Who?

I’ve been pretty quiet on the writing front this year, mostly from a lack of inspiration. My mum had the theory a while back that I’d become too content. To be honest, this has been a pretty great year. I got a new job, which has resulted in a lot less staying up at night stressing about things. I have a lovely gentleman friend, who shares my passion for seeking out delicious burger joints and lets me scratch his beard. And I got to travel again, making my way around the UK and Ireland with a quick jump over to Paris so I could cross Euro Disney off my bucket list.

So was my mum right? Am I one of those tortured people who can only make art when I’m feeling all the feelings? ‘Tortured artist’ is too cool an image for me. And ‘No longer an artist because I’m feeling pretty great about things’ is not a cool image at all. Something needed to be done. I had to prove this theory wrong. But how? I needed to find inspiration deep within myself. And deep within myself, there was a passion that can only be understood by those who share it: I really freakin love Doctor Who.

 I have an ever increasing collection of DVDs, books, merchandise, t-shirts (even a skirt patterned with tiny TARDIS-es) and an urge to fight anyone who speaks ill of David Tennant. I think very little of Stephen Moffat, will correct anyone who refers to the Daleks as robots, and on one occasion even found myself defending the sixth Doctor. I know, right?

And that UK trip I took this year? I met up with my aunty over there, and we booked in a few days in Cardiff just so we could go to the Doctor Who Experience, a magical walk through experience and museum of props and such that I went to a few years ago in London before it moved. Having booked the trip at the start of the year, we were unaware that it was actually closing five days before we got there for ‘regeneration.’ Also, on account of the fact we arrived in Cardiff the same day as all the world leaders arrived for the NATO summit, most of the city was closed and there was nothing we could do except take a photo of me in front of the closed building, on my knees, with my arms in the air, cursing the sci-fi gods (I have chosen not to post the photo as it is still an open wound oozing with disappointment and nerdy, nerdy heartbreak).

‘Hey, Lauren, why not give writing sci-fi a crack?’ my brain said late one evening when I was tired and delirious enough to think this was a good idea. ‘You’ve got a notebook and pencil, you’re halfway there!’

Now I present to you, ‘Lauren’s list of things you need to write 

Sci-Fi’:

A notebook

A pencil

A mysterious hero

A human to ask aaaall the questions

A spaceship

A popular TV program to steal this formula from

So yeah. That’s what I’m playing around with at the moment. And even if it’s badly written balls, I’m just happy that I’m trying, which is another sign that I’M TOO EFFING CONTENT.

Things that are working well:

The worlds, and the people and things in them, run by MY rules. Because I made them. I am their creator. I AM THEIR GOD.

Things that are not working well:

Naming things. Everyone is cool with Jerry the alien, yes? And describing things. I’m not convinced that ‘Jerry the alien looked like an alien’ is going to cut it, or ‘The spaceship smelled like a spaceship, and had a cold chill like… a spaceship.’

Finally, because I’m feeling generous and can see the need to face my emotional demons, here’s that photo of me at the Doctor Who Experience.

Charity begins at home. My home.

This time last year I had never heard of BRF, a condition that affects many women throughout the world. For the last six months or so I have been constantly plagued by it and looking for coping mechanisms. The signs and symptoms have been present for years, but being unaware of the condition I was oblivious as to what was causing them.

Late last year I received a text message from my supervisor telling me that a friend of ours, after observing me at work, believed I had RBF and that there was a Youtube video I could watch for more information. I arrived home that night and searched those three words that would change my life forever: Bitchy Resting Face.


Exhibit A: My face in both its smiling and resting states (apologies for the lack of quality, blogger and my compter don't get along)

For the uninitiated, Bitchy Resting Face is when a woman’s face appears upset, angry or just plain bitchy when in its relaxed, natural state. Suddenly everything was clear. This explains so much of the behaviour I have experienced from other people since my mid to late teens. This is why people are always telling me to smile. This is why people are always asking ‘What’s wrong?’ or ‘Are you OK?’ when everything is fine. This is why people tend to think I’m bored when they’re talking to me (sometimes I genuinely am, though. But out of politeness I’ll blame my face).

It doesn’t help that I’m a quiet person, or that my hearing is terrible, which leads people to think I’m ignoring them or giving them the silent treatment. Of course I am. I mean, look at my face, obviously I’m mad at you EVEN THOUGH YOU’VE DONE NOTHING WRONG AND THEN YOU GET MAD AT ME WHEN I TRY TO TALK TO YOU A FEW MINUTES LATER LIKE NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. Why am I acting like this? Why don’t I want to talk about it? BECAUSE THERE’S NOTHING TO TALK ABOUT!

In mid February I was a bridesmaid in the wedding of one of my oldest and best friends. The anxiety I suffered in the lead up to the wedding was horrible. What was I going to do? I’d be standing up there, watching my friend marry the man she loves, with a sour and disinterested look on my face. I made sure to smile as I walked down the aisle, then the universe smiled upon me. When I reached the front I found out that at a Greek wedding, the bridal party faces the front with their backs to the guests. Tradition can be a wonderful thing.

The reason I now feel we need to raise awareness about the condition is that my life has been affected by it quite dramatically in recent times. About six weeks ago I started a new job. This means I’ve had a whole new set of co-workers and customers form their own opinions about my face. The early comments of ‘Relax’ and ‘Don’t stress’ I took as signs of friendly encouragement, but as the days went on, I learned the impact my BRF was having.
‘You alright?'
‘You always look so stressed.’
‘He always gets someone else to ask you to make his coffee because he’s scared of you.’
And the clencher?
‘You’re scary when you’re not smiling,’ my boss said to me behind the coffee machine. I tried to explain my condition to him.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said. ‘But yeah. You look angry.’

Wouldn’t go that far, eh? That’s because BRF is not a recognised condition. It’s a disability, dammit, and needs to be recognised as such. We need some kind of government benefit scheme. Or at least someone to back my ‘It’s not me, it’s my face’ awareness campaign. Basically I need $3.2million to produce some ‘It’s just my face’ tshirts, badges and hats. The rest of the money is for shiny trinkets. I need them. Because I’m hurting. Because of my face.

The Other One

Last week I spent the night at a friend’s place. Many a drunken evening has wound up with me asleep on the floor of her lounge room, a task that would be far easier were it not for her two, furry, precious babies. For the sake of protecting their identities, I shall refer to them as 'Fluffy Butt' and 'The Other One.'

Fluffy Butt
Comically large tail - hilarious to play with when drunk.

The Other One
Ginger - has no soul.

The Other One is younger, fatter, and seemingly stupider than Fluffy Butt. I say ‘seemingly’ because the more I get to know the ginger fur ball, the more I start to think that maybe he’s not stupid at all. Maybe he’s a genius. An evil genius hell bent on making life as hard as possible for everyone around him. Here is a step by step breakdown of an average night sharing a space with The Other One:

Fall asleep

Feel something ticking face

Assume it is a giant spider

Swat at the spider

Realise you just smacked a cat in the face

Feel guilty

Close eyes

Hear rumbling sound

Open eyes to see cat staring at you

Roll over and face other direction

Rumbling sound resumes

Open eyes to see cat is now on the other side

Sit up to shoo cat away

Cat sits on pillow

Immediately stop feeling guilty about smacking it in the face

Push cat off pillow

Fall asleep again

Wake to strange noise

See cat pulling shoe laces out of your shoes while older, less evil cat stands by and does nothing to stop this, proving once and for all which side he’s on.

Lose will to go on

Go to work on a combined total of one hours sleep

To the left, to the left

Every day after work I try to go for a walk. I do this because I have what you might call ‘god awful’ eating habits and it makes me feel better (maybe not ‘better’ but definitely ‘less bad’) about all the sugar and meat that makes its way into my mouth. I’ll wait a minute while you make your own joke about meat making its way into my mouth.

…

…

…done?

…

…now? Yes? Sweet.

How I like to think I look when I’m walking:


How I actually look:

Fun fact: I tend to sweat more from the right armpit. Refer to drawing.

Today as I was making my way down a busy city street I found myself becoming more and more frustrated that every time someone was walking towards me in the opposite direction, I was always the person who moved out of the way. Not once did I do the awkward dance of politeness where you go to move out of their way just as they go to move out of yours, but you keep moving in the same direction and it’s amusing and uncomfortable and you try to break the tension by making out with and/or groping them but then they just call for help and it becomes even more awkward.

My frustration boiled over, however, when I found myself about to collide with this individual:

Please note: Tail and devil horns may or MAY NOT have been present at the time. You weren’t there. Don’t tell me what I saw.

What I thought, now having been forced off the footpath and on to the road:




What I actually did: Kept walking while looking mildly annoyed.

All I’m saying is, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? WHO SAYS THAT TO A STRANGER ON THE STREET? WHO THINKS THEY’RE SO IMPORTANT THEY CAN DIRECT FOOT TRAFFIC? I know you think you’re sOOper busy, Miss (I’ll go ahead and assume you’re single) Business-Lady with your fancy clothes and your big hair, but other people have places to be, too. Maybe that girl you gave attitude to on the street today had been up since 4am and was very unfit and not coping with the heat and had a river of sweat running between her boobs and just wanted to get to the train station so she could go home and have a chicken sammich.

Then I got home and had a chicken sammich.

Same Same

Similarities between a handbag and a vagina
The owner is usually very protective of it.
You don’t want some random dude grabbing it on the street.
It can seem like a vast, cavernous wasteland.
Guys want to put their stuff in there.
It’s always nice to match it to your shoes.
Some have a weird smell.
Middle aged women tend to have one that’s old and worn out.
It’s always surprising how much will fit in there.
Best not to leave it open and unattended.
You should always keep a close eye on it on public transport.
Paris Hilton keeps a small dog in hers.
Despite poking around in there for ages, men can never find what they’re looking for.
It’s poor form to touch someone else’s without their permission.
Men generally don’t have one. Generally.
Mine is black with a leathery appearance and a series of metal studs on it.


Similarities between a car and a penis
Size doesn’t matter, just as long as it gets you where you want to go.
It will occasionally smash into things.
The journey it takes you on can be long or short.
I don’t want to listen to someone go on and on and on about theirs.
The owner often thinks it’s a good idea to go really fast. It’s not.
There’s no point in trading in for a newer model if the old one still works.
It’s nice to give it a name.
The ride won't always be enjoyable.
For a touch of class, you can add a set of fuzzy dice.

Like... get a fish

This past weekend, my mum questioned me as to why I don’t blog very often these days.
‘I haven’t got any ideas,’ I told her.
Her response was ‘Hmm… you’re too content at the moment.’
This struck me as strange for two reasons:
1) My mother should be happy about the thought of me being content
2) I’m really not content at all.
So, for mama, I present:

REASONS WHY I’M REALLY NOT CONTENT AT ALL

THE ROYAL BABY
I predicted a Princess Charlotte. You’ve made me look like a fool, Prince X. Though we’ve only had a brief glimpse of the baby, it seems he has sadly inherited his father’s premature baldness. He also appears to be about 90% blanket.

THE ROYAL BABY NAMES
The suggestions are all too classy. If the royals want to keep Australia as part of the Commonwealth and one day have the little bugger’s face on our money, I suggest Prince Bazza. Or his Royal Highness Prince Dave-o. Or simply Prince Maaaaaaaate.

THE NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION ON FOOD AND DRINKS
Ignorance is bliss.

RAIN
You always let me know when I have holes in my shoes.

KIDS THESE DAYS
I was in a shop earlier this year when I saw a child, about six or seven years old, pick up a Furby. He turned the box over in his hands a few times with a look of confusion on his face. ‘These things are sad,’ he said to his mother. ‘They’re supposed to be a pet or something. Why would a kid want this? Like… get a fish.’ YOU get a fish, small boy. I’m not gonna take that from someone who wasn’t even born when Furbys were invented. You have to feed a fish. You have to clean its bowl. You can’t take the batteries out of it when it won’t shut up. But on the flip side, you can’t flush a Furby down the toilet. Don’t ask how I know.

PEOPLE WHO DON’T LIKE MY FACEBOOK STATUSES
How dare you. I’m hilarious.

I DROOLED IN MY SOUP TODAY
Doesn’t require much more of an explanation.

MY INABILITY TO COME UP WITH DECENT COMEBACKS
Coworker: ‘That bin smells.’
Me: ‘Your FACE smells.’
Friend: ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
Me: ‘Your FACE doesn’t make any sense.’
Customer: ‘My coffee isn’t hot enough.’
Me: ‘Your FACE isn’t hot enough.’
And so on.

THAT CHEAP PAIR OF PANTS I BOUGHT
I looked so good in you, and loved you dearly. Right up until I saw that small hole in the seam of the crotch. The small hole that by the end of the day was a big hole. It is not ok to do this to me when I’m at work.

REGULAR CUSTOMERS WHO THINK I’M AN ALCOHOLIC
I had my birthday drinks on a Sunday afternoon this year, thinking it would be nice to have a few quiet ones with friends. They weren’t quiet. And there weren’t just a few. And I couldn’t go to work that Monday because of the vomiting. And my co-workers gladly told people about that. And now, every Monday morning, I get grilled by multiple customers about how many drinks I had over weekend.

FINDING DARK UNDERTONES IN CARTOONS
I only just figured out that Adventure Time is set in post apocalyptic Earth. This makes me sad. Not because of the apocalypse, but because it took me this long to figure it out.

SELECTIVE HEARING
Everyone seems to be talking about bacon and penis.

All by myself (again)

Last year I spent some time living on my own (which you can reminisce about here). On Wednesday I started a four week stint of solo living with the best intentions, and it’s already gone downhill. Though this time, I did have the good sense to get someone to remove the hair monster from the shower drain BEFORE I almost drowned. And before it gained a life of its own and rose up from the drain to destroy us all.


I planned to eat healthy(ish) and properly cook dinner each night.




People with obsessive compulsive tendencies should never be left with the task of ironing.


And I tend to leave the washing lying around for too long.

How to: Find and apply for a job

Make sure you’re looking in the right places for jobs that suit your skills and interests.

When applying for a job, write your cover letter in blood to prove how serious you are.

If you lack the necessary qualifications, try to talk up your chutzpah and willingness to learn.

Modern day employers will do some research on you before making contact, so ensure you have a professional, dignified Facebook photo that paints you as a trustworthy and reliable person.

…and make sure your personal information is set to private.

Now just sit back and wait for them to call!

The Lonely Planet guide to why you shouldn’t trust the Lonely Planet guide

Save your money, ladies and gentlemen. Them there Lonely Planet books don’t know nothin’ ‘bout anything. So I have taken it upon myself to deliver some truth balls and offer up a more accurate representation of New York, COMPLETELY FREE OF CHARGE!

Bargain.

American Museum of Natural History
Falsely represented in Night at the Museum. The T-rex isn’t at the entrance, there’s no Robin Williams on a horse and at no point did I see a capuchin monkey or a tiny roman fighting a tiny cowboy. Though, admittedly, I didn’t go into every room.

The weird tea café place near Central Park that I can’t remember the name of
I was thirsty and cold. I wanted a hot chocolate. I ordered a choc mint. It had tea in it. All their drinks had tea in them. Whose idea was this? And why isn’t it more clearly advertised before you order that your otherwise delicious beverage IS GOING TO HAVE TEA IN IT????????

Museum of Modern Art
Spent almost an hour in the queue to check my coat. In hindsight, it would’ve been a lot faster and easier to just carry it, but once you commit to a giant line DAMMIT you stick to it.

Initially I was concerned that all the ‘art’ here was going to look like I could’ve done it myself. I was a lazy art student once, I know how it’s done. Abstract is what you do when your abilities are less on the side of actual artistic talent, and more on the side of bullshitting with conviction . I once painted a wooden box in bright colours, drew some eyes and mouths on it, cut out some pictures of noses from magazines and stuck them on, then made a couple of ceramic ears and attached them with glue. I said it was a representation of how society is obsessed with image. A+, baby.

Disappointment gave way to pure wonderment when I found level 5, because yes, I’m one of those girls who swoons over Van Gough. They also had The Scream on loan from wherever it is that The Scream usually lives. Turns out it looks like it’s done in crayon.

The food court in Grand Central Station
I bought a slice of rather tasty pizza from a rather tasty man. Scruffy, flirty skater type with more charm than a person should be allowed to have. The other guy who worked there came over to take my order, pointed at the good looking dude and said ‘Oh, sorry, is he taking care of you?’ and all I could think was ‘…not as much as he could be.’ He was attractive and had pizza. A lot of pizza. And I’m only human. Time to put a new meaning to the term customer service, methinks.

Still to come… Food, shopping, why I cried on the Brooklyn Bridge and how I made the Empire State Building my girlfriend.

New Years Eve

December 31 2012. New York City. Roughly 9:30am. Was totally outside the window of the Today Show for a few seconds. I’ve now been on American telly. Who wants to touch me?

The reason I was hanging around the NBC building was because I was on my way to a 10am tour of their studios, mainly just to see if 30 Rock looks like how it does on 30 Rock. And yes, yes it does.

Two NBC Pages take you on the tour. One was José, a cute nerdy guy with dark hair and glasses and who I instantly decided I wanted to run away with, and in a demonstration of just how shallow I am, I honest to god don’t have the slightest idea what the other guy’s name was. He had curly hair. We shall call him Curly.

José and Curly took us through a few different studios, talking about the glory days and what filth they’re used for now (I’m paraphrasing. No offence, Dr Oz). It was interesting, but I didn’t get excited until we got to the studio they’ve used for the last 38 years to film Saturday Night Live. José pointed out the stage they use for the ‘more intricate’ sets, for example, ‘that’s where they filmed the Wayne’s World sketches.’ Good thing the seats in that studio are yellow, because a little bit of wee came out. Then he told us that there’s a lottery to get tickets to a SNL recording, and that for a CHANCE at getting standby tickets you have to sleep on the street for two nights prior, ‘so next time you’re in New York we can all do that together.’ So… I went to New York and an attractive man who works in television invited me to sleep with him. That’s how I’m telling it from now on.

After the tour my plan was to get back on the sightseeing bus and head to the American Museum of Natural History (I only wanted to go because it’s the one in the first Night at the Museum and I really like movies with monkeys in them. Also considered going to the Guggenheim just so I had an excuse to say Guggenheim. Goo-gen-highmmm). But, alas, it was New Years Eve in New York and all the roads were about to be closed off. There were only going to be two more buses and that’s not enough time to do some museum laps. It was my last chance to use the bus, so I decided to freeze my ass off one last time and do the entire two hour tour. And I’m glad I did, because for the second time that day, I fell in love.

Her name was Denise. She was an enthusiastic tour guide from Harlem with dreadlocks down to her hiney and a passion for starting open-top bus sing-a-longs. Even when you’ve lost all feeling in your face, you can still muster the energy to belt out New York, New York.

Anyway, when I got off the bus you couldn’t get anywhere near Times Square, so I went to a park and bought some donuts. They were amazing. One was coffee flavoured, and I couldn’t get over how weird it was that the Americans can make a donut taste like coffee, but can’t make a cup of coffee taste like coffee.

Then I went back to my hotel, put my pjs on, turned the heat waaaay up and watched the ball drop on TV.

Happy New Year.

New York, New York – The first few days

It wouldn’t be my life if a few little things didn’t go horribly, horribly wrong in ways that seem to amuse people who aren’t me. So welcome back to my travel diary, and the days leading up to New Years Eve.

The Statue of Liberty cruise
I wasn’t about to waste my first day in New York, so I started the day off by heading to Battery Park where you catch the Staue of Liberty river cruise. Couldn’t go to the Statue though, they were still having some minor issues with the pier in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy.

It started snowing while I was on the boat. To a girl from Melbourne who has only ever seen snow once before in her whole life and couldn’t get over the fact that ICE WAS FALLING FROM THE SKYYYY, this was a magical and beautiful thing. Until I got off the boat. Then it was just balls. See, snow hits you in its pretty little icy pieces, then slowly melts to saturate you. It’s like delayed rain. And speaking of delayed rain, it then started to rain.

The open top bus tour
When booking one of those open top bus sightseeing tours, I recommend looking into the following area before you book your tickets: that the bus isn’t open top ONLY. Because mine bloody well was. It was 31 degrees Fahrenheit that first day. That’s just below zero in Celsius.
0 degrees + open top bus + wind-chill factor + the glorious combination of snow and rain falling from the sky at the same effing time = THIS WAS NOT FUN FOR ME.

Hailing a cab
I’m invisible, apparently. And I was wearing too many layers to flash some boob.

The reason for my suffering
So people think the reason I wanted to go to New York in winter was New Years. I let them think that because I didn’t want to admit that the real reason was a big ass Christmas tree. Yes. A Christmas tree. I genuinely enjoy sparkly lights and pine trees that much.
Standing in Rockefeller Centre watching people ice skate under that tree while snow falls and Christmas music plays is enough to warm your heart. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to warm anything else. If I had any feeling left in my face, I would’ve smiled. And if I had any feeling left in my hands, my photos would’ve been better.

Class and culture and all that
One of the stops on the bus tour is the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It’s a huge European style gothic looking church. As much as I can appreciate architecture and history and fancy things, I didn’t get off the tour bus for the cathedral. I got off the tour bus because the cathedral is one block over from the diner they used on Seinfeld. No one was around at the time, so it only took about two minutes to get a few decent photos, followed by another two minutes or so to walk back to the bus stop. Then came the waiting. The cold, the wind, the suspected onset of frostbite, and the waiting. Turns out the bus schedule ain’t so friendly. My suffering was short-lived however, when a knight rode in on a white horse and saved me (by ‘knight’ I mean bus driver, by ‘white horse’ I mean bus and by ‘on’ I mean in). He was from a rival tour bus company, but told me he couldn’t leave me standing out in the cold and to get on anyway, and ‘just don’t say nothin.’ So I didn’t say nothin. His bus had a bottom level. With walls. And windows. And heating. And he was the first New Yorker I fell in love with.

Next blog: New Years Eve, New Years day, and more New Yorkers I fell in love with (the men are very friendly…).

Solo Mission

So some genius thought it would be a good idea to go to New York on her own. And that genius lived. And now the aforementioned genius has been home for two weeks and had two complaints in the last two days from two different people about how she could go away and come back with no blog material. So here’s part one of: I DIDN’T GET MURDERED OR MUGGED! NOT EVEN ONCE! (It’s a working title.)

My parents came with me to the airport and I cried in McDonalds. There. I have feelings. Shut up.

There were two options for flying into New York on the date I wanted. To avoid a massive airport stopover, I went the long way. On the flight from Melbourne to Dubai I was sitting next to a chatty and strangely attractive ginger man* who, considering I never got his name, is now known in my memory only as ‘Big Ginge.’
Big Ginge: ‘So are you staying in Dubai or moving on?’
Me: ‘Moving on. Heading to New York.’
Big Ginge: ‘Hey, me too! You been there before?’
Me: ‘Nah. You?’
Big Ginge: ‘Once, a few years back. I’m meeting my girlfriend over there, she’s pretty excited.’
Strangely it was at this point I lost all interest in talking to Big Ginge. He slept most of the flight anyway. He’s a drooler, which means it never would’ve worked out between us. I’m a drooler too, so if we had babies, with our combined genetics they’d probably drown in their sleep. And be ginger.

On the second flight a miracle occurred. For the first time in my life I actually fell asleep on a plane. Not that weird half asleep/half awake kind of sleep, but actual, proper sleep. This lasted for about half an hour before I woke to the sound of a screaming child. He was travelling with his father, and I think the problem was that he wanted his mum. I came to this conclusion from the number of times he yelled ‘I want my mum.’ We all want our mum, kid. Just cry in McDonalds like a normal person.

Then came JFK airport, where the passport control guy knew Melbourne and wanted to know who my football team was. I said ‘Essendon’ because I wasn’t sure if it was ok or not to say ‘Go Bombers!’ in an airport.

Next stop was the taxi rank. A friend of mine went to New York in the middle of 2011 and warned me that the cab drivers have a death wish. I was told of running red lights, changing lanes at high speeds without looking and all kinds of horror stories. I assumed she was exaggerating. She wasn’t. For a while there I thought I’d paid thousands of dollars and flown for 30 hours just to die in a cab. May we never speak of it again.

I arrived at the hotel with all limbs still attached and an extreme hunger in my belly. I went up to my room, turned on the TV and opened the shutters on the window. It was dark outside, and there was just a bunch of buildings out there, but I still thought it was amazing. Then I realised there was a window in my tiny bathroom. I had to stand in the shower base to open it, but outside that window was the Empire State Building. I stood in the shower for god knows how long looking at that building lit up all sexy in the darkness, waiting for the novelty to wear off. It didn’t. But dammit, I was hungry.

This is the view from my window. Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t spend a night standing fully clothed in a shower for that.

I’ll be honest, I was a bit nervous about going outside when it was dark. It didn’t help that there was a report on the news about how the murder rate was down in 2012. I know it sounds like a positive, but they were really happy that ‘only’ 414 homicides were committed in New York that year. That’s approximately 1.3 people a day. I’m one person. That means in a day they could murder me and then some. No thank you, sir. I think I’ll stay in my shower and eat the chocolate biscuits I packed in my suitcase.

Stay tuned for part two, which will cover things that happened when I finally left the shower.


*first time for everything…?

Geoffrey Rush and his amazing magical unicorn

I’ve learned a lot of things while working in train stations: people don’t like delayed trains, junkies enjoy extremely long chats, there’s a man who walks around Melbourne carrying a giant papier-mâché carrot and, more recently, that Geoffrey Rush catches the train.





It’s not just once I’ve watched Mr Rush walk past me, and it’s not just once that I or my co-workers have failed to take any kind of action.




Yes, he’s touched Johnny Depp. Yes, he knows Colin Firth. Yes, he’s worked with a capuchin monkey. But apparently none of this is reason enough to exert myself by standing up and walking a couple of metres over to him, or to yell ‘OI! RUSH!’. My only real incentive is that it would make a pretty sweet Facebook photo.

The man has an Oscar. Oscar winners don’t catch the train. There are far more appropriate Oscar winner forms of transportation. Namely the unicorn.

Please note that I never claimed I could draw a unicorn.


Also, I still have a BOOK! If you've not yet carressed its pages, get on it HERE.

I'm not dead (yet)

It’s been a long time between drinks (blog drinks, not actual drinks. Actual drinks have been going ok) and I’m sorry. Mostly it’s because of laziness, but I also have the following excuses. I have been busy:

Trying to sell my book (which you can get here by the way…).

Trying to finish my school work.

Freaking out about that fact that in less than two months I have to go be lonely in New York, which is now under water thanks to a stOOpid storm.

Helping a friend stalk an attractive man.

Helping a friend drink.

And thinking about the big issues.

LOOK AT MY BOOK! I HAVE A BOOK! BOOK!

GAAAAAAAAAAH!

After a massive amount of blood, sweat and tears (mostly tears), the book-ified version of this blog is now available to buy and keep and love forever. If you click on the little link below, it will take you to the place where you can begin the emotional journey that is book ownership.

http://au.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/3560026

Thanks heaps to everyone who has been reading this thing. I hope you're all still laughing.

Much love,
Lauren

What happens when I try to work on my novel

Wake up in the morning with determination and good intentions.

Open Microsoft Word.

Take a well deserved coffee break to celebrate my opening of Microsoft Word.

Come back to the computer. Write twenty words.

Have a three hour long lunch/Buffy break to celebrate my genius.

Return to the computer. Reread my twenty words. Think they’re shite.

Do a blog instead.

Curse of the food hole

Food. We love it. We consume it every day. It’s either bad for us and delicious, or good for us and like licking a piece of cardboard that a sweaty monkey has rubbed all over itself. Then set fire to. Then taken the ashes and peed on them. Then served it to you as soup. And of course you took the soup because the monkey was dressed as a waiter and that’s how monkeys get you - they wear people clothes and it’s so funny that you forget you can’t trust them.

The issue with deliciousness is that once you get the taste for it, it’s hard to stop shoving things in your mouth (by ‘things’ I mean food things, stop thinking that other thing you were thinking). ‘I’ll only eat one Tim Tam’ turns into an empty packet. ‘I’ll just have a light dinner’ turns into the pain of trying to digest an entire dead animal. ‘I’ll just have a quick sandwich’ turns into a quick sandwich followed by an apple and some 2 minute noodles and a bigger sandwich and some chips and eating Nutella off anything else you could find. Generally a spoon. Or your finger.

This anti-will-power phenomenon is something I like to call ‘opening the food hole.’ It’s like opening the floodgates, except the gates are your mouth and the water is fried chicken.

For many years I excused my behaviour with the old standards ‘but think of the starving children in Africa!’ even though me having another piece of cake was never going to help a starving child in Africa, and ‘I better eat it before it expires’ when the expiry date was months away. I thought I was doing fine until late last year when I finally decided to do something about the couple of kilos I gained in Europe. I came up with a brilliant idea: I was only going to eat when I was hungry.

This plan lasted longer than I expected. I dropped two dress sizes. I had to buy a lot of new clothes. I can walk up stairs now. Well, some stairs. More stairs than before. Stairs are hard. But recently, I started to slip. I allowed donuts back into my life, and they brought their friends with them. Their cake-y, chip-y and deep fried-y friends.

I’m trying. I really am. My jeans still fit, but I’m constantly faced by the struggle of working around baked goods and having lunch once a week with that friend who never finishes her food.

It’s not my fault. I blame the deliciousness.