Our Comical Cosmos and Goodies for the Girth-Conscious Gourmet

It's good to have confirmation once again of the twisted, ironic sense of humour I have always believed our Universe possesses.

Tonight I had a craving, as I have numerous nights before since my first exposure to the oxymoronic existence of "low fat pate", for the luscious lack of taste but creamy texture of "faible teneur en matières grasses pate". When seasoned liberally with cracked Tasmanian pepper berry and Murray River Pink Salt the pate is a treat which one feels no qualms devouring throughout an episode of MasterChef. (For those who have not found themselves addicted to this particular reality cooking program yet it is important to eat for the duration of its hour-long time slot since if you don't you will surely clean out your fridge and pantry in one enormous mouthful when the episode concludes. The dishes contestants are required to concoct are typically so hunger-inspiring ones taste buds must be entertained in conjunction with the senses typically appeased by television.)

Scouring the local providores for this expensive little treat for hours on a late wander through the Darling of streets near which I live, my search was, alas, fruitless. (Duck liver and peppercorn-less as well I might add!)

On my return home from the lengthy hunt all I could think of was the lone establishment I knew stocked the product I craved. I decided to satiate my adoration and closer-than-appropriate relationship with my ex-supermarket, the indescribably prodigious Pyrmont IGA. 

Eager with anticipation I crossed the ANZAC Bridge, not even partaking in the common practice of speeding when traversing this construct - I was savouring the minutes until I would once again wind my way up the ramp from the car park, find myself greeted by the Bank of Queensland ATM and its neighbouring umbrella basket and turn the corner into one of my guilty pleasures.

Pulling into the side street and parking garage with time-honed skill (once you can do this post jugs of barley and hopps laden water on a Wednesday night full of rubbish food and fuming at the other team's unjust victory you can do it under any circumstances..!) I shifted back and forth in my seat like a child jumping from foot to foot in a candy store giving in to the excitement of being surrounded by multitudes of sweets and suppressed the silly grin which somehow kept sneaking its way back across my face.

I pushed the button for a ticket, drove around the corner, glided into a park with ease, closed the door and flipped the keys around my index finger Angelina-in-Mr-and-Mrs-Smith style and made my way in what I hoped seemed an unconsciously casual manner through the sliding doors, all the while consciously quashing the crocodile grin and feelings of elation at the "Welcome to Pyrmont IGA" sign which greets you on your exit from the car park.

*amorous sigh*

I spent the better part of...well, a while...wandering the aisles, picking up delicacies and boutique branded products, inspecting them and carefully replacing them on their shelves (yes, a sordid number ended up in my basket for purchase but we'll leave that topic).

Anticlimactically they were out of stock of my particular desired pate but I soon found one with most of the same attributes. After I quietly chuckled through the checkout at my Confessions of a Supermarket-aholic escapade I ran smack into two people I hadn't expected to see for quite some time, if ever again. A couple for whom the matter of my attendance (or disappointing lack thereof) of their upcoming nuptials has been a continuing source of confusion and negotiation due to recent events. 

Several moments of slightly awkward conversation and niceties relating to my rationale for venturing out of my suburb to procure grocery items and the cursory discussion of "how work, life, weather, Wednesday night hobbies (or their recent hiatus), etc are treating you" we parted ways and I returned to my little red vehicle and once inside let loose with "OH. MY. GOD!!!" 

I repeated this phrase for the duration of the trip home and have been doing so intermittently since. 

The universe certainly has a sense of humour, I'll give it that. Some call it "a sign", others call it "fate", personally I think it's downright f*ing hilariously ironic. 

Post-Script. The substitute pate was palatable - the originally desired product is by a Queensland-based company called "Ronda Pate" - more info on this website. 

Ronda Pate - Seafarmers Quality Foods

For the girth-conscious gourmet.

The Wonderful Fishes of Oz and Inclement Commencement Cruising

Ok class, who wants to be dependent on a solid weighted tank for oxygen while excessive atmospheric pressure exerts itself on your body mass underwater until your air runs out (read: low)?

*jumps up and down* “OOH! OOH!! Pick me, pick ME!”

I am a diving peanut! As truly amusing as that image may be it is true. I have come to the conclusion after two days of submerging my small form underwater for extended periods of time assisted by a compressed air cylinder, uncomfortable mask/snorkel apparatus, regulators of various varieties and a brilliant little vest contraption aptly termed a "buoyancy control device", were I offered the opportunity I would happily exchange my (quite large in fact! - "all the better for yelling at you with, my dear") lungs for gills and take up residence *to the tune of* under the sea. *dances around to the crab from The Little Mermaid singing merrily*

Since I was small my favourite dreams were those in which I was a) flying or b) breathing underwater. I have yet to jump off a high surface and have the result be anything but broken bones, sprained limbs/joints/muscles or brilliantly multicoloured bruises BUT I have now found (thanks to the influence of a situation -and person- far too convoluted and confusing -and adorably aggravating- to recount here but to whom I will be forever grateful) that there is a way to enable my second dream to come true. It is as marvellous as expected. 

I must halt my auspicious account of the singular delights of scuba diving to insert a bit of product placement. DIVE 2000 are fantastic. The instructors have been excellent (and emphatically amusing), whilst the book was arduous and written for large inhabitants of a country I proudly hold a passport for who posses minds smaller then a serve of "kiddy fries" at McDonalds the DVD skimmed through it easily enough with some 1980's-era, Bahama-

dwelling "hunky" (I use the vernacular of the age!) male inhabitants to keep your eyes occupied while your brain absorbed No Decompression Limit tables unconsciously.

Next weekend will see further accounts of the unlimited enjoyment of being underwater and I'll include some photos of the multitudes of fish I intend to romance in hopes of being adopted into their number Jungle-book style.

____

In other news I recently completed the first semester of a qualification in Travel & Tourism. With honours. We celebrated the commencement in true "Travel & Tourism" fashion - on a coffee and cake cruise operated by Captain Cook (a company I now qualify for heavily discounted escapades with) Cruises on an afternoon in Sydney Harbour. 

The day was dingy and subfusc but somehow my camera managed to capture the best of a blustery situation - I believe it sees things through the rose coloured eyes of a tourist. My little Circumnavigating Coolpix. 

We bobbed through "seas" of what I termed "slight" and others grieved "severely sea-sickness inducing" swells (of MAYBE a meter and a half) for the majority of the afternoon. Several classmates spent the voyage with faces firmly planted in heads (of the nautical variety) whilst I spent it simulating a shutterbug. Taking peculiar photos with inanimate objects (i.e. photos eating a ferry in the distance) and "We're On A Boat!" gangster shots with friends. All in all it was a lovely afternoon.

 

Delectably Detrimental Delights and Peregrination by Proxy

Today I am a green-eyed peanut. Since I returned from my Seattle Soiree the travel I have managed to undertake has been utterly and completely by proxy (or vivid imagination) through my uni course. 

Brochures depicting young and gorgeous people enthusiastically jumping off boats on the Amalfi Coast, couples clinking glasses on exquisite train journeys across Europe, intrepid explorers taking silly photos with monuments and statues in far off, seldom trod corners of this big, wide world. *sigh* and travel messages containing tantalizingly few details of police encounters, boat trips full of beer and bravado and blissful kisses from the European sun. *fumes* *grins* *crinkles up nose and narrows eyes in playful jealousy*

My adventures have been of the home and university variety of late. Several accounts are to follow:

Yesterday I arrived home after a day distinctly akin in pressured finite timings to an episode of "24" and felt an overpowering need to bake something sugary with a high chocolate content and dates, always dates. 

Once I changed into my Joe Boxer track pants *shudder of fleecy warmth* and Uggs *after-shudder* I consulted the shelves of my half of the pantry. Flour..white sugar..brown sugar...baking powder..salt...umm, DATES! Then I took a peek in the fridge - eggs..and milk! Eeexcellent! And a block of Hershey's 70% extra dark chocolate hand carried from Los Estados Unidos (from whence all fructose-laden goodness cometh).

Expertly creaming the butter and sugar together then adding the eggs, milk and dry ingredients I tossed in an exorbitant amount of dates and chocolate chunks and whacked them in the oven. 

I like my cookies slightly crispy on the outside and nice and gooey on the inside so when you bite into a particularly large chocolate chunk it oozes out of its home nestled in the cookie and inevitably ends up on your shirt/tie/necklace. 

The edges slightly browned after 12 or so minutes on 150 Celsius and I extracted the tray of morsels from the oven and placed them on the stove. The entire house filled with the aroma of freshly baked delicacy and my flatmate magically appeared with eyes like saucers, licking her chops like Sylvester eyeing Tweety Bird, turning him in one image frame from canary to cutlet. 

She has now termed them (with a note written in pink capital letters with highlighter) the "COOKIES OF DOOM (because they're so f*ing lush!)" and neither of us can stop munching on them. Ahh well, at least we live in the House of Metabolism! Redheads do it better you know..

*bites into warm cookie* 

Next - Huzzar for moi! I overcame my Bakers Delight Scone Sampling phobia today! As I walk from the disembarkation point of my first bus I past a number of shops, one of which is Baker's Delight (hence the scone addiction). Normally I wander past, gaze lovingly at the carby, sugary goodness adorning the shelves, wait for an influx of customers and snake a long arm between them to pinch one (read: several) slices of the free-to-good-home scone in the little plastic sample tub on the counter. 

Today there were no customers. It was also raining. And freezing cold. 

"Bugger this rubbish!" I thought to myself, "I'm a human, I have rights to free food!" I psyched myself and, taking a deep breath, entered the little shop. 

"Hi! How can I help you?" said the pre-teen behind the counter, seeing a sale meandering through the glass doors.

"Uh..I'd like a.." I pretended to scan the glass cabinets, "..umm... ok. Look. I'd-really-just-like-to-try-some-scone.-Seriously-I-buy-them-all-the-time-and-I'm-completely-addicted-and-they're-really-really-bloody-good-but-I-have-a-bunch-at-home-and-I don't-need-to-buy-an-more-but-I'd-really-like-to-try-some-is-that-cool??" I admitted with lightning fast speech in her general direction, avoiding eye contact.

To my distinct pleasure she laughed, openly, and said "of COURSE! We do it all the time!"

It was as though an enormous weight was lifted from my part-Jewish conscience and I happily tonged 2 slices of the little baked good into my hand, waved a goodbye to the girls, who were still laughing and merrily made my freezing cold way to the bus stop. Once more - HUZZAR!!

In other news my 16 day adventure tour brochure to Iceland has been printed (after a substantial cookie donation to the people at Kwik Kopy Darling Harbour garnered a large discount) and looks incredible. Someday I want to go diving, skiing, dog sledding, horseback riding, whitewater rafting and lounging in the Blue Lagoon. *shakes fist* "with God as my witness..!"

Last minute I aced yet another 2 exams this afternoon and rewarded myself with end-of-day rice paper rolls.

I passed my dive medical with a lovely aviation doctor in the city yesterday. We had a grand time pinching, prodding and concluding that despite a lower-than-recommended BMI (read: BS) rating I have incredibly good lungs (all the better for yelling at you with, my dear), hearing (for tuning out when you yell back, my dear) and balance (for..well I don't know..balancing I suppose!). 

I actually had a great time and ate far too many blue jellybeans and promised to send the doctor a postcard from my first diving holiday, hopefully not too far away now..!

Tomorrow night is "Diving 101" with this weekend spent submerging in a pool remembering to ALWAYS BREATHE and learning how to empty water from my mask. 

I'm really looking forward to it, breathing underwater has always been a dream of mine.

I shall leave you there, fine readers, until more adventures have I to rehash.

Numbskull Nippers and Tricks of Tag Toweling

My life strikes me as odd sometimes.

I spent yesterday wandering around the Blue Mountains (I'll do a whole other post on this) and this morning prancing around with preschoolers dressed as first a pirate, then a fairy. 

The first party was for 3 year olds, adorable as they are I must say there is an alarming lack of innate intelligence apparent in the latest crop of youngsters. 

5 years ago when I first performed children's parties the 3-5 year olds astounded me! They were intelligent, intellectual, conversationally adept (as much as 3-5 year olds can be) with some verging on astute! 

Somehow in the past half a decade the median intelligence quota for this age group has reduced alarmingly.

4 and 5 year olds now seem to be slightly "with it" mentally but 3's are downright dimwitted! Wether it is attempting to coax the attention of them while dressed in suspenders and a hard hat as "Bob the Builder's sister Jane" from where it perpetually rests in most Mosman houses - firmly on their mother's manicured hand clutching her Riedel glass brimming with Dom Perignon - or explaining not to eat the plastic paper from the sides of a cupcake these children are..rocks! The opposite of the "sponges" people often synonym young children to. 

Personally I think I would be extraordinarily upset if I accidentally produced one of these simple minded small-fries! I would imagine that if I put in the effort of gestating the thing for 9 months and signed in blood for the hundreds of thousands of dollars it costs to raise one I would feel cheated!  

Although it's not often admitted to I imagine most would feel the same way. And of course prospective parents are too wrapped up in the excitement of jumbling their genes in a roll of the deoxyribonucleic dice to consider that this is plausible, much less possible! Everyone thinks their little Jimmy or Jenny is going to be the next Einstein, Barack Obama or at least manager at the local upmarket dining establishment. Then again I suppose that is what keeps us procreating..the possibility of progressing the population through our progeny. 

Blech, musings on a topic which really doesn't interest me. I must be tired. Must be all that left over fairy bread I didn't want to let go to waste..those Hundreds and Thousands are lethal, you know..!

Due to the extraordinarily chilly temperatures already present this winter I have begun an ingenious practice I call "tag toweling". Count your blessings, I will now share its brilliance with you.

It is a commonly acknowledged fact that there are few things more pleasurable then hearing the "BUZZ" of the clothes dryer finishing its hot cycle, rushing to the appliance and climbing into whatever article of newly heated clothing promptly presents itself. (Then again I generally put everything on and bask in the shudder of pleasure that follows) This is the principal behind "tag toweling". 

My bathroom coexists as the laundry with the aid of a sliding door. This means I can place my towels into the dryer before my shower begins and, faster than the speeding bullet, leap from my lobster-bath on tiptoe the two steps to wrench open the dryer door and wrap myself in the toasty cotton treat which awaits me. 

Australia, Sydney in particular, is in for one icy winter they tell us. (So much for "Global Warming"! I think "Global Cooling" would be more appropriate. I think I'll teach myself to hibernate if we ever reach another ice age. Eat too much, curl up in a ball, sleep. ...Ok, not much to teach..) 

The temperatures have been steadily dropping and lately I have found that one balmy bath blanket simply doesn't hold enough heat to satisfy my craving to close my eyes and imagine I'm on a beach in the South Pacific for the desired amount of time. 

So, I hired it an assistant! My two blue towels, one light and one dark (somehow the dark one seems to get hotter..I have no idea if this is scientifically possible but hey, I'll take what I can get!) wait for me to eye the shower with anticipatory excitement, pop them in the tumbler, flip the dial to "hot - 60" and proceed to lather up and wash down for as long as our pathetic hot water heater will allow (still leaving some for my poor housemate). 

When the dials are eventually spun to the right I burst forth from the glass cubicle and mantle myself in the light blue towel. Quickly the heat wears off and in one fluid movement the towel becomes a bathmat and I am engulfed in the dark blue towel. 

Soaking up the placebo of its greater dark-blue warmth a catlike grin appears across my face at my unending ingenuity.

Please folks, feel free to try this at home.

Prehistoric Heaters and the Perplexing Phenomenon of Pretty Days

My orange dinosaur is a better heater than your orange dinosaur. 

In fact I would argue that he may very well be the very best half-spotted, starry-eyed dinosaur in the world for cuddling, heating and loving purposes. 

He came to live with me not long ago. Every night he falls asleep covering my entire torso from the comfortable resting place of his head in the crevice of my right shoulder to his tail which falls just between my legs. 

He is the most indescribably brilliant, snugly form of insulation and I drift off to slumber land almost immediately. I also wake up each morning still wrapped in his loving claws, warm and toasty and inevitably attempt to find any plausible reason why I should have to remain curled around him for the rest of the day (read: time). Generally this eventuates quite a substantial list.

We all have days where we wake up, carry out our morning routine of showering, make-up application, hair coiffing and the like for the allotted amount of time (all the while wishing we didn't have to do any of it) and, when it's finally time to step back and (I wish I could say "admire" but this is not always the case..) examine the finished product and the only words to escape are "ugh. I suppose this is as good as it gets.." 

Well that was not the case today! Cringing, I reluctantly untangled myself from my dearest of dinosaurs and ousted myself from bed for the sole reason that I had a uni exam I couldn't miss scheduled for precisely 10am. I groggily poured myself a bowl of my current 4-cereal amalgamation, sloshed in Pura Light Start and a splash of rice milk (my latest cereal fad) and devoured the bowl of sugary, carby-ridden goodness while stalking the un-stalkable on Facebook. Finding nothing interesting had occurred in my online existence and that my morning meal was soon completed I put the bowl in the sink and wandered into the bathroom. I followed the regular "morning spruce-up" steps, went back into my room, got dressed according to the audition I had later on in the day, grabbed my bag and went into the living room for the final morning appearance appraisal. 

I was shocked! 

I look fabulous! 

My outfit worked a treat, my hair had somehow decided to take pity on my exhausted state and look incredible, my jewelry was stunning and somehow my minimally applied makeup had exacted a look of understated beauty. 

I grinned! 

Rather than the customary "ugh" the sound to escape my lips was "wicked!" 

I returned to my room, kissed my dinosaur au revoir, exited my house with a bounce in my step and proceeded about the day. Which, all in all, went fabulously.

Peculiar Pets and Printing Prats

World, meet Arb --> 

Arb is "A Random Bug" (I intend to claim credit for the amusing Three Letter Abbreviation's reiteration in his name however I have only just happened upon this realization) or an "ARBitrary" (apparently this is the English slang for "arbitrary" if you hadn't already grasped that parallel - thanks Amy) bug who winged his way into our new house (and hearts) sometime in the past week and, starved for non-human house guests we named him (Amy wanted to call him "George", I think "Arb" is at least 200% cooler), he is now a member of the family. 

Arb resides at a spot of his selection on the walls, ceiling or cabinet fronts in our house. We have no idea what type of bug he is since there are nearly as many bugs in Sydney as calories in Willy Wonka's factory but I think he is a "damselfly" (yes, a macho, manly, tough one of those..although he may be a girl I guess). 

We have no idea what or how to feed him but hope he hangs around a while. "Where's Arb?" is a game played by the second housemate to awaken as the first will have inevitably already engaged in "Find Arb". 

Any light all you aspiring entomologists out there can shed on the scientific classification of our little pet would be greatly appreciated. All greetings and well wishes will be passed on of course from those who, like us, have no clue what Arb is or where he came from.

The other stand-out happening of an all-in-all quite normal Tuesday was the unwarrantably pretentious and altogether blood-boiling treatment I received by the "Filth" (that's my personal collective noun for "heinously rude men of Lebanese descent") at the printing place around the corner from my uni today. Just the reminiscence of them makes me unfathomably enraged and altogether "chik chik boom"-ish. 

I needed to print a handout carefully constructed to perfectly fit an A4 sheet of paper, double-sided and in vivid colour for a presentation I'll be making tomorrow. The collage and fact sheet are gorgeous and deserved a fine laser print on silk gloss paper, perhaps 170gsm. 

On recommendation from a teacher I entered the Snap Printing store on the corner of Harris St and Broadway in Ultimo and was greeted after approximately 20 minutes (the store is the size of the interior of a Hyundai Getz, I was ignored) with a "yea?" by the brute behind the counter.

I explained that the file I desired to transfer from soft to hard copy was currently on my laptop *gesture to bag* and that it was in a Mac format. I informed that I could output this file into PDF if that were easier but that it was very important that it look excellent.

Rudely shoved (physically) into a corner and told "use that, there" with an uncouth hand gesture to a line of archaic computers faceted into the back wall with old chewing gum I sputtered that I had no idea what "that" was, nor "how to use it" "there". 

Several minutes later a young man with an horrendous body odour and an even more hideous manner slid up next to me, far too close for comfort - olfactory or otherwise. 

"What's up honey?" The..person enquired in a drawled accent akin to the sound a drunk person makes just before they vomit.

I suppressed a cringe (read: full body convulsive shudder of disgust) and explained my predicament to him. 

"Nah, can't. Youshudusephotoghop eh" he spat

"Excuse me?" I replied

"I dunnobout macsnshit. Push print eh, it'llbe hectic *laugh*" 

I truly and fervently wanted to kick it in the non-existent boy bits and run gleefully down the road where I would inevitably be sick in the first rubbish bin which presented itself. Instead I attempted to breathe (not too deep, his smell was still permeating my immediate oxygen supply) and said, "alright, just print this. You screw it up I'm not paying for it."

I assumed the boy (read: thing) would be taken aback by the forward attitude of this small Caucasian girl with bright red hair and understatedly breathtaking jewelry but no such luck. He returned some crack that he would just say it was my document that was "assed" and I chose to ignore him.

Eventually the thing printed (on A3, inevitably twice the price) but it looked beautiful. I was informed by "it" that cutting the four excess sides from the A4 sized picture in the middle would cost me an extra $1 per cut. I laughed openly and in his face, said "no freakin way!" slammed my card down on the counter and said "on savings". I think he took a sick sort of pleasure in replying that I couldn't put $9.80 on a card - the limit was $10. I was awestruck. Completely aghast at the utter incompetence and sheer useless existence of every male in my current vicinity. I pointed at the $.60 blank CD's and muttered "for f*ck's sake..!" He got my gist and swiped the card. A moment later he said "I gotta go it again". 

I'd had about 5 times too much of this so I made him print me out a receipt stating that my card had definitely NOT been charged twice (I would have made him sign in fresh blood that this were the case if it were the middle ages), put my document and CD in an envelope, grabbed my receipt and headed for the door. 

Ballsy as always when I reached the door I opened it slightly, turned around and said, "thanks you f*cking pricks." and walked out promptly, leaving the door open and the icy wind swirling all the papers on the counter. Hopefully my Wicked Witch of the West-esque exit left them squealing around for hours like pigs in slops picking up all their rubbish.

*fumes* *growls* *smoke billows from ears*

"GRRRRRRRRRRRR!!"

I will be going to the print shop up the road next time, and every time, for the rest of time. I hope everyone I know will follow.

Airports and Au Revoirs

I've decided I don't believe in goodbyes. I no longer think they are finite and I certainly don't think they are forever. What's the lyrics.. "sometimes goodbye is a second chance".. Strangely appropriate and I believe, quite wise.

Through my handful of years (ok..not so much a handful as slightly more than two hands and two feet in "child counting") on this funny little mottled planet I have said a great deal of goodbyes. I have said adios to countries, states, houses, plush toys, loved ones and jewelry unfortunately lost in the lining of bags far too large for any one woman to tote on a regular basis. 

On reminiscence of these goodbyes (spurred by a profoundly heart wrenching yet emotionally solidifying and determination-inducing trip to Sydney's Kingsford-Smith International terminal today to bid farewell for an indefinite period of time to the person I have loved most in this world) I find that most of them are actually "au revoir"'s or, colloquially, "until next time"'s. 

Aside from those who have died (who I imagine will come to pertinence of my sentiments when I, too finally move on from this earth) most of the things to whom I have bid a fond (or sometimes, less than fond) adieu have come back into my life at one time or another (see "Seattle Soiree" installments for a recent example) and have either lost their lustre or conversely, gained an unforeseen and truly majestic glow. 

I don't believe that we should fear goodbyes; what are they but a decided step into the unknown? As much as it seems human nature to fear the things we have not yet experienced perhaps if we looked on "goodbye" as "see you soon and I can't wait to hear about all the fun things you do between now and then!" that little 7 lettered piece of the English vernacular wouldn't be so daunting. It may even become synonymous with "beginning" and therefore, "hello".