America, I am in you.

April 17, 2012

The Curmudgeon and I are on a winning streak.
That’s not us. But this is.


This morning we asked a chap where we should go for breakfast. Somewhere the locals eat, we said. Turns out he’s San Diego’s top food critic. So we took his recommendation seriously.

The Curmudgeon hasn’t been here as long as I have so he’s still enraptured by the novelty of eating the oddest thing on the menu. Peanut butter and banana-stuffed French toast for him! Elvis-death styley! Apparently it beat an Iron Chef in a breakfast throwdown and was featured on a telly show called ‘The Best Thing I Ever Ate’. For me, a more modest pile of pancakes as big as the fat-tyres wheels of our hired beach cruiser bikes.

I am very greedy. I am a lifetime member of the Clean Plate Club. Yet this is as far as I could get.

In further luckiness, we strolled past the San Diego Museum of Art and free tickets were thrust at us by a passing couple who had spares. So we found ourselves in a fantastically kitsch and barmy exhibition of floral interpretations of artworks. It was the silliest thing. Some people interpreted paintings of a vase of flowers by constructing… A vase of flowers. Others got a little freaky. We loved it. I took one snap before I learned I wasn’t allowed to do that. Oops.


Today: on to San Francisco!


Friday is good because

April 6, 2012

Did somebody say buns?



Some plans

April 5, 2012

The Curmudgeon is making hot cross buns. I am watching one of those train-wreck shows about hoarders until Noel Fielding’s new telly show starts. Soon I will to bed, for tomorrow we rise at dawn to eat buns. That is why it is called Good Friday. Because Buns are Good.

Oh, and then on Sunday? Really, really early? I’m going to get up and go to the airport and go to America for a month.


Hard rubbish shopping

March 27, 2012

I put some junk out for hard rubbish collection on the weekend.

Behold what it looked like when I stacked it all neatly, then the mangled carcass after the neighbourhood vultures had shopped from it.

Hooray for the biggest unofficial street recycling party in the world!


Demountable dreams

March 12, 2012

I went to see my Ma on the weekend. She pootled me about her small town telling me gosip and news, pointing out houses for sale. It’s a game we’ve played since I was a kid, finding houses we’d like to live in.

“I want that one! Not the main house, the little studio!” We’d passed a fancy-pants new house with a funny tiny square box to one side with huge banks of windows.

“Oh, that,” said Ma. “That’s a portable classroom. There’s a paddock full of them near Kyneton for a few thousand each.”

“Can we go look?”

It took a bit of highway-turnoff-wrangling but we found them. They were shut up behind barbed wire like neglected ungulates at Werribee Zoo. Some were smashed up, others were just a little tired.

It’s been a while since I devised an elaborate hare-brained scheme. I think I’ve just found the next one. Can’t you just imagine one of these little suckers nestled onto an acre or two? More or less my dream country shack. And look, totally doable.

Curmudgeon doesn’t agree. “They were freezing at school. Even in Queensland.”



Dead funny

March 5, 2012

While riding to work this morning, we went past a tradie van plastered with a silly company name.

Me: That’s stupid. You can’t just add ‘time’ to the name of your product to get your company name. Imagine if you were ‘Booktime Books’. Or ‘Treatment Time Doctors’.

He: What about ‘Lunchtime’ for a cafe? That works.

Me: ‘Lunchtime Lunches’? LAME. Or ‘Deathtime Funerals’. Hey, you know, given that the opportunities for punning are on par with hairdressers and Thai restaurants, I think it’s time that there were more hilarious funeral parlour names. If you got hit by a bus and I had to plan your funeral, I’d always choose a punny name over a wafty dreary white-dove sort of name because that’s what you’d want.

He: Like what?

Me: How about ‘Death Warmed Up?’ Hahahhahahahah.

He: *groan*

Me: Can’t you see the ads? Swanky funeral, people grieving in a satisfied-customer sort of way, someone says, “Looks like Death Warmed Up.”

He: How about ‘Keep Your Urn’.

Me: Oooh, I like that one. It’s a slow-burner. Or how about a concept crematorium? Doubles as a pizza oven so catering for the wake is sorted?

He: I don’t think that would work.

Me: Yep, the oven would be too hot for pizza. But it would put the fun back into funerals! How about ‘Good Grief’? Or ‘A Tisket, a Tasket, I want an Open Casket?’

He: I’ve got to get to work. *zips off down the road, grateful for the respite*

Me: Dearly departed.


Stinky jeans

March 4, 2012

Last night the Curmudgeon and I went to the flicks. We ate choc tops and jaffas and saw The Artist – I loved it. I was spellbound but for one thing.

About half-way through, I noticed a mild stink. A sort of unwashed persony stink. I sniffed the Curmudgeon to my right… it wasn’t him. And the pair of ladies to my left were terribly nice nice nice and unlikely to be the culprits. Which left… me. I was generating a cloud of unpleasantness, confirmed when the lights came on and I investigated further. I’m sure the nice nice nice ladies discussed the foetid person sitting next to them as they had a post-flick hot chocolate. Eek!

I was wearing my one and only pair of jeans which have been loitering in a drawer for most of summer. I suspect I wore them once then put them away for months when I should have washed them first. Oh, the shame. Today they were soaked and scrubbed and are drying in the sun and I promise I’ll never do it again.

However, the reason why I’m airing my dirty laundry on teh interwebs is because the NGV has an exhibition called Nobody was Dirty running from 10-31 March that features jeans worn and unwashed for three months. Apparently it’s to explore social norms around cleanliness and germophobic mindsets, blahdy blah.

Now, I must protest… I like cleanth, generally, but I’m not a clean freak. I consider garden dirt to be clean dirt and I consider compost under the fingernails is the mark of a great weekend rather than suboptimal personal hygiene. I buy most things secondhand and dive in skips for treasures. I fear germs not. I think the folks who fall for all the advertising propaganda about germicidal hand wash and room fresheners are nut bars. But I have a sensitive nose – at least, it’s much more sensitive than the Curmudgeon’s. And I do not like to be on either the receiving or delivery end of human-generated stink. So how could anyone wear the same pair of dacks 90 days in a row? How could they bear their own odour? Or does it get to the point where a second wave of bacterial colonisation chases off the first stench-generating germs?

When we got home last night, we startled a possum that was on our front fence. It hurled itself to the ground via the Curmugeon’s shoulders when we opened the gate, then skittled up the back of my leg. Just above my knee, it changed its mind, jumped down and climbed a nearby tree. Was it, too, repulsed by the stinky jeans?