I suppose I really suck at this blog thing. I’m supposed to have, what, two blogs? Oh yeaaaaah, that food blog I had. I was totally gonna pimp out on that, y’see, but then “THINGS HAPPENED” and then posts didn’t happen. So yeah.

At the moment I’m in a weird limbo at the moment, that sort of hanging-in-the-space thing, like a question hanging in the air, or the elephant in the room, or the heavy pause before the sex commences. I’m just about finished with layin’ out an actual book that I am going to somehow work up my courage to take to publishers.

I went and saw Scott Pilgrim VS The World. Then I read the comic. And realised what a dickhead I was for being hipster-biased and not liking Scott Pilgrim without even reading the book. Duh. Even better, I saw Scott Pilgrim for free (due to captioning fuck up) and had Nasi Lemak* with an ace friend (and really paid for it the next day on the loo… when you say you want it spicy hot, they give it to you HOT).

*For the novices of Asian cuisine, Nasi Lemak is like the equivalent of a “Can’t decide? Get a KFC All-Stars Combo Meal!” with awesome mounds of weird foodstuff, so if you’re one of those weird types who mash up everything and shovel it in, dating someone who likes to separate everything and eat them in an astrologically correct order, then Nasi Lemak is for you with chilli sambal, dried baby fishies, deep fried peanuts, fried leg of chicken, coconut rice, a sunny egg, slices of cucumber and pickled onions.

He and I talked all about how fantastic the film was and how that we still had to make good on our promise, coincidentally over the last time we had Nasi Lemak, to make a short deaf film that would blow everybody’s minds. I was so psyched (Probably because I found a can of Dr Pepper at one of my favourite weird snacks/drinks Asian shops and drank it against doctors’ orders) that as soon I got home, I started churning out a rough draft of a script. So that’s another step into netherspace.

I suppose the biggest factor as to why it feels like I’m in la la la limbo land, is because I’m off to the United States of Americas. Yeah, for realz. Cos I miss my bestest ever lesbian lover wife who left me for a latino lover, who is probably reading this right now. Yeah, I’m talking to you bitch, you whom broke my heart!!! She’s in the middle of a cornfield somewhere to the side of USA, probably the country’s allegorical pubic hair, which isn’t a bad thing, because apparently it’s full of great eatings!

(I think another factor of this blog post might be because I just consumed a whole bag of on-sale Ms&Ms and THE OLD FLAVOUR IS BACK. It used to be kinda weird, but my brain must have forgotten the subtle difference of the Ms&Ms of pre-2005 and the ones of post-2005. YES! I was already upset that there was no Ms&Ms Easter Eggs for 2010.)

Oh and I even posted a goddamn fan fiction. For realz, and it isn’t as cringeworthy as I thought it would have felt, but then again I haven’t gotten any emails going “OMG THIS IS CRAPULTAR!!!”

I’m even considering moving in my sister’s house, because soon I’ll have been living with my mum for 2 years and it’ll have been a year since I quit my shithole of a job, and I need a change of scene. I’m starting to hate Melbourne, because I love it so much, but I really realised how much I hate/love it here cos I went up to Sydney and I liked it a lot. So my sister’s house – complete with three very young nieces who love me way too much. I’ll probably have one or two crawling in my bed in the wee hours of the morning, and that’s kind of a cool thing… and my dinosaur drawing skills will explode by 10000000 times skillful skillz. Then, my plan is to have a nervous breakdown within the first week I’m at my sister’s house and get a horrible job somewhere like writing emails to grandmothers to tell them that their houses are being repossessed. (I never had any grandparents, so I’m naturally cynical and whorish, without the tempering of grandparenterly opinionating). So, I’ll have a brainsnap and actually get things done, and then move out to a renting house – either sharing in Melbourne or finally out of the land of pouches (marsupials and beers) itself.

Also, I started a comic book. Only, I made a couple of rules for it. In the past, with comics, I get all flustered and confounded with all the JAZZ! of comics – I kept on making the mistake of opening up “HOW TO BECOME A MANGA ARTIST!!!” “HOW TO DRAW COMICS!!” “HOW TO PUBLISH WEBCOMICS!!” “HOW TO BE A SELF INDULGENT JERK AND WRITE DUMB BOOKS ON HOW TO BE SOMETHING THAT YOU COULD BE NATURALLY!” books. So yeah. Yeah. I got all overwhelmed, sad I know, by all the Pens and the White Outs and the Masking paints I had to have. I actually brought bags of all of those shit, for Comic Doing. Guess what? I ended up throwing most of those shit away, because those shit do expire like food. Waste of money and dignity. And don’t get me started on the fucking comic script and rulers.

Back to my comic project. My rules are simple. As follows: No rulers of any form. Pencil and erasers permitted. No script. AT ALL. Only ONE type and size of pen (I chose a cheap easy one that you can get at any Officeworks shop). No fucking masking or white or black paint. Black copic marker only allowed for filling out large areas of black voids. Did I say no script? No SCRIPT!!! Mistakes can be fixed with pieces of paper and glue stick. All to be done in a cheap Officeworks brought A4 visual diary, and I can’t go beyond more than 3 pages in pencils cos I might change my mind at the last minute. So no script, get it?

So there ya have it. I’ve nearly finished with the third page, and it’s actually looking pretty good so far. Who knows, I might get bored of it tomorrow and never touch the damn thing again, or I’ll fill it out and then Officeworks will have stopped stocking the same sort of sketchbook the week prior, leading to me dropping to my knees in the bitterly cold snow and screaming. But hey its fun so far! Hmmmm? What’s that? Oh, what is it about? Well, that’s a pretty good question… and a pretty damn long story in itself. Which is kind of why I’m writing this story.

Long story made really short and as un-confusing as possible, it’s an autobiography. Except, it’s done Jungian-style. About my personas, the ones I’ve developed over the years since I was a kid – the phases, the evolution, the flaws and the quirks. They all have their own personalities and sense of fashion. I first thought of this when I was 14, and at that time, I only wrote down four ‘personas’. Then when I was 17, I wrote up 8 ‘personas’. Rolling on by 21, I thought I had reached 11 personas. No way. 23 years old, and I officially had 15 official personas. Oh, fuck me – this is going to be long. Better cut it up before I start my psychological philosophical diarrhoea. So yeah… this is an un-fictional autobiography about my actual personas which I have named, like how I name every single dress I have (I think I have 55 dresses now, since I just recently acquired a sexy pot dress from Savers, henceforth named “Reptila Italia”). So a bit of  paradoxical, psychological, philosophical (and psychic! eee!) story.

I’m a bit of a weirdo, but a very private one – but my current mirror-shadow-persona (the 13th one – I’m the 12th presently) is someone that isn’t constrained by ‘mortal’ rules and issues. She’s the one who shoved me towards the sketchbook and said it was nearly time, and so I’m starting now – she doesn’t care that it will pretty much be a map to my entire self, something that the 12th is not comfortable about and will cop a lot of flak from some of the others… I sound crazy now, eh?

I wish I could throw up a scribble right now to sign off this blog, but it’s past midnight and it’s pretty damn cold downstairs here and there’s a HUGE bed upstairs waiting for me with fluffy blankets and sheets YES. Oh fucking gods YES. Tomorrow I’m gonna finish layin’ out the book, pick up my other books and transcripts, write up a list of publishing places to hit next week in my best dresses and jewels, as well as my new warrior paint style (thick waterproof eyeliner on the top, cat-eye style – doesn’t bleed when I cry in the chill breeze as I ride!). Then I’m gonna work on a little data surprise for Father’s Day. Then maybe I will go and drink alcohol out of a cup that is bigger than my head. No shit. That will make me drunk by 7, so I’ll stagger home and pass out by 8 on the couch, and Inky The Evil Cat will start gnawing out my larynx. Oh and I’ll buy more bags of Ms&Ms and eat the blue ones, then the orange ones, then the yellow ones, then the red ones then the green ones and finally the BROWN ones which taste the best of all colours in my humble opinion.

Good night, ladies and gentlemen and my darling ex-pat-bitch who I love so much and you know who you are, reading this right now and doing that adorable eyeroll-and-half-grin!

I had an awesome weekend, hosting a party with my lil bro Joe Wee – a smashing house party with the theme of Joe & Liz: dress up as us! I know, quite egostical, but it was better than a dozen of other ideas I was stressing out on over – and it was el simpacto, and it turned out AWESOME.

I gave out fake trophies and cheap champers to the winners, and then just ran around, drank, chatted, cooked, drank, ran around some more, drank even more… and it was 3.30am when everybody finally started going home, and I had to physically threaten with weapons before a lagging, arguing guest would leave. I made sure everybody was occupying couches, beds, carpets and all were covered and well, no risk of the humiliating death by vomit. Then I got to pop into my bed, but one of the guests who I had kindly permitted the use of one side of my bed took MY side, and so I was seething, and so was Inky. Inky is only willing to share the double bed with one person – and thats me!

I got inspired to draw the picture above, since it seems to be that I’m always the last one left standing at my parties, (or even Joe wee’s parties), making sure everybody is okay and warm and not too sick before I pass out myself. It’s the ultimate quality of a host, I believe – carrying the Holy Beer Hose and the Sacred Purge Bucket, stepping over sticky puddles and comtase guests, entertaining people till the wee hours of the morning. And it’s totally worth it, with lovely guests enjoying themselves verily muchly and certain guests for future parties.

Now, this picture… I drew this after a rather funny conversation between I and the Young Boys. It was a little risqué, perhaps a too bit for this public blog, best saved for girls-only sleepovers with lots of sweet drinks and icecream. However, the general gist was this – with women falling into varying categories based on their experiences, expertise, fetishes and whatnot. For example:

The Beginner: A sweet girl, the perfect sort for a budding bed explorer – with only a handful of sexual experiences, this girl shouldn’t be too difficult to please and enjoy. The cons are that if you are quite terrible, then the beginner’s course can become a nightmare of awkward and severely de-moralising moments, and one should not be trying any new tricks on this course.

The Intermediate: A cheeky lass, with her daring undies and sexual wits. Tucking in her stockings a good list of sexual experiences, this girl is great for the adventurous – not scared of trying new things and vocal in her feedback, intermediates are sure to improve greatly under her. The cons are that while she is great with feedback, she knows what she wants and if you fail to deliver or try to bluff, she will see right through it and place you firmly not in her black book, but in the trashcan.

The Expert: The ultimate course of the Madame of Women; she has a tally of sexual experiences that probably overtakes yours by far, far, far. She is not open to new ideas – she is the new idea personified; every serve is a night you will never forget, and you will go on a hands-free – or, hands-tied – ride! The cons is that if you’re not prepared or experienced enough, you might never be able to ever seize control of the ride and come away quite traumatised.

Inspired by an article that was discovered today… but first: a backstory to this dark tale.

My sister and I were presented with a little brother (who turned out to be deaf like I) when she and I were 6 and 4; we were at that age where our imaginations were expanding at a terrific exponential pace, and we were quickly being adepts of tactical strategy, if we weren’t already – my sister used to receive “one lolly for you, one lolly for your little sister”, and sure enough, I never saw those lollies. One of my earliest memories of my sister, when I was two or three, was me crying as my sister started to scoot up on the plastic bench and put her arm around me, ever the image of a loving elder sister – I knew somehow that she was beginning an elaborate employment of a plot to steal my precious hot chips.

My sister and I learnt that a large percentage of the attention previously divided between she and I were now being leeched by the new, strange creature with an even more stranger growth between his chubby legs. Our mother doted on the boy, clearly declaring that boys were so much easier and cuter than girls (and now I have to agree, having babysat a string of little girls who are just too smart and cunning for their own good). Of course, for the next decade, the spoiling dotage upon the boy by our mother was balanced by the jealous, malicious nature of two sly girls.

I won’t go into too much details as to what transpired, but while an older sibling may have hit and shoved a younger sibling around, I preferred to torment my cornered little brother with whispering signs and tensed body language, heralding all sorts of tales – from books I’d read or plucked from the air – and mother would wonder what had reduced her baby boy to a trembling pile of pale puppy fat that insisted to have the light on as he slept for many years to come.

Now. An article that I read today brought back a flood of those memories, and I gleefully showed it to my brother, telling him that I was actually telling the truth back then – he read the article and gave me a withering look that was full of bitterness, humour and perhaps, a little ounce of fear.

The Invisible Shark

Even after half a decade of private bullying and competition, my little brother Joe was emerging as thick-skinned as the baby blubber he still held on his body. Mother boasted on how brave and hardy her little boy was, always cheerful even after a nasty fall or stealing some cheese treats, but my sister and I suspected that he was just really a bit thick in the head, and I made the connection with the now-myth that dinosaurs had such small brains and therefore, were so slow that pain came to their senses several minutes later. Joe burst into tears when I gallantly explained to him my theory of him being a closer descendant in relative to the dinosaur’s brain sizes.

So he was becoming a bit of a brat – having our father’s humour, he loved to seek out his victims and annoy them to the point that they lost all of their composure and go running to hide behind mother’s skirts and giggle like a demon. He was still in his terrible twos stage, destroying everything that he touched, safe in the knowledge of his diplomacy immunity with mummy darling. I lost a few trinkets, dolls, a half-knitted scarf, clothes, and the providence of mother refused to hand over the fugitive.

Now that he had learnt of his sister’s limits and expanding his own limits, he took great delights in harassing me to get a reaction – our sister was becoming more serious in nature (or snobbish as I called her then) and employed Indian burns with terrifying efficiency, and so I was the weaker of the lot. I was a bit of a loner with too much imagination, and I enjoyed learning stories – especially scary ones – and I believed there were a pack of giant, red-eyed rats living under my bed that would drag me under if I approached the bed nearer than a metre (thanks to the story about the Bishop of Hatto, part of a fairy tale series given to me at age 5).

Things came to a head and blossomed one overcast day, when I was idling in the swimming pool – savouring the cool water, perhaps practising ballet pirouettes or leaps buoyed by the water, when Joe made his arrival. He barrelled into the pool, sending a wave right into my face. We played around for a while, before I drifted off to play with some figment of my imagination. Joe, never one for the intricate trappings of the mental landscape that the invisible dimension had to offer, grew quickly bored and decided to play his own game against me.

He began to splash at me, shovelling water into my face without fail, his chubby face gloating already for my patience’s end. I tried to ignore it, to escape underwater, but I had to breath. I took to the deep end – Joe still had not acquired the confidence to swim there yet. I had a moment’s respite, but it was ruined by another wave of water in my eyes. The brat had rushed out of the water, waddled across the terracotta bricks, and leant into the water to flick at me.

Now my patience was at its end, and Joe was giggling dementedly, every muscle under the layer of fat spring-loaded for a fast retreat to the providence of Mummy’s Skirts. I knew this; so I quickly formulated a plan as I stuck to the middle of the pool, avoiding the brunt of the attacks. I migrated back to the shallows, and Joe waded back in, eager for the kill. I let him splash me – then I shot up in the shallows and gave  an almighty gasp of theatric. I shot past Joe as he paused his splashing, glancing puzzledly at my source of surprise – somewhere in the centre of the pool. I stood up on the orange tiles, shivering slightly in the cool air. I started to wave my hands and yell for Joe to leave the water now – and infected by an unknown fear, he scrambled up next to me, his previous agenda forgotten.

I fixed my eyes on a simmering patch in the centre of the pool – my little brother followed my gaze, squinting his eyes. My brain working liquid quicksliver fast, I gripped his shoulder and pointed at the vague patch. “Look! Can’t you see?” I hissed.

“See what?” was his fluxmmoned reply.

I shook him, and jabbed harder into the air. “Look closer! See? Can you see the ripples?”

“…yeah…” Joe said hesitantly, becoming more afraid by the unnatural behaviour of his odder but softer older sister. Sure enough, there were ripples upon the fragile surface of the water, perhaps the after-effects of our hasty exit from the water, or by the physics of the wind – but we were too little to know anything about man’s science of the world.

I quickly though of grisly fictional horrors to keep myself from bursting into laughter by his flummoxed face, and brought my wide eyes close to his own ones. “…you didn’t know? About the…” my fingers slowed. “…Invisible Shark?”

Now he did chortle, his eyelids drooping in derision. I kept on my mask, and watched gleefully behind it as his cheery tide began to recede again.

“Oh, no,” began I, slowly reeling him in, “no one told you? About the… Invisible Shark?”

A hesitant smile; “… no?”

Pressing hands to my cheeks, all the picture of a distraught teacher, I gave Joe a heart-wrenching gaze. “Oh, dear.”

Any cheerfulness left in Joe had disappeared completely, the change in the tides gone, and he glanced at the pool, then back to me. “What-what’s the Invisible Shark…?”

Hook, line and sinker. I began to swiftly reel him in, stepping closer. “The Invisible Shark is a horrible animal that lives in pools or rivers or the sea or anywhere, and no one can see it… but you can see the ripples in the water. It likes to swim… and swim… then grab you and eat you!!”

I grabbed his shoulder. “There! Look! Ripples!!” I said, pointing a shaking finger at a fresh pattern in the water. Joe’s eyes widened at the sight, his blubber brain probably processing what I had said, being fetched up against his small knowledge of sharks: huge fishes hell-bent on sinking huge maws studded with thousands of razor teeth into tender pink flesh.

“Joe…” my little brother turned his paling face to me, as I curved my hands to sign out the story. “… never, never, NEVER, go into the pool when you see the ripples, because it means the Invisible Shark is in there, and they love to eat… little fat boys.”

His eyes were like saucers, truly, and every muscle under his fat was now unconsciously spring-loaded. “BOO!” I screamed in his face, and off he took, screaming and crying for his protector. I returned to the pool – but for only a few minutes, as my fertile imagination started to show images of the invisible shark being actually real, and liking little thin girls just as well. Imagination can be a double edge.

After that episode, for years to come, I reinforced the tale over and over again to Joe – including tales of foolish boys who ignored the warnings and became a bloody froth in the water, coupled with my “scientific” explanations as to how invisible sharks are found in swimming pools. I savoured my rising power, and sought to imagine more stories to temper Joe’s bratty behaviour towards me. It became so that all I had to do was to point at the surface of water, and shriek – the waters would churn savagely in the sudden vacuum of a chubby child’s body.

Of course, all comes to an end sooner or later: 5 years after my invention, my mother decided to treat the family (and take the risk) to a holiday in Queensland; it was our second holiday – a most excellent one, being at a beautiful resort right by the beach, and an amazing man-made rockpool with waterfalls and secret eddies and more. There were the usual hijinks; being punched by kangarooes, Joe hitting a green tree ant’s nest (boys and their sticks), midnight gorging on secret junkfood stores, begging mother for a cool souvenir that turned completely useless two days after the holiday, and more.

I loved the resort’s “rock” pools, already discovering a “cave” lit by electric lights, where one could sit in the water out of the sun, pretending to be in a mermaid’s or pirate’s cavern. I started to float off on my own imagination’s wings in the pools quickly, content to just float or paddle from one place to other while daydreaming of fantastic situations (mostly involving a boy that I had a crush on then). Joe, already recognising the dreamy expression on my face, knew that I would be an useless playmate – so he quickly fell into boredom, and the inevitable happened next.

One minute, the sun warming my face as I floated in the water, I was in the middle of dreaming of being a warrior princess stoically (but eagerly) accepting a duel by a dashing lord that bore amazing resemblance to my current crush, and the next – I was shoved violently into the water. I came up spluttering, and got a mouthful of water instead of air. I tried to see, but a ferocious assault of mini-tsunamis rendered me blind. I waved, screaming, “STOP IT! STOP IT!” I knew who my attacker was – and I tried to retreat, but he followed me. So began a cat-and-mouse game, him attacking me gleefully from all ends without reprieve as I sought to escape.

I swam fast and furious, escaping into the grotto, where I sat on a small scoop of shelf to gather my senses and wits. Joe paddled in, and went to the opposite bench, grinning at me. He raised his hands to begin a new assault on me, but I was quicker.

“STOP! LOOK!” I shrieked, pointing at the eddy in the water. “A HUGE INVISIBLE SHARK!!!” I flattened myself against the wall, one eye on the eddy, the other on Joe.

The effect was near instanteous; he dropped his hands, and pressed himself to his own wall, trying to read my expression for guile, and trying not to look at the swirling eddies – the grotto had two exits, and the water churned in its passage between both. I couldn’t help it; I started to laugh, and declared:  ”HA HA HA! You’re going to be eaten now, stupid!”

Joe’s lip quivered, and he burst into tears. (Excuse me – I’ve dissolved into sniggers as I write this, such is the memory of his face fixed in mine. A moment please…) His eyes were so wide, his pupils tiny, and he was sobbing so hard, snot was trickling down his chin, and his knees were shaking. I continued to laugh as he gave way to panic by the obvious currents, which swept over to him – and off he shot, paddling as fast as his chubby limbs could take him (oh the sight was so grand), and he disappeared from the cave, leaving me dying to my laughter.

When I finally composed myself, I went from the cave some time later to swim into the sun-soaked pools; however, at the pool’s edge was a sobbing boy wrapped by a towel, next to an extremely furious mother, her face a thunderstorm directed at me.

I had to swear up and down that the Invisible Shark was not real, as was any of the monsters I had told him, and to apologise over and over again to a still-sobbing wreck of a boy (and I was declared Ruiner Of Holidays by my mother after a few other family holidays later in life).

Joe is now a grand man who has lost his puppy fat (but for a bit of a beer gut), a forth and up-coming bricklayer with his own business and an easy charm for friends and particularly girls, and I am quite proud of him. However, he still treats me with initial suspicion, as if he cannot quite believe everything that flies out of my head – and he narrows his gaze at me when I bring up certain things like ’sharks’ and ‘invisibles’ to this day, like this article that I presented to him.

I like to think with a grin, that the next time he goes out into the water for a spot of spearfishing: he’ll remember me, the article and the… Invisible Shark.

I hate it when I get a burst of creativity, rolling Indian Jones Style, right in the middle of the night – and no, it wasn’t my illict against-doc’s-orders Dr Pepper – and I wind up drawing and colouring and filtering as though it’s due the next day on its last extension. I stayed up till 4am colouring this, ignoring the pins-and-needles that set in around 2.30am and the bandage on my right palm taking on a nasty colour (however, it’s a waterproof bandage, so no blood-and-pus tracking all over my wacom tablet – you can put away your barf bags now).

Mon dieu. I need a Dr Pepper now, Blue Tongued Fairy’s orders.

P.S. Regarding the comic, I love it when that happens, like something out of a bad episode of Seinfeld (actually all of them are bad to me – I prefer Monty Python) that gives me the smirks every now and then as I remember.

Sorry, nice visitors to Australia, for crashing my bike right into your photo.

Thank you for the Cathy Pacific Airways labelled sanitary napkins, and for picking my bike up as I laid on the (bloody fucking hell who invented the “traditional sand and crushed shells, a nod to the original owners of the land” gravel – it’s like a grade 8 sandpaper) ground, trying not to pass out as my palms and knee laid seared open. (Great, just great – my right palm is a horrendous sight, a window right into sinews and fat! It was a literal pain to draw this…)

My fault, really, I wanted to show off a slick drifting-wheels turn through the legs of the statue pictured, to awe the dear tourists with Melbourne’s infamous hipster vintage bike skillz, leaving behind a fashionable blur in their photograph. Instead, I hit a pile of the #*%^#@ soft sand and went sailing clear in front of their camera.

Now I’m  grumpy that my body is throbbing, that I’ve lost a pair of decent black pantyhose, that my bike is in the shop. Oh well. At least it kicked my lazy arse enough to post this.

So, last night, I buckled up and put on my winning pencil skirt, and “Lady Danger” red lipstick, striding out to a LJ community meet up. I waited at the tram stop, looking around for The Bridge Hotel’s new and very cute bouncer – I’m tempted to stop by next time I come back home from some shinding in the city, and say hi or some stupid thing that I’ll want to claw hammer myself to death. Mmmmmmmm.

I arrived at Taco Bill’s on Collins at 5.30pm, and rather nervous, I entered and saw a group of them – I’ve actually never seen any of their photos – and I skittered forwards, kind like a zebra trying to move towards a waterhole surrounded by all kinds of other beasts, i.e. giraffe, rhino, monkey, storks – kind of half ready to bolt back into the street if they gave the wrong muscle twitch at my approach.

Nothing happened, and I settled in my seat and started to write my little intro on some printed LJ comment-style pages, and gave them out as an icebreaker. They took to it rather well, and I got a half-price fishbowl – one of the people’s nicknames for a litre of magherita in a huge glass, worth like 10 shots of tequila, called Pancho Villa. I like fishbowl better. I had the lemon, and man, it really HIT.

Before I knew it, I was drunk and fast approaching “no responsibility zone”, and I was giggling nonstop at the stupid “clink” sound that the fishbowl made with the next guy, my shirt was unbuttoned to the last button (thank fuck I wore my best lace bra) and I was having the best time of my life.

I snogged at least one lovely lady, and got complimented for that, something I’m plum pleased about. I LOVE KISSING! So far for awesome 2010, I’ve seriously snogged at least two beautiful ladies and one ehh ehh guy (his only redeeming factors were his foreignness and his business clothes). Somehow I feel this year will be a bit of a lesbianistic year. Hell, I did roll around naked with the first one, but I wasn’t that brave (aka drunk) to try the downstairs… yet.

I got my second one, a strawberry flavour, and regretted it after three sips – it was sweet like gelati, and it was going to crawl up my gullet in the morning and stab my tonsils. I played a drinking game, I wrote some more, met more wonderful people, and I felt like I was on top of the world – actually, I just had a sudden flash of that guy in Dr Strangelove, riding the bomb with his cowboy hat. That was totally me last night. I got a guy’s number and smsed him immediately, asking if I could have the left over of his fishbowl (half finished, strawberry flavoured).

Oh, I’m such a whore. For free drinks, yeaaaaaaaaaah!!! Somehow I staggered home and saved a mouse from my sister’s trap (poor thing was in shock and had broken his little paw). I’m ashamed but truthful to say that for a moment, I considered the idea of another stuffed mouse for my collection. I decided against that, and my sister yelled at me when i took it outside to release it – it probably went off and died quietly somewhere, from the stress of being in the trap for hours. Poor little thing…

I went to sleep at like 10pm and woke up at 5 or 6 and could not go back to sleep, and then I was suddenly trampled by two sets of little feet. I got up and urrrrrggghhhh. I nearly puked, even ran to the toilet and everything, and my head swam with 2 litres of lemon and strawberry flavours. As my dear nieces clamoured over their favourite Aunty being here to play with them all day, I half considered the idea of fourth trimester abortion. Yessss.

I’d totally do this again, and this time, pace myself a little with the fishbowls (ha), and I can’t wait for the photos and the scanned notes that was made last night to come on the internet. I give myself a pat on the head, like when I stripped in public during lunch peak hour in the city for moleskin sketchbooks.

This year is all about amazing people and how they make me feel amazing! GO 2010!

Guess what!

I finally buckled and hopped into the influx of food blogs – only this one is a cherry blossom icecream with a wabasi kick: Iron Chef Style with animation!

Iron Tokage

Bon Appetit!!!

(In other news, I’m over the moon after the past few days being very generous on my wardrobe – I have received mum’s old ring from my sister, a lovely Victorian gold ring with diamond chips in it, and from my aunty – an amazing vintage velvet Rosella dress by a famous Australian designer Prue Acton, who shot to stardom during the ’60s!)

For like the first time since my hormone-fuelled teenage years (I think), Valentine’s Day tickles my rage receptors. I was driving home with my mother from Footscray after a review lunch, and as we swung past the corner of North Melbourne, mother pointed out a french restaurant.

It was Libertine, and I picked it out instantly for its white curtains and what do you call those mini-curtains, like the dust ruffles around the bed – window dust ruffles? Anyway, I whipped out my slick iPhone and within seconds, found the website, and started nosing around for the menu. The food sounded sublime, and already I was plotting my expedition to that place.

I found my way to the “Special Events” and a paragraph jumped out at me – “…luxurious degustation featuring foie gras, Hervey Bay scallops, Rose veal & winter Perigord truffles.  To match, some aged & rare wines from France and Europe, with Champagne…” – word for word. My mouth became Niagara Falls. And it was all for only 175 dollars per person, well worth more than a month without power or a new dress.

Only – it was for Valentine’s day. Not one, but two (and perhaps a menage a trois for the french spirit) had to book for the limited-seats event.

Now I’m all grouchy I don’t have a nice boyfriend that I can manipulate into taking me to this french place for foie gras and scallops and truffles… urrrrggghhhhhhh I hate Valentine’s Day

The lumpy pumpy frumpy dumpy Lizard is grumpy.

I just had a lovely lunch with my father today in the city, after an appointment in a rather tepid office – the A/C was on the blink – and the lunch was at Hako’s on Little Flinders.

I wish we had picked another place, maybe that dumpling place we passed, because it sure has changed since the last time I was there – what, 3 years ago? I remember that night well; it was one of my friend’s birthday dinners, then off to the pub where I did a 180 degrees turn and fell right on my face in a dead faint, and had my corset ripped off from my comatose body. How very wuthering! (Hint: it was hypotension).

The food that night was sublime; fusion Japanese-modern food, with zucchini flower tempura and sizzling steak with yuzu marinade – I believe I had an amazing prawn salad of sorts, and a tempura chicken wrapped thingy that melted in your mouth with the divine salad.

After dithering a little, doing a little walking to wait for the restaurants to warm up (it was noon), we entered Hako’s, and I was hoping to introduce the fine menu to my father and sit back with a satisfied face at a menu well ooh and ahh’ed over.

No such luck. Too late, I remembered, as I travelled the menu, that a friend – a bit of a regular visitor to Hako – told me that the place had changed, and he liked it a heck lot more. The menu had taken a complete 180 degrees turn, perhaps after that night of me greeting the sticky cement floor, and well.

It was boring now. Just… simple Japanese food. Don’t get me wrong; I LOVE simple Japanese food, especially rustic, and you’ll have to drag me away from a kastu don with electric tazers. Today, i was expecting something Japanese and different. Something to arouse my creative taste buds after Iron Chef episodes, give me a few ideas. Simple Japanese food is just like getting fish n’ chips or a burger. Hell, Hako’s new menu had kastu don on it!

And it’s all overpriced – seriously, kastu don in Japan is like Big Mac: you can find a bowl for a mere 4 dollars! But 20 dollars? Come on! It’s like they decided to throw their creative originality out of the window and keep the original prices.

The food was good, of course, but nothing dazzling or something to write home to mum. My father said that it was a new trend that he noticed in restaurants he revisited – them rolling back on the marrow spread or the chicken neck curry (not missed, I assure you) and “revisiting” the traditional fare. Also, apparently the public likes that. I can cook traditional fare at home, and make it taste DANG good, so for that sort of price tag, I want a dollop of adventure on my food, cooked by Iron-calibre chefs not Aluminium-calibre chefs, thank you!

You know me – I treat vintage finds like treasures, like a palaeontologist would treat a dinosaur bone. He wouldn’t chop 1/3 of it off so it could fit in this cool display case. I’d walk away from a pretty dress that would look great on me, only if I would chop off its over-frilled sleeves… some things are meant to be.

I’m fine with some enterprising people who take clothes that are either damaged, or so fugly, and give it a “make over” (pairing it with another sad piece, or with new materials, or vamping it up), and sell it for a higher price. Nothing wrong with that, and often, their re-styling is often quite well done. Pity most of them don’t flatter me – I’m on the lookout for a nice restyled vintage skirt my size.

However, today at Camberwell Market, the mecca for all vintage trawlers and gleaners, there was a stall that I stepped into. I picked out a dress, thinking “oh, what a nice ’80s dress… hang on, it’s really short. Really short.”

I looked at the size – it was 8, so I put it back, thinking it must be some of a throwback to the ’70s mod dresses, the kind that really encouraged men’s hairs to grow vibrantly over all squares of skin.

Looking down the rack, I glanced to the pair that was manning the stall – blondish hipsters (everywhere at the moment, infesting Camberwell market). Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against hipsters – who knows, I might be one myself – but sometimes their attachment to trends despite being “unmaterialistic” and “indie” leaves me rolling my eyes so hard my chin is pulled back like the tide.

Ooooh, what’s this? A gorgeous screen-print thick polyster dress! Beautiful colours – brilliant kingfisher blue, orange and yellow streaks, a little proper belt and… an extremely short hem.

Ok, that’s odd. This type of dress would be long and flowing, 80s again, not so short the bottom of your undies would flash while tram-hopping. I had a closer look at the short hem, and my ears started to ring a warning, and I saw red.

The fricking hem had been butchered. I don’t know how much they cut away, but probably at least a foot, a FOOT of this brilliant material, and to add insult to injury, they had bloody fucking machine-sewn the hem in a ’sealing’ sew like they would do to buttonholes!!!!!!!!! IN BLACK THREAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ON A BRILLIANT BLUE/ORANGE/YELLOW DRESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

&^%$#$%^&^%$#@!@#$#$!$%#@$#%!%$#@#$!

NO SEWING TECHNIQUES AT ALL. You’d think they would do the balantly obvious: use a BLUE thread, and fold up the hem, after doing a sealing stitch to stop it from fraying, and gently sew it around. They could have folded it up, so whoever brought it could have let it down, since it’s such a beautiful dress.

But NOOOOOOOOOOOOO. They wanted to TEAR it off so it looked COOL and RACY and HIP and FLASH (your underpants). AND THEY FRICKING USED BLACK THREAD. AND IT LOOKS LIKE THE WHOLE BOTTOM IS A BUTTONHOLE. FOR THEIR ASS.

Stepping back in shaking anger, I surveyed the rest of the dresses, and my heart leap into my throat as I saw the other poor, poor specimens: mutilated beyond repair. BEYOND REPAIR. That’s right, beautiful limited-edition dresses that were sold thirty years ago, damaged beyond repair. Might as well throw them in a mulcher. They not only chopped off the lengh on some dresses, they also chopped off the sleeves on some.

I hope that stall never sells anything and those two particular bloody idiotic hipsters give up on their so-called enterprise, stop mutilating clothes and ask their parents for money on some other one such as bead jewellery for bikes or feather-covered Van shoes. HISSSSSSS.