Some people pop a pill, when they feel exposed/As long as I'm dressed to kill, I'll make sure no one knows
Dear All,
Duly instructed in last post's comments by Mex, who claims that the best way to get around a blogging funk is to just blog about any damn thing, I put the following in your percolator to see if it comes out brown.
Quentin Bryce. So I might have actually said that I would fly to Canberra to lick Kevin Rudd as he demonstrated such good taste in Vice-Regal appointments. Then again, I may not have said that. Have been a little disturbed that a woman with such impeccable credentials is still being described foremost as some one who is very well dressed.
But then, these are the same media outlets asking the question (post-appointment) if “Australia is ready for a woman Governor-General”). How very 1965! One might argue that, if we’re not, it’s a bit bloody late for that question, is it not?
Weekend away in the mountains was delightful, if exhausting. I failed to eat my own body weight in marshmallows, but this would have been hard to achieve in the best circumstances as I only bought two regular sized bags (unless I have some kind of body dysmorphic disorder, I was doomed to fail). I did have four or five though, burned to a crisp on the excellent stick found for me by Grizzlewick.
The camping trip was also the first outing of Mr Fix's new band, which I believe is now on hiatus after performing eight songs to a crowd of family and friends. It was quite enjoyable to listen to live music that I didn't even have to leave "the house" for. Although Mr Fix was somewhat outraged by the serving of cheese and biscuits that went on in the background - as he pointed out there is nothing particularly "rock" about that.
Managed to indulge my latent pyromania by appointing myself Grand Fire-keeping Poo-Bah and dragging tree trunks up the hill repeatedly. At one stage I was chastened as doing “the men’s work”, but that got a “PFFFFFFTTT!” reaction that frightened away the national park’s entire stock of skittish birds and mammals. Like boys are the only ones who can lift logs. Caused raised eye-brows by harumphing the largish hunks of wood over to unsuspecting fellow campers and muttering "My log has something to tell you". Honestly, you'd think it was over 15 years since Twin Peaks was on television or something.
While not even drunk, I managed to insult a relatively new friend by revealing to him that I don’t listen to his show. I like to think that makes me refreshingly honest. But I suspect it makes me a rude cow.
I am, it appears, utterly brilliant at Articulate. Unfortunately, my friends K and H are more awesomely brilliant than me, so even my fourth round record breaking score of 6 was not enough to evade their triumphant finish. Also I now know who William Booth is*.
I spent some of the weekend contemplating a Masters Degree on the Medici. I’m not convinced that with no Italian or Latin whatsoever this would be easily achieved. Although I might get to go on several awesome (tax-deductible) trips to Florence, which would be quite “awes”. My friend W has offered to coach me should I want to appear on the Einstein Factor with the Medici as my special subject. However, I believe there are probably better/easier ways to get close to Barry Jones. Joining the ALP, for example.
My boy walked all the way up the-incredibly-inappropriately-named mini-mountain Picaninny and back without requiring adult assistance. Twice. What a trooper. On the other hand, he ended the weekend by beating against me with his little fists after throwing a temper tantrum that was the result of exhaustion and lack of food (he refused to eat because he was “too busy having fun”). This was very upsetting.
In other news….
Olympians wouldn’t have found themselves at risk of a poison plot if they had accepted, as I have, that there is NOTHING HEALTHY ABOUT MUFFINS. What are called muffins these days are ostensibly cupcakes. Had those little Aussie battlers chosen a good old celery stick with peanut butter mashed inside topped with sultanas, they would not need to worry about hidden metal. Well, not unless some one ingenious inserted ball bearings into the sultanas.
I found one of my favourite coats – at the dry cleaners. Having delivered it there with two other pieces of clothing, I managed to forget totally that it was there. For a year. Well, at least it’s back now.
I’m contemplating having my hair cut into a 20s-style bob, but am ever-so-slightly concerned that Posh Spice might be deemed to be my inspiration. For the info of readers, the minute she is my inspiration for anything, I’ll let you know.
The Age is reporting that Tassie’s Cadbury factory is ceasing its public tours. It’s probably not before time. When I went there as a 12 year old, a huge vat of Turkish Delight filling was spilled down the stairs, proving the point that those little paper hats they make you wear are largely decorative. Now that’s what I call a sticky situation, etc. Also, people are so inevitably overloaded with chocolatey goodness from the tour that the thought of buying any chocolate is thoroughly sick-making, something I’m sure hasn’t escaped the notice of Cadbury executives.
And things are looking up. It appears that people are listening after all. I await with interest a meeting to be held tomorrow and hope that it won’t descend to the level of finger-pointing and John Howard-isms like “what people have to understand”. A couple of my mates seem very upbeat about this, and they are the kind of friends in a position to accurately read the alpha-getti letters in the workplace soup. Would be nice to think that things on that front might settle down.
Here's hoping the cosmos is realigning.
Love,
gigglewick
* the founder of the Salvation Army, for those who didn’t know.
Duly instructed in last post's comments by Mex, who claims that the best way to get around a blogging funk is to just blog about any damn thing, I put the following in your percolator to see if it comes out brown.
Quentin Bryce. So I might have actually said that I would fly to Canberra to lick Kevin Rudd as he demonstrated such good taste in Vice-Regal appointments. Then again, I may not have said that. Have been a little disturbed that a woman with such impeccable credentials is still being described foremost as some one who is very well dressed.
But then, these are the same media outlets asking the question (post-appointment) if “Australia is ready for a woman Governor-General”). How very 1965! One might argue that, if we’re not, it’s a bit bloody late for that question, is it not?
Weekend away in the mountains was delightful, if exhausting. I failed to eat my own body weight in marshmallows, but this would have been hard to achieve in the best circumstances as I only bought two regular sized bags (unless I have some kind of body dysmorphic disorder, I was doomed to fail). I did have four or five though, burned to a crisp on the excellent stick found for me by Grizzlewick.
The camping trip was also the first outing of Mr Fix's new band, which I believe is now on hiatus after performing eight songs to a crowd of family and friends. It was quite enjoyable to listen to live music that I didn't even have to leave "the house" for. Although Mr Fix was somewhat outraged by the serving of cheese and biscuits that went on in the background - as he pointed out there is nothing particularly "rock" about that.
Managed to indulge my latent pyromania by appointing myself Grand Fire-keeping Poo-Bah and dragging tree trunks up the hill repeatedly. At one stage I was chastened as doing “the men’s work”, but that got a “PFFFFFFTTT!” reaction that frightened away the national park’s entire stock of skittish birds and mammals. Like boys are the only ones who can lift logs. Caused raised eye-brows by harumphing the largish hunks of wood over to unsuspecting fellow campers and muttering "My log has something to tell you". Honestly, you'd think it was over 15 years since Twin Peaks was on television or something.
While not even drunk, I managed to insult a relatively new friend by revealing to him that I don’t listen to his show. I like to think that makes me refreshingly honest. But I suspect it makes me a rude cow.
I am, it appears, utterly brilliant at Articulate. Unfortunately, my friends K and H are more awesomely brilliant than me, so even my fourth round record breaking score of 6 was not enough to evade their triumphant finish. Also I now know who William Booth is*.
I spent some of the weekend contemplating a Masters Degree on the Medici. I’m not convinced that with no Italian or Latin whatsoever this would be easily achieved. Although I might get to go on several awesome (tax-deductible) trips to Florence, which would be quite “awes”. My friend W has offered to coach me should I want to appear on the Einstein Factor with the Medici as my special subject. However, I believe there are probably better/easier ways to get close to Barry Jones. Joining the ALP, for example.
My boy walked all the way up the-incredibly-inappropriately-named mini-mountain Picaninny and back without requiring adult assistance. Twice. What a trooper. On the other hand, he ended the weekend by beating against me with his little fists after throwing a temper tantrum that was the result of exhaustion and lack of food (he refused to eat because he was “too busy having fun”). This was very upsetting.
In other news….
Olympians wouldn’t have found themselves at risk of a poison plot if they had accepted, as I have, that there is NOTHING HEALTHY ABOUT MUFFINS. What are called muffins these days are ostensibly cupcakes. Had those little Aussie battlers chosen a good old celery stick with peanut butter mashed inside topped with sultanas, they would not need to worry about hidden metal. Well, not unless some one ingenious inserted ball bearings into the sultanas.
I found one of my favourite coats – at the dry cleaners. Having delivered it there with two other pieces of clothing, I managed to forget totally that it was there. For a year. Well, at least it’s back now.
I’m contemplating having my hair cut into a 20s-style bob, but am ever-so-slightly concerned that Posh Spice might be deemed to be my inspiration. For the info of readers, the minute she is my inspiration for anything, I’ll let you know.
The Age is reporting that Tassie’s Cadbury factory is ceasing its public tours. It’s probably not before time. When I went there as a 12 year old, a huge vat of Turkish Delight filling was spilled down the stairs, proving the point that those little paper hats they make you wear are largely decorative. Now that’s what I call a sticky situation, etc. Also, people are so inevitably overloaded with chocolatey goodness from the tour that the thought of buying any chocolate is thoroughly sick-making, something I’m sure hasn’t escaped the notice of Cadbury executives.
And things are looking up. It appears that people are listening after all. I await with interest a meeting to be held tomorrow and hope that it won’t descend to the level of finger-pointing and John Howard-isms like “what people have to understand”. A couple of my mates seem very upbeat about this, and they are the kind of friends in a position to accurately read the alpha-getti letters in the workplace soup. Would be nice to think that things on that front might settle down.
Here's hoping the cosmos is realigning.
Love,
gigglewick
* the founder of the Salvation Army, for those who didn’t know.
posted by gigglewick at
5:33 pm
3 Comments:
Glad you are blogging again and pleased that your pasta foretold future is looking favourable (and far less messy than trying to tell it with pigeon entrails I'm sure).
IMHO the classic short 20's Louise Brooks bob is one of the classiest most practical (and depending on the person, one of the sexiest haircuts ever), although it requires a certain je ne sais quoi to carry it off. Although perhaps simply going one length sans fringe might give more options and ensure you don't end up with eejits thinking Dora the Explorer is your inspiration. Sure it'll suit, you have the cheekbones to carry it off.
brilliant post dearest!
weekend away sounds like it as much much needed.
i recently got a hair cut in a bob and while i am now lamenting the fact that i look like a Mum, i did in fact say to the hairdresser... "and if you cut it into a 'pob' i may kill you". so my advise is to take a few pics with you of what you would like and then ask the hairdresser for their opinion on what would suit you best. its their job after all.
BF,
Having seen me in real life you have the awesome advantage of giving well-informed (and very complimentary, I might say) advice.
Mex,
Why thank you. I AM a Mum, so I don't know how much I'm in a position to care about that. I'm lamenting the fact that my hairdresser is my sister's best friend, and if she ruined my hair I may have to kill her.
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