Sunday, May 29, 2011

L.A. Babe

Damn paparazzi.

Can't a kid just hang out incognito for a while?

I have a right to enjoy my PJ-style.

Alright, then. Here's your shot...

Don't hate me 'cos I'm beautiful, 'kay?

Miss Pie, 17 months. Adorable, n'est-ce pas?

A superstar in her own home, and always more than happy to have an audience. 

I wonder how much money I could make from her? Tinseltown is but a short drive away...

Thursday, May 26, 2011


We first met in a fine arts class that we shared at university. When I look back on those outdoor lunches we had between classes, there's a warm, golden glow filtering through my memories.

I'm not sure what T saw in me, why she wanted to get to know me. To spend time with me.

In her, I saw sunshine. Others saw her light, too - so many of us, like moths. T was completely unaware of the effect she had on people, though.

In her, I learned what gifted meant. Her words tumbled and flowed. Her drawings oozed and dripped, revealing shafts of light - and darkness - from her soul. The very sight of her handwriting, alone, filled me with anticipation.

In her, I found a sister. A friend for life. The world, as I'd known it then, shifted. Tilted. Expanded.

I miss her so much.

Those student days were intense.

Together, we danced and sang to music we loved. We lost weekends to 'recreation'. Juggled study and work. Juggled housemates and relationships. Love and heartbreak. Colour and chaos. Entwined.

A few years later, she came to see us in London, and stayed for the summer. More adventures. Sunshine. Music. Barefoot freedom. More broken hearts.

Since then, geography has got in our way. When J and I returned to Australia, we moved to Melbourne. T was in Sydney. We eventually moved back to Sydney, and I was able to start spending time with her again. Then, when I was pregnant with the Faery, she left Australia. A new life in a new country was calling her.

I didn't want her to go, but I understood. She needed to be with the love of her life, and so once again, a sea stood between us. Another timezone. It was only a few hours, but it seemed so far.

Now, it's an even bigger ocean between us. We've never been into buying birthday cards or gifts for one another, although I still have - and treasure - one she made for me all those years ago. Shyly given to me outside Fisher Library. A black and white drawing, a silhouette of two female figures on a small boat, sitting opposite, palms raised up and pressed together. There's a large full moon rising behind us, illuminating the gentle waves.

That card is tucked away into a shoe box of mementos, inside a bigger box of belongings, in storage. Far away from me. I haven't laid eyes on that drawing for a very long time, but when I close my eyes, I can see every last etch made by her pen. Every line. I know the picture well.

Just like the card, I haven't seen much of T in recent years. Months, and more months, will pass before one of us gets in touch with the other. Sometimes longer.

It doesn't matter though. Our letters and emails have been prompted by dreams we've had about the other. A hunch, pushing us to pick up a pen, or switch on the computer. The timing has been uncanny.

She expressed it beautifully, not long ago - it's like we're cut from the same cloth, and it doesn't matter how much time passes before we speak or write, because there's always a part of us in one another.


I love that.

Yesterday was one of those days when I heard from her, out of the blue, but the timing was perfect. As always, her words made me want to cry. I still get a lump in my throat each time I replay her words.

I'm not a gushy person. I'm not touchy-feely. I do the whole bottle-it-in-with-stiff-upper-lip thing a little too well (just like my family). Some people probably even find me... prickly. I don't do declarations of love, except to a select few. That's just who I am. My poor husband.

I needed to write this, though. I love and miss T like crazy and today, it hurts... so I'm making an effort to go against my usual grain, and attempt the mantra of better out than in.

I hope T knows just how much she means to me.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

The Wrap(ture)

Party decor
I'm happy to report that my first preview screening and 'showbiz' party was far more fun than I could have imagined.

The main big impression from the night was how much pride everybody had for their film, Kung Fu Panda 2. I don't think I'd given it too much thought in the past, but perhaps assumed that companies churn out films with the main goal of making money, and lots of it, but not so much heart and soul - at least with the larger film companies.

I think I've been proven wrong. Sure, there's a huge financial element to the film industry but listening to the speeches made before the preview screening, the people involved were quite emotional and so incredibly happy with the end result of their hard work. It was touching to see.

A bonus was an appearance by Jack Black, thanking and acknowledging the crew for their hard work. Oh, and seeing J's name in the end credits. Exciting! And lovely to know that he's working for a company that not only treats their employees very well, but appreciates what they do and lets them know it. (He's had some pretty unscrupulous employers over the years who have a whole shite load of bad karma coming their way. One in particular - ironically - just released a major game, L.A. Noire, last week... one that J put a lot of blood and sweat into over the first few years we were back in Sydney, yet he's been given zero credit... arseholes). But enough about that, I'm just so relieved he's happy here, and our Big Move is starting to pay off.

As for the movie itself? Go see it. If you have kids, take them along. If they don't like 3D (it freaks out the Faery and she refuses to wear the glasses) then take them to a 2D session instead because the effects are pretty intense. Not only is the animation the best I've sen yet, but the storyline is simple enough for small kids to follow, without boring the grown ups. Of course I'm biased, but I really do believe it's worth a trip to the cinema for.

After the screening, the crew wrap party was just a short walk away in a beautifully decked out section of Universal Studios - all kinds of Oriental-style lanterns and parasols. Two things about me: 1) I'm a cheap drunk these days and 2) I'm easily impressed when it comes to parties. The first point was not an issue because I was designated driver and had to avoid the free cocktails but with the second point, I think even the most well-seasoned party-goer would have been impressed here.

I won't bore with details about the food - let's just say I was a little Miss Piggy because I wasn't drinking. If you'd seen the food, you understand. Hell, I needed something in my hand! Too many years, pre-kids, of partying with a drink in one hand and cigarette in the other.

Even better were the conversations I had that weren't with little people under the age of five. I met some seriously lovely people and look forward to more of that.

The other fun part was the dance floor. It's been far too long since the last time I was somewhere that had a dance floor, and despite not being lubricated by alcohol, I managed to find the boogie in me. Even my sore toes obliged - for a while. As long as no one stepped on them, I was fine.

When we finally fell into bed the following morning (when was the last time I could say that, huh?) all J and I could say was that we needed to go out like that more often. Not just the odd date night eating out, just us two, but get social. Talk to people, and lots of them. Dance. It's good for the soul.

My final lesson from the night: getting up at 6.30am, after a huge night and only four hours sleep, to sort out the little ones? Hard. In hindsight, not drinking was a smart move... it's now been confirmed that I'm no spring chicken.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Zombies and crushes

First of all, let me start by stating that I don't 'do' zombie films (with the exception of the very funny Shaun of the Dead - but being a comedy, it's entirely different). I don't do any horror films. It's just not my thing, and I don't enjoy films or TV shows when I'm watching them with from between the fingers of my hands over my eyes, and jumping out of my skin. Plus, gore is gross. I simply don't have the stomach for it.

I've recently had to review my stance, though, and this is my reason why. Andrew Lincoln. He falls under the category of British Actors I'd Run Away With. Ahem. Clive Owen is also on the list.

(Photo source)
I've had a thing for Andrew Lincoln for, oh, well over a decade? He may have lovely blue eyes and a puppy-dog face, but mostly, it's his voice. There's a hypnotic drowsiness to it like no other actor's, and I could just close my eyes and listen to him forever. Yeah, I know. That sounds scarily stalkerish.

I was first drawn to him during my student days, when my housemates and I became hooked on a British  TV drama called This Life. A few years later, when J and I moved to London, the very first film we saw at the cinema was Human Traffic. He only had a small role in it, but it was a film that I identified with at the time. We were young whippersnappers and lost the odd weekend here and there to clubbing. 

I bought Human Traffic's soundtrack, which is mixed with soundbites from the film, including a line by Andrew Lincoln's character. Here's the sad thing: when bored while travelling on the tube, inside the private cocoon of my Discman, I used to replay that line - just to hear his voice. One more time. 

(You'll be relieved to know I wouldn't able to pinpoint which track number it's on anymore. I've since moved on, just a little...)

Anyhow, over the years that we lived in the UK, I saw him in various films and TV shows. To people living outside Britain,  you may know him from the sickeningly saccharine Love Actually. His character was the best man, in love with his mate's bride (played by Keira Knightley). It doesn't matter how many times it's been on TV now. If I flip over the channels and catch one of the scenes with him? I'm swooning all over again. It makes up for the insufferable Hugh Grant.

It's been a while since I've seen anything with Andrew Lincoln, as I suppose less of his work has been aired in Australia. So I put him out of my mind, quite a few years ago.

Until recently, when J mentioned that he wanted to see an American series called The Walking Dead. I'd heard about it, and knew it was about zombies. Ugh. I also knew Andrew Lincoln was in it. My 'boyfriend', as J teases me.

So I acquiesced, and Netflix sent us the first disc from the series yesterday.

The character that Andrew Lincoln plays is an American policeman, in the South (Georgia). I knew that his voice would sound different from what I'm used to, but I wasn't prepared for how much it distracted me, at first. I'm so used to his British voice that I was surprised at how different he sounds in The Walking Dead. Not just his accent, but his pitch is slightly higher. Perhaps that makes it easier to do such a different accent? I know, I know, it's called acting.

It bothered me at first, but then I remembered - I like Southern accents. I love Southern accents. 

Andrew Lincoln's voice, Southern-style? I could get used to that. I'll have to listen again, I think. One more time.

But the gore? Oh my, the gore. It is full on, and I have a whole series of that to get through. I may just have to close my eyes and listen...

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Water in the city

Here's a photo from a few months back, driving home from Burbank on a wet, twilight-y Sunday:

I like it for a couple of reasons. First, the motion from the car as we drove through the intersection of this street gives it a lovely little trippin' feel. Secondly, because people tend to associate L.A. with palm trees and clear blue skies - those are the images we are bombarded with from TV shows and films. While it's true that the weather here is fabulous a lot of the time, there are definitely grey, drizzly days to balance it out a little.

Today is one those days, which is why I thought of this photo. I got soaked this morning, after taking the Faery to preschool, and Miss Pie to get her vaccinations. Her stroller has a rain cover, so she stayed toasty dry. Whenever the locals see her in her pram with the cover, they freak out: "Oh wow! Look at her, she's in a plastic bubble... oh my god, can she breathe okay in there?" I often wonder what they'd say if I replied that, no, she can't breathe - because obviously, I would put a non ventilated cover over my child. Mothers on foot with strollers are a rare sight (in my neighbourhood; I'm not speaking for all of L.A.). I guess when it rains, we're even rarer. I get the impression that no one around here has ever seen a rain cover for prams.

Anyhow, as I walked home with my head facing down from the rain, I saw a house with... sprinklers on in the garden. Sprinklers in the rain.

Yeah, only in La La Land, huh?

It's not the first time I've seen this. I realise people have their sprinklers on auto-timers, but you'd think if it'd been raining all night and into the morning, at some point it might occur to the owners that they could switch the system off for a day or two and save some water, right?

This kind of waste is something that never fails to leave me gobsmacked. Growing up in a country where droughts are a fact of life, and most areas have heavy water restrictions enforced, I've been conditioned to shudder and think of the hefty fines I'd face if I dared use a sprinkler in Sydney - let alone when it's raining.

Moving to a city that's been built over a desert, I assumed there would be similar restrictions, but so far I've yet to see a single pamphlet, sign or advertisement that promotes water conservation. I've only learned the official water mandate policies (as they call them here) for where we live by going online and digging a little. The information I found listed the specific restrictions, but no mention of fines if the restrictions are breached.  It makes me wonder if there are actually any consequences of not following the mandate.

La La Land: the city of contradiction. Smoking is banned in every square inch of public space, but hey, let's look the other way when people use more than their fair share of water. Who needs it anyway?

Monday, May 16, 2011

Give me colour

After more than a year of La La Land living, I'm headed to my first crew wrap party this week. One of the perks of having a husband who works 'in the industry'.

Now, before you get too excited, it's exactly that - a crew wrap party. Not a cast wrap party, meaning that although Angelina Jolie was involved with this particular film, neither she nor Brad Pitt will be there.

This is a good thing, as it will save me from embarrassing myself should I come face to face with either one of them after one too many party drinks.

Despite the lack of 'stars', I still had a mild panic about what to wear. I'm not really one for getting glammed up, and the last time I wore a proper frock was for a wedding, two years ago. I am definitely a jeans girl.

To get an idea of how dressy it might be, I did some Facebook research on some photos from the last crew wrap party. Thankfully, there was a real mix - some people were dolled up in dresses, and others were in jeans with dressy tops.

That was a relief to see. Jeans it is then, with a nice top and some cute shoes.

Just a few problems - my favourite only pair of jeans has a noticeable hole stretching across the inner mid thigh of one leg, as a result of being worn almost daily over the last winter. Secondly, I haven't bought any new, vaguely 'dressy' tops in about a year, and am bored with what I have. Also, the cute shoes (with heels) are no longer an option, courtesy of a broken toe. Ballet flats will have to do.

This was the perfect excuse to hit the local mall on the weekend. I'm not actually big on clothes shopping, and when I have no luck with styles I like or sizing, my mood is altered drastically - for the worst. I rarely enjoy it and, personally, I don't understand the kick that so many others seem to get out of shopping.

Anyhow, I realised I had not left our apartment sans les enfants since my lovely birthday trip to San Francisco. A month ago. Okay, time to go shopping...

First stop was Gap. My last pair of jeans were Gap ones, and I was more than happy with how they fit and looked, so I grabbed a pair that was only a little different in style. I normally rate shopping for jeans up there with shopping for shoes - in other words, torture. I'm tall with a generous booty and hips, but a smallish waist, which means about 95% of jeans (when I sit) have a huge sag at the back of the waistband and reveal way too much of my - no delicate way to put this - arse crack. Not cool.

Once the jeans were sorted, my next mission was to find a top. I think I was only in Gap for a total of ten minutes. I didn't bother looking there for a top because they all seemed a little beige. Vanilla. Boring. I like a bit of colour if I'm not in black.

Next, I visited H&M. I've had a long-term affair with that store since we lived in the UK - albeit interrupted by our time back in Australia. I was pretty excited when we moved here and I learned that H&M was here too. What I've loved about H&M is how easy it is to find things that fit, especially when we were in the UK. Their range of sizes meant I never felt like a giant freak. The American H&M isn't as awesome with trousers etc (sizes geared mainly towards the scrawny end of the spectrum) but I've still got some nice tops from there.

However, when I walked in on Saturday, for the first time ever, I didn't see anything I liked. What is it with all the beige clothing everywhere?

Not sure of where else to look, I wandered into the neighbouring store, Forever 21. I've never actually set foot inside before because it always looked like it was more for teenyboppers. Happily, there were colourful tops galore. I still felt like a bit of a fraud amongst the shoppers who were mostly half my age, but I managed to find something appropriate for the party and it was a bargain. Win.

Not sure where I'm going with this post... but I just wanted to cheer for the fact that I got some new clothes (which I've been needing anyway) and it was relatively pain free.

It wasn't entirely pain free because my mangled toes meant I was hobbling and moving at a snail's pace.

What I've learned over the last few days is that one doesn't realise just how often small children - literally - step on one's toes until one has a broken toe. Yeah. Fun.

Also? The sound I make when they step on my toe is unnatural, because I'm trying my best not to scream, "FUUUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!"

Instead, it comes out sounding, "AAAAAGH! AH-AH-AH-AH-AH!"

Kind of like a reverse laugh. I am anything but laughing.

Bring on the wrap party. J and I haven't had a date night since January, so I'm counting the days until I have purely adult company for an evening. I may not be hitting the dance floor, but I'm going to make sure I have a brilliant night anyway.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Graceful is not my middle name

I woke up this morning to learn that Blogger had sent my most recent post (and useful comments) somewhere into the cyberspace mystery vault. Where to, I had no idea. The post has since returned, but the comments are still MIA.

In the mean time, I'm sitting here with several throbbing toes. After a rare lovely morning out with both girls (mornings out aren't rare, but mornings out being lovely with no whinging or meltdowns are a rarity), I decided to be naughty and grab a McDonald's lunch for the Faery and I, from the local drive-thru on our way home.

We got home, I unpacked the car, put Miss Pie in her high chair, got the Faery sorted with her McHappy meal, and - quickly, so my waiting Quarter Pounder didn't get too cold - got some yoghurt and chopped banana for Miss Pie. In my haste to get over the safety gate from the kitchen, I'm not sure what happened next.

A clumsy moment. One leg didn't clear it properly and my big foot hooked over the gate, bringing the it down behind me. I stacked it in spectacular style, and several toes on my other foot copped the brunt of my weight whilst somehow getting dragged on the ground as I fell.

The icing on the cake? A plate full of food all over the carpet, which was freshly steam-cleaned just yesterday. A long overdue clean which - miraculously - undid a year's worth of sins that only a preschooler and baby can do to carpet.

The pain. The sight of food strewn across the as-new carpet (the trajectory pattern was most excellent, I have to admit). The pain. More pain. I couldn't move for a good minute, while both girls stared at me in dismay. I am amazed I didn't let all kinds of foul language fly. I was just too dazed, and - the pain!

The Faery watched me for another moment - I'm sure she was holding her breath - and then said, "Wow, Mum! It's lucky you didn't cry, because grown-ups don't cry!"

I thought I was, but it was just my eyes watering. I thought I might be doing a disservice to her by pretending I was okay (impossible, anyway), so I told her it hurt a lot and I wanted to cry, and that it's okay for grown-ups to cry, that everybody cries when they are hurt or feeling very sad, and that's normal.

Then I picked myself up and attempted to make an ice pack. What I learned today is that we need a gel pack in the freezer, because the huge crescent-shaped chunks of ice that the freezer's ice-maker produces are almost impossible to fashion into an ice pack for toes. At this point, the skin at the bottom of my big toenail was gushing blood (again... clean carpet!) and it looked as though I may have even managed to pull the toenail away from its bed. Nice one, and woe is me. My pretty toes! Vanity sucks.

And my Quarter Pounder? It was pretty cold by the time I got to eat it.


That was two hours ago, and I'm still not sure what's going to happen to my toenail. It may be okay. Hard to say. But my middle toe on that same foot? I can't move or bend it. At all. I hadn't even noticed that earlier, what with the pain radiating from my big toe. Awesome.

A little fact about me that I may not have mentioned before is that I am prone to clumsiness. As a kid, my parents called me Calamity Jane, and I never really outgrew this trait.

Graceful is not my middle name.

If something can be tripped over, you bet I'll manage that. My hips and thighs have constant bruises from me bashing into objects. I'm so used to it that I often don't register minor accidents until later at night when I have a shower and find new bruises on me: Hmm... where did that come from?

All I can say is, thank gawd it's Friday. Bring on the wine tonight - it can't come a moment too soon...

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

What a yolk

You know all the clich├ęs about young people not even knowing how to boil an egg when they first move out of home?

Confession time.

Photo source
I cannot boil an egg (and I moved out of home eighteen years ago, almost to the day).

Well... I can, but rarely how I intended it to be. If I'm aiming for soft-boiled to dip toasted soldiers into, I will end up with hard-boiled. If I need hard-boiled for sandwiches or salads, guaranteed they will be soft. Runny, even.


I don't understand how this can be. I have followed various basic egg-boiling instructions over the years, none of which seem to work for me. I have a feeling that it may be related to my perception of at which point the water can be classed as actually boiling. You know, simple stuff. Cooking 101.

Anyhow. That I have trouble with such a simple culinary skill as egg-boiling implies that I'm a lost cause in the kitchen, right?


I can make fabulous curries from scratch. I can make a mouth-watering vegetable gluten-free lasagne. I can make a mean Mexican - again, from scratch. I can make perfect risottos.

Cottage pie, pumpkin pie, coconut custard pie? Easy as, well, pie.

I can make all kinds of scrumptious cakes that leave you wanting more.

I can follow recipes to a T, but I can also improvise with what's in the pantry.

I like to think I'm a pretty good cook, so maybe it's just egg dishes I can't handle?

Nope. I make knock-your-socks-off frittatas, awesome Spanish omelettes, and scrambled eggs to cure the mother of all hangovers.

Clearly, I can handle eggs - just don't ask me about cracking them. For some reason - like with boiling - I don't have much luck. Perfect cracks with yolks intact when making scrambled eggs, but if I want to fry an egg? Or separate the white from the yolk? The shell will not cooperate, resulting in a mangled yolk.

I blame the shell, of course.

To be honest, I've never really had an issue with my status as Failed Egg Boiler. I was okay with it, because of all the other things I could whip up.

Until now. I have a fussy-eating almost-five year-old, the Faery. It's always been a struggle to get a decent amount of protein into her.

Recently, she's decided that she LOVES boiled eggs, and requests them with a frequency that has me breaking out in a cold sweat.

Pre-dinner exchanges go something like this:

Me, "Soooo... how about some fish tonight?" 

The Faery, "Umm... no thank you. I want an egg! An egg in a shell with toast to dip in it."

Me, "Ummm... I'm not very good at making them like that. Dad makes them better than me, and he can make you some on the weekend. You can have some scrambled egg, though. Or a cheesy omelette?"

The Faery sighs, "Ohhkaaaaaaay." So hard done by, I know.

Nonetheless, I end up seeing myself as just a little bit of a failure in her eyes. Mum can't even boil an egg - what a loser.

If anyone reading this knows a fool-proof way to boil eggs, enlighten me. Please. For the Faery's sake...

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Where am I?

Wild iris, bird of paradise, eucalyptus, jacaranda, bottle brush and agapanthus.

Throw some bougainvillea, jasmine - and even wattle - into the mix,
as there are plenty of these around, too.

I could be walking down any street in Sydney, in November.
Instead, it's May in L.A.

I feel a little bit upside down.
Or should that be wrong side up?

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Legal Alien

That's a box I had to tick to describe myself at the Social Security Office today. Legal alien with working status. It has a nice ring to it, yes?

So why was I there? Now that I have a work permit, it's time to apply for a US social security number (SSN). I've been here over a year, without a social security number. No drama, really, except for two things:

1. Every organisation and their dog inisists that they need your SSN for every single form you fill out, when in fact (I'm told) it's not a legal requirement - but so many Americans seem bogged down by their love of - and need for - bureaucracy that they can't accept it's possible to exist without a SSN.

2. The Social Security Office will not just hand out SSNs to anyone. You need to either be a citizen, or have legal working status, which I recently received.

So on this fine hot morning, I found myself at the Social Security Office in Burbank.

I walked in with Miss Pie, and was directed by Mr Security Guard to take a number and fill out a form. He complimented me on my wedding ring, which I thought was a little odd.

My number was A36, and the number on the screen was A34. Sweet! Won't be a long wait.

I sat down and completed the form. At this point Mr Security Guard approached me, and began talking about how he'd spent time in the Australian Outback, training with the Australian Army, "Those guys are crazy - they have a real death wish!"

Being the polite person that I am, I listened as he continued, "And your beer. Fosters? Such big cans - I drank it. It's strong!" He spoke about what a great time he had, and how he thought Australians were the friendliest people - so, of course I was going to be polite and and conversationalist for a minute or two.

Then as Mr Security walked back to his desk, I heard "A37", and I looked up at the TV screen to see A36 change to A37. Crap.

I began to call out to the available window, just as Mr and Mrs A37 took a seat at that window.

From across the room, Mr Security's voice rang out: "Ma'am, these numbers are not called out in unison. Please take a seat."

I explained that I was pretty sure I'd just seen my number momentarily on the screen, and he wanted to see my ticket to check the number. Then he said, "Well, you'll need to wait until another window is free, then ask them if they called your number already. This is why you need to listen carefully."

Um... WTF, dude? I wasn't listening 'carefully' because you were in my face talking about good times in Australia, and I was being a polite listener. 

I sat down in disbelief, and waited for a window to become free. When it did, Mr Security walked over and I heard him enquire about my number. Then I heard the staff member reply that they'd called out A36, three times.

Mr Security strolled over and informed me that, yes, my number had been called out - and I interjected, "Which I didn't hear because you were talking to me."

He replied "Yes, ma'am, my bad I'm afraid, but you'll need to take another number and wait again. I'm sorry, ma'am."

It took all of my resolve NOT to open a can of whop-arse right there and then. If anyone has ever had to wait at such places, with bored toddlers wanting to run amuck, they'll understand how badly I wanted to scream.

However, Mr Security was also Mr Ex-Military (I'm guessing - why else would he be hanging out with the Australian Army?). Opening a can of whop-arse wasn't really an option, even if he did seem to have a soft spot for women with Aussie accents.

So I sighed - heavily - and took another number.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


I was just going through some old photos, and came across these ones I took in 
Lucerne, Switzerland, back in the summer of 2000.

I love these images, for how quintessentially Swiss the scenery is.
I mean, if you tried to conjure up a mental picture of a Swiss city, 
you'd come up with something like this, right?

Chocolate box perfection. Sigh.

In the words of the lovely Liz Lemon from 30 Rock:
I want to go to there.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Not deep

These are the questions on my mind at the moment. Deep stuff, I know...

1. Why do most shoe stores not stock my size? I'm tall, but hardly a freak of nature. Shoe shopping puts me in a foul mood, especially when dealing with smug ho sale assistants who do their best to imply that I am a freak of nature. Hos.

2. Why do toddlers refuse to sleep a wink on long car trips, yet frequently nod off three minutes before arriving home - even when just coming back from the shops?

3. Why can't I find double cream (or even plain old thick cream) in LA? Why are my only options either watery 'whipping' cream, or sickly sweet processed crap from an aerosol can? Sigh. Even Whole Foods and Trader Joe's have failed me here.

4. How much snot can a toddler produce? Seriously?

5. Why do I find Jon Stewart (from The Daily Show)  strangely attractive?

6. Why can't I be sensible and go to bed at an earlier time each night? Not that 10.30 or 11pm is bad, but I'll never get that nine-hour stretch of sleep I want from a morning lie-in. Not. Going. To happen.

7. Why do small children think that 6.30-7am is a perfectly acceptable time to start the day?

8. Why haven't Ben & Jerry's made an ice cream flavour with whipped cream cheese yet? Just sayin'...

I don't expect anyone to have the answers, but please amuse me with your ideas anyway - that comment box below is waiting especially for you.