Does Zooey Deschanel fantasise about herself when she can’t sleep?

500full-zooey-deschanelIt’s 3.43am and contrary to my earlier predictions this evening, I’m apparently still wide awake.  I’ve tried all the obvious remedies – warm milk, reading, valium and sweet, sweet dreams of my eternal girl crush Zooey… all to no effect.

This is not a new phenomenon to me.  Usually it succeeds a hatred for my job, distress about a best friend who didn’t live up to promises made, or panic about an ever increasing credit card bill.  This time, I can’t really lay claim to major concerns on any of those fronts.  Life is good (credit card debt notwitstanding).  Work is, you know, ok.  An previously undeveloped friendship has magically worked its way into real connection and I no longer feel the gaping hole of my formerly disappearing BFF.  Husband is funny, charming and keeping the home fires burning (*snigger *).   I’m creatively inspired and excited for what seems to be a promising venture.

Perhaps therein lies the clanger.  Today I inadvertantly did the most mortifyingly embarrassing thing through sheer stupidity.  The sun was out and mother had lent me her convertible for a few days.  What is a girl to do?  Get in the damn thing and drive of course!  I wandered here and there, lapping up the luxury of a warm winters day on my seasonably pale visage (all hail tinted moisturiser!).  As someone who works from home the sun is a foreigner to me.  I’m daily cloistered in a cool garret with a candle melting fat drips of  wax as I toil and a thin worsted blanket loosely covering my shoulders to keep the cold from bruising my bones.  Ok I exaggerate.  It’s a lovely desk with a pretty view of a vast, hulking, deciduous green tree and central heating. And I wear my PJs and slippers to work.  Whatever.  The point is, to spend an hour or two drenching myself in the sun is unusual.  

Notice how long I’ve avoided getting to the actual point?   Yeah well.  I managed to completely and utterly lose track of myself and forgot a 3pm appointment which was really important to me.  To do with aforementioned future creative endeavours.  Till I got a politely innocuous sms at 3.30 reminding me where I was supposed to be.  At that point, I would like to have flayed the golden warmth from my face and arms and return to my cold garret in shame.  I of course was in Manly  so still obscenely far from where I should have been – in Rose Bay.  Mortification complete.  Did I mention I had already postponed this meeting from the previous day so I could frivolously see some ridiculous baby elephant?  Which didn’t eventuate after much waiting around.

So here I sit, vainly (god, please let me be wrong) hoping that this last ditch effort to expunge my embarrassment from my brain by sharing with others in writing will, at last, help me get to sleep.  Writing as therapy and all that.


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What’s Stranger Than a Midget

Beer Guard DogWalking to work has been an interesting experience.   Ah, Sydney… the sights, the smells… the excitement… and the weird things you see.


Kent St.  A beer truck is being unloaded by a couple of big,  sweaty blokes.  Sitting on top of the 6-foot-high stack of beer cartons is a guard dog.  A teeny, little 1-year-old miniature poodle.  What the hell is that little tyke gonna protect them from?  Midgets?

Cute?  Indubitably.  Tough & scary?  No.



Speaking of midgets, saw one.  Ok that’s pretty unusual in itself sure… but this one was driving a car down Sussex street.   Stretchin’ his little legs out and pointing his little tippie-toes as far as he possibly can every time he has to brake… or accelerate.  Bless!


Still speaking of midgets… what could be stranger than a midget I hear you ask?  Well… picture a small chinese woman.  And by chinese, I don’t mean ‘asian’ – I can tell the bloody difference you know – I mean FROM CHINA.

So, small chinese woman.  Imagine her, really, right now, close your eyes if you really need to, just start imagining ok.   Black hair, indeterminate age, barely 5 feet tall and just generally all-round small.  So got a picture in your head?    Good.

Now, put DD cup boobs on that sucker.  I kid you not.  How does she stay vertical?  Walking down Kent Street with nary a care in the world.  Except her gigantic DD boobs of course.


Sighted a woman power-walking her way down George St.  Clearly she neglected to properly check the mirror as she walked out the door because she’s wearing her shirt inside out.  Bless her little oblivious socks.  It’s a long way from one end of George St to another and there are MANY MANY people along the way.  Hopefully one of them will be kind enough to actually let her know rather than point and laugh as I’m doing.

Crap.  Just realised.  The woman in question is me.

And no.  Noone let me know.  Realised after I got to work and looked in the mirror in the bathrooms.

People are scum*!

*Burgess, A. K., 2008, London.

Falling Over is Always Funny

hahaSome things are so funny they make snot come out your nose.  Actually, that’s not accurate.  Somethings are so funny TO ME that they make snot come out of MY nose.  Yet other people are either indifferent or, more commonly, mortally offended.  I do understand, really I do.

I get that some people feel sympathy when, say, a person who is carrying a heavy box in the middle of an overcrowded (overcrowded in the way it only gets 4 days before xmas) JB HiFi store, happens to knock over an entire display case of DVDs, then stumble and fall face first into the ensuing mess.  I do not.  Feel sympathy that is.  For me, it’s a snot fest.

Frankly, I’m just glad it’s not me making a complete blithering idiot of myself – because, god knows, it so easily could be me.  Those who rush to help are those picture perfect types with nary a hair out of place… they would never be so graceless.  I however would.. very easily.  And so, I must laugh.

Recently, our very beloved family dog went completely blind.  It’s terrible, horrible.  I cried… well, to be entirely tasteless, I cried my eyes out… other, less easily amused souls, just cried dreadfully.   But I digress, let me tell you how we realised that he’d gone blind.

Mum & Dad took him for a walk in the park and noticed that he was very tentative – usually he’s like a glo-stick-waving-pill-poppinig-20-year-old – a little manic but very entertaining to watch.  Then he bumped into a couple of trees and they started to get a bit concerned. So mum called him; he turned and ran straight towards her voice.  As opposed to say, following the path.  Unfortunately there was a little creek in between them – he missed the bridge and ran straight off the edge into the creek.

I will reiterate – it’s nothing to laugh about… it’s a devestating thing to happen to a young dog… but even as I’m writing it, I get the giggles.  My mother would be furious… literally psychotically furious with me.   I just can’t help myself, I keep picturing him running straight off the edge  – coyote style (of Roadrunner fame) – suspended in mid-air…until that moment when he looks down and realises he’s screwed up. Meep meep!!!!

I suppose I owe a lot to Schadenfreude, me old mate.  He keeps me in stitches.

A Fistful of Dollars

I make pretty damn good money and so does Matt.  By all rights we should be laughing it up in Monaco with a bottle of Cristal 1990 Krug in one hand and a Goldvish in the other.  And yet, we are always so damn poor!  It’s absurd and I want my money back!  Pun intended.

Last month, courtesy of 2 weeks unpaid holiday in New York, we managed to get down to our last $50 – with 10 days to go before our next payday.  So we economised somewhat.  We “indulged” by adding frozen peas to our 2-minute noodles.  We finagled invites to other people’s houses for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  We walked, we did not drive.  No toilet paper? Find a bloody newspaper mate! And stop whining about how it scratches.  Cheese on your toasted sandwich?  Luxury!  It’s vegemite sans butter again I’m afraid.  Oh, we’re a little late in paying our bill?  Sorry complete oversight, we’ll fix that up right away [well, in 10-12 days]…

This month it’s gonna be caviar and roses I tell you.  Or we’ll be paying off those bills we ignored last month that have now accumulated into a something akin to Rosie O’Donnell’s arse.  Large, pushy and not very fucking funny. 

Of course we did still manage to drum up $80 to pay the cleaner.  I mean really!  We can’t live in a pigsty can we?

Mind the Gear Stick, Love

My first car was a 1989 lime green Honda Civic given to me by my parents when I was 17, before I even had my licence.  Yes I know you’re all groaning because mummy and daddy gave me, what was at the time, a reasonably newish car.  Trust me, it was as comfortable as driving a Model-T round Le Mons for 24 hours and I’m sure Dad got it for free – or near to.  It had air-conditioning which didn’t work and the tape deck, yes tape deck, had a sticky play button, which meant  I could only listen to tapes SOME of the time.  Car is so green and little that everyone calls it “the aphid”.

Day One.  Still on my L’s.  Dad takes me for a burn around downtown Winston Hills where a half-blind woman, with all the steadiness of an angsty teen who’s just sucked down a quarter of gorilla biscuits, obliviously pulls out of her parking space directly into my lane.  And me.  Well, my passenger door. Ace.  Dad’s worried that it freaked me out and I might be upset – I’m just pissed at the old bag… and so begins a life-long hostility for anyone over the age of 60 behind the wheel.

Day Five-teen.  Got licence.  Terrified of driving alone but unwilling to admit that to a soul including self.  Faining excitement, I get in the car and drive off, merrily waving goodbye to mum and dad.  I make it about half a klick down the road, pull over into an empty car park and sit there for about an hour reading a book.  At which point it’s been a respectable enough length of time to head back home and tell everyone what fun I had.

Day Ninety Five.  New boyfriend.  He has a car too but his is much crappier so we take mine everywhere.  By which I mean, we take it everywhere we can find that has some semblance of privacy in order to shag madly.  We’re young, our parents are christians, it’s first love and for both of us, our first sexual foray – the front seat of an ’89 Honda Civic parked in the back streets of Eastwood is the best we can hope for.

Day Three Hundred and Sixteen. Picking up Andrew from his place.  Approaching traffic lights at a brisk pace when I belatedly realise the light is red.  Gracefully slide into a very tidy 360 in the centre of the intersection, barely scraping the mudflaps of an oversized semi trailer. Nice!  Andrew tells me “I’m a bit of a crazy driver but I do seem to be in control most of the time”.  I take it as a compliment.

Day Eight Hundred and Twenty Three.  Sharing an aging fibro 3-room house in the suburbs with an old friend from school.  Can’t afford rego.  Again.  Lime green paint is now a muted beige in places.  Most panels are more putty than metal.  Car dismally succumbs to rust in the front driveway. RIP.