Life Tip

When at a ceremony or gala or any sort of event where writers will be giving speeches, always take a pen. They're writers. They're going to say things you're going to want to remember.

Turns out I'm a Whore After All!

So as a follow-up to my last post on my anxiety about losing my virginity as a published writer, I realize that it's probably already long gone.

I suppose I've always had a rose-tinted view for what publication actually meant, but as I spruced up my CV tonight (to prepare for when, in two to three year's time, I apply to Oxford), I started filling out a "Published Works" section - and really filling it out. I'm pretty much a slurry of the published word. Granted, my fiction and poetry have just been in random Marianopolis Lit. Journals, but it still counts - as do the newspaper articles I've written since between 2005-2009. I've got a good page worth of stuff.

Anyway, I'm hoping that'll prod me forward to send some stuff out there. I've got a lot of poetry I think I'll start sending out which'll be a good way to break the ice seeing as I wrote most of it a long time ago and am not emotionally tied to the fate of their lives in or out of ink.

That's all, in any case. Another good night's worth of productive procrastination. My room is also beautifully clean.

Derk was the night as pich

I have a serious issue with daylight savings. Just...really? Really you're going to knock off an hour of our daylight and give that stolen, precious time to the early birds? If the early birds are awake so early it means they're probably going to work anyway and can commute in the happy state of near unconsciousness (who, after all, needs daylight to make clearer the faces of the grumpy?). When they arrive at their respective work places, they probably won't be seeing the sun till they end at 5, wherein they at least get an extra half hour of sunlight and the rest of the world won't begrudge them when they look out the window and witness the encumbering clouds falling into shadow and night. No one even likes to get up early, except the very old and the very strange, and in any case they would profit from the regular daylight hours anyhow because it's unlikely they would go to sleep before 5 - 6 in the evening. Therefore they would get all the hours of the sun, and the rest of everyone could be content in their sleeping routines without losing out on their vitamin D.

So I raise a very slow and bitter finger to the people who decided this was a proper and decent idea. You suck.

Writerly Virginity

Getting something published for the first time is like contemplating losing my writerly virginity.

Lately I've been seriously looking into places where I can get my work into print, and as a fledgling writer with very few credentials, I should not be picky with where I send my stuff, so long as it comes out on a glossy page gleaming with ink. But for some reason, I really don't want to get published just anywhere with just anything: I want my first piece to be a really awesome one, in a really awesome magazine, and ideally I'd like to get paid for it. Not only is it highly unlikely that the first two will happen (well, it would probably have to be a pretty good piece to be published), but the latter is probably impossible. While Lucy Maud Montgomery might have been able to sell stories as "pot boilers" back in the day when she was supporting her husband and herself and biding her time until Ann of Green Gables went to print, short stories these days are just not as needed as they used to be. Of course, this is mostly because of the flood in the market - but also because no one reads short stories anymore, unless you're in an English class.

That being said, I don't really want to whore out a piece of writing that I think is really quality to a low end rag when it's possibly something that could go alongside a more prestigious collection of work. I really want to start of a high note and stay strong.

Also, I am a total snob about getting printed in an e-zine. Unfortunately, and here comes the first test of where I start to draw the line on my personal views of money vs. artistic self worth: e-zines pay money, printed magazines don't really. Do I send my stuff to be push-button published and get paid, or do I be self-righteous for art's sake and suffer brokeness but get a physical copy of my work on a real, pulpy, ink-scented page?

Anyway, lots for consideration. What I should do is stop deliberating and just send my stuff out. Don't think, just do it, as one of my good friends likes to say.

In which I nerdgasm for 410 whole words...

Sometimes I feel there is nothing in this world I could love more than Lord of the Rings.

Usually this sentiment is felt strongest when I've just finished dedicating my life to the whole 12 hours worth of extended edition glory. But truly, and with the utmost reverence from the bottom of my being where the remotest shards of spirituality reside, Lord of the Rings is the greatest thing in the world.

I won't lie - I fell in love with the movies before the books. (Writing that sentence not only killed all of the purists out there, but the book lover in me died as well). Every word uttered in the films are perfect, weighed and cut through to the purest sense of etymology. It's the words I love most on the great and towering pinnacle of my adoration. After that comes everything else in a sweeping rush of brilliance. The sheer passion felt by everyone working on the set comes through so strong it is impossible to justly criticize. If ever there was a way to capture this trilogy to film, it was in these movies, with these actors, and these prop-makers, and these editors and scriptwriters and music scorers, and, especially, this director.

I will probably always think of the films first when LotR comes up in conversation. But everything - the books, The Hobbit, the art by Alan Lee and John Howe, even the shitty weird movies made way back when they still thought it was a good idea to mix live-action with animation - everything about the story and (nearly) everything that was a byproduct of the story is amazing. The world would be a darker place without J. R. R. Tolkien, and, at the very least, my own life is made better because of Peter Jackson.

The one thing that is always frustrating upon finishing the movies, though, is the feeling of disorientation that follows when you realize your own journey through this story has been a lot less impactful than Frodo's. It's rather a drag to peel yourself off the couch amid crumbs of chips and chipped mugs of emptied tea and remember you're in your parents' basement, still at school, working for minimum wage, and unlikely to change the world any time soon.

Except it tends to wake some little spark of determination inside like no other thing in this world.

Because, if nothing else, these movies make me want to write.

Dip That Looks Gross But Tastes Fucking Great

I also made this a long time ago. For a while, this was basically my "thing". At parties, I'd make this dip and people would be very happy with it and so I'd make it some more and some more and eventually it escalated into a frenzy of tortilla chips and satiated (albeit guilty) bellies. Anyway, I haven't made it for a while so I don't remember much about the taste, just that it looked gross but was delicious anyway. So here we go. Good luck with my ambiguous portions and ratios of things.

Dip That Looks Gross But Tastes Fucking Great

You will need:

sour cream

mayonnaise

salsa (according to spicy tolerance)

salsa con queso (Tostitos brand)

shredded cheese mixture (of choice, but cheddar, monterey jack, and colby work great)

1/2 TBS lime juice

little bit of dijon mustard

tabasco sauce

Depending on how much you want, mix equal parts sour cream and mayonnaise, and about half the amount of salsa and salsa con queso. Add lime juice, dijon mustard, and tabasco sauce to taste. Mix well.

It should be a gross, sickly, chunky salmon colour at this point. Cover with shredded cheese to mask the unattractiveness. Add a dollop of salsa on top, surrounded by some olives and parsley to make it even prettier.

Best with Tostitos or other corn chips.

The Best Breakfast Sandwich in the World

This is something I threw together ages ago and wrote down desperately in hopes of replicating later, but sadly lost over the years - until now! So before I lose it again, here's the most delicious (although probably the most unhealthy) brekkie indulgence around. (Although I should probably try making that again before I make that claim).

The Best Breakfast Sandwich in the World

1 regular croissant

1 egg, over-easy but still runny

2 slices fried-to-perfection bacon

1/4 cup cheddar cheese (variety to taste), shredded

1/4 cup monterey Jack cheese, shredded

1/4 cup colby cheese, shredded

salt and pepper to taste

Cut croissant in half and warm in toaster oven; should be flakey-crisp on the outside and soft on the inside.

Take out croissant and scatter cheese over both sides; put back in toaster oven and grill the cheese so that it is runny and oozy.

Remove from toaster oven and toss on that egg and bacon. Salt and pepper to taste.

Close it up, and cut it in half so you don't get egg yolk squirted all over yourself.

Eat and be amazed.

Creamy Berry Smoothie

Another smoothie day! This one's a bit more on the sweet side - perhaps a bit too much for me, but my mom's taste buds had a field day with it. So, for her sake, I'm posting this so that I might find it again at a later date and make her happy again.

Creamy Berry Smoothie

2/3 cups milk

2 TBS black current syrup

1 small Danone container strawberry yogourt

1 small Danone container raspberry yogourt

2 bananas (or 1 large one)

1 tsp medium grade maple syrup (or to taste)

Liquify. Pour. Ingest.

If it's too black-current-y, add either more maple syrup or banana.

Makes 2 cups.

Cantaloupe Smoothie

In the midst of the growing cold and ever golden-turning trees, what could be better than a taste of something that brings you back to the first days of summer? God knows I've been getting kinda bummed lately about the chances of snow and -2 degree celsius nights, and this morning I decided to make myself a smoothie for breakfast simply because I took a banana to uni in my pocket yesterday and didn't remember it until it was bruised and blackened. Rather than toss it, I decided to liquify it with anything else in my fridge/fruit basket that looked like it might be appetizing together. It ended up being delicious. So delicious in fact, that I'm writing the recipe here for posterity.

Taste-of-Summer-in-the-Middle-of-Autumn Cantaloupe Smoothie

1 banana

2 slices of cantaloupe

1 container of those snack sized Danone yogourts, strawberry flavour

1 1/4 cups milk

drizzling of Canada no. 1 medium maple syrup

Throw it all together in a blender, liquify for about 30 seconds and you're set. Pour into aesthetically pleasing glass and add a straw to slurp up a mouthful of time warp to bring you back to a lazy day in July. Makes about 2 cups.

Wunderbar Weekend!

Although it's already Tuesday and the weekend is well on its way in the distant past, I still feel the need to mention what an amazing weekend it was.

To Andrea and I's friend, we were catsitting for her and her boyfriend while she went to Toronto for her birthday. To Andrea and I, we were commandeering an apartment in Montreal for four days to chill out and go crazy.

Granted our "going crazy" only included two nights of... *cough*...technically illegal things, and for the most part we just watched Barbarella and That 70's Show and Star Trek and botched three batches of Rocky Road Cookies, but it was magnificent all the same. For me, it was the longest I've spent in consecutive days in Montreal. I went grocery shopping, left for work only half an hour before the start of my shift, and only had to walk down the road to go to my internship instead of getting up 4 1/2 hours earlier to get there on time. There is no way to describe how phenomenal this phenomenon was.

Also it was strange. For someone who's always lived with large, green, open spaces and a fairly sizeable front lawn (even in Wollongong), having a ground-level apartment with your front door on the sidewalk where people walk by your window at all hours of the day and night, it was definitely an experience. Just being around so much asphalt and concrete was bizarre. I think I'd need to get used to the city before genuinely loving it in and of itself.

The proximity and possibility to do anything at any time of night was brilliant, though, and I got used to that all too fast. Now that I'm back on the South Shore... I won't lie, I'm a bit bummed. Catching buses that are 40 minutes to an hour long can only be tolerated for a certain amount of time, and I've definitely reached my expiry date. All the same, I'm keeping my future life abroad in mind and that surprisingly does help in a lot of ways - mostly in the becoming-more-conscious-of-my-spending-habits part.

One other thing that was wonderful though about being in the city that deserves mention is that it really unstuck my writer's block. The South Shore really sucks the creative energy out of me, but hopefully this'll tide me over for a while.

On an unrelated note, the book cover art that I was commissioned to do has now been published!

And for one last tangent, I really need to get a wallet. Ever since mine got lost/stolen, my cards and change have been floating around like a free-for-all plastic and metal orgy in my pocket.

Wednesday Whinge

Not to sound like a dirty bum walking around with hovering flies and green stink as a reeking halo, but I hate taking showers.

I don't know what it is, I don't even take particularly long ones - between 10-15 minutes, depending how awake I am - they're just boring. Same routine over and over, day in day out, morning after morning. And then after you have to blow dry your hair, style it, put on your makeup - all while feeling clammy and sweaty from the residual water droplets you weren't able to towel off.

I wish there was a way you didn't have to shower every day - without becoming a social pariah.

Tuesday Relief

Back at school today. Andrea and I rented a kiosk from school (illegally it turned out, as the woman contacted us after our formerly approved slot of tabletime to say it was under no circumstances possible for us to sell books at that time (....lol, Concordia)). I also finished off all editing for the Rebetika book I'd been working on - it's been sent off to the press to be printed!! So happy and relieved, words can't even cut it.

Anyway, ran around for a while photocopying posters, buying cream puff pastries from Harmonie, hanging up posters, drinking juice, forgetting our original poster in the photocopying machine, returning to pick it up... Eventually we got back to our table, just in time to put everything away with the help of our fellow volunteer who had stayed to guard everything in the meantime.

Before heading off to study, we went to Voyages Campus to see about a trip to Cuba during reading week. We found an excellent one for $640, all inclusive - meaning flight as well as bungalow, food, drinks, disco, and snorkelling. I'm tempted to book it immediately. First we'll see if we can gather up some women to join us and make it even more of a blast.

So then, with spirits high and heads in the sunny Cuban clouds, we went to go study - only to get distracted with thoughts of shopping. I convinced an all-too-eager Andrea to skip her class, and we went to HMV for an hour and a half and eyeball-raped every single individual piece of merchandise. I also convinced her to buy the fourth and fifth seasons of Six Feet Under, because being the good friend I am. We also found the most wonderful thing: the first two seasons of That 70's Show for only $12.99 each. Needless to say, we bought them - one each - in preparation for our weekend in the city (we are hijacking Andrea's friend's apartment while she's away for deviant cooking endeavours and cat-sitting duties).

Yup. Then class, missed bus, went to library, found books, came home, ate late, fell in bed, and talked to my Australian lover for about 2 hours while falling asleep. OH and I also got my USB key in the mail that I'd forgotten at my other Australian friend's house - plus a wonderful note! It made my day, particularly because on my USB key was around 10GB of music that I'd been craving a terrific amount. Lately I've reached that stage where none of the music on your iPod, despite how awesome it is, is in any way aurally appealing. So now I'm looking forward to some good trance music indulgence.

Saturday Chillin'

Went pumpkin picking today! It was quite fun, although it was a sad season for apples so that side of the farm hick experience was a little disappointing. But at least I got my quota of fresh wonderful apples for the year - and some effing delicious apple muffins fresh out of the oven on top of it!

Must say I love October best of all the months. Usually it's when the Indian summer comes around, so the weather is pleasantly crisp verging on the occasional warm, and the sun is still brightly gracing us with its presence before ducking down for a more permanent stay in the Southern hemisphere. Also the trees are just turning red at the tips, so you get that lovely green-yellow-red-orange thing going on with a couple of crispy brown leaves you can kick around and stomp on while on your way to school or work. Plus, best of all, everything is preparing for Halloween and you get the best parties of the year to look forward to at the end of the month.

Oh and I guess Thanksgiving is pretty awesome too. You get amazing food. Pointe finale.

Anyway we got to the farm pretty late in the day so I had to cancel the date I had planned, sadly. Afterward I went to work and within the first 10 minutes of manning the front of the store got told off by some hard-done-by Quebecoise who didn't hear my "Bonjour" half of my standard Indigo greeting ("Bonjour, hi!"). She ranted at me for a good three straight minutes about how you don't hear French in Montreal anymore, and when she comes to Centre-Ville, toute est en anglais tabarnak! (Well she didn't swear at me to be fair, but I was fairly indignant at her lecturing me on my job performance inadequacy when it was a simple misunderstanding). Really, Quebec. Get over yourselves. The rest of the province is yours.

Also, just to randomly add, after work, I was walking down St. Catherine's and saw this guy crossing the street and seriously throw out his ankle. He limped to the side of a building to cling for dear life to its concrete support and alleviate what seemed to be the agony of his injury. As he passed me I asked him if he was alright and offered him some Advil. I felt so bad for him, I figured giving/accepting pharmaceuticals from a complete stranger in this instance would be justified. He happily took two liquigels and went on his hobbling way. So I guess that was my good deed of the day. Unless of course my pills wreck his insides because he has some strange foreign allergy to Western meds.

Jungle

So while I was at work today my room was busy growing a jungle.

I now have a giant potted fern to care for, and I'm not sure how it got there.

Goodnight, Moon

I just read a blog article today about the last shuttle launch NASA will send into space for its undetermined interim period of financial deficiency. It finished with the words, "Thank you NASA for an amazing space age and good luck in the future, I hope we go to the moon again in my lifetime." As someone who has spent her whole life anticipating the day when I become a filthy rich writer so that I can buy two tickets to the moon (one for me and one for my dad), and become a legitimate space tourist, the possibility that the space age might cease to exist for the remainder of my lifetime hit a terrifically tender spot. Granted, this tremendous realization happened nearly three months ago, but all the same I never thought our 21st Century sprint into progress would halt so close to the starting line.

It tweaks said tender spot even more knowing that even though I was a spectator in a 2007 satellite launch from Cape Canaveral, I never actually got to see it leave the atmosphere.

I remember it was on a school trip. Our graduating high school year always got to go on a Florida vacation during March break, and I was among one of the lucky two busloads of sixteen-year-old snowbirds migrating from Montreal to a week's worth of romping about Cocoa Beach. Originally I'd wanted to go to Cape Canaveral itself to check out the space center, but only one other person was interested in going and our teacher "supervisors" were intent on tanning in their deck-side lawn chairs with no inclination to ferry us anywhere.

Luckily, we heard about the satellite launch. I figured this would compensate well.

When we went out to the beach that night, we were surrounded by dozens, if not hundreds, of spectators. What I remember most was how freezing it was. The air blowing off the ocean was wet, chilling me through my sweatshirt so a coating of clammy droplets clung to me like perspiration. My two best friends weren't there because they'd gone to the theater to watch Music and Lyrics for the third time. I waited on the beach with a bunch of other classmates whose cliques I wasn't quite a part of but with whom the camaraderie of traveling had kicked in to make us associate in a friendlier-than-usual manner. Needless to say, on this cold night, standing on damp sand, frustrated with how little I could see in the dark (and only vaguely knowing where I was supposed to be looking), I couldn't quite wait to go inside and catch up on the sleep I'd been mourning missing out on since the crack of dawn that morning.

For some reason, I was also bent on having my camera with me. I think I wanted to film the takeoff for my dad. In any case, I had it with me and was determined to snap a shot of the moment the satellite left the atmosphere.

I was so determined, in fact, that when it came down to it, I missed it entirely. My camera was not a night camera. It only caught something happening in the nighttime if it was on a long exposure, which needed to be held absolutely still, which my state of bitter shivering was no conducive to.

After an hour or so of waiting, by which time my lungs were drenched in Florida's famous humidity, the satellite took off. That part was masterful, even if it was rather far in the distance. We watched it trek across the sky, leaving a trail as glistening as a slug's, and going only slightly faster than one (it seemed). My camera was poised, and I got distracted by the majesty of the moment before remembering I needed to focus on getting the picture. I turned my eyes to the LCD screen and zoomed as far as I could go. So far, it turned out, that it became impossible to navigate where to point the lens because the sky was one big black monotonous reference point. I did catch it just in time, though, for its grand exit of our planet, and clicked to take the photo, focusing on not moving so it wouldn't turn out all blurred.

Except then I was looking at a blank screen instead of in the air when it actually happened in that split, singular second.

So to this day, even though I was there and can perfectly recall the thunderous sound of atmospheric impact as the satellite passed through it and beyond, I still have no idea what it looks like for the atmosphere to be breeched.

I feel like this is a fallacy in my life. I need to move to Russia to watch their space launchings instead. Either that or make it my personal mission to get the States out of their debt crisis.

Nice People

This actually happened yesterday, but I forgot to write it down.

I was working on cash, and this woman came in to pick up an order. She didn't have any photo ID on her, which is required as the pick-up policy, and it sort of created a bit of a hassle. I felt bad, so I conferred with a fellow cashier and we told her we'd be able to swing it this time but we'd need it in the future to avoid giving someone's order away to the wrong person.

Then I went to find the order, only to realize that it wasn't there. I hate when this happens, and it's been happening a lot because of the sheer volume of orders coming in of late. I returned to the woman, who was looking rather frazzled in her face by this point, to tell her I couldn't find it, and ask when she had received the phone call. She informed me that she hadn't been phoned at all and that relief of understanding settled on the scene like one of Horatio's episode-concluding one-liners. It tends to happen a lot; customers get the confirmation of shipment email and think it's a confirmation of arrival.

I always feel bad having to tell customers that they came to our store for no reason, and that they have to go back home empty handed. I tried to be as nice as possible to the woman to compensate, and she shrugged.

"I guess I was just so excited I got a little carried away," she said, eyebrows rounded high above downcast eyes.

"Yeah, I can imagine," I told her. "They really get you going with the anticipation."

She laughed and started flicking through the Godiva chocolate bars displayed in tantalizing rows in front of the cash register. "Might as well get something while I'm here."

"You know," I said, leaning my elbows on the cash, "We just got these really amazing new ones in - they haven't even put them on the shelves yet, they're still behind the cash."

She paused, two lacquered nails resting on the dark chocolate raspberry bars. "Yes?"

I nodded. "Yeah - there's one with cheesecake filling. My coworker keeps telling me how amazing it is, and I was going to get one yesterday but my other coworker said I'd explode in fatness if I indulged." I grumbled the last bit and shook my head.

The customer laughed again. "Well I think I want to try that one."

"Awesome," I smiled.

I ducked behind the cash to search through the floor level cupboards. I found one cheesecake, and two other kinds.

"I've also got tiramisu and chocolate truffle cake."

"Well you've got me craving cheesecake now," she chuckled.

"Alright - excellent choice if I may say so!" I rang it up for her.

"Actually add another one in too," she said, pointing a long finger in the direction of the cupboards.

"Sure thing," I smiled.

I looked through the boxes of severely depleted chocolates - my friend seemed to have raided the boxes a vast amount - and with a consternated brow said, "I'm having a bit of trouble finding another...I think my coworker might have eaten them all."

"Oh, are you sure?"

"There's a lot of tiramusu - she says that one's excellent too...?"

"No, no, cheesecake, cheesecake," she said. "Definitely has to be that one!"

I dug deeper into the cave of boxes. "Okay, lemme see..."

With a couple of more rifle-throughs, I managed to get my hands on one.

"Last one!" I declared triumphantly.

The customer smiled and I added it to her bill, sliding it over to her with a mild pang of regret that I'd never get to taste the famous Godiva milk-chocolate coated cheesecake.

"Do you need a bag for those?" I asked.

She looked at them for a second before shaking her head and hand at the prospect. "No, no, should be fine."

"Alrighty, it comes to $8.55."

She handed me her card and as the receipt printed, she said, "Wait do you think you could give me a bag after all?"

"Sure," I said, a little exasperated as I always am whenever a customer asks for one after everything's been paid for (they cost a whopping $0.05 and we're not supposed to give them away for free).

"I'll just hold onto this one here and I'll put the other one in the bag," she said.

"Sounds good," I smiled pleasantly, and handed her the bag with the chocolate inside. She took it, carefully put away her card and zipped her bag, then took her time rolling the chocolate in the plastic bag.

In one swift and understated movement, she slid the package back across the counter to me and patted it once. She didn't say anything at all, just smiled.

I picked it up and held it to my chest, mouth in a wide O. "Oh my god, are you serious?" She just smiled. "Thank you so much," I said, genuinely close to breaking down in a full-on weep at how touching this simple act of kindness was.

"Thanks for being so kind," she said, and walked off.

And there we go, folks: moral of the story is karma does exist.

Rain

I love rain. When I was a kid, I loved rain so much I couldn't understand why adults didn't like it, why they complained so bitterly as if the clouds descended upon them and them alone in some spiteful natural vengeance against their hair styling beauty products or high fashion name brands. I guess I kind of kept it in my head that I wouldn't turn into one of those adults, but even so for the last many rainfalls I've not been pleased because it means I have to walk to the bus stop and work when it's a sheeting downpour. My shoes always tend to be the biggest sponges on Earth, and so now when I see rain, I think of how soggy my toes are going to be for the day, or how under the weather the weather will make me.

But, when it comes down to the thing itself, I still love rain.

This morning in particular is the perfect kind of rainy. The window in my kitchen is open and the contrast of how stale it is inside to how fresh it is out there is overwhelming. I can't even say what it smells like. It smells like home, I guess. All the different smells of soil and plants and bark and flowers and nature just mingle to create this fresh, North East Canadian scent.

When I was in Wollongong, the rain was really different, but equally wonderful. In winter it was a bit different, but my first encounters with rain in their autumn was a rainfall so polite you couldn't feel it or even see it unless you looked at a puddle and saw the water drops. It was like the cloud just hung there and the condensation appeared from mid air all around you. I know exactly what it smelled like there though: eucalyptus. You can't really smell the eucalyptus unless it's raining. It's the most wonderfully refreshing aroma that no bath salt or hand cream can replicate.

But if I were to compare Wollongong rain to Chambly rain and have to choose a preference, I think I would still go with Chambly rain. Canada might be boring on the visual and aural levels, but it's definitely got the olfactory (and gustatory, but in completely unrelated matters) down. If I weren't so worried about getting sick right now, I would go roll around in the grass like I did when I was five and look into the pure white sky to try and see the raindrops before they fall. Alas, I'm stuck inside doing homework.

I knew I should have gotten rid of those spiders in my windows...

Herbert

For some time I've been wanting something living in my room of the horticultural kind, and the other day I found just what I was looking for. I had to go to the Mount Royal area to meet with the graphic designer of the manuscript I'm editing, and they have a really lovely farmer's market just outside the metro. Aside from selling the anticipated assortment of farm-related produce, they have branched out to include exotic plants such as living stones and cacti. I must say, whenever I pass by this market in summer, I always admire their spiny collection of mini cacti because they're all just so damn cute. I never got any though because, well, I either didn't have any money or I didn't like any of them enough or I just couldn't carry around a cactus with me for the rest of the day. In this instance, I had only enough money for lunch/dinner, and I wouldn't be getting home until 9pm, meaning I'd be starving and carrying around a plant that wouldn't hesitate to stab me for the next 8 hours. But I don't know, I saw this cactus and fell in love. I bought it and have no regrets (although I'm still nursing a couple of tender puncture wounds on my hands).

His name is Herbert.

Tea, Toast, and Trees

So I'm sitting in my kitchen, editing a manuscript while drinking chai tea (so delicious) and gnawing on a piece of overly crisp Vegemite toast, and suddenly realize there's some really annoying chainsaw noises coming from outside. I look around to figure out who's being obnoxious in the early hours of the day and suddenly realize there's a guy right outside my window trimming the maple tree. All I can say is thank God I decided to put on some clothes after my shower.

Also I'm in the process of writing about the Comic Con. It deserved a proper post and so I've been trying to finish it. But yeah. Just found out that the book I thought only needed to be edited for the 12th of October actually needs to be done by the 26th of September, aka Monday. *Turn on kamikaze editor mode!!!*

The Whipped Cream Bed

At work today I was trying desperately to put some lost books back to their rightful homes in the interior design section - and failing miserably. That section is a lost cause (along with Photography, Hobbies and Crafts, Fashion, Kids, Business....essentially all that is not straightforward fiction). But anyways I'm not here to whinge about poor organization at the corporate level: I'm here because I need to share my absolute admiration for all that is interior design and home improvement.

I can't say that in my life I've ever had a chance to design my own space. When I was 12, my sister and I were finally given our own respective rooms, and this was a momentous occasion. But even though I got to choose the colours of my walls and how it was set up, none of the furniture was my choice and there were some pieces that I had no choice about not having in there to begin with. The extent of my decorating muscle being exercised was me choosing what Green Day posters I wanted where and how many different funky stickers I could put on my mirror while still being able to see my reflection. For seven years my room barely changed, except once in arrangement, until I peaced out to Australia.

In Aussie-land, I had my first taste of an empty room and no history of physical objects to burden and clutter. Granted, it was a room minus a personality - a standard college dorm - but that was all the more exciting. I bought posters in a frenzy to mark it as my territory and revelled in the clean, empty space that was not more than I could manage. It had everything I needed and everything served a purpose. It was a room that felt energizing when my room at home had always felt claustrophobic and like a timeless void that sucked up the majority of my life with sleep, Facebook, and literally sitting and staring and doing fuck all.

Within the first three weeks of my being away, I skyped my sister and told her she could have my room. She'd been wanting to swap for a really long time by this point, me having the bigger room, and her having the childhood bedroom with the colours and designs her nine-year-old self had thought were the epitome of appeal. I don't think she believed me at first, but I told her I couldn't go back to my life at home so changed and then go to sleep staring at the same ceiling I'd stared at through all my teenage angst. So she informed my mother and a month later they set out boxing my things and repainting (at long-overdue last).

That being said, I never decided what my new room would look like. The most my mother conferred with me on the subject was choosing what colour she was going to paint it. She'd wanted green, which I was vehemently against as my old room had been green too. We settled on blue. The first time I saw the exact colour and the way they'd set it up was the night I arrived home five months later.

I must say I genuinely liked it - and like it still. The walls are rag-rolled blue, almost turquoise, the colour of a blue glacier or what you'd imagine tropical wind looked like. It's got a whole white/blue/natural-honey-wood-brown combo going on that I very much like and really didn't expect to work so well together, but it looks good. I'm happy with it. But I still didn't design it, aside from putting up the posters I carefully rolled and toted back home from Oz.

So anyway, back to how this all came about, I was looking in the interior design section and falling in love. I genuinely never thought much about designing my own space before browsing this section at work. It was just something that never factored into my life and I assumed in a lot of ways that it was an indulgence and a perk of being rich, that it was sheer luxury to be comfortable in your own home. My parents, despite their irate responses that they carefully decided how to decorate the house (23 years ago, might I add, and 23 years of not changing an inch), never really gave a crap how it looked. My mom fancies the cluttered look of cozy-lived-in-cottage, and my dad....well, I don't think he's seen the house since 23 years. So seeing these photographs of people who adore and take pride and joy in how their homes look was a novelty and a heartstopping wonder. It was that moment of obviousness when you're holding a pen and wondering where your pen went and then are delighted to see it already in your fingertips.

I must say that my favourite books were those on tropical homes. Holy bejeezus, I want to live in the tropics. My ideal home for the longest time was living in modern loft that's one big space with an open staircase and giant, single-paned panels of windows spanning the entire wall. But Living in a home with trees around it too, or on a mountain overlooking ocean and jungle with a pool and a deck would be glorious as well. So long as it's open, empty, made of glass and bright bright bright then I will be happy.

Most importantly, however, was that I've finally decided what kind of bed I'd want. My sister just got one for her new room and it's so wonderful - while, wrought iron-style headboard, so soft I literally fall asleep on it as soon as I lie down, and with so many pillows it's like being a nestling of a pillow-laying bird. And the funny thing is, before I saw it, it was exactly what I thought I wanted. Something about seeing it though made me not see myself in that kind of bed. It wasn't, isn't, right for me. When my sister asked me what I'd get for a bed if I were to buy any one I wanted, I couldn't really answer her. In the back of my mind, I've been thinking about it for weeks. Then, flipping through a random book I'd picked up in the section, there it was. Wonderful, fluffy, white, and like it's made out of whipped cream. No bedposts, and flat on the ground with no space underneath - just flowing white linen and duvets spilling over the edges. I can't even find a picture of what it looks like online to post here. But just trust me in that it was my perfect bed.

The desperation I feel for having a real bed cannot even be described. To contextualize: I'm sleeping in the same bed I was sleeping in from when I moved out of my crib. My hands and feet fall off the ends when I stretch out. This bed was also the bed that my uncle slept in, and the one that my mother slept in before that. It is supported by tired metal slats and cardboard. It has no mattress. It is made marginally soft and sleepable by a futon. It gives me horrendous back problems because the middle sags and curves down, and I always wake up groggy and with pains in my neck. It's massively saddening that I'm going to be in this bed for the next two years until I escape from here and head back to Australia. But at least I know what I'm looking for so when I finally invest, I at least can know that it's what I've always dreamt of having. Even if those dreams are a little belated in the formation.

Anyways in other news:

Headline: Comic con is tomorrow!

Headline contenders: I got asked out to coffee at work today, and I also lost my wallet (major bummer).

Recent events: I dressed up at Saladfingers for my dear friend's 20th birthday party, which was an "Internet" theme.

Arts and Entertainment: The Fountainhead is blowing my mind, and I really am praying that the ending will be equally as impressive as the book thus far.

Food: I had a smashing breakfast, after waking up with a happily non-hungover head, of sunny side up eggs, sausage and heaps of marvellous Québec bacon.

Weather: A balmy 12 degrees, considering it's nighttime. Beautiful 3/4 yellow moon tonight, partially under cloud cover.

Hipster Watch I

This kid in my class carries around a glass mason jar for a water bottle.

Can. Lit. Begone!

After much debating, I've decided to drop my Canadian Lit class. It's rather bittersweet - on the pros side of the argument, it's a great teacher, I'd be able to graduate this year instead of taking an extra semester (maybe), and we're studying Scott Pilgrim. But honestly, it's at 10:15 am. Which for most normal people is absolutely fine, but I need to catch an 8 am bus to get there in time and I only get home at a quarter past nine the night before because I have late classes. I am not a morning person. The earliest I can get up without it affecting me, even if I get a solid 8 hours of sleep, is 8 am. Any earlier and I'm not a happy camper. So this, paired with the fact that I'd have a 5 hour break on Tuesdays and Thursdays and absolutely no time to do homework at all by adding a fifth class onto my course load alongside my part time job and internship, made me decide that I'm better off dropping it. As my mother said to me last night when I was whinging about how hard my life is, "If you were to die in five years what would you be doing?" Of course I said I'd drop out and travel and party it up with all the alcohol I could find, but she made a good point. I don't want to stress myself out for no reason. I'll be here for two more years no matter what, so I might as well fill out my time with taking classes this time next year instead of letting my brain rot. It's my last few classes for my BA, I'd rather enjoy them and give my usual 100%. Still, I have the terrible gnawing feeling I might regret this...

In other news:

Headline: Not getting enough sleep makes me so damned unhappy and grumpy. Mental note: sleep.

Upcoming events: Comic con is on Sunday and my internship is giving my friend and I free tickets if we hand out flyers!

Arts and Entertainment: Stars of Track and Field are amazing.

Food: My camera is broken, otherwise I'd have uploaded a picture of the amazing bacon-brie-potato omelette I made for breakfast.

Weather: It's getting colder after that major thunderstorm we had. And now it's doing that thing where it's pissing light rain all day and the clouds hang so low and thick the sky has before entirely white. Balls.

Mornings

I think what it boils down to, in the purest most tangible form, is earl grey tea and practicing how to speak Middle English first thing in the morning to wake yourself up. And by "it", I mean being an English Major. Nothing screams "Lit Dork!" like steaming water mixed with dried leaf flakes and learning the archaic roots of your own language.

In other news, I've discovered I can actually graduate on time and that makes me unspeakably happy (not to be paradoxical to the above professions of adoration for my degree or anything). In all likelihood it will take two years - one and a half, stretching it - before I can get back to Australia to work for a year, and then I can head to grad school after saving some moolah for ze tuition, etc. So I should probably enjoy these last two semesters of uni. Which I probably will, if I don't go crazy from my job and internship...

And now off to school for the day to learn things!