Mexican Spooning

Just to paint a picture, I'm sitting really uncomfortably cross-legged, hunched over, my tummy hurts, my brain hurts, I'm having trouble typing, and I'm in the same clothes I was wearing last night. Ooh, and I just burped. Ha.

Yep, just been to Mexico.

Frick, I have the coolest friends. I'm having friend love pangs right now. We had buritos, tequila, sangria (Spanish, so it still counts as Mexican - just go with me) and nachos - enough for 60 people. There were only about 30, but overcatering is a strength of the whore house so we play it up. Whatever.

Too much to talk about it, my brain is exploding with thoughts - I will dot-point.
(side note, before I forget: I'm trying to use superhuman mind power to make 2day fm play that new rihanna and eminen song. if anyone is reading this right now and feeling particularly nice, please call up 2day fm and request that song for me. Chances are, I will be listening. Please? I will love you)

Ok, dot-pointing highlights...

Mexican spooning. Reminiscent of a curtains-drawn 2 hunge sesh circa 2007. It was boy girl boy girl, and I was nicely squeezed between Puss and Barls. I normally hate spooning, and even the idea of it. (Actually had a little shudder just then thinking about it.) Testament to my friendship love pangs that mexican spooning was such a highlight. At one stage though, Watty poured wine in my mouth and hair. That was a low point of mexican spooning. But at least the wine wasnt warm. And it wasnt goon.

Waking up. Woke up still spooning Puss. Can only assume I fell asleep and other spooning participants found their way to other beds, and maybe even changed out of their clothes. (Heroes.) Luckily, I opened my eyes when I woke up and realised it was Puss, not a boyfriend. Could have been very awkward if I'd gone in for the half-asleep kiss. Thank youuuuuu lady luck.

Conversation with Glove and Kibs approx 11pm. Would I change my name if I got married if a married American backstroker Lenny Krazleburg? Probably yes. Leesa Krazleburg has a good ring to it.

Conversation with Adriana Lima approx 1.30am. To go out of not to go out? Very much leaning towards going out, fearing shit-friend-status if we don't. Suddenly, like a dark, sequinned angel, Miranda Kerr reappears and tells us its freezing outside and she's not going out anymore. It is, after all, 1.30am. We all agree to stay in warm (ok, not that warm) house and keep drinking in my bed with a doona....spooning ensues.

Sugar craving arrives. Approx 12.30am. For savoury fiends there is enough mexicana yumminess to fill about 30 drunken stomachs (overcatering pays - yea it does), but for me - nothing. Finally, I find the last brownie. It is delicious. I am eating it all over again in my mind right now. I wish it wasn't the last one. It was delicious. Did I say that? The baker, Man Sam, tells me he made it mushy because Adriana likes it mushy. Dumb Sam - EVERYONE likes it mushy. Der.

(another side note: I am freezing, and I'm starting to feel worse. Frick)

Actually, that side note made me realise that I need some tea. Bye.

pic from customskullcaps.com

No Health Week

So after an indulgent weekend making 3cm deep caramel slice (it can have my babies), lemon tarts, and passionfruit melting moments, I decided this week would be one of health. You know, to cancel out the baking batter overdose of Saturday and Sunday.

But then Monday came along. Sneaky, sneaky Monday. I had a doctor's appointment, for which my bladder needed to be full. That is actually no lie - the appointment forms clearly said "drink one litre of water 2 hours before the appointment". I forgot to though, so compensated by drinking about 3 litres 15 minutes before I walked in. My bladder was resulting full for, oh, I dont know, THE NEXT TWO DAYS!

But I digress...anyways, Monday, as well as being the day I had to go to the doctor's, was also the birthday of a special friend, who we will call George (of the Jungle ... if we are using proper names). Therefore, I had to make a birthday cake. Just had to. Had to eat half the icing mixture too. Just had too.

Then had to decorate it like a race track. George is fascinated by the technology - it makes a change from the Jungle. Probably didnt need pedestrians on the racetrack, but decided to put them on anyway - it gave me an excuse to buy jelly babies.

To sum up: Monday was not healthy. And by that stage, Health Week seemed doomed. But rather than wallowing in anti-health guilt, I have decided to embrace it. Bring on Australia's Biggest Morning Tea. HELLS YEAAAA.

Now as a side note, I cannot claim the idea for No Health Week. See, it is a concept poached from my dear friends who invented No Health Sunday, and then No Health Year.

No Health Sunday was born from the days of No Judgement Saturday. On Saturdays (game days) you're technically (yes, technically - there is a rule book, players) allowed to do whatever you want and no-one can judge you. You can drink/wear/kiss whatever you want, and there's no judgement. Clearly though, this leads to some massive repercussions of the hangover variety, which consequently requires a need for a designated No Health Sunday - where you can eat/smoke/drink whatever you like, in order to speed up the recovery process.

It's interesting to note that often, No Judgement Saturday and No Health Sunday merge. This normally happens at about 4am in the cross when you're eating stolen Oportos. And you're wearing one shoe.

The concept of No Health Year is harder to navigate. It works like this: The world will end in 2012 (Google it), so we should all live life to the fullest before then. That is the reason why 2010 is No Judgement Year. You can do whatever you want - as long as you're having fun. If you're a guy you can listen to Taylor Swift in the morning, sitting in only your grey undies, whilst having a breakfast beer, and no one can judge you. I know this, because I saw it happen.

Anyways, After No Judgement Year comes No Health Year - that'll be 2011. You can be as unhealthy as you like because, once 2012 comes, you've gotta hit the gym. Gotta be fit for all the running we'll be doing trying to avoid the Raptors... Because once the Raptor plague hits - we're doomed. And the world will end. Sorry, but it's true. (Google it).

Photo from cdn2.knowyourmeme.com * And how frickin funny is it!? Ha

Rain versus the Parade

photo courtesy of fireflyforest.net

I'm having a pretty ordinary day. I hate it when it rains. I had to do the corporate-wear-n-joggers thing today because they're my only waterproof shoes. Basically, today I looked like a ball of shite. I had to wear my only black pants (dirty, because its raining and I couldnt wash and dry them), my black top (not dirty, but I wore it every single day in England nearly, so I consequently hate it more than the damn rain) and a red Rivers cardigan that is so fugly that my Mum decided she didn't even want it, so gave it to me. Oh, and it's missing a button too. Sheesh.

To summarise, this day has been average because of the following:

• It's raining


• I had to leave my super cool desk at work and go and sit in a new row by myself - I miss my giggle buddies up there in editorial...


• I decided to detox and I have not been able to eat Adriana Lima's choc chip cookies (yes AL, the supermodel is a phat cook with a massive PH standing for Pretty Hot)


• We decided pretty people will always have friends even if they're really mean, just because they're pretty. Not cool, and not fair.

To be fair, I am thankful for many things today...

• My mum: she reads my mind sometimes. I rang her and said, "Mum, you'll be so proud of me!" to which she replied, "You bought shoes!". Not quite - but I did buy two jumpers, which is a vast improvement on the Rivers abomination.


• Awesome lady at work (not the Teen Queen, she's more of a Superwoman/Supernicewoman) told me my Quick Study was 'outrageously fabulous'. I might tattoo that on my forehead, I was so stoked.


• My blankets. Mum bought me a pink one, then Grandma bought be a cream one, then Mum bought me a green one because she'd forgotten about the pink one. Good armour against this crapola weather.


• Hot water with a dash of maple syrup. Surprisingly delicious invention discovered and devised tonight after I realised it was too late for caffeine and the honey was completely infested with ants.


• My supermodel friends, and their friends and their boyfriends. My house is always full of love. And masterchef. And this makes me happy.

Ok, that's 4 versus 5. So now I can go to bed decidedly happy. Mmmm .... especially cause I have my blankets....

Rebel without a cause .... or rebellious streak, really

Photo courtesy of wikimedia

Hmmm….sitting at radio wondering whether anyone out there in the universe (of the inner west in the small radio radius of Burwood community radio station) can hear the tap tap tap of my laptop keyboard as I write and simultaneously let my itunes do its thang?

I expect my only listener will inform me later as to whether you could actually hear it. ‘Later’ being the operative word. By then it will be done, dusted and irreversible – they might fire me….but I’m not sure you can be fired from a voluntary position – unless you’re terribly terrible (like I possibly am, at this very moment).

I don’t care. Ha. Suuuuck on that radio gods – I’m bored and I will blog. Man, I am so Gen Y.

I’m so naughty – I’m playing a song at the moment called “Cocaine”, or at least I think it is. I don’t even know who sings it. That’s pretty poor form on my part, cause I can’t even credit it. That means some poor cokehead musician is probably sitting in a little dingy grotto-like apartment getting no cred for his radical song, and as a result, falling deeper into the depths of coke-induced despair…but that’s just speculation…I don’t even know if coke is a depressant…he could be feeling awesome, for all I know. Hahaha, yea, raving it up something. Loose.

Ahh, that’s better – Now I’m playing Britney. Her cover of “I love rock and roll” to be precise. It’s pretts awesome, and was definitely the highlight of that movie she did, Crossroads. Don’t see it. Seriously, even a Britney fan like me thought it was pants.

Pants = bad, FYI. I want to start using that heaps more. It’s such a cool, English expression, and it’s quite a polite way to express yourself, and I’m all for politeness, even though I may swear like a miner when I’m hung.

Ohhhhhhh, man it’s 6 oclock. Halfway through baby! Maybe I’ll just play music for the next hour with no talking. Like an hour with no ads, but an hour with no talking. I don’t know if that’s good for my radio profile, but it’ll be darn good for my tea-drinking time allocation.

Which brings me to another point, you’re not supposed to have food and drink in the studio. So tea is strictly forbidden … and so is this biscuit. I am so totally rebellious right now.

Ahhh Mum, You Old Chook.

Photo courtesy of Kate Watson of Wat's Bakin'

Voicemail:

"Hello. Leesa? It's your mother here.* I'm just looking at the Forever New Catalogue online.** It's got some really pretty pink things. Some really really pretty pink things.*** Pink clothes and stuff. You should go in there and buy some.**** I think you'd like them. Ok. Bye.*****

*I know Mum.
** Since when can you use a computer?!
*** Really, Mum? Pink? You don't say.
****Righto.
***** Bye Mum. I love you.

I'm sooo back

YES I HAVE STARTED BLOGGING AGAIN!

i thought i would capitalise that, more for my own benefit than anyone else's. Im committing myself to jumping back on this b to the logging bandwagon.

I had to stop (yes, yes, for three whole months) because my blogs were in danger of getting me into trouble (read; i had been a veritable pitt street whore and all my man-crushes came close to finding out*).

So where am i now? geographically - i am sitting on the couch in my most awesome item of clothing: a grey florida jumper that is approximately size XXXXXXXXXL. My dad got it for me thinking I could grow into it. Does he want me to grow to be the size of the snuffleuffagus on Sesame Street? I think yes.

Anyways, the jumper is awesome, and I'm 'eaps comfy. I also have tea, the latest Madison and Masterchef is on. Effin Bliss, mothertruckers.

But wait. I cannot lie. I am actually in the depths of despair. Massive food hangover is occuring right now. Let me elaborate....

I live in a house of Victoria Secret Models. I am not lying. I can see Miranda Kerr's shoes from here. Karolina Kurkova's bra is totally hanging off our lampshade (skank...). Anyhoo, they all have great supermodel-like self control around delicacies involving huge amounts of butter and sugar. Me not so much. In my next life I am coming back as icing, so i can eat myself, and still not get fat because it will be this cyclical relationship where I am ingesting myself and therefore adding no digits to my overall weight. Does that make sense? Yup. Pretty sure it does.

Ok, so back to my story. One housemate - we shall call her Giselle (going with the model theme) - attempted to make a slice. Double Choc Nut Fudge Brownie Slice to be precise. Anyway, I think Giselle's recipe was flawed because the darn thing would not cook. That left me to clean up the mess, i.e. eat it all. It was amaaaaazing. Food orgasm.

Fast forward 20 minutes and I'm in gastric hell. And I can't go for a run and get it out of my system because I'M THE FOOL WHO LEFT HER KEYS AT WORK! I am confined to the house now, because if I leave, there is noone to let me back in. ARGH!!!! I have created my own prison of cookie dough, icing and .... vegemite. That's all there is in this place.

And to make matters worse - I'm watching Masterchef. THE FOOD IS EVVVVERYWHERE.

Far out. This world is a cruel, cruel place sometimes.











*the word 'whore' here is used as a term of endearment...(yes, i am endearing myself)...i am actually training to be a nun. ok, im not. but i would still like to make the point that i'm not the Paris Hilton of the inner west. (The fact i'm so resolved to make this point is slightly unnerving and becoming a bit awks. so i'll stop.)

Middle Aged Teen Queen

There is this lady who works in my office who is a massive legend. She is kind of like Lisa Wilkinson, but blonde and doesn’t get to hang out with Carl (Oh, Carl…). She is funny and smart and she has all the jewellery from Diva that I want but am too stingy to buy. Basically I would like to be her.

Anyway – MASSIVE revelation. I think she IS a 40-year-old version of me. The facts are all there:

A. She has a blog. I TOO have a blog! I know many people have blogs – Krudd probably has a blog and I definitely don’t think that means I’m a younger version of him... I am so much cooler than KRudd – BUT, her blog is about random life stuff, just like mine. And it’s called, wait for it… MIDDLE AGED TEEN QUEEN!

B. I too am a teen queen that happens to not be in her teens. I told her this, and she said I could probably get away with being a teen queen since I’m still kind of close to that age-bracket. I agreed and said yes because she is very important in this office and I would I like to keep my job. But in my head I was totally thinking ‘no way man, I am totalllllly too teen for my twenties’. Who else my age totally loves Taylor Swift? Who else totally loves Taylor Lautner? Who else uses ‘totally’ way too many times in a sentence? Who else abbreviates ‘totally’ to ‘totes’??? The answer: no one. Totes.

C. She says she weirdly gets crushes on young men – SO DO I! I know all about being a mad cougar. My last boyfriend was younger than my younger brother which is not just funny - it’s also kind of weird and gross. Plus HE was a bit weird and gross, so there was no compensation for the youngness. The only thing that really brought us together was Miley Cyrus music – and if that isn’t an indication of being a teen queen, then I don’t know what is…other than the fact I would like to marry Zac Efron. If he played rugby. But that’s another story…

Older and older

It’s one of my housemate’s birthdays today. She’s turning 23, the old dear. She’s hooking up with a 20 year old though, so if you subscribe to the adage that ‘you’re only as old as the guy you’re feeling’, then I guess she’s a good two years younger than me. And if you’re not ‘feeling’ any guy then you can’t be any particular age and therefore maybe your age is non-existent, which is, you know, heaps existential. (FYI ‘feeling’ weird, weird expression that I would never use in everyday life).

Ok, so it’s birthday time. We’re having pirate cake – oooh I can finally upload a picture! We made it last night with cream cheese icing (my absolute favourite thing in the world – excluding Harry and Bruce, obviously). We almost made ourselves sick eating all of it, but it was probably definitely worth it.

We’re going to Ben’s Bar and then out to the Sheaf. I don’t know if this is a good idea on a school night, considering the Australia Day Hang situation, but I’m willing to give it a whirl. The only thing is, I don’t want to spend money. But I will. I said the same thing at lunch and then ended up going to have expensive sushi with my best mate. But the sushi actually WAS amazing – so perhaps that makes it worth it?

Ohhh life – at this rate I’m going to be old and poor and fat and an alcoholic. Such a winner, don’t you think? UGH.

so Peter Fitzsimons and me ... besties

So many hard days at work this week: Monday, a day-off for Straya Day, then came the blase hungoverness of post-Australia Day, and THEN ... oh yes ... ohhh shit ... I got to meet Peter Fitzsimons.

Now, I've been trained well by Dad (real name John, fake name Bruce) and as soon as the Saturday paper arrives I turn straight to the back page of the Sports supplement for the Fitz Files. Fitzy is actually the epitome of everything a good bloke should be - funny, smart, a sportsnut AND he's married to Lisa Wilkinson who's one of my favourite Australian women (along with Ricki-Lee and Jeanie Little, of course).

He has such a presence. For one, he's HUGE. In photos people had to stand on boxes next to him just to reach his shoulder. And secondly, he is so charismatic - in an intelligent, not sleazy, way. He had the whole crowd guffawing with laughter at his self-deprecating jokes - myself included. He is actually the bomb.

He was about to leave, when I jumped up from my desk and ran over to introduce myself in the nick of time. To set the scene, I am a lowly Editorial Trainee and he is a Neanderthal-sized Ex-Wallaby who is very busy and important with heaps of cool people to see and clever things to write about. And yet, even though he was already taking off his tie getting ready to bail on us in the office, he stopped and gave me five minutes of his time. LEGEND.

He said he didn't have long to talk, but imparted this piece of wisdom; he said, in journalism you should never feel limited by what your job title is. Editor's always want good ideas, good stories and good writing and they don't care who it's coming from. So always try out new ideas, pipe up in meetings, show people your stuff - you've got nothing to lose. Hey, it worked for him and his wife.

Then he said if I ever wanted to meet his wife (um YES!) he could arrange it.

WOW McFRICKIN WOW. The wisdom...

And that my friends, is why I love Fitzy. Boom.

such a minor

Ok, so I'm not yet technically 22. I'm still a young 'un, a minor, a teenybopping wannabe if you will...

However I doubt being 22 will suddenly transform me from being a teenybopping wannabe. And I'm totally cool with that.

I'm starting the blog early for a couple of reasons:

a) I'm hoping that if I'm pro-active in doing this, it will be a sign of wonderful things to come in twentyten and will foreshadow a year of organisation, maturity and less battlerness. Of battlerness, I know much... and I think that needs to change.

b) It was actually my New Years Resolution to start a blog, but then I got bored/busy/hungover and didn't end up making one. Then by the time I'd decided to get on board the blogtrain, I realised I had the perfect name for it "when she was 22..." (snaps to Lily Allen - my muse), and I thought I should probably wait till I actually was 22 to start the blog. But meh, I'm starting it now....

c) I have nothing to do. Actually that's a lie. I have heaps to do. I should be cleaning, or making birthday presents, or talking to my family. Actually I should be at a MOVIE PREMIERE right now. Yep, that's right, a movie premiere. But apparently it's about something really scary and sad, and basically the antithesis of a happily-ever-after romcom. And since I dont like movies with violence or yelling, I figured I'd get nightmares, so I bailed. Now, I am home alone with no roomies here to distract me. At least Andy Murray is on tv....

d) I'm a battler (See part A)

So basically - this is me starting my blog. I don't know what it will be about. Probably just my awesome life.

I speak no word of a lie when I say this - I have an awesome life. I have radical friends, a sweet job, and I can tell you many happy stories about my fam. I have no reason to be shitty at anything, really. The crux of this rant is - this should be a happy blog.