21 December, 2009
Reason why I love my girlfriends #573
The fact that, at a Christmas BBQ in the forest, they spontaneously compared feet and stood in colourpalette-ological order (by toenails) to admire.
That’s right - they did this without me suggesting the taking of a photo.
That - and hypootheticals - but that’s another story.  

Reason why I love my girlfriends #573

The fact that, at a Christmas BBQ in the forest, they spontaneously compared feet and stood in colourpalette-ological order (by toenails) to admire.

That’s right - they did this without me suggesting the taking of a photo.

That - and hypootheticals - but that’s another story.  

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19 December, 2009
I’m reblogging this because I love that someone has bothered to put into image and words the answer to all those questions raised by Masterchef earlier this year. How many convos did I have about the differences and the spellings? Enough that this makes me very satisfied.
P.S. I am a believer in both. YUM.
veronicalovesarchie:

truth speech ahead, i have seen this error made in print ALL over the shop. and it gives me the irrits.
deghanmay:

I love you all, but I have to do this.
On your left is a macaroon. A macaroon is a cookie, usually made with coconuts and egg whites. Apparently Italian in origin.
On your right is a macaron. A macaron a sandwich-like pastry made with two thin cookies and a cream between them. Classically French.
The more you know…

I’m reblogging this because I love that someone has bothered to put into image and words the answer to all those questions raised by Masterchef earlier this year. How many convos did I have about the differences and the spellings? Enough that this makes me very satisfied.

P.S. I am a believer in both. YUM.

veronicalovesarchie:

truth speech ahead, i have seen this error made in print ALL over the shop. and it gives me the irrits.

deghanmay:

I love you all, but I have to do this.

On your left is a macaroon. A macaroon is a cookie, usually made with coconuts and egg whites. Apparently Italian in origin.

On your right is a macaron. A macaron a sandwich-like pastry made with two thin cookies and a cream between them. Classically French.

The more you know…

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14 December, 2009

Is that PK?

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12 December, 2009
Is it just me…
..or is this warning very un-mac-like? i.e. not brilliantly-intuitive-and-helpful-before-you-even-knew-you-needed-help.
Does anyone even know what this means?

Is it just me…

..or is this warning very un-mac-like? i.e. not brilliantly-intuitive-and-helpful-before-you-even-knew-you-needed-help.

Does anyone even know what this means?

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12 December, 2009

Ah ha moment.

This one courtesy of my sister.

A while back, some very cute photos of my sister were posted on fbook. Being mid-engagement, my only thought was - can we get that make up artist for the wedding? I lived in the Inner West and thought no more about it.

Flash forward to December and we are living in Clovelly, enjoying morning swims at Coogee beach and soy lattes from Gusto on Coogee Bay Rd.

A little down the road, Melonhead is dishing out luscious fruit and dairy concoctions to sprightly tanned things, imported from the 2009 catalogue ‘This is what Summer looks like, World’. And on the wall are posters of the photos just like those of my sister. All clean and white and shiny and promising. Spruiking someone called Sebastian? Either way, it reminded me of her and I called her to organise mid week gourmet snacks and pink wine.

A few days later, I need swimmers. In a fit of mid-winter short sightedness, I had thrown out all of my swimming costumes, save the ‘I’m not here for fun’ Speedo one piece. But we’re East side now. I need something frilly.

The dime a dozen surf shop offers nothing but billabong and roxy, and it’s so familiar in there that I almost pick up the store phone when it rings and answer - EssDeeEss ChatteeWess-ThisizAlex! It’s creepy so I bail, swimmer less.

Up the road though, something clean and shiny catches my eye, something promising. It’s cute and fun and…sort of…haven’t I…? don’t I…? oooooh. riiiiight. The ah ha moment. There’s those posters again, all over the walls. More funky young things in shiny white surrounds. And the store is By San Sebastian.

My sis: so cool. I almost tell the shop assistant that my sister is one of their people as I purchase my frilly swimmers. But I don’t. I realise at the last minute that this is not what the sister of one of their people would do. Close.

Ali and Bron, so freakin adorable!

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11 December, 2009

Q: Days like these.
A: Why do we live where we live?

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11 December, 2009

The one and only downside to riding to work after a morning swim: helmet hair.

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24 November, 2009

Berlin, or 'I am a jam donut'*

Never has a city been so highly anticipated. When we tout it as a destination, people sort of melt, smokily. They go all Marlene Dietrich on us: Oh, you’ll luuuuhhhve Berliiiiinn. There are promises of fingers on the pulse, of finding ourselves at the centre of something. Can mere molecules live up to such expectations?

On the 11am intercity, she commences introductions. On one side of the train carriage, the girls in the booth across from us have popped a bottle of sparkling, opened a picnic of cheese, crackers and grapes, and appear to be watching porn on their laptop. Or maybe it’s a tribute to Patrick Swayze? Later I realise it’s Dirty Dancing, dubbed in German. They smile conspiratorially at me - Es ist das Szene, in der Wasser! (or something) I stretch my hands above my head, hoisting an imaginary Jennifer Grey into the air, and ask for confirmation with my eyebrows. Ja! They cry, and high five each other. Fair enough. So would I.

On the same train is the lady we come to dub the Earnest German.

Mid afternoon, we share our booth with some teenage funky young things. The Earnest German – let’s call her EG - and her two skivvy clad offspring join us later. She claims a right to their (currently our) seats, and is brutally rebuffed. The kohl eyed teens mouth off, cock a fringe toward her reasoning, snigger loudly as she and the cubs skulk away. There is a hint of what’s to come though when EG turns on a euro, sprints back up the central carriageway and brings that unadorned face just centimeters away from her dewy nemesis. Her violent torrent of enunciation leaves Blondie momentarily alert, but the teen recovers, blows a puff of peppermint gum and resumes task: blank indifference.

All seems settled, the mother retreats. The teens chat and gossip with the Dirty Dancing girls. They have misjudged the EG though, and her desire to teach young skivvy a lesson in ‘what’s right’. She returns, with back up: the impossibly large inspector comes to evict us. There is no negotiation for the teens, but being of class foreign white female, I can stay.

EG is smug: ‘See kids?’ (I mistranslate what she tells her sticky, forehead-heavy brood) ‘Never back down when you are right. We could have sat somewhere else, but it’s the principle of the thing.’ She doles out life advice along with tupperwares of such earnest snacks –organic rice cakes, apple quarters, turdlike dates. The skivvies avoid it all and go for the Prince creams. Chocolaty rivers wind from the corners of their mouths. They stare at me wetly over picture books, playing cards, a knock off walkman. ‘See kids?’ she repeats.  They pick their noses, go for another biscuit. ‘It’s the principle.’ I reach for the pod.

There are other things that happen: a Michelin star for my birthday, via Tony and Vau. A pale green apartment on the top floor of The Circus. A fridge overflowing with condiments, most of which we’ll throw out three days later. Karaoke in an amphitheatre. She’s got the look. Losing my religion. Wonderwall.  A night in bed with Good Bye Lenin! Twin baby boomers talking us through the laundromat. Sunday brunch, soy lattes in the park. Americans at the fleamarkets – Can I gedda hotdawg? – No hotdog, this is Bratwurst. Say for me: BRAT. WURST.

We are open to it, all of it, meet every corner eagerly. But mainly we are circling.

I can’t shake the feeling that I should have been here earlier. Not earlier in the year – I mean earlier in life. Accents wander the hostel halls, searching out a matching lilt. Tone is full of ‘last time’ gap year stories. The crowd is young and fashion forward and we are the marrieds on the top floor.

We leave on a Monday. Another AM intercity, another booth.

A few days later, this hits the streets.

Now that’s what I call the centre of things.

Photos

*See JFK’s infamous speech and an urban legend.

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15 November, 2009

Snack Pack (feat. T-Dawg)

Alice, this is for you, featuring one super hung over Wallty. This is also the reason that our kids will not be allowed to watch commercial television.

(Original found here)

throwing-myself-into-the-world:

Was reminded of this awesome 80s ad the other day. So BMX Bandit era Australia

(you know who are that knows all the words to this rap)

“If it wasn’t for snack pack, a kid’d starve!”

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15 November, 2009

It must be tricky to do viral in NYC

On a fresh Fall Tuesday morning (Melbourne Cup day back home), Alice and I were meant to be in Shoe Mania killing time while Tony trawled The Strand bookstore. We noticed a bunch of elves milling about, accompanied by strategic props - skater elf, trumpet elf, baby elf, SEGWAY elf. Smelling something viral, we decided to skip the shoe shopping and plonk ourselves in the middle of Union Square instead.

Our efforts were rewarded when the Square was invaded a few minutes later, and promotion as ‘hilarity’ ensued. We had hoped that our dorky upper body dancing and practiced surprise - plus our exceptionally cute outfits that day - would be sure fire viral video winners. Instead, my purple leg and Alice’s jaunty sequined beret made it to the 7th second of this video and that’s it. The disappointment.

After the elves, these guys turned up. Must have been kicking themselves that they’d chosen the same day as the professionals to try to drum something up. Whelmed.

Miss you Alice!

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