Damn you Labor party for taking my time away from other writing tasks!!
Julia Gillard says Abbott is "afraid the Malaysai solution will work." Could she clarify, please, how the working order of this horrendous policy is going to be evaluated? Will she use the same gauge employed to decree that Labor is not contravening international treaties on human rights? Or by the same standards applied to test her allegiance to labor party platforms, not liberal ones?
I think her measuring stick is broken.
Rudd can come back now, right?
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
To kill, or NOT to kill ...
Or maim. Or scar. Or annihilate?!
Settle down – this is just the writing game after all! I’m merely asking a purely hypothetical question as I reach the 50,000 word mark of my book and realise a few things:
1. One year on, I really, really love character number one, still. She is funny and quirky and completely insane. I really can’t wait for her to fall in love with one of the many leading men I have lining up outside her hospital ward, replete with surgical masks and automatic spray cans of Glen 20 to save her from an ebola outbreak. It’ll be like Pride and Prejudice on crystal meth!
2. I also still really, really love character number two, also. She’s still funny and fragile and completely insecure. But if I’m honest, at the same time I really hate her. As the words spill onto the page, it turns out she’s nowhere as amiable as she seems. She’s got massive issues of her own that I’m kind of tired of thinking about because how much crazy can there be in one chick-lit novel?! Character two blames character one too much. She’s completely and utterly selfish and wears too much mauve. Her drug habit is getting ridiculous and her hair is just too blonde!! If someone’s gotta go, I say it’s her! The other one might be two steps from needing electroshock and a padded cell, but at least she’s got heart, God love her!
Not to mention a completely awesome collection of Choos!
However, they say that conflict is the basis of all great writing – and I have a Masters degree that equates to the sum of this theory. As well as life experiences that are by no means a part of this book, but we all live and learn. And it would seem that I have spent many months writing conflict aplenty, but with no resolution. Folks, it’s time for resolution!
Because I need for this story to be over (I have a PhD appointment at nine o’clock!)
For a year now, my story has been humorous and hostile. It’s been chick lit with a cynical edginess that pushes it out of the chick-lit genre and into somewhere else – hopefully, somewhere else that will make it also marketable. It’s been so much fun to write, but a little unrealistic somehow – and not in the sense that I’m writing about a character who only goes on dates with men wearing surgical masks has a deeply irrational fear of catching ebola on a daily basis!! But in the sense that I’m ignoring a lot of the serious issues that I’ve actually created in my text. It’s not all fun and germs – somebody has to get hurt. A lot. And now that I’ve unfortunately caught onto this, maybe I need to lessen the edgy and amplify the gravity of some of the issues.
At the very least, I think my story could do with more grit. I think my story could do with more vengeful acts. I think my story could do with some veiled candour. Ha ha. 50,000 words in and character two’s time just might be up. Life’s a bitch, but it’s ok – she was never real!
Settle down – this is just the writing game after all! I’m merely asking a purely hypothetical question as I reach the 50,000 word mark of my book and realise a few things:
1. One year on, I really, really love character number one, still. She is funny and quirky and completely insane. I really can’t wait for her to fall in love with one of the many leading men I have lining up outside her hospital ward, replete with surgical masks and automatic spray cans of Glen 20 to save her from an ebola outbreak. It’ll be like Pride and Prejudice on crystal meth!
2. I also still really, really love character number two, also. She’s still funny and fragile and completely insecure. But if I’m honest, at the same time I really hate her. As the words spill onto the page, it turns out she’s nowhere as amiable as she seems. She’s got massive issues of her own that I’m kind of tired of thinking about because how much crazy can there be in one chick-lit novel?! Character two blames character one too much. She’s completely and utterly selfish and wears too much mauve. Her drug habit is getting ridiculous and her hair is just too blonde!! If someone’s gotta go, I say it’s her! The other one might be two steps from needing electroshock and a padded cell, but at least she’s got heart, God love her!
Not to mention a completely awesome collection of Choos!
However, they say that conflict is the basis of all great writing – and I have a Masters degree that equates to the sum of this theory. As well as life experiences that are by no means a part of this book, but we all live and learn. And it would seem that I have spent many months writing conflict aplenty, but with no resolution. Folks, it’s time for resolution!
Because I need for this story to be over (I have a PhD appointment at nine o’clock!)
For a year now, my story has been humorous and hostile. It’s been chick lit with a cynical edginess that pushes it out of the chick-lit genre and into somewhere else – hopefully, somewhere else that will make it also marketable. It’s been so much fun to write, but a little unrealistic somehow – and not in the sense that I’m writing about a character who only goes on dates with men wearing surgical masks has a deeply irrational fear of catching ebola on a daily basis!! But in the sense that I’m ignoring a lot of the serious issues that I’ve actually created in my text. It’s not all fun and germs – somebody has to get hurt. A lot. And now that I’ve unfortunately caught onto this, maybe I need to lessen the edgy and amplify the gravity of some of the issues.
At the very least, I think my story could do with more grit. I think my story could do with more vengeful acts. I think my story could do with some veiled candour. Ha ha. 50,000 words in and character two’s time just might be up. Life’s a bitch, but it’s ok – she was never real!
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
A place in the sun ...
As it dips to five degrees of a morning, maxes out at about twelve, and I freeze my junket off at night – all day, actually - I’m starting to regret aspects of my winter-wonder overseas. Yes, seriously. Being cold in Paris and Firenze in the winter is one thing, but it’s not a novelty seven months down the track in the dreary climate that is Melbourne. I feel like I’m stuck in a perpetual winter that does not involve new boots, awesome pistes or hats.
Perpetual winters are like being stuck inside a snow-globe. In Europe, it was also a snow globe, but it was charming. Not much snow, I suppose, but it was lovely and romantic and so cold you couldn’t but marvel at everyone’s tenacity to get out of bed in the morning. The grey just gave you better light to photograph the Duomo in, and along with the Christmas fairy lights and cobbled streets added an extra magical quality.
Melbourne’s snow globe has no snow, no romance, no fairly lights or attractive little couples ice-skating, or penguins or Christmas trees. Far from being a perfect crystal dome, Melbourne’s snow globe is plastic-craptastic; one of those cheap ones you buy your friend when you go to Sydney, and want to aggravate her by bringing back the worst souvenir ever.
(And that’s where this metaphor comes undone because said friend LIKED said tackiness, even though we bought her, like, ten.)
Melbourne’s snow globe has a lot of water, yes, but no glitter or sparkle. Melbourne’s snow globe is from the Reject Shop!
Last night, I decided I couldn’t possibly survive unless I took a short break in a warmer climate. It was an unfortunate resolution because it turned out to be impossible. Unbeknownst to me, and the majority of the world judging by Google, not much of Australia IS actually hot in July – and where it is well, who would actually want to go there? (I do have non-negotiable parameters, including a beach, non- desert, and an airfare that is cheaper than flying back to Italy, for God’s sake!) This limits me to nowhere. Basically, with my meagre budget, I can now afford to go to Sydney, Adelaide and Hobart – also cold, crappy snow-globes. And when I say afford loosely, it’s actually a downright lie, because I can’t really afford to go anywhere. I’m only just back from one international holiday on which I bought lots of clothes and shoes, and I wish I’d had the foresight to see my mini-breakdown at the lack of vitamin D coming, so I could have saved for Fiji or Bali or something!
I am extremely deficient in vitamin D, apparently. Seven months of winter will do that to you! And I keep forgetting to take my tablets, so the only thing that will save me from breaking all my bones is some sunlight!! In the Pacific! Perhaps HBA will fund my trip to Tahiti so I don’t get early osteoporosis? It’ll save them money in the long run! I’ve always wanted one of those stilted cabins over a lagoon in Bora bora – the ones where you can climb down into the crystal blue water by lifting up the coffee table! It’s like Narnia with sharks and pina-coladas! But I’m not being fussy today; I’ll sleep on a rocky beach as long it’s hot enough to do so!
But no, there is nothing for it and I will have to survive. There are no cheap flights to Cairns or Darwin or Broome or Italy or Phuket. Or the Sahara desert (the bit with a pool). Or anywhere with a median temperature over 25 degrees. There is no end in sight to the dreariness. Booooo.
Not surprising really, because the sun is a loser. And it’s June, so it’s on the other side of the planet. (Or something; I’m not pretending to be an astronomer). But I am a very good judge of character, and I can tell you that the sun is one false friend and If I didn’t want it back so much, I’d tell it to go jump on its own head and supernova itself or something!
Oh dear God, Melbourne’s winter is only just beginning!!! Come back, false friend, come back!!
Dear gypsies: Screw you. You took all my sun. Yes, I am seriously blaming the earth’s rotation away from the sun on you. And Qantas.
Amen.
Perpetual winters are like being stuck inside a snow-globe. In Europe, it was also a snow globe, but it was charming. Not much snow, I suppose, but it was lovely and romantic and so cold you couldn’t but marvel at everyone’s tenacity to get out of bed in the morning. The grey just gave you better light to photograph the Duomo in, and along with the Christmas fairy lights and cobbled streets added an extra magical quality.
Melbourne’s snow globe has no snow, no romance, no fairly lights or attractive little couples ice-skating, or penguins or Christmas trees. Far from being a perfect crystal dome, Melbourne’s snow globe is plastic-craptastic; one of those cheap ones you buy your friend when you go to Sydney, and want to aggravate her by bringing back the worst souvenir ever.
(And that’s where this metaphor comes undone because said friend LIKED said tackiness, even though we bought her, like, ten.)
Melbourne’s snow globe has a lot of water, yes, but no glitter or sparkle. Melbourne’s snow globe is from the Reject Shop!
Last night, I decided I couldn’t possibly survive unless I took a short break in a warmer climate. It was an unfortunate resolution because it turned out to be impossible. Unbeknownst to me, and the majority of the world judging by Google, not much of Australia IS actually hot in July – and where it is well, who would actually want to go there? (I do have non-negotiable parameters, including a beach, non- desert, and an airfare that is cheaper than flying back to Italy, for God’s sake!) This limits me to nowhere. Basically, with my meagre budget, I can now afford to go to Sydney, Adelaide and Hobart – also cold, crappy snow-globes. And when I say afford loosely, it’s actually a downright lie, because I can’t really afford to go anywhere. I’m only just back from one international holiday on which I bought lots of clothes and shoes, and I wish I’d had the foresight to see my mini-breakdown at the lack of vitamin D coming, so I could have saved for Fiji or Bali or something!
I am extremely deficient in vitamin D, apparently. Seven months of winter will do that to you! And I keep forgetting to take my tablets, so the only thing that will save me from breaking all my bones is some sunlight!! In the Pacific! Perhaps HBA will fund my trip to Tahiti so I don’t get early osteoporosis? It’ll save them money in the long run! I’ve always wanted one of those stilted cabins over a lagoon in Bora bora – the ones where you can climb down into the crystal blue water by lifting up the coffee table! It’s like Narnia with sharks and pina-coladas! But I’m not being fussy today; I’ll sleep on a rocky beach as long it’s hot enough to do so!
But no, there is nothing for it and I will have to survive. There are no cheap flights to Cairns or Darwin or Broome or Italy or Phuket. Or the Sahara desert (the bit with a pool). Or anywhere with a median temperature over 25 degrees. There is no end in sight to the dreariness. Booooo.
Not surprising really, because the sun is a loser. And it’s June, so it’s on the other side of the planet. (Or something; I’m not pretending to be an astronomer). But I am a very good judge of character, and I can tell you that the sun is one false friend and If I didn’t want it back so much, I’d tell it to go jump on its own head and supernova itself or something!
Oh dear God, Melbourne’s winter is only just beginning!!! Come back, false friend, come back!!
Dear gypsies: Screw you. You took all my sun. Yes, I am seriously blaming the earth’s rotation away from the sun on you. And Qantas.
Amen.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
(Where) to be, or not to be – that is the question.
I got I my letter today. The most exciting letter of my year – apart from cheques from Pacific Publications. And those Myer vouchers that are my reward for being such an awesome spender. This letter is up there, though. This letter is approval of things in writing. This letter is the confirmation that I can, indeed, do whatever the hell like between the dates of the 31st March, and 14th May, 2012.
Bring it.
And, as you will have obviously picked up through the recent flavour of this blog, whatever the hell I like translates directly to “Dove’ viaggero in Italia?” And “Screw the rest of the world.”
So where am I going to go? Being fastidiously organised – yeah, I’m laughing too; as it’s crap, I’ll start again - being extremely excitable about the prospect of international travel and espresso and international McDonalds, I have started my research. I get six weeks, but let’s cut it down to five, cos I’m a boorish old battle-axe of a bitch when I’m tired, and I will probably need to adjust for a few days before I swan into work in my swanky new boots and super cool threads.
(That I’ll need a week to buy on ebay before I come back to work, because I won’t have the money to afford them in Italy this time, so I have to account for that time too!)
So, taking into consideration jetlag and ebay, that’s five weeks in Italy. Maybe four, so I can visit people. But ideally five, so I can be fluent. (No, I don’t learn quickly that several weeks in Italy does not equal fluency).
But as you know, I’m also an extremely indecisive person. I hear good things about somewhere, I want to go – until I am enticed away with well-sourced accounts of shoes and Gucci handbags somewhere else. Or bridges.
I do like bridges.
Which leads me not just to today’s dilemma, but one that will plague me for the next 9 months or so, until it gets absolutely beyond a joke that I haven’t booked anywhere yet. I know this for a fact, because this is who I am. It happens all the time! If there is only one choice – or, the choices are between something rubbish and then something even more rubbish – there are no dramas. But take me to a great restaurant where I’m hungry for everything and it’s Sophie’s Choice! For example, I started in Florence on the 16th of January this year. I booked on the 14th. The weeks preceding it were a nightmarish internal war between dreams of wearing fluffy fur-trimmed hats and those hand muffler things on a Tolstoyan vacation to St Petersburg, and Florence. And Scandanavia. And Prague. And Belgium. And just coming home. (It’s true!) So I’d kinda like to make up my mind now, and not change my mind again, thus saving myself a world of pain.
It’s already started, however; the malady has set in. I’ve already chosen three schools that I would like to attend; three cities that I would like to “live in;” three completely different areas that are, in their way, almost perfetto as they provide me with sangiovese and nutella gelato in medicinal dosages. Actually, I’ve chosen four, but I don’t think I’ll go back to Florence – loved it, but need new memories, not to relive old ones. But four cities that I can’t decide between just proves how wretchedly hopeless I already am at making this decision, and I’m desperately avoiding doing google searches of other places in the north of Italy before my brain overheats and the cerebral juices simmer over and out through my nose before running down back into my mouth, where I suck them up again, thus effectively eating my own brain.
I’m gross, I know. But yesterday I spent no more than three seconds attempting to suck marrow out of cow’s bones, and I’m feeling a little in need of a hug right now, or I’m going to vomit.
So here are the contenders:
1. Milan. Pros: shoes. Obviously. Lots of clothes. Lots of handbags. A large city, so I’ll never be wanting for entertainment. Or pizza. Is on the major train line, so I’ll also never be wanting for a quick weekend escape if the best place in Milan turns out to be the train station (which is, actually, a very awesome place!) I haven’t spent a lot of time there in the past, so it will be a novel diversion. It has a beautiful gothic cathedral, so I’m betting there is a lot of other cool architecture to lose myself in. Or rather, I hope that there is.
Cons: It’s Milan. It’s a big dirty city that I’m worried will have no soul. Even if it does have a stunning cathedral and an opera house. And Manolo Blahniks. And I can’t afford shoes or clothes or handbags, and may just end up being suffocated to death in my sleep one night when my wardrobe explodes, should I attempt to buy any more – thus making the existence of totally awesome shops redundant. I’m just going to go and have a cry in the corner now ...
2. Siena. Pros: I already know how beautiful it is, as I went there for the weekend in Febraio. They make pici. I desperately want to eat more pici. There are also shops. The cathedral is magnificent. The setting overall is magnificent. And I could drink a lot of great locally sourced chianti as I look over Tuscany and write poetry about its magnificence. Or paint.
HA!
Cons: Yeah, it’s beautiful, but I’ve seen it. What more is there? I do find myself comparing it to Firenze – but in a poor cousin kind of way. And even though I’m also comparing Verona to Florence, this is merely speculation; with Siena, I already know the answer. Siena, tu sei il povero cugino di Firenze. Mi dispiace.
3. Verona. A last minute contender, but I’m starting to like it. Pros: Its corny and ridiculous link to Shakespeare – who is NOT FROM SICILY. And it looks like Florence. A bit. (That’s pretty much the selling point so if I’m wrong there, I’m fucked!)
Cons: I went there once and remember nothing about it beyond its corny and ridiculous link to Shakespeare; I rubbed the statue of Juliet (on her breast, if memory serves) and it did sweet F.A. for my love life; I also have the idea that it looks like Florence, and I’m basing that on about three pictures from Wikipedia.
Fucked.
So, friends, help me! I will take any suggestions. But to be kind, perhaps start with the three I already have because, like I said – if you confuse me, I may just end up eating my own brain. And I feel pretty brain damaged already, most of the time!!
Grazie Mille!
Bring it.
And, as you will have obviously picked up through the recent flavour of this blog, whatever the hell I like translates directly to “Dove’ viaggero in Italia?” And “Screw the rest of the world.”
So where am I going to go? Being fastidiously organised – yeah, I’m laughing too; as it’s crap, I’ll start again - being extremely excitable about the prospect of international travel and espresso and international McDonalds, I have started my research. I get six weeks, but let’s cut it down to five, cos I’m a boorish old battle-axe of a bitch when I’m tired, and I will probably need to adjust for a few days before I swan into work in my swanky new boots and super cool threads.
(That I’ll need a week to buy on ebay before I come back to work, because I won’t have the money to afford them in Italy this time, so I have to account for that time too!)
So, taking into consideration jetlag and ebay, that’s five weeks in Italy. Maybe four, so I can visit people. But ideally five, so I can be fluent. (No, I don’t learn quickly that several weeks in Italy does not equal fluency).
But as you know, I’m also an extremely indecisive person. I hear good things about somewhere, I want to go – until I am enticed away with well-sourced accounts of shoes and Gucci handbags somewhere else. Or bridges.
I do like bridges.
Which leads me not just to today’s dilemma, but one that will plague me for the next 9 months or so, until it gets absolutely beyond a joke that I haven’t booked anywhere yet. I know this for a fact, because this is who I am. It happens all the time! If there is only one choice – or, the choices are between something rubbish and then something even more rubbish – there are no dramas. But take me to a great restaurant where I’m hungry for everything and it’s Sophie’s Choice! For example, I started in Florence on the 16th of January this year. I booked on the 14th. The weeks preceding it were a nightmarish internal war between dreams of wearing fluffy fur-trimmed hats and those hand muffler things on a Tolstoyan vacation to St Petersburg, and Florence. And Scandanavia. And Prague. And Belgium. And just coming home. (It’s true!) So I’d kinda like to make up my mind now, and not change my mind again, thus saving myself a world of pain.
It’s already started, however; the malady has set in. I’ve already chosen three schools that I would like to attend; three cities that I would like to “live in;” three completely different areas that are, in their way, almost perfetto as they provide me with sangiovese and nutella gelato in medicinal dosages. Actually, I’ve chosen four, but I don’t think I’ll go back to Florence – loved it, but need new memories, not to relive old ones. But four cities that I can’t decide between just proves how wretchedly hopeless I already am at making this decision, and I’m desperately avoiding doing google searches of other places in the north of Italy before my brain overheats and the cerebral juices simmer over and out through my nose before running down back into my mouth, where I suck them up again, thus effectively eating my own brain.
I’m gross, I know. But yesterday I spent no more than three seconds attempting to suck marrow out of cow’s bones, and I’m feeling a little in need of a hug right now, or I’m going to vomit.
So here are the contenders:
1. Milan. Pros: shoes. Obviously. Lots of clothes. Lots of handbags. A large city, so I’ll never be wanting for entertainment. Or pizza. Is on the major train line, so I’ll also never be wanting for a quick weekend escape if the best place in Milan turns out to be the train station (which is, actually, a very awesome place!) I haven’t spent a lot of time there in the past, so it will be a novel diversion. It has a beautiful gothic cathedral, so I’m betting there is a lot of other cool architecture to lose myself in. Or rather, I hope that there is.
Cons: It’s Milan. It’s a big dirty city that I’m worried will have no soul. Even if it does have a stunning cathedral and an opera house. And Manolo Blahniks. And I can’t afford shoes or clothes or handbags, and may just end up being suffocated to death in my sleep one night when my wardrobe explodes, should I attempt to buy any more – thus making the existence of totally awesome shops redundant. I’m just going to go and have a cry in the corner now ...
2. Siena. Pros: I already know how beautiful it is, as I went there for the weekend in Febraio. They make pici. I desperately want to eat more pici. There are also shops. The cathedral is magnificent. The setting overall is magnificent. And I could drink a lot of great locally sourced chianti as I look over Tuscany and write poetry about its magnificence. Or paint.
HA!
Cons: Yeah, it’s beautiful, but I’ve seen it. What more is there? I do find myself comparing it to Firenze – but in a poor cousin kind of way. And even though I’m also comparing Verona to Florence, this is merely speculation; with Siena, I already know the answer. Siena, tu sei il povero cugino di Firenze. Mi dispiace.
3. Verona. A last minute contender, but I’m starting to like it. Pros: Its corny and ridiculous link to Shakespeare – who is NOT FROM SICILY. And it looks like Florence. A bit. (That’s pretty much the selling point so if I’m wrong there, I’m fucked!)
Cons: I went there once and remember nothing about it beyond its corny and ridiculous link to Shakespeare; I rubbed the statue of Juliet (on her breast, if memory serves) and it did sweet F.A. for my love life; I also have the idea that it looks like Florence, and I’m basing that on about three pictures from Wikipedia.
Fucked.
So, friends, help me! I will take any suggestions. But to be kind, perhaps start with the three I already have because, like I said – if you confuse me, I may just end up eating my own brain. And I feel pretty brain damaged already, most of the time!!
Grazie Mille!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The Eating Game ...
If one thing is blindingly obvious in this life, it is this ... I really suck at blogging!
And also, I still really pine for Mediterranean countries, and all that the cliché entails!
Well, news just in: (or rather, news received a week ago but I am only just getting around to making it newsworthy!) – another trip to Italy looms. For real, for honest and for true! It may be 10 months away, but my next lot of Long Service Leave has been approved, and I am off to continue binging on melanzana con prosciutto and ragu.
Oh God I miss food!
In a nutshell, the difference between pretending to reside in Europe and living in the real world comes down to calories. Forget language barriers, Italian men, and the ultimate killer heels; between Google translate, the Northern suburbs and ebay, those things are still within reach. Ish. (Sometimes I feel like I’m dislocating my shoulders to get them, but you get my drift.)
But calories? No WAY!
There are NO Calories in Australia, and the streets are NOT lined with cheese!!!
Calories, instead, are the devil. They are publically shunned! They are ostracised and condemned and much maligned throughout all good society!! They rot more teeth; they break out more on the skln and they have a higher tendency to convert as fat on your arse in Australia – possibly because we’re in the southern hemisphere and therefore they naturally migrate further south. (I’m no physicist, but to me that makes sense.) They also have a higher incidence of causing bloating and fat around the jowls.
In Australia, calories are evil.
But Italy meant stuffing my face every day. It meant cornetti for breakfast, pannini laden with pork and potatoes and god knows what kind of cheese, for lunch. It meant biscotti and Baci kisses and nutella torte and calzone dripping with strings of mozzarella. And who can forget those little olive and sausage ball things? Manna from heaven, they were!
Mmmm. Saliva-fest. My stomach is making “want” noises.
And then there was dinner, after having pizza for afternoon tea. Dinner meant four courses that had any combination of beans and chocolate and beef and pasta and bread and oil and custard and gelato and FUCK ME, WHY AM I ALWAYS SO HUNGRY IN THIS COUNTRY?!!
Australia equals I am starving. Australia equals No sugar. No excess fats. No bread. No butter. No Pudding. No chocolate. No snacking. No yummy, but plenty of blah.
In Australia e' uguale ho fame! BLAAAAAAH!
Obviously these are rules that I self-impose. If you want to be an outcast with fat migrating to your bum, or you carry your love handles with finesse because you’re not a five foot midget, or you simply just don’t give a shit, OR you’re lucky enough to have one of those metabolisms that subverts my fat-migrating-to-your-arse theory, then you probably think I’m a tool who should just dive into a bucket of cake. AND you should probably go fuck yourself! (I kid. And am jealous. And go fuck yourself!) I mean, I eat, but where’s the fun in it without Chips and Chocolate and Cheese, oh MY!! The three “CH’s” – my dessert island foods, with a rather healthy dose of mayonnaise. Or unhealthy, as the case may be! (And I just wrote dessert instead of desert; an honest to god Foodian slip that has everything to do with erotic day dreams about what I would like to do with that little red smart-arse MnM.)
GET IN THE GODDAMMN BOWL!!!
I know, I know; everything in moderation and all that – and I do moderately eat my favourite heart attack inspired goodies. (And then I have to run for about six hours to make sure my bum doesn't wobble any more than it already does.) But fuck moderation. I want chocolate cake all the time! I want cheese all the time! And Italy equalled all the time!!
And somehow, with far fewer consequences than such excesses would ensure Down Under.
So, the long and the short of it is that I am going to have to use my leave to go back to Italy every year. I figure once a year will allow me to feed my face; indulge in a few weeks of culinary orgasms, and then come back and "starve" for long enough to make any weight I put on mere collateral damage. I'll probably wreck my metabolism, sure, but what can you do - sometimes, tirimisu can be THAT good!
So, going back to Italy.
To eat. And love. But not pray - except maybe to the gypsies, who've been surprisingly good to me this year! Who knew karma could really work for you?!
Amen.
And also, I still really pine for Mediterranean countries, and all that the cliché entails!
Well, news just in: (or rather, news received a week ago but I am only just getting around to making it newsworthy!) – another trip to Italy looms. For real, for honest and for true! It may be 10 months away, but my next lot of Long Service Leave has been approved, and I am off to continue binging on melanzana con prosciutto and ragu.
Oh God I miss food!
In a nutshell, the difference between pretending to reside in Europe and living in the real world comes down to calories. Forget language barriers, Italian men, and the ultimate killer heels; between Google translate, the Northern suburbs and ebay, those things are still within reach. Ish. (Sometimes I feel like I’m dislocating my shoulders to get them, but you get my drift.)
But calories? No WAY!
There are NO Calories in Australia, and the streets are NOT lined with cheese!!!
Calories, instead, are the devil. They are publically shunned! They are ostracised and condemned and much maligned throughout all good society!! They rot more teeth; they break out more on the skln and they have a higher tendency to convert as fat on your arse in Australia – possibly because we’re in the southern hemisphere and therefore they naturally migrate further south. (I’m no physicist, but to me that makes sense.) They also have a higher incidence of causing bloating and fat around the jowls.
In Australia, calories are evil.
But Italy meant stuffing my face every day. It meant cornetti for breakfast, pannini laden with pork and potatoes and god knows what kind of cheese, for lunch. It meant biscotti and Baci kisses and nutella torte and calzone dripping with strings of mozzarella. And who can forget those little olive and sausage ball things? Manna from heaven, they were!
Mmmm. Saliva-fest. My stomach is making “want” noises.
And then there was dinner, after having pizza for afternoon tea. Dinner meant four courses that had any combination of beans and chocolate and beef and pasta and bread and oil and custard and gelato and FUCK ME, WHY AM I ALWAYS SO HUNGRY IN THIS COUNTRY?!!
Australia equals I am starving. Australia equals No sugar. No excess fats. No bread. No butter. No Pudding. No chocolate. No snacking. No yummy, but plenty of blah.
In Australia e' uguale ho fame! BLAAAAAAH!
Obviously these are rules that I self-impose. If you want to be an outcast with fat migrating to your bum, or you carry your love handles with finesse because you’re not a five foot midget, or you simply just don’t give a shit, OR you’re lucky enough to have one of those metabolisms that subverts my fat-migrating-to-your-arse theory, then you probably think I’m a tool who should just dive into a bucket of cake. AND you should probably go fuck yourself! (I kid. And am jealous. And go fuck yourself!) I mean, I eat, but where’s the fun in it without Chips and Chocolate and Cheese, oh MY!! The three “CH’s” – my dessert island foods, with a rather healthy dose of mayonnaise. Or unhealthy, as the case may be! (And I just wrote dessert instead of desert; an honest to god Foodian slip that has everything to do with erotic day dreams about what I would like to do with that little red smart-arse MnM.)
GET IN THE GODDAMMN BOWL!!!
I know, I know; everything in moderation and all that – and I do moderately eat my favourite heart attack inspired goodies. (And then I have to run for about six hours to make sure my bum doesn't wobble any more than it already does.) But fuck moderation. I want chocolate cake all the time! I want cheese all the time! And Italy equalled all the time!!
And somehow, with far fewer consequences than such excesses would ensure Down Under.
So, the long and the short of it is that I am going to have to use my leave to go back to Italy every year. I figure once a year will allow me to feed my face; indulge in a few weeks of culinary orgasms, and then come back and "starve" for long enough to make any weight I put on mere collateral damage. I'll probably wreck my metabolism, sure, but what can you do - sometimes, tirimisu can be THAT good!
So, going back to Italy.
To eat. And love. But not pray - except maybe to the gypsies, who've been surprisingly good to me this year! Who knew karma could really work for you?!
Amen.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The waiting game ...
Things I am waiting for:
For my last five cheques from Woman's Day to arrive.
The ability to afford a 2011-model Mini Cooper S Cabrio convertible, yellow, with groovy racing stripes. Or a Ferrari. (Don't think those five cheques will cover either, though my head is franticallly trying to make them stretch that far!)
For life to circumvent beyond the space-time continuum, thus ensuring everything I want is what happens in reality. And therefore, five cheques from Woman's Day equals that 190,000 pound red Ferrari Italia I saw on Top Gear. Want.
And gypsy blessings are for real.
For my body to accept that chocolate is not a fattening food, and to react accordingly as I stuff said substance down my throat. (Cadbury Duo - you are the bomb.)
Retirement. Early.
For any reason that I might need to go back to Italy. Low airfares count as a reason, and so does running out of Clinique – ultra cheap in Firenze – and dire cravings for prosciutto and panini. And Italian dream Boat. None of which have yet presented themselves.
For someone to throw a cream pie in my face. But not at my wedding.
For my wedding. Which is, at this point, strictly hypothetical. Waiting for it not to be!!
Essere fluente nella lingua di Italiano. (Saro aspettare un lungo tempo!)
For my life to resemble a Disney movie. Am prepared to sing if necessary, and thwart evil. Am not applying to be evil character.
For bananas to be cheaper than heroin. Or else I'm going to have to start sprinkling heroin on my breakfast cereal. (Come on - weetbix needs something!)
To have five minutes to write my book, make one point five million dollars, win every major literary prize known to man (even though my book isn't strictly literature) and therefore, through fame and riches, accomplish all other points on my list. Because rich people don't get fat, and can afford both bananas AND heroin AND Italian dreamboats. And gyspy blessings are unnecessary bonuses that simply ensure the cream pie happens when least expected and is very diverting.
Holidays. During which I pledge to find these five minutes and make all of the above come true. Except maybe the literary awards.
And the heroin. No interest in that if there are bananas, which of course there will be. Or even if there aren't.
Three more days. THREE MORE DAYS!!! Someone needs to Fed-Ex me a Friday PRONTO!!!
So basically, waiting for Friday :-)
For my last five cheques from Woman's Day to arrive.
The ability to afford a 2011-model Mini Cooper S Cabrio convertible, yellow, with groovy racing stripes. Or a Ferrari. (Don't think those five cheques will cover either, though my head is franticallly trying to make them stretch that far!)
For life to circumvent beyond the space-time continuum, thus ensuring everything I want is what happens in reality. And therefore, five cheques from Woman's Day equals that 190,000 pound red Ferrari Italia I saw on Top Gear. Want.
And gypsy blessings are for real.
For my body to accept that chocolate is not a fattening food, and to react accordingly as I stuff said substance down my throat. (Cadbury Duo - you are the bomb.)
Retirement. Early.
For any reason that I might need to go back to Italy. Low airfares count as a reason, and so does running out of Clinique – ultra cheap in Firenze – and dire cravings for prosciutto and panini. And Italian dream Boat. None of which have yet presented themselves.
For someone to throw a cream pie in my face. But not at my wedding.
For my wedding. Which is, at this point, strictly hypothetical. Waiting for it not to be!!
Essere fluente nella lingua di Italiano. (Saro aspettare un lungo tempo!)
For my life to resemble a Disney movie. Am prepared to sing if necessary, and thwart evil. Am not applying to be evil character.
For bananas to be cheaper than heroin. Or else I'm going to have to start sprinkling heroin on my breakfast cereal. (Come on - weetbix needs something!)
To have five minutes to write my book, make one point five million dollars, win every major literary prize known to man (even though my book isn't strictly literature) and therefore, through fame and riches, accomplish all other points on my list. Because rich people don't get fat, and can afford both bananas AND heroin AND Italian dreamboats. And gyspy blessings are unnecessary bonuses that simply ensure the cream pie happens when least expected and is very diverting.
Holidays. During which I pledge to find these five minutes and make all of the above come true. Except maybe the literary awards.
And the heroin. No interest in that if there are bananas, which of course there will be. Or even if there aren't.
Three more days. THREE MORE DAYS!!! Someone needs to Fed-Ex me a Friday PRONTO!!!
So basically, waiting for Friday :-)
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Cheating is for idiots. No seriously - I'm totally an idiot!
So, today I 'sat' my evaluation test for entrance to my new Italian school in Melbourne. I say that like it's a formal thing, but it wasn't. In fact, I got to print it out and take it home. I suppose they expect grown adults, who are also teachers, not to cheat.
Cheat? I ask, as though the concept is totally foreign to me, and I've never accidentally used just a little too much of wikipedia in my essays. I'm a good girl I am - as if I'm going to cheat!
Actually, the sad reality is that I have a compulsion not to look stupid. If cheating makes me look less stupid, I will do it.
So I did.
Note to universe: I NEVER cheated when I was at school and only very rarely in university, and I always tell my students not to cheat else they feel my wrath. For the most part, I was pedantically well behaved at school, and couldn't even grasp how to cheat in the subjects I wasn't so brilliant in.
True story: whilst I would NEVER write the answers for trigonometry up and down my arms in high school as others did, I had no scruples not to for Fare and Essere on my very first DAY in Italy! And I got caught. AND looked completely stupid!!! So I guess it's a vicious circle that really can come back to bite you on the arse! But I tried, because I have only discovered my inferiority complex in the guise of la lingua di Italiano.
(Second note to universe: Ok, that's not quite true - but this blog is not about my inferiority complexes, so we'll just leave it at that and you can give me a hug or a cupcake later!)
The long and the short of it is that I literally spent hours on it. After the first page, which was pretty basic verbs, and then half a page of passato prossimo - which I'm pretty adept at now, thank you very much, and I can even remember the feminine essere and those irregular verbs that have TOTALLY different past tenses - it quickly entered a downward spiral of six pages of increasing torture! Moving hesitantly through definite articles, and then fare, before I knew it, I'd wizzed past imperfetto with a moderate degree of success and was gun toting with my old nemesis. You got it - four bloody pages of li, la, lo, gli blah bloody blah Pronomi. Even sitting on my couch, thousands of miles from feeling like a fool in Firenze, I had flashbacks to being a moron. Granted, this was a test - and I was always going to fail a lot of it, and that's what they want to test me on. But I have this sneaking suspicion that I simply failed the easy bits.
Or I would have! That's the beauty of cheating: between the dictionary on my phone, the dictionary on my computer (no, not google translator, cos it's cavoli), my actual dictionary and, well, google translator, three full notepads of notes from 6 weeks of studious behaviour in Firenze,and the help of my fluent Italian-speaking colleagues, I soon completed the eight pages perfectly.
I am the smartest girl alive!!!!
Epic fail, actually. It was only as I went to post it that I recognised the invevitable holes in my ingenious plan: based on this test, I'm now going to be put into Italian-Genius-level 101, and be stoned to death by Italian anyway.
Oops! Hey - I've never said I'm the smartest girl alive ALL the time!!
Now I can't resit the test because I have a very good memory for multiple choice, and I think I can remember all the answers. So I'm going to have to wait until I forget them. As I appear to have a talent for forgetting the very basics in Italian, I'm hoping that won't be too long - cos if this thing isn't in the mail within the next two days, I can't enrol anyway!!
Dear Santa/tooth-fairy/Jesus: please help me to forget Italian just long enough to be honest about how much I actually know. And then give it back, plus some, and make me fluent!
And while you're at it, kill particelle pronominali. Amen.
Cheat? I ask, as though the concept is totally foreign to me, and I've never accidentally used just a little too much of wikipedia in my essays. I'm a good girl I am - as if I'm going to cheat!
Actually, the sad reality is that I have a compulsion not to look stupid. If cheating makes me look less stupid, I will do it.
So I did.
Note to universe: I NEVER cheated when I was at school and only very rarely in university, and I always tell my students not to cheat else they feel my wrath. For the most part, I was pedantically well behaved at school, and couldn't even grasp how to cheat in the subjects I wasn't so brilliant in.
True story: whilst I would NEVER write the answers for trigonometry up and down my arms in high school as others did, I had no scruples not to for Fare and Essere on my very first DAY in Italy! And I got caught. AND looked completely stupid!!! So I guess it's a vicious circle that really can come back to bite you on the arse! But I tried, because I have only discovered my inferiority complex in the guise of la lingua di Italiano.
(Second note to universe: Ok, that's not quite true - but this blog is not about my inferiority complexes, so we'll just leave it at that and you can give me a hug or a cupcake later!)
The long and the short of it is that I literally spent hours on it. After the first page, which was pretty basic verbs, and then half a page of passato prossimo - which I'm pretty adept at now, thank you very much, and I can even remember the feminine essere and those irregular verbs that have TOTALLY different past tenses - it quickly entered a downward spiral of six pages of increasing torture! Moving hesitantly through definite articles, and then fare, before I knew it, I'd wizzed past imperfetto with a moderate degree of success and was gun toting with my old nemesis. You got it - four bloody pages of li, la, lo, gli blah bloody blah Pronomi. Even sitting on my couch, thousands of miles from feeling like a fool in Firenze, I had flashbacks to being a moron. Granted, this was a test - and I was always going to fail a lot of it, and that's what they want to test me on. But I have this sneaking suspicion that I simply failed the easy bits.
Or I would have! That's the beauty of cheating: between the dictionary on my phone, the dictionary on my computer (no, not google translator, cos it's cavoli), my actual dictionary and, well, google translator, three full notepads of notes from 6 weeks of studious behaviour in Firenze,and the help of my fluent Italian-speaking colleagues, I soon completed the eight pages perfectly.
I am the smartest girl alive!!!!
Epic fail, actually. It was only as I went to post it that I recognised the invevitable holes in my ingenious plan: based on this test, I'm now going to be put into Italian-Genius-level 101, and be stoned to death by Italian anyway.
Oops! Hey - I've never said I'm the smartest girl alive ALL the time!!
Now I can't resit the test because I have a very good memory for multiple choice, and I think I can remember all the answers. So I'm going to have to wait until I forget them. As I appear to have a talent for forgetting the very basics in Italian, I'm hoping that won't be too long - cos if this thing isn't in the mail within the next two days, I can't enrol anyway!!
Dear Santa/tooth-fairy/Jesus: please help me to forget Italian just long enough to be honest about how much I actually know. And then give it back, plus some, and make me fluent!
And while you're at it, kill particelle pronominali. Amen.
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