Not Gryffindor

There are many reasons that I would not be sorted into Gryffindor.

Sometimes, I think that sucks a little bit.

Courage is so easy for me, in my head. Maybe it is for everyone. It’s easy to sit in a dark corner and imagine how easy it is to speak up when you’re hurt. In a dark corner, you can give yourself infallible strength of conviction, absolute certainty in your action. In your imagined conversations, the other person never has that perfect counter-point to derail your “faultless” logic.

It’s so easy to be brave when there is no action to take. When I’m walking home and I’m thinking about all of the ways I can get out there, how easy it will be to slip through the cracks of reality and then carve the space out for my dreams to come true.

In my head, every thing I’ve ever wanted is absolutely within my reach. It’s not even that hard to get it. I simply move these pieces and watch my life fall into place.

Then I get home. I know that step one is “simple”. Write that email. Make that phone call.

Instead I open up another tab on the internet. I’ll just…check in first.

Because courage is so easy to post, and so hard to do.


Dear Australia



I take back any positive things I have said in the past about your pizza-related stylings.

All I want is something dripping with grease that has about two pounds of cheese on it. How hard is that to find in the states? It’s as easy as the nearest pizza joint. Here in Melbourne, THERE IS NO CHEESE ON PIZZA.

When I pick up a slice of pizza, I expect there to be delicious strands of cheese; hot, melty ropes, clinging from the rest of the pie to the piece I’ve chosen to devour. I can pull on them until the finally snap and then suck them down as precursor to the flavour-laden slice that’s burning my fingertips.

Seriously, friends. CHEESE.

It’s so good.

Especially on pizza.

Why have you let me down, Melbourne?

We were doing so well, you and I…

You let me down, Australia. You let me down.


“My” Generation

I got to go to a meeting of potential housemates today, and I think overall it went well (in that way that when we showed up, it was scorchingly hot outside, and the next time I checked my watch many hours had passed).

There was something about it that seemed a bit strange to me, and it took me until I was walking home to place it.

I had been on the defensive for almost the entire night. There had been lots of good conversation, but it never felt like a zero-stakes chat. I had spent the entire night trying to prove I was good enough.

It was a bit odd, because this is the second time I’ve met with these folks, and the first time was *super* chill. It was relaxed, the conversation felt so far from competitive, it was delightful.

I think part of it might be that my past times don’t always mesh with those of my age-group. I don’t really like going out for drinks that much. I read a lot. Most of my conversations start with “So I was reading this article recently…” For all my love of adventure, I’m a bit of a homebody.

My potential housemates mentioned that they’re both in the club of “I’m happy I’m 40”, which is wonderful. I think that one of the strangest things is how modern culture promotes this fetish of youth. That being said, it’s a bit more difficult for me to appreciate the “I’m happy I’m 40” club, when part of that becomes “God, what’s wrong with people who are 20? I just want to shake them sometimes”.

Then I’m left kind of just wondering…how old do you think I am, exactly? Is this some kind of “oh hey, well, you’re here so clearly *you’re* different”, or some passive-aggressive pass? Or do you think I’m like, 30, or something? I’ve gotten that before. People sometimes suck at guessing my age. I’ve gotten everything from 15 to 40, so, maybe you’re just guessing that I’m in *your* age-group instead of the one you’re whinging about.

I guess it’s just a bit odd, because the people I hang out with who are in my age-group; well. I mean, I think they’re pretty fucking amazing. They do incredible things. They’re smart, they’re passionate, and I really do think they’re gonna help change the world. Hell, they already have been changing the world. The young people I know are fucking incredible, so I guess it’s a bit hard for me to understand the perspective of folks who want to know “what’s wrong with my generation”.

Nothing’s wrong with us. We’re fucking awesome.

Just watch. You’ll see.

You Just Didn’t Know It

So, my friends, you were all actually pretty much boiling in your jealousy of me yesterday, and you just didn’t know it yet.

About two blocks away from my house was a giant, free, delightful afternoon of summer fun and music.

Paradise Island

“Wait, wait!” you say, “When I see ‘Mikelangelo’, does it mean…that Mikelangelo?”

Yes, friend. Yes it does.


Sleepy Hedgehog

I got to skype with some delightful folk in the UK today, and they sang me a song about “floating on the bayou”, which I must admit, I don’t think I’ve ever head the word “Bayou” come out of a British mouth before, and I giggled a bit.

However, due to time differences, what was, for them, a lovely, post-supper chat, for me was…something I had to set an alarm for.

I logged on and I was greeted with enthusiasm and the opinion that I looked “Like a sleepy little hedgehog”, which I think might be one of the most spectacular things I have ever been called in my life, *ever*.

Apparently, I looked something like this:



or possibly this:



’cause I really don’t think they meant this:





(I think in reality it was probably more like…this:)





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Burns Day

That’s right! While most of Australia is going mad with Australia-Day shenanigans, I’m going back to my Scottish roots.

I’ve got shortbread cookies and scotch, and I feel like a tiny bubble of Edinburgh has appeared in my room. It’s a beautiful thing. (A free drink and shit “biscuits” are often given out at the end of ghost/haunted placed tours in Edinburgh. I have no idea why, but it’s a thing. It’s often lemonade, if the tour is early enough to be aimed towards kiddies.)

For something a bit less…syrupy…

I’m still pretty sure that nothing in the entire world is better than Scots being Scottish.

Fillin’ Out…More Forms…

I have a pathetically detailed file system for keeping my life-documents in order.

I have five consecutive folders, in ascending order by year, all entitled “Job Search”.

I cannot *wait* until I have a gap in that line. I imagine it will be delightful; full of planned vacations and holiday bonuses instead of once again fighting with formats, double checking numbers for references, cover letter after cover letter, seriously-what-the-fuck-is-the-difference-between-a-resume-and-a-CV, stressful insanity

Until then, I guess, it’s back to the same old dance:

Apology Vs. Aggression

I’m becoming what is known as an “café all-arounder” here in Melbourne. Not only am I baking when I’ve got time, I’m being trained as a chef, barista, waiter, prep-cook…

It’s fantastically fun, and it’s a great way to keep my life interesting. There are always jobs to be done, and I’m steadily getting better at all of them.

There’s this bizarre thing that keeps happening though, when people apologize about correcting me. I guess I understand where that behavioural pattern comes from, because a lot of people get defensive when corrected. It just seems kind of sad to me though.

I want to get better at things, and how can I know that I’m doing them wrong, if no one is willing to correct me?

When someone corrects you, and you already know what you’re doing, it’s really common to lash out. It seems kind of sad to me though, that having this aggressive behaviour as the standard means that people apologize for for knowing different/potentially better ways of getting things done.

What would the world be like, if instead of approaching a different angle with hostility, it was allowed with an open mind for discussion?
It seems to me like the world would be a very different place.

(It’s definitely something I’m going to try and keep in mind the next time someone tries to “correct” me on a task I already know how to accomplish. Who knows; maybe I’ll learn something.)

Minor Recalibration

I got my beautiful new job as at my fantastic, crazy vegan café, and it’s wonderful and I love it, and while I’ve been working there, averaging thirteen-hour shifts, I kind of…let everything else slip.

I took a mini-vacation and turned off my phone, and spent the time to just sort of come back to myself.
I pulled out my bucket list and did a quick evaluation of things.

That’s how I like to live my life; always in pursuit of happiness.
I don’t think I have a bucket list like most people do.
My bucket lists are not permanent things that are set in stone, or carved into the very foundation of my heart.
My bucket lists are things that, when I am old, I want to have done. My bucket lists are things that I have dreamed of since I was young. My bucket lists are things that I have seen, that I want to try. My bucket list is skills I don’t have that I want to learn.

I love my job, but thirteen hours a day in a café leaves very little room for other things.

This weekend was a deep breath, and an adjustment of the compass. I can keep going where I am, but I’m going to be cutting back, and making time for other pursuits.

(I don’t have my fingers in *nearly* enough pies, apparently.)

Backstreet Breakthrough

I love ’90’s boybands. I won’t pretend to be ashamed, because I AM NOT. I am PROUD of my love of really terrible music. It’s plastic, it’s over-produced, it’s totally fake, and I LOVE IT.

Today, I *MASTERED* the finger-picking bit of “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. (Which, really probably goes more to show about where I am with learning fingerpicking, but WHATEVER. I am STOKED.)

So, in honour of my awesome, I’ll just throw out some of the all-time worst music videos ever created.


Oh yeah. So good. Such talent!

I remember watching a making-of documentary about this video when it came out. It was all “Wow! Green-screen! It’s so advanced!” AHAHAHA! Good times, friends. Good times.

The most moving dialogue I’ve ever heard. A heartwrenching fight!