That’s What Your Mum Said

I am in sunny (?) Dunedin and loving the hell out of this country already. Everything is green and hilly and the weather is deliciously cool. Flying from 39 degrees celcius into Christchurch was yummy.

I don’t want to write too much because there are kick ass things to do here, but be aware of a few points:

1. I will be sporadic in posting over the coming two weeks at best; at worst, I may as well disappear off the face of the earth until December 7
2. Campervans are the shiz. Ours is a little one without a toilet or shower but I love her all the same. I have to resist giving her a name and getting attached
3. I probably won’t be able to leave many comments on your posts but I am watching and listening, and I will be back soon enough
4. I could feel the worries of 2009 melt away as soon as I hopped on the plane. The parks in Christchurch were particularly helpful in making me happy. I need a holiday. Bad. Honestly, I deserve it

The second half of 2009 has seen my attendance at two funerals, the most recent being less than a week ago. They were difficult as these things are and I will miss my lost family members a lot.

These have led me to think on mortality and the inevitability of my own funeral. Without going into all of the other conundrums that this raised, the clearest question in my mind has been ‘who will attend my funeral’?

I have a very strong conviction that children are not a part of my future. There were so many children and grandchildren at these gatherings yet there will be none at mine.

Who will mourn me?

Do any of you think about these morbid things? Do you have any strong ideas about the central people at your funeral and who will truly miss your loss?

Head on over to Cupcakes and Mace to enter a freakin’ excellent competition. Ms Constantine has two hip and happening t-shirts to giveaway and you might be a winner (if you are, I may challenge you to a sock-wrestle-to-the-death in order to steal said prize).

Yay for kick ass freebies!

Once again I am reminded how inept I am.

I wish I knew how to crochet. I have had a lot of people tell me how easy it is but I cannot seem to master it. No matter how many video tutorials I watch online I still end up with a garbled mess of wool and hooks with my fingers tied up in between. This blanket by Tamara at 1/4 of an inch is absolutely delightful and I am very very jealous of her talent.

I discovered Sarai when I was looking for a pattern for a winter beret and love her work at both Sweet Sassafras and Colette Patterns. This dress is her design and she documents a few different versions made by others on her blog. I wish I had a sewing machine/pretty fabric/the ability to sew.

As Coilhouse has pointed out, Japanese advertising is as mad as a cut snake. I particularly love the line “to stare into the mind of the ad man of the Far East is to stare into the face of God. We blink, for our feeble brains cannot process its wonder”. You know what I love even more though? The ad above. Thankyou Coilhouse for pointing out that I will never be clever or warped enough to create something this awesome. Go to Coilhouse and look at some of the other advertisements they link to. Frackin quirky.

It is fairly obvious that I currently require some lovely header art. I have some floating ideas in my brain but I lack the ability to translate them into something attractive and/or appealing.

Does anyone out there know of an artist who would like to translate my thoughts into a graphical form? Or is anyone reading an artist themselves? I would very much like to communicate with you about the possibilities.

Please contact me via comments and I will get in touch.

Watching ‘Californication’. Discovered this young lady. Wowser.

You did well Susan Sarandon. You did well.

Eva Amurri is so my new crush.

The last post was slightly ranty, so here is something fluffy.

Last week I had two days off of work sick. My current stomach issues leave me drained and slightly sullen so I couldn’t face the current retail work and instead took some bed rest and walked a lot. This is the harbour near my house. It was lovely and serene and grounding.

Two of my sisters and my brother in law stayed over on the weekend. My oldest sister and her husband had a wedding vow-renewal to go to at a local beach so we dropped them off and they caught a taxi home later that night. My sister was deeeerrrrruuuunk. She had a few too many champagnes and provided us with many a laugh. She discovered I had made banoffee pie and nearly wet her pants with excitement. Here she is harassing the partner just before she fell off the couch and got stuck between the coffee table and the seat. Gold.

I spent tonight making some scones. They are quite ugly and a bit too big and a tad too floury. I say fuck it, I’m eating them anyway! Ooooooh yeeaaah, floury scones.

You know what makes them better though? Damn good microwave strawberry jam I made a few weeks ago. I need to make some more now, as you can see.

Happy days.

Whatever the fuck that actually means. Un-Australian is one of my most hated terms because it is usually applied in sentences that are racist, bigoted or arrogant and uninformed.

I was called un-Australian by a co-worker last week when I told her that I wouldn’t be particularly interested in being involved in the Melbourne Cup Day festivities. I smiled bitterly and ignored her retardedness and got on with the day, all the while thinking of things I could be saying to her.

Does she know how much money problem gamblers spend each year?

Does she know how these problem gamblers get said money?

Does she know what it is like to have a problem gambler in the family?

Does she know the depths they can sink to and how that affects their family and friends?

Does she know the pain and suffering involved in seeking help and taking the steps toward recovery?

Does she know what it is like to be a problem gambler or the family member of a problem gambler at this time of the year, when everyone in Australia and New Zealand is horse crazy and betting crazy and all of the television stations broadcast horse racing news and there is not a conversation that does not involve the Melbourne Cup?

Probably not.

I can deal with this time of the year well enough now that I know my loved one is a gambling addict who has recovered. Sure, they struggle and always have to work at it by attending meetings and being open with us all. But they have recovered from the state of pawning their wedding ring and sleeping in their car and being very close to suicide as a result of shame and self loathing.

I can deal provided people I barely know don’t shove their sweeps down my throat and accuse me of being a bad member of society for not wanting to be involved.

I guess you could accuse me of needing to lighten up a little and just take it on the chin like a real man.

But in this situation I don’t really have a sense of humour.

I hope she chokes on her sweeps.