Wednesday, January 26, 2011

The Cat is out of the Bag

Only this could happen to us..

So, they are selling our apartment, and we have to move. In order to sell the apartment they needed to send over a professional photographer to take some pics for the real estate website.

They did a good job.

This is where the magic happens:

this is where I make pasta and dance:

and this is our loungeroom:

pretty nice huh! do we know how to decorate an apartment or what? what a minute... slow up a second - what is that??? is that a cat??????????


oooooooooh hey Lenman!! What are you doing there?? Aren't you supposed to be in Sydney?? ie: not in London?? because we aren't supposed to have a cat in London.

Hilarious. Lenny is global world wide famous now. And NO he doesn't come with the apartment.

He's a "ghost cat" if anyone asks. You pay extra for Ghost Cats in London.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

OCD Jobs.

I wish I was in a position to visit a school and give one of those "this is what you can be when you grow up talks" on Career Day. I don't remember ever having one of those talks when I was at school - maybe if I did I might have learned to hone my niche market skills, because that is what no one tells you about: Niche Markets.

Things you could be if you were kinda autistic in an OCD way:


You know those Pizza Commercials - when they pull out to the hero shot of a slice of pizza being pulled apart from the rest - that shot of the stretchy cheese is some guy's job. That guy gets paid a lot of money to make cheese look good. It's probably not even cheese - but some magic compound that he's come up with in his cheese laboratory to make cheese look all the more tantalising and cheesey. Works every time. Just looking at that stretchy cheese makes me want to order a pizza.


You know those Shampoo ads - where some model with amazing hair swishes it about and you think to yourself "I should buy that shampoo - her hair looks amazing"... There is a guy who "invented" the hair swish technique - He gets flown around the world with his green stick that he sticks into the hair and then pulls it out to make the hair look good. He gets paid a lot.

Other weird things that I have come across are people whose job it is to go through a cat food packet and pick out the best bits. Disgusting. I wonder at what stage in these people's lives do they realise that they are really really good at making random things look good. Have you been sitting around with 500 pizzas pulling pizza slices and a friend leans over and says "you do that soooo well - you could seriously get a job being a professional pizza slice puller"

There are niche markets out there for everybody - I could be the person whose job it is to make the rug look nice - crawling around on my hands and knees pulling stray fibres and obsessively rubbing out any stains.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Parlez-Vous Français? non!

One of the best things about living in London is being able to escape to another country for a quick weekend getaway. This weekend we went to Paris to see the Jean-Michel Basquiat Retrospective (so awesome). Everything else after that was a mere bonus.

Unfortunately we don't speak French, not like the infantile way we can speak Italian. Sure we can say the basic things like "hello/goodbye/please/thank you" (and someone taught me how to say "blowjob" the night before) but everything after that is just gibberish to me.

They don't like it.

In Italy you can get away with speaking pathetic Italian and eventually through a mime dance of sign language and arm waving you can come to the same conclusion. In Paris however they just roll their eyes at you. We walked into a bar and asked in our infantile french for a table for 2 (success) then the waiter started talking to us asking if we wanted a table near the window/a drinks menu (this is my guess) and all we can do is stand there with our mouths open catching flies going "duuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" no wonder they hate us.

Note to self: Learn French!!

They also either hated the way I was dressed/or they really loved it. To be honest - it wasn't anything outrageous. It was just a fluffy skirt under a jacket:

Now I don't take any notice of people taking notice of me - I just walk around and do my thing - but Mark however was like "everyone is staring at you" apparently they would walk past and then turn around and do a double take.

Haven't you ever seen a fluffy skirt before?? I thought this was Paris!!!!!!!! Not Bowral.

They must have thought I was some sort of Moulin Rouge Escapee - who bears a striking resemblance to a prostitute who was arrested in an assassination attempt on the French President. Good.. Exactly the look I was going for.

prostituée??? Oui.

The rest of the time was spent eating raw steak/drinking crazy cocktails and looking for garbage bins to dance in for the upcoming Stroggles new release track. Unfortunately Paris is a very clean city so finding a pile of garbage was difficult. Not like Ladbroke Grove!! It was good to get home and wander down our street marvelling at all the piles of garbage we could have jumped in.

j'aime des ordures

Friday, January 21, 2011

I don't wanna be a Ballerina

I never had a hobby growing up. Which probably explains the extreme lack of direction in my life at all times. Without a hobby, you have no purpose in life, and without a purpose in life you're just a loser in a fake moustache:

That's not to say I didn't have hobbies thrust upon me. So I guess you could say my Hobbies are getting out of having a Hobby.

Girl Guides: When I was about 11 my mum tried to make me join Girl Guides.. they were going to come to my house to give me a little speech about how great the Girl Guides would be. I anxiously awaited their arrival. In my head joining Girl Guides would be the equivalent of being in a Mission Impossible movie - jumping out of planes, solving international crimes, abseiling down sky scrapers.. so it was to my great dismay when two fat chicks dressed in beige and green showed up at my door. Pffffft. I have no interest in your arts and crafts patches. If I wanted to go out and identify sticks I'd be a stick insect. LAME. Suffice to say I never went to one Girl Guide meeting... who knows the type of person I'd be today if I had gone??? For one I'd probably be able to navigate my way through a Park and not come out in the middle of the Ghetto every time we visit a new city.

Another misguided attempt at thrusting a hobby upon me was the hugely unsuccessful Ballerina period... with all the hype surrounding the Black Swan I've been having major flashbacks to my career stint as a Ballerina.... aka: my 2 day stint as a Ballerina. First of all, I would have never been able to carve myself a proper career as a Ballerina - I was probably too tall for that in the fifth grade. Luckily I wasn't introduced to it till the fourth.

Out of Nowhere: "hey you're going to Ballet classes tomorrow.." .. "I'm going where in the what now??"

The problem being that when these hobbies were put upon me they were put upon me in a half arsed way.. and the main hurdle is that Ballet is not a half arsed hobby - there are things you need. You need ballerina clothes, you need ballerina shoes, and mostly you need a vested interest in being a ballerina. I had none of these things.

When I started my Ballet course I started mid way through... I had to do it in a tracksuit whilst all the other girls did it in pretty tutu's and tights, and I had to participate in their stupid ballet routine that they had all been practicing for months. Knowing not one of the steps was an obvious obstacle. That was my first day.

On the second day I went there was an exam. That's right a fucking Ballet exam. Up to this point my knowledge of Ballet was the 45 mins I spent grimacing through the day before, how the heck am I supposed to write down what a Pliè is?? I don't even know how to pronounce Pliè. Fuck you and your Pliè.

After the traumatising mess that was my pathetic 100% wrong Ballet exam, I went outside to think over my options... I could either continue the humiliation of dancing through ballet in tracksuit pants being the retard of the group who can't do anything.. or I could put an end to it all.

So I did just that... and scaled a wall and jumped off into a pile of gravel.

I landed on my leg, cut myself up good and had a huge gash on my knee that bled profusely until someone came to pick me up. No one ever asked me why I scaled a wall to jump into a pile of gravel, I guess people don't want to delve into those sorts of childhood disturbances.

Suffice to say - I never went to another Ballet class, nor was anything else ever offered to me as a way to occupy my mind. Everything after that revolved around me sitting in my room reading Babysitters Club and wishing I had five friends to make a club with.. or a friend... But hey! who needs friends when you've got the internet??? wooo grown ups!!!

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I Hate Snails

This could quite possibly be my earliest childhood memory, or just my first memory of my hatred of snails. I know it must have been early in my life because there were mustard and brown striped curtains hanging in the lounge room, and if that doesn't scream 80's lounge room decoration I don't know what does.

Anyway - so I'm in this person's house with the bad tonal 80's curtains and probably matching brown carpet and matching brown couch (who was it that decided that the hue of the 80's would be poo brown???) and because I am a kid and kids are annoying they sent me outside to play with the Hills Hoist.

(hours of fun)

To be honest, a Hills Hoist can be fun - when you're swinging around on it and trying to fly.. for 15 minutes, then you get massive blisters on your hands and it ceases to be fun. This is when I noticed the army of encroaching snails that had completely cornered me and in my child's mind - were going to be the death of me.

Let me just make it clear. It wasn't just one or two snails surrounding me, it was about 200 snails. Snails might move slowly, but I looking back I think that is part of their game plan - they move so slowly that you don't notice them until you are up to your eyeballs in snails and are like "wtf did all these snails come from??"

I was too petrified to move. The snails had me cornered and they knew it. I just stood under the Hills Hoist screaming for someone to come and rescue me, but because I'm a kid and no one listens to kids so they just let me scream my petrified screams without taking any notice of me. I think eventually someone did stick their head out into the yard and saw me standing in a petrified motionless screaming state and told me to shut up and deal with the damn snails, because no one was going to come and rescue me and I would have to get out of the garden by myself.


How hard would it have been to walk over and rescue me? 10 seconds and you would have saved me a lifetime of emotional trauma related to snail phobia.

I eventually did get up the courage to escape from the labyrinth of snails, taking tiny steps and trying to desperately avoid stepping on one, because I was shoe-less and there is nothing worse than standing on a snail with bare feet.

I long for a world where all the grounds are salted and the invading snail army dies a tragic death and little girls are free to play in gardens under the stinkin Hills Hoist without the repercussions of tiny slimy alien grossness.

I hate snails.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Eviction Den

I have always had some form of furniture re-arranging OCD. My surroundings have to be perfect, otherwise I just don't feel comfortable. I could sit and re-organise m DVD collection, and alphabetise my books, and move couches around all day long. Then you have to consider the artwork on the walls and the rugs on the floors and the lighting scheme - dimmer switches, lamps with low wattage bulbs. It usually takes me about a year to get an apartment looking perfect - because every space is different and you need to work the room for all its advantages.

This is why it was hard to leave Sydney to move to London, Our apartment was perfect. The couch, the art, the bookshelf, the rug, the shoe rack, the wardrobe, the quilt cover. 5 years of perfection..... then we moved. The prospect of having to start from scratch was one of the main things that was freaking me out about moving... "but I just got it all exactly the way I want it!!!! I can't move now!"

But we did.. and the most stressful part of the move was finding our apartment. Which when we did was an excellent choice.... but yes, we did have to start from scratch making it nice again and 13 months later I was finally able to settle down my my chair and look around the place and think "yessssss. its perfect. let's never move"

Which is really fucking annoying because 1 week after this moment, the landlord evicted us.

You don't even understand my rage. But I have come up with a new plan to lesson the pain of looking for a new place.

Which essentially means turning my current apartment into a cracken, and you know what - it's fucking liberating!!!

first step is to put away all the nice knick knacks/photo's/books/meaningful possessions - put them in box and hide them away.. once you can disassociate from your possessions you can deal with anything in your personal space.

I think over the coming weeks we'll crank it up a notch - move the mattress into the lounge room. letting Lenny shit on the floor...eating pasta from plastic plates on the ground and leaving them there to rot.

The funniest part of this segue into madness, is that we are having real estate agents come over and show prospective buyers the place, so it will be funny to move our bookcase into the shower and start sleeping in the kitchen with a bike on our mattress.

"what?? don't judge me for using my couch as a bbq to cook lamb chops.. racist"

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

SALT the Sequel

Watched 'SALT' last night, well that is to say I sat and ignored it, because it's a pile of shit, but Mark wanted to watch it - it is your typical Angelina Jolie flick;

Angelina wears a blonde wig
Angelina wears a black wig
Angelina gets wet
Angelina lands on a train

I would like to pitch these sequels:

CHICKEN SALT: Angelina goes undercover in China to discover spies.
SEA SALT: Angelina goes underwater to discover spies and swim with fish.
CELERY SALT: Angelina appears in an art nouveau film that is shot and black and white and there are no spies, but she meets a magician who has a hot air balloon that won't fly.
SALT & PEPPER: Angelina gets a sidekick - they solve crimes and crack wise ass jokes. Then they have sex.
SALT & VINEGAR: Angelina's sidekick betrays her and she has to kill him.
SALT & PEPPER SQUID: Angelina goes undercover in the Caribbean and tries to join Capt Jack Sparrow on his Pirate ship.
TABLE SALT: Angelina has to give up the spy game to be a stay at home mum and look after her niece whilst her sister in is rehab.
ROCK SALT: Angelina joins an all girl band to travel the world finding spies and playing mind control music to kill the president.
SALTY NUTS: Angelina goes undercover in an Italian Mental Institution to find Russian spies.

Typical. Magical Brain Powers.

There is something weird going on... It's like my thoughts and words have the powers to invoke actual real life revelations of opposite world.

CASE POINT 1: Mark and I are cooking in the kitchen and smugly congratulating ourselves on the fact that we have never had a bug or rodent in our house ever. Cue: The Next Night.... 2am stepping on mouse guts in the hallway.. now i'm giving every nook the side eye and cleaning crumbs up like a robot hoover with hands.

CASE POINT 2: It's Sunday, we're wandering around Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove contemplating moving apartments and we're like "Fuck that! Hell No! I love this area! We would be crazy to move!!"...... 3 hours later - we're sitting on the couch and our landlord emails us to say we have to move within 2 months.

What the whaaaaaaaaaat?

I have magical powers to harness the things I say I don't want. Perhaps one can weild this power for gain??

I reallly realllly hope that noone reads this blog and my blog doesn't become famous and I end up with a book deal and someone makes a movie of my life and Anna Faris stars as me and we hang out on set together whilst James Franco plays the role of Mark. I really hope that never happens, that would be the worst.

I wish I could get really fat. I'm talking really really fat, like needing an army helicopter to rescue you from your house and a tank to deliver you to do the morgue fat. I would hate to be skinny with big boobs and perfect skin, I think that would be awful. Who wants that?? not me.

I really hope its hard to find an apartment. I mean takes forever... and that Foxtons are just more retarded than usual. Foxtons are without a doubt the dumbest real estate agents I have ever dealt with - they try and hide their stupid knobness by driving Mini Cooper's and handing out the free cokes, but seriously they are dumb. Example:

Me: "I don't want to look at any places on the ground floor"
Foxtons Idiot then proceeds to show me 3 ground floor places.
Me: "I won't pay more than 400 for a place"
Foxtons Idiot shows me places around the 600 mark.

ummmmm yeah, where do you guys get your real estate trading license from?? jpegs off the internet? right click. save. now I am a real estate agent. wtf!!

The guy today was so stupid he took me an apartment block (I specified no apartment blocks) which had about 500 apartments in it, and it was such a maze that he couldn't even find the apartment. I spent half an hour wandering around some crackden Aids block resembling the Overlook Hotel from the Shining and he couldn't even find the place!!!!!!!!! 'Ken Tard.

Really really not looking forward to moving. Moving to me is the equivalent of being pregnant for 9 months and then finding out you actually have to give birth to a big ugly suede chair that you have no use for and never wanted, and it's coming out sideways and you have to do it in the gutter because no hospital wants you and your stupid chairbaby.


Big in Sweden

Yeah i'm writing for a Swedish Magazine..
I am channelling my inner swede by wearing chef hats and making pasta.

Thursday, January 06, 2011

Babymouse Killer....

(to the tune of Paperback Writer)
I've been in the hammock for about a week,
and I've seen a mouse where you take a leak.
I'll catch it for you if you really like,
I'll bash it brains in for you overnight.
Cos i'm a
Babymouse Killer........ (Babymouse Killer!!!!!)

Picture this: it's 2am, and you're stumbling down the hallway to take a pee in the darkness, then
all of a sudden KRICCHHH.. you stand on something... It feels crunchy and weird. You turn on the bathroom light and see that you've stood on the rigor mortis carcass of a dead mouse with it's brains ripped out.

Nice one Lenman!

I guess the important thing is that Lenny caught the mouse at all. Who would have thought he had it in him to be a babymouse killer?? Who'd have thought he would get out of the cat hammock for two seconds and become the Babymouse Killer?

My dilemma though was weather or not to tell Mark, because let's face it - he deals badly with most things..

The upstairs neighbours are laughing too loudly in bed.
There is too much mail in the downstairs hallway.
Someone dumped a dying christmas tree on the garbage pole.

I didn't think he would deal with a 2am mouse homicide, he probably would have called our landlord to report a mouse infestation. So I decide to conceal the evidence... there is something not right about finding a place to hide a mouse carcass. I didn't want to just flush it away because I wanted Mark to see it at a time when he would behave more rationally. So I wrapped it up in a napkin and put it in the fruitbowl till morning.

Then I had to deal with the problem of mousebrains in between my toes. I figured bathing it would cause too much commotion... too many questions, so I just went to bed with it, and could feel the hard little indents of its stiff legs imprinted forever in the skin of my sole. I don't think my foot will ever recover.

(to the tune of Straight Lines)
Waking up at 2am in the morning... stepping on a mousebrain.
I'm too asleep to deal with this right now.. stepping on mouse braaaain.