Tea and Ice Cream

I think that tea and ice cream is pretty much the best combination of things ever. (Add in some popcorn, and that’s just…that’s everything I could ever possibly want. Any afternoon, any circumstance, just… tea, popcorn and ice cream.)

So…why is there no tea-inspired ice cream? (Note: I am aware that there is green-tea ice cream, but in this case I am referring to “tea” as in the British cultural event, more than just the specific drink of steeped leaves of a tea plant.)

But, like, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s called “Have A Cuppa!” and it would be English Breakfast ice cream, swirled with diary-fresh sweet cream, with bites of scone and a ripple of strawberry jam. The design could be like…if the royal wedding threw up all over a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream container; like, Big Ben and the Queen and Union Jack (You may have heard that it’s only supposed to be called a “Union *Jack*” if it’s being flown on a ship,but apparently that’s sort of a new idea, (and everyone calls it a Union Jack anyway…). Like how if a flag is only halfway up the pole its at “half-staff” unless you’re on a ship, where it is actually at “half-mast” because ships have masts and land has poles.)(So, to summarize: “Union Jack” is correct. “Half-mast” is not.)

Or something. (Clearly I haven’t thought about this at all.)

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An Open Letter

Dear Lady,

You’ve got bright make-up on. You’re carrying your plastic bags, waiting on the corner for the lights to change, and the clicking to start; a green man will appear to beckon you across the street. Your bleached blonde hair is blowing in the wind, and you’ve got your umbrella at the ready by your side.

I meet your eyes and smile and say “Hey, would you be interested in a comedy debate tomorrow night?”

and you say “Ha! No, I’m too old for that, honey.”

 

No.

No, you’re…really, really not.  How can you be too old for comedy? I don’t understand. How can a human ever reach an age where they are no longer capable of enjoying laughter?

I wish you hadn’t walked away, because I have so many questions.

What do you do with your life? Are you happy? Who do you live for? Are you living for a woman who has struggled, and been, and is? Where did you meet this thought; this idea that somehow age has any bearing on what you can do with your evenings?

What else are you too old for?

Are you too old for tree houses? For champagne for breakfast? Too old for finger-painting? Too old for playdough or late-night phone calls, or emergency ice-cream runs? Are you too old to play tag or dance in the rain?

 

I want to take you with me. We’ll go to a park. I want you remember what it’s like to breath in the sun. We’re going to touch the bark on every single tree. We’ll catch ants on leaves, and watch them crawl. We’ll draw our names in the dirt.

Our clothes may very well get dirty.

We’ll pet the dogs being walked. We’ll go to a petrol station and pick up some bottom-shelf over-sugared penny candy in a toxic color with a flavour that has never existed in nature.

We’ll play frisbee, because it doesn’t matter how much we suck. It just matters that you’re smiling.

What I’m trying to say, dear lady from the sidewalk corner, is that life is beautiful. The only person who thinks you’re too old for anything…is you. And I’m sorry that no one has ever had the chance to ask you why you made the decision that you were too old for life.

You’re beautiful, and this world is a huge and incredible place. I’m sorry no one ever told you that age is in your head (and possibly the number of joints you’ve had replaced), but honestly…no one cares.

This world is a huge and incredible place. And it’s full of beautiful people. All of those beautiful people are way too worried about their own noses to give a single flying fuck about whether or not you are “too old” for something.

So, maybe you should use that age. Don’t hide behind it. Maybe you should try a different spin. “I’m too old not too”, for example? If you’ve decided that you can’t do all of the things you could do in your apparently long-gone youth, then maybe you should think about all of the things that are still left to you.

There’s so much in this world to do. There’s so much in this world to say “Yes” too. Age has nothing to do with it.

You are the only one deciding you can’t do things.

And why in the world would you do that?

All For Trying

Today, I may have  become a member of a genre-bending band that does punk covers of terrible top 40 songs.

It’s called “Crunchy, Not Awesome”. We’ll see how that goes.

Part of that delightful, mad experience was learning about what may be my newest favourite band: Dread Zeppelin. That’s right : the raggae-style Led Zeppelin tribute band fronted by an Elvis impersonator.

Oh yeah.

While rocking out to *that*, I also got to work on another project I’m working on, called “Not Sucking At Art“, which I will be documenting here.

And now I’m off to the night life of Melbourne! (To do stand-up or slam. At this point, I may just flip a coin to decide.)

(I love this city.)

Happy Birthday!

Foxfinding is one year old today!

According to Wikipedia, the numeral “one” used to be a horizontal line instead of the vertical one the folks have become so familiar with. It evolved. That’s kind of cool.

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It’s almost like an inchworm. An inchworm that learns to dance. Then…joins the military…?

Anyway.

N’aaw. Blog. Aren’t you just the best little blog I’ve ever had…[insert gooey “cute” noises here.]

In honour of the…bloggyness of blogging…

A really ugly cake:

Summer 08, Kate B-day Impala Cake,4th, & parties 003

You tell *me* what it is. I know what it is.

(The answer is “Sadness”, by the way.)

My cat!

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My current mug of tea!

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The most hipster corner of my house!

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Happy Birthday!

You Say “Date” I Say “Fiasco”

Let’s call the whole thing off.

 

The last date I went on was something I was so unprepared for, that I didn’t even know it was a date.

This time, when I was getting the vibes of possible date-ish-ness, I decided to acknowledge the idea that it was, most likely, a date.

We did the whole “chat-food-terrible movie” thing, and then we went to a poetry slam.

My version of “Embracing the Date-ish-ness” apparently means “Drag Potential Date To a Poetry Slam In Order To Explain The Ten Reasons I Am Un-Date-Able“.

Which…actually went shockingly well.

I was really expecting *SIGNIFICANTLY* more awkward after me pretty much being like “Yeah, hey, I HATE dating.”

(Also, does anyone *like* dating? Because it seems really, really awful to me. Like “I’m here because I think you’re cool and this would probably be fun except for the whole part where dating is TERRIBLE and what’s expected, and I don’t even know if this is a date, is this a date? How much of this do I have to pay for? If I say no will you never speak to me again? I’m really never going to sleep with you and I really don’t want your tongue in my mouth and when we get coffee can we actually just be getting coffee please? Plus, everything I know about dating I learned from watching the Disney Channel and/or Lifetime Original movies, so I’m not sure how many freebees I get before there are “expectations” but I will NEVER fill those. Probably. And why can’t we just be friends? Friends are AWESOME. Friends are the best things ever. Friends are SO MUCH BETTER than “Friends With Culturally Mandated Baggage”, which is essentially what dating seems to be to me. Why do we do that? Seriously? WHY IS THAT A THING?)

 

…anyway…

So, the date went shockingly well.

(I still came to the conclusion that next time I’m face-to-face with Date that there will the “Let’s Be Friends” chat, but y’know. Whatevs.)

However, a few days later, I run into the room-mate of Date. Room-mate says “Yeah. It was just hanging out, and then you called it a date, and then suddenly it became a date.”

 

My reaction:

For about eleven minutes and thirty-four seconds, too. There may have been some hiding-behind-a-hat, trying-to-melt-under-the-table that happened as well.

In case you were wondering, when you look up “opposite of smooth” you’ll find a picture of me.

Found: One Fairy Marvel-Father

The first comic book title that I ever read in its entirety was the Death; the spin-off from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series.

 (Then I read the rest of Sandman.)

 

The next title that I read through was Preacher.

This is to give a bit of background. Usually, when someone find out that you read comics, there is one question asked: DC or Marvel?

So, with my beginnings of comics being pretty much as far from puns and spandex as possible, I didn’t immediately find a title in Marvel that I could get into.

Batman, on the other hand, was a beautiful and rich discovery for me. Particularly the stuff written by Grant Morrison. It’s so beautifully…noir.

My answer to “The Comics Question” for many years was “I’m a Gotham Girl.”

Then DC decided to rip my heart out, send it through a wood-chipper, take a dump in it, bake it into a pie and give it back.

(I may still be a bit bitter about that, in case it wasn’t clear.)

I decided that the only choice left after the complete and utter betrayal of DC was to give Marvel a chance. So, I started with the biggest title going at the time: Civil War.

Now, that’s the one where the point is pretty much to make the reader hate EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER in the Marvel Universe. Iron-Man is tricking people into giving their souls away, and people are lying, and kids are being tortured and they killed Captain America…

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Yeah. So. It wasn’t the best introduction to Marvel for me. (At that point, I just went back, and fell deeply in love with pretty much the entire Milestone catalogue, but that’s a different story.)

There were a couple of titles that I did end up following out of Civil War (Young Avengers and The Runaways, specifically), but they were both fairly marginal titles, with really short runs.

Now, I have a Fairy Marvel-Father, who appears to me in pubs and says “Dude. Have you read…?”

 

YES!!!

 

 

*All pictures from wikipedia

Out With One, In With Another

Today,  I went for a job interview for a position as an M.C. at a local venue for cabaret and amateur performers. The job description was for someone to “run a show”.

Now, the first thing I must admit is that I really had no idea what I was walking into. Iwwasn’t sure if it was an interview or an audition, so I brought my C.V. and my ukulele.

It tturned out to be far more of the latter than the former.

I  was hoping to walk out with a job.  Instead I walked out with a gig.

A 30 minute gig that I somehow have to fill with 30 minutes of content. Original content.  That I have *memorized*. And *performance ready*.

How much original content do I currently have performance ready?

Well… I think it’s been said before,  so I’ll let the best speak for me:

 

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An Event in the History of Bananas

Today, I learned that the bananas I’ve grown up with are not the bananas of my grandparents. Apparently we eat the cavendish, which is just generally inferior in every way when compared to the Gros Michel, which is the banana variety that used to be found in stores.

I have no idea how this factors into the sterile-banana-conspiracy, but it seems like they might actually fit together well, because of the whole “troubles-of-monoculture” thing. (Even though the first article kind of implies the sterile-banana-conspiracy is bogus, which, let’s be real, that’s sort of the joy of conspiracy theories, isn’t it? DENY THE DENIAL OF SCIENCE. Or not. Y’know. It’s something…)

Now I want to grow a banana tree  of some kind of crazy awesome banana. And then eat them. And be very, very happy.

Dear Computer

Dear Computer,

I know we’ve been through a lot, and usually the only time I mention you, it’s because we’re having trouble, but I do love you.  Truly,  deeply and with all ten of my fingers.

However, I feel like there could be some some serious changes coming up in our relationship. Let’s just say that it’s an issue of power;  in the way that you no longer have any. I am an entire hemisphere away from the origin of your power cord, and despite any possible remnants of warranty,  I feel like this will have a direct and negative impact on our ability to to work together.

Mostly because,  well,  you don’t work anymore.  This isn’t goodbye. I’m sure that with a little time, we’ll be able to find a solution to our issues.  In the meantime…we’re going to have to take a break. Because,  you don’t turn on anymore and that’s what I need from you.

I hope we can resolve differences soon and I eagerly await the moment when we can put our issues aside and work together once more.

P.S. Dear readers,  until I can convince my dear computer to work with me once again,  please excuse any inconsistencies in posting and the inevitable proliferation of typos that comes from posting on a touch-screen interface that comes equipped with autocorrect function.

Multi-Generational Movie Night

There is a…generous age gap between me and my housemates. Which is delightful and lovely and wonderful, and sometimes they say things like “What’s a funny movie” and I say something like “Have you ever seen Mean Girls?”

 

So, I’m watching weird teen movies with my housemates, and I have no idea how they actually feel about these things, or if they’re just humouring me.

Tonight we’ve watched Office Space (It’s just been really relevant to my life recently, okay?), and we started Mean Girls, which ended up being really terrible quality, so now we’re about halfway through Pitch Perfect.

 

It’s a bit strange, because I have no idea how well some things translate across. Like “Did you get that really terrible top 40’s reference that was relevant about 4 years ago?”

 

And I just…don’t know.

I just don’t know.