petbarn lady - you are not great at customer service

So, today was the day. The dog had one last walk on the beach, then the vet came round. Jay was given a sedative to put her to sleep, then an overdose of anesthetic, and she was gone in a few seconds. It was all very peaceful, and Jay wasn't scared or in any pain, but it was still horrible, and utterly heartbreaking. But for all the joy she gave us I would go through it all again in a heartbeat. She was a member of our family, and I will miss her so fucking much.

Mum had to pick the vet up from the animal hospital, because she doesn't have a car, and while she was there she settled up the account (because, as distasteful as it might be to discuss, death costs money, just like everything else in life). When mum paid the bill, the following conversation took place (please note that our vet operates out of a big Petbarn complex that also sells pet food and accessories);

Receptionist: Oh, you've spent over x amount, which means you qualify for a $20 voucher to use in the store!
Mum: Um, no thanks.
Receptionist: But you've spent over x amount, you can use these vouchers in the store!
Mum: I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm actually paying a bill for euthanasia and cremation...
Receptionist: ...
Mum: So... after today... I won't have a pet...
Receptionist: Oh, sorry! Haha!
Mum: It's fine
Receptionist: OK, here's your receipt! Have a lovely day!
Mum: Umm. They're putting my dog to sleep today, so I doubt that it will be a lovely day
Receptionist: ... Oh... Okay, have a good one!

My own personal experience from today was that my work friend decided I needed to go out for lunch to make me feel better. She invited one of our other work friends, and felt the need to add; 'we're taking Tash out for lunch. You need to be nice to her today. Her dog is dead'.

Yep. I'm just glad that I didn't tell her that my great-aunt also died today. Fucking hell, my dog and my aunt are dead and my hair is falling out. Is there any way to pause the world so I can have a few days that are not completely shitty? Because I would very much like to do that.

From Exploding Dog

Goodbye, we love you

When we were kids my brother's favourite hobby was begging my parents for a dog. When I was about fifteen he went on a hunger strike and they finally caved in, much to my disgust. 

I couldn't understand why he would want another pet, as we already had a cat which the whole family hated with a passion. It would lull you into a false sense of security by cuddling up on your lap while you watched TV, only to go berserk for no apparent reason and scratch the crap out of your arms and face. At night it would lurk in the bushes that lined the garden path and wait for you to come home, then it would leap out at your legs and bite them. That was when it wasn't throwing up in any unattended shoes or bags it could find. It was bad tempered, unpredictable and basically just the most unlovable creature I have ever encountered.

But when the dog arrived at our house, I was smitten. Whereas the cat was psychotic and terrifying, the dog is anxious and bad with strangers (proving the old chestnut that dogs resemble their owners) to a degree that made me feel compelled to protect and love her. And has she continued to amuse me all these years, despite being the world's crappest pet in many ways. She barks at children, she has an array of revolting skin conditions, a gimpy leg, and bad eyesight that means that when you throw her snacks from the dinner table they are more likely to hit her between the eyes than be caught.

And I am devastated, because the time has come to say goodbye. She's been very sick for a while, and she's not going to get any better, so we've decided to let her go while she's still happy and not in a huge amount of pain. The temptation is to keep her around for as long as possible, but that's more for us than it is for her, and it's cruel to prolong her life just so we don't have to make a difficult decision. Three vets have told us the sooner the better, and as much as we'd like them to be wrong, they obviously have Jay's welfare at heart. They have all been wonderful, and have given us good advice. So tomorrow we will spend our last few hours with her before she goes to sleep for the last time. I like to think that we've given her a good life. She has been loved, and I think she knows how much we have loved having her in our lives. 

I debated with myself whether I should write about this, but it has really made me feel better to put it down in words. I'll miss her so much. Goodbye, idiot dog. You will be so badly missed.

An uplifting story about chemo, crafts and cheese

This is kind of gross, but I have to make sure that this story goes further than just me. I was telling my friend at work about my hair-woes today, and she told me that when she was recovering from chemo a few years ago and was unable to walk, she would sit in bed, watching TV, obsessively combing hair with her hands, and collecting the hair. Which she then felted into a hamster shape, and glued googly eyes on. God, I love working with her. I was appalled, but I also just about bust a gut laughing. That story really cheered me up, because though I might feel wretched at the thought that I may be losing my hair, in a few weeks I could have my very own hair-hamster. (Blogger is being a little bitch about posting pictures, which means I can't post the picture I found of - non-human hair - felted hamster. It's worth taking a moment to go and Google it though. Go ahead, I'll wait. Back? Good)

I'm going to be sad to leave my current job, mainly because I really get along well with this woman.

Yesterday she was showing me pictures of a Turducken she made last Christmas. But it wasn't enough for her to just ram various pieces of poultry into the orifices of a larger bird, oh no. She detached the drumsticks and wings from the duck and chicken, and used skewers to attach them to the turkey so that what she ended up with was a nightmarish six-limbed avian creature that would have looked perfectly at home in an illustrated edition of the collected stories of H.P. Lovecraft. It looked utterly horrifying, and yet strangely alluring.

Last week she was saying that she wants to get married a second time, and have a cheese themed wedding. If I didn't already think she might actually be my birth mother, this alone would probably convince me. Her dream cheese wedding would be held in Bega, every course would feature cheese, and the cake would just be  wheels of cheese balanced one on top of the other (I seriously considered that for my own wedding, but I was eventually talked out of it - apparently not everyone loves brie as much as me).

And the pièce de résistance? A cheese dress. She's got it all picked out, and all she needs is a bloke.

I might have to ask Jo for a divorce just so I can marry him again, but this time in the dress of my dreams. Maybe being friends with this woman is enough to make me want to ask to stay on when my contract finishes... probably not. But then that's why we have the internet, so that the people in our lives that we take a liking to are stuck with us.

Replace 'make my ears pop' with 'Googling Game of Thrones'

and this is pretty much how I look on an average work day.

I haven't a hair in the world

Hahahahaha. No, seriously though, my hair is falling out. 

There are so many reasons why this could be. There are a few things in my life at the moment that are causing me a lot of stress. I'm taking a break from the pill for a while, so my hormones could be out of whack. I've been vegetarian since we got back from England and haven't been taking my iron supplements, so it might be anemia. It could be whatever it is that's causing my cankle. I also have dandruff (sorry, I know that's gross), and I could just be scratching too hard. But what terrifies me is that it could simply be that my hair is falling out. 

My grandmother - my father's mother - looms large in the imaginations of her grandchildren and has assumed almost mythic status. She died when I was a baby and I have no memories of her, but I really wish I'd had a chance to get to know her. She was a leopard print wearing, poodle owning, chain smoking, home gin brewing dynamo who raised five children on barely any money. She was also bald, and owned a selection of wigs, turbans and headpieces, which are the subject of a series of long running jokes on my dad's side of the family. But even though I've always thought the jokes were funny, I've also always lived in fear that the same thing will happen to me. I've got very, very fine hair - I don't think I've ever been to the hairdresser had not had them comment on it: 'oh my God! Your hair is like a baby's hair! I've never seen hair this fine before!' - and it grows at glacial speed. I've always been careful not to overdo it with hair colouring or styling, because I want to protect the precious little hair I already have. I mean, I've never been at comb-over level of thin hair, but it's always been a sensitive issue for me. 

And now this. I've been crying on and off all day. I know it's appalling and shallow, but I think I would be less scared if I found out I had some horrible disease. At least you can explain that to people. Long, thick hair is so fundamental to the way we perceive a woman's attractiveness, so much so that I can't help but feel that female baldness is repellant (sorry if it has happened to you, I don't mean to be cruel), and I feel sick to my stomach to think it might be an inevitability for me. 

I guess I just drew the short straw in the genetic lottery - out my grandmother's four grownup female grandchildren, I'm the only one this has happened to and I can't help but feel angry in a futile sort of way.

I'm going to get checked out on Thursday, and the vain and irresponsible part of my brain wants it to be an underlying health problem, because at least then I can fix it, or at least treat it. If it's just that my life as someone with a full head of hair is over, there's not really anything I can do but get fitted for a wig, buy a poodle and take up smoking.

Fingers crossed.  

Jo fixed my computer

and left me a nice new desktop background;

Thanks honey.

People who have been on the TV do not want to meet you

I'm back from my work trip to the conference about...computers? Or whatever. 

It was on the Gold Coast, the most depressing place on earth. I know it's all sunny and beachy and stuff, but my God is it grim. Nothing but tract housing and golf courses and this abomination. Happily, I was confined to the hotel for the three days I was up there, so there was very little chance I would have to interact with anyone called Tayhnee or Brayndyn.

My role was to stand at our booth and try to get people to sign up to the newsletter, which I did for three days running, from 8:30am to 6pm. I did have five colleagues there (whose names I am still a bit hazy on - in my head I think of them as Shouty Bald Man, Smiley Bald Man, Sad Potato Man, The Earring-Suit and Captain Bland) who were supposed to come and give me a break at points throughout the day, but the only time I saw any of them was when the drinks came out in the evening. But it was fine, I made my own friends and coerced them into bringing me me snacks and freebies from other booths, which they duly did - behold my loot;

And I managed to get myself on the front table for the awards ceremony, right next to The Talent - Tripod and Corrine Grant, who I tipsily introduced myself to; she wrote quite a good article about female comedians and I wanted to tell her I thought it was quite good, but as I started talking to her I suddenly felt embarrassed about accosting someone at random - not because she's been on the telly, just because it feels like an odd thing to do to anyone - and ended up rambling a little bit then trailing off mid sentence. Then I drank some more wine and went to the bar where I made some more friends (or at least got talked at by some people for a while). Then everyone decided to go into Sufers Paradise and keep drinking, and I decided to go to bed. I managed not to embarrass myself or the company, and it all went as well as could be expected. All in all, not a bad junket.

To finish, here are some slogans from t-shirts I saw at the conference, which will give you an idea of the kind people attending;

• Weapons of a Security Warrior
• World's #1 Hacker
  
• Earthling
• Ethical Hacker
• Resistance is Futile
• A great Han Solo and Chewbacca as Calvin and Hobbes shirt that I have to have

I wish the world looked like this

The Guardian has a lovely slideshow of pictures by Oliver Jeffers, by far my favourite children's author. His pictures are wonderful, and his stories have just the right amount of sentimentality and whimsy. I cannot recommend them highly enough - imagine drifting off to sleep as someone read this to you; 

Junket! Junket! Junket!

For reasons best known to himself, my boss has decided to send me to the Gold Coast to some sort of conference about....computers? Or something? It involves security. Um.

Luckily, I will not be attending the actual conference; my job will be to man the booth for the company's computer magazine. I was not aware until Tuesday that my company produced a computer magazine, so I don't really know what I'm going to do if people ask me questions. I think my job is mainly to hand out flyers, talk to people, and bribe them with lollies to sign up to some sort of newsletter. My boss actually used the word 'banter' when he was explaining what he wants me to do. I am not good at banter. Why is he sending me, someone with no knowledge of what the magazine is actually about, and whose social skills have been described at 'non-existent'?

There are two interpretations for why I've been chosen to go to this. One is that I'm the most junior, least vital member of staff, and if I'm out of the office for three days, no one will be inconvenienced. The other interpretation, and the one I'm choosing to believe, is that I have been chosen because I'm the prettiest and the hardest working member of staff, and I deserve a three day break from the office to go and do a cruisy job in a nice hotel where I will be fed and watered in the manner to which I am accustomed. As always, the truth lies somewhere in the middle. 

Anyway, I'm off to the airport in a couple of hours. I have been given a giant box full of sweets and a envelope full of cash (for 'expenses') - these people are far too trusting - and this evening I will be attending the opening festivities. I quote from my orientation sheet;

Dust off your leiderhosen! Oktoberfest has arrived early! Quench your thirst with some German beer and enjoy sampling the flavours of Germany on the buffet.

I can hardly wait.

More Laura Hocking

This is exactly why I didn't want to have a Facebook

I started out writing very long, introspective ramble about how I'm glad I'm not a teenager any more, but I was frankly boring even myself, so instead I'm going to say this; I'm so fucking glad I'm not seventeen. High school was crap and anyone who tells you they're the best days of your life is (to quote Tim Minchin) either lying or mentally ill. I mean, who would want to go back to puppy fat and social awkwardness (no acne for me, though - the one thing about my adolescence that prevented it from being a total, unmitigated disaster)? Only the developmentally arrested and emotionally stunted. 

The reason for me unleashing this diatribe is that this week has been surprisingly high school focused. 

I started Spanish lessons again on Monday, and the classes are held in my old school. Since I left I hadn’t walked through those gates again, or had any desire to do so, and I was a little bit disappointed at my reaction to being back there. I thought it would feel strange, that I would have an intense emotional reaction, but I felt nothing outside of mild amusement that my class was being held in what was once my English classroom. I suppose I’m just too much of a different person, and I don't relate to my seventeen year old self at all. The last time I walked out of that building I was an awkward, deeply unhappy girl. Ten years later my life is far from perfect, but I’m happy now in a way that I never could have imagined back then.

The other thing is that someone I was friends with in high school, but who I had lost contact with, popped up on Facebook, and though I know that is the shallowest of ways to connect with someone it was still a bit of a shock. In one way or another, I have lost touch with everyone I went to school with. Some of that is just due to the fact that people's live change and they drift apart. Some of it is due to the Great Boyfriend Stealing Scandal (GBFSS) of 2003, which you don't need to know about in any detail. Suffice it to say I did not steal anyone's boyfriend or play a part in any breakups, though I did not behave as well as I could have after the fact. My version of events is that I fucked up, but that it was not done with malice, and that certain other parties acted like nut jobs. But that's a story for another day, possibly after I've had three martinis and no dinner, which were the circumstances under which I last told that epic tale of miscommunication and stupidity. That aside, the fact that this person has chosen to contact me has thrown me into a bit of a tizz. I'm not sure that I'm ready to talk to her, or to anyone else involved in the GBFSS, or that I ever will be. I feel like that bridge is well and truly burned, and the ashes swept up and used to make soap with which I have washed my hands of their friendship. Chances are pretty good that no one else will contact me, though I've already started to make a mental list of who I could allow myself to see again, and who I hope never to encounter in this or any other lifetime. I suppose the short story is that I am disproportionately concerned by a Facebook friend request.

And that's that. Nothing much else to report. I'll let you know if I have any other vague concerns or worries about inconsequential happenings on social networking sites.

Banana thieves foiled again

Today was a fun day. I saw a sign in the window of a cafe that read 'No cash or bananas kept on premises overnight', which made me laugh (I was going to take a photo but I chickened out at the last minute because there were people sitting at the table right in the window). 

I also saw a magazine display at the supermarket in Mosman* (super snooty suburb, for those of you not in the know) which confirmed all my prejudices about the people who live in the area; it went New Idea, Women's Weekly, OK!, Business Review Weekly and Quadrant (a fusty right wing publication) - that's the Mosman target market of trophy wives and racist property developers catered to, then. This was right after I saw a swish BMW with a vanity plate that read 'FTSE' run a red light, so basically all the cliches you could think of were demonstrated for me.

And I went to the SH Ervin gallery. I'd been curious about this place for years - it's the art gallery just off to the side of the harbour bridge where they have the  Salon des Refusés, also known as the Alternative Archibald Prize. 

It's tucked into in a funny spot just next to the bridge and behind Observatory Hill, and it took me a while to figure out how to actually get there. Which was fine because it meant I also had a nice wander around The Rocks, which is possibly the most appealing part of Sydney. Oh, I know there are umpteen places selling Ug boots and Genuine Art by Real Life Aboriginals TM. But all those little sandstone houses and funny little alleyways are really lovely, and give a nice feel for what it must have looked like when Sydney first started to become Sydney. 

It is a really nice area, and I can't recommend the gallery highly enough. The art wasn't really anything that earth-shattering, but it is a fantastic building with a really peaceful feel to it, especially considering that just outside the door are the six lanes of traffic that cross the harbour bridge. I did like a few of the paintings;

Tanya Chaitow, Four Types of Ambiguity

Scott Marr, Bob Brown

Helene Grove - this wasn't in the exhibition, but I couldn't find an image of the one I liked

but I the main think I liked about it was just wandering around the room. I'm going to go back when I've got a bit of cash so I can have lunch in the restaurant, which looked nice and sunny and friendly. I'm so happy I finally got around to going to the gallery, I feel as if I've filled out another little corner of Sydney on my mental map, which up until now has pretty much been a big blank space with 'Here Be Dragons' scrawled across it. Next - the uncharted wastelands of the Western Suburbs.

*Just as a side note, spell check doesn't recognise 'Mosman', and suggests 'Madman' instead.

I have earworms

I first heard this song on the Johann Hari podcast (which you should be listening to if you are a tree hugging lefty), and I cannot get it out of my head. I think I'm heading into a full on girl crush here. 

Profanity cake

As promised. This is the punchline of a stupid joke that my brother was quite taken by, so I rendered it in cake form for his birthday. For the curious, this is a chocolate pound cake with Toblerone ganache icing, buttercream 'art', and lots of those shiny silver thingys that go on cake. Jdack didn't notice the shiny silver thingys, took a big bite and chipped a tooth, because that's how things work in our family. Blessed with generally excellent health, birthdays tend to bring catastrophic illnesses. Ask me nicely, and one day I will sing to thee of My Sister's Eighteenth Birthday, When She Was Mightily Ill And We Ate Her Birthday Dinner Without Her.

Mother's Day/Jdack's Birthday was lovely, we went down to Manly and ate sushi in the manner of people who have decided that, yes, fish stocks are running out, but screw the next generation. We have doomed them to a life without California rolls, and I say who gives a damn? They'll have their robot butlers and cyber-puppies to make up for it. We drank a lot of wine, and were sitting there long after everyone else had left, and the restaurant staff started pointedly packing up around us. So then we went to the pub. It's really nice to be at an age where my family are also my friends. I know how lame that sounds, but it's true.

Happy birthday, big-little brother, you're the best!

I am unreliable, but I will make you an apology cake

Today is my big-little brother's birthday. It is also Mother's Day - Jdack has the mis/fortune to have been born on the 8th of May, which means that every few years he has to share the day with our sainted mother, something neither of them seems worried about. I would not be as mature about it. There would be tantrums if I had to share.

It being a Special Day for both of them, Jo and I offered to do a big cooked breakfast with fresh chocolate  croissants plucked from the baker's at dawn. It did not work out that way. We were out last night, didn't set our alarm, and slept until 9:30 - which I never, ever do, I am not a sleeper-inner - and by the time we surfaced my mum and my brother had already been to the shops and started cooking. Which was nice for us, but I do feel just a tiny bit guilty. Which is why I'm making an awesome cake for Jdack today - will let you know how it turns out. 

But the reason we were out late last night was not due to extreme drunkenness, as it was on Friday, though there was a small amount of overpriced beer involved. Last night we went and saw Smoke and Mirrors, a sort of cabaret/musical/vaudeville/who knows what. It was mostly wonderful, though there were a few moments of HSC Drama-style bathos with people walking around slowly and looking slightly off into the distance in a VERY SERIOUS way, and a bit of a Marge Simpson as Blanche DuBois-style freak out with lots of gnashing of teeth and wailing that didn't quite do it for me. It was very much along the lines of the thing we went to for New Year's in London, though a lot less slick and with far fewer performers. But it was for the most part very good and we enjoyed it. iOTA is amazing; like a nightmare clown, with a stage presence that is creepy and vulnerable and dirtily suggestive when it isn't just plain dirty, though there could have been far less of the slow-walk-distant-gaze there too. Overall I give it a B+, and it definitely left me wanting to investigate the whole burlesque and cabaret scene. More corsets and fishnets stockings, more men in swimming trunks on trapezes! More glitter! More innuendo*, more I say!

So all in all, it's been a really nice weekend, what with all the culture I've been  exposed to; on Friday I also went to see a photography exhibition which was jolly good (ich bin ein chardonny set, though I don't yet do air kisses and call everyone darling), but I don't really have anything interesting to say about it other than it's well worth a look if you're in Sydney.

What else? Oh yes, Little Lord Frenchelroy was round yesterday to insult my taste in wine again, but more fool him - he left the fancy cheese here that he'd bought for a dinner party he was going to that he didn't invite us to, so who's laughing now, eh? As if  scoring some free fancy cheese wasn't enough it's a stunner of a day; the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I am rocking out to Fela Kuti as I eat leftover chocolate croissants for lunch. The black mood that I had been in for the last few weeks seems to have lifted, with only minimal chemical assistance, and all is well. And it's not over yet. Tonight it Jdack's birthday dinner at a semi-swanky Japanese restaurant in Manly, which I am looking forward to immensely because, as everyone knows, gyoza is the single best food on the face of the planet and tonight I intend to go on a gyoza bender. It's going to get pretty wild.

Check in again later for cake updates. 

*The correct response to this is 'in your end-o'.

Hello, friend

Interactive Talking Plush Portal Turret from Jonathan M. Guberman on Vimeo.

I am a creature of pure hangover

Because last night we went and saw our friend, The Boy from Brazil, playing with his band at the UTS uni bar. The bar had absurdly cheap Jameson (your tax dollars at work - thanks, uni subsidies!) and a bartender whose freepour technique was to start pouring and only stop because there was no more glass left to pour whiskey into. I am also suffering a bit because Little Lord Frenchelroy invited me to share a cigar, and I am far too weak to say no to a cigar of moderate quality when I'm a bit pissed, and so my whiskey hangover has a cigar hangover to keep it company. The two of them have got nice and cosy down in the back of my head, and I can just tell that they're going to lurk there for the rest of the day. I have already had a medicinal cupcake and a litre of water, and while the hangovers did appreciate being thus propitiated, I don't think I've convinced them to leave just yet. Maybe later I will try sacrificing a large felafel burger to them.

But my hangover is totally justified. We had a really nice night and caught up with The Boy from Brazil and his lovely girlfriend, who we haven't seen in years. The band was very good, though they did have one small problem. This is how I break their performance down;

Guitarist A+

Bass Player A+

Drummer B

Saxophonist A+

Trumpet A+

Keyboards A+

Female vocalist A++

Male rapper (SHOULD HAVE BEEN) ABSENT FAIL

That's mean - he was quite good, and was obviously having fun with it and not taking himself hugely seriously, but still... I was tolerating it up until he started doing the old 'I say hip, you say hop' bit to a room of about thirty people. 

Frenchelroy was in a bit of a mood about something, which was not helped by some drunk girls trying to balance a cocktail menu on his hat. Though I did cheer him up by confessing my weakness for beaujolais, which gave him something to sneer at and perked him right up. Ah, the French. So predictable. Next time he needs cheering up I'm going to tell him that Australian brie is better than anything you can get in France.

We met some really lovely German guys who humoured all my inane questions about Germany with patience (given that I was asking them a lot of searching questions about rural volunteer fire brigades in Bavaria, this was above and beyond the requirements of polite social interaction). As a side note, why do Germans have such a reputation for being humourless and severe? I've met a lot of Germans over the last year or so, and they have all been the loveliest, kindest and funniest people, with perfect English and nice teeth. Something else I've noticed about Germans is that they all seem to be really curious about what German words English speakers use, and it occurred to me that our selective knowledge of German must be a bit odd for them. Outside of a few bits and bobs (yes, no, hello, goodbye) I don't know any of the basic German words or phrases. But I do know words like zeitgeist, shadenfreude and weltanschauung, which express relatively complex ideas. Most of the Germans I've spoken to are totally unaware that we have adopted these words into common usage in English, and it must seem strange that someone who can't even introduce themselves in German knows a word like senchut.

It all gets a bit blurry after that. We'd managed to miss the last bus home, so we jumped in a cab. We came home and woke everyone up by stumbling around and giggling, which we promised we wouldn't do this time. Then I woke up and realised it was going to be a hangover day. And that's everything that has happened in my life up until now.

This is why they tell you not to go food shopping when you're hungry

Today's receipt from the supermarket;

• Gnocchi, potato, dry
• Kraft peanut butter, crunchy, 780g (in my head, this is to go on celery sticks as a snack - it will be eaten by the spoon, possibly with ice cream)
• Thick cream (no reason other than it was on sale)
• Unsalted butter (cupcakes, cupcakes, cupcakes)
• Block milk chocolate (also on sale)
• Toblerone qty 2 (also on sale)
• Smith's chips, crinkle cut (also on sale - curse you, Woolworths)
• Frozen peas (to prevent scurvy)

And what sort of dinner do we get from all that?

Gnocchi with cream and peas, and chocolate cupcakes. I am on a high of carbs and unrefined sugar, but when I come down I will be very, very disappointed with myself.

The other day my brother came home from work and pulled a Toblerone out of his backpack. 'This', he said, looking extremely pleased, 'is a present from past Jdack to future Jdack.' I love this idea. Right now I am quite upset with past Tash's lack of discipline. How could she cave like that after only three days of definitely-not-a-diet? How could she do that to me? But when I was eating that dinner, I was letting future Tash worry about the consequences, because back then I was present Tash, and I was enjoying my evening gorge. Right now I'm thinking that maybe future Tash will need to go for a long walk. But by then I will be present Tash, and she'll think that maybe yet another future Tash should go for that walk. Of course, when I go out on the weekend I will curse past Tash for being too lazy to get some exercise, because what will by then be present Tash won't fit into her dress. Am I making sense? Damn you, sugar rush. I'm going to go and lie down, and let a more rational future version of myself write the next entry.

EDIT: I am not alone! I just saw this, which explains this concept in a much clearer format. Hooray for comics!

I'm not a hero, I just have a short fuse and a foul mouth

Scene:

I'm walking to work on a rainy Monday morning. Things I am full of: bloat and ennui. Things I am not full of: food, because I am on what I am refusing to think of as a diet. Rather, it is a program of self-denial that aims to allow me to achieve a socially mandated, unrealistic ideal of beauty that I am not strong enough to pretend I don't care about, or disciplined enough to attain. In short, I am not my usually sunny, Pollyanna-ish self.

As I walk across the road at the lights I am preceded by a heavily pregnant woman with a toddler in a pram, and followed by a man in about his early thirties. As we cross to the far side of the road the red light starts to flash. Immediately, the shiny new BMW that had been waiting at the lights starts to inch forward. The hatchet faced matron in the car is obviously in a rush to get back to having nothing better to do with her life but demean shop assistants, because she instantly starts shouting at us to get off the road, and - just as the extremely pregnant woman walks in front of her car - gives us a series of blasts with the horn. 

Now, none of us had been dawdling. The time from red light flashing to this woman becoming irate was infinitesimal. And the pregnant lady was really very pregnant, and obviously somewhat shaken at being shouted and honked at so aggressively. The man and I, as if with one mind, turned to the driver of the BMW and unleashed a fairly appalling stream of profanity, accompanied by hand gestures that I didn't even know I knew. This was profanity that seemed to spring from somewhere primeval. This was genetic level linguistic abuse.

The BMW driver looked suitably shocked at being spoken to in such a way, and it felt really good. In spite of the fact that I had just spoken words in front of a toddler that she probably shouldn't have had to hear, I couldn't help but feel that I had done my small part to avenge the petty wrongs of the world. To stand up for the defenceless. To work off some of my Monday rage at someone who deserved it. The sun shone. The birds sang. All was well.

And end scene.

Nice try, McCarthy

Yes, it's that time again. I am looking for another job. Seek and CareerOne are getting a lot of looks at the moment, as is the UAC website because if I go back to uni no one can judge me for not having a job, right? Students are the wave of the future, right? 

Anyway, I was looking on Seek just now at the Arts, Media and Entertainment jobs under Graduates. In all of Sydney there are 42 jobs in this category, and I'm pretty sure there are more arts graduates than that running around out there. I can't kneecap them all - I'm just one woman - so the competition is obviously going to be pretty stiff for the decent jobs, even with my several weeks experience sitting at a desk trying to look as if I have a clue as to what I'm doing.

Luckily, I found this ad;

That

That's me! I'm a socialist! I read Noam Chomsky all the time, I'm on the e-newsletter list for Australian Marriage Equality and I even just dyed my hair a little bit red, and... wait. Oh. Not that kind of socialist. Um. I might have to ask my husband before I can commit to this sort of work. Um. Good luck with that, though.