famous last words in the last three days

How hard can it be?

Turns out that waxing your own legs takes some measure of skill — or at the very least practise. Or perhaps just patience. None of which I can claim. So I am currently sitting here, with one leg scabbed with the straggling remains of blue wax which is too thin to peel off in a strip. Wax doesn't wash off in water. I don't have any oil in the house. And guess who can't be stuffed even thinking about waxing the other leg now?

I'll just check out the jackets.

Problem being, the hot dresses and flirty skirts were between me and the jackets. And while I did not find any jackets, I did find some hot dresses, and flirty skirts. Upside: I have new clothes to wear to work tomorrow. (Hint: I'm going to be very Melbourne.) Downside: I will not be able to afford, er, to eat this week.

Yeah, sure. I could do with a drink. Just one, yeah?

Whenever I agree to "just one" drink after work, I never get to bed before 1am. This is because alcohol, charming and wily little chemical that it is, alcohol hunts in packs. Agree to just one and they all line up behind the first, sneaking into your blood stream, and before you know it it's been 7 hours and you're standing on the curb, swaying. Just a touch. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I participated in a conversation which solved ALL the world's problems. All of them. Uh-huh.

28 February 2010 @ 17:37 | 4 Comments

some days, you just gotta write off

Today, in short:

  • A most thorough and excellent lesson in office politics. I'm not entirely sure precisely what I learnt, mainly owing to the sheer overwhelming flood of said learning, but I'm sure once I sift through it I'll have extra knowledge about how nekkid monkeys react and inter-react. (And you thought Shadow Queen was full of politics! Wait till I assimilate today's teachings!)
     
  • Someone (who shall remain nameless) struggled to remember my name. So I pointed it out — in a most gleeful and taunting manner, because I'm helpful that way. So he called me Princess Kalin. So I huffed and puffed and treated him to indignation and affront until he apologised and offered to upgrade it to Empress — at which point I told him I'd forgive him if he gave me a pomelo.
     
  • Was greeted with the phrase: Hi! I don't have shoes! But I have a question.
     
  • Wrote a testimonial for a piece of software that's changed my life made me lose five whole kilos improved my love life not even been released yet and to which I've literally logged in all of once. The joy of being known at work as "that freelance novel writing chick!"
     
  • Had an absolutely amazingly productive day — if you count productivity as solving everyone else's dilemmas. If you count it as producing reports, er, less so. (Pity work counts it as producing reports.)
     
  • Utterly failed to remember to eat dinner
     

24 February 2010 @ 20:05 | 6 Comments

the real marvel? no sunburn!

Briefly first (so I cannot be accused of being entirely neglectful (only mildly so)), there is a quick interview with me as part of the Snapshots 2010 on Rachel Holkner's blog.

(One day, I will learn how to segue gracefully even when too tired to do so. This is not that day.)

Yesterday, my car being in need of a drive, I ventured to Werribee Open Range Zoo. Those of you who've followed this blog for a while may well remember last time I went to the zoo (the Melbourne Zoo), it was to be treated to a concerted snubbing by every animal inhabiting said zoo. I have never seen so much animal butt in my life as that day.

Thankfully, yesterday's trip was not all about the animals turning their backs on us. No, yesterday's trip was all about the expressions.

I'll have you know, the lady camels go wild for this

I couldn't get a girlfriend. So they put me in with the kudu. Now I'll never get a girlfriend.

Do you MIND?

Aw! So Sad!

Effing nekkid monkeys.

HMPF!

Did we, or did we not, just tell you lot to SHOVE OFF?

I AM magnificent, aren't I? Ignore the weedy hindquarters, please to be concentrating on my MAGNIFICENT visage, thank you.

21 February 2010 @ 9:57 | 4 Comments

asking the important questions

News on the Great Nutella Question is that you are all (most of you) a little too addicted to bread and don't understand the wonder that is Nutella on a Spoon. I am willing to forgive you all, however, because I am magnanimous that way.

So, on to the next vital issue. Namely, werewolves.

Now, I have a secret1 love of werewolves. But, increasingly of late, only in written fiction. That's because I have noticed a worrying trend over the last, say, decade or so, in film depictions of the werewolf.

I can only presume it was born out of some desire to make for scientifically "possible" werewolves. Or, wait, perhaps that's giving producers too much credit: perhaps it's because actors are easier to manage and more biddable on set than wolves (or dogs), and a hair suit is cheaper than computer graphics. But whatever the reason, today's TV and film werewolves look like some mutated orangutan-baboon lovechild. And you know what? Not doing it for me. There's not enough wolf in today's werewolves.

What about you? Do you like the apish version of the werewolf, let's call him Homo lupus? Or do you, like me, prefer your werewolves to be wolves first, Canus sapiens?

  1. Actually, it's probably not that secret. [↩]

16 February 2010 @ 19:13 | 5 Comments

yes, this is how i spend my creative energy – what of it?

We interrupt our normal blog practices to briefly toot my own horn: this GoodReads review popped up in my browsing this morning, and I can't decide what I love more: the shelves she's chosen (books worth your time! kick ass heroines!) or that she's read the book twice in the space of two weeks. It's a good way to start the day. (Ladies and gentlemen, your author, quietly glowing for the rest of the week.)

But now, people, on to matters of EXTREME importance: Nutella: Bread? Or spoon?

It has come to my attention that some people, some clearly confused and misguided people, think this hazelnet paste is to be used solely as some kind of spread, and that it is indeed best when consumed via bread delivery means. And my response is this: why, why, for the love of all things vegetable oil, would you bother smearing it on bread and thereby making it too dry, when you could just eat it straight off the spoon?1

But, judging from the fact that my family apparently eat all sorts of foods "the wrong way", it is just possible that I'm the freak in this scenario. So, Internets, set me straight: bread or spoon?2

  1. I have also heard of nutella on crepes. I am less averse to this scenario, because crepes are not as dry nor as thick as bread, and therefore I assume the crepe would not suck all the moisture out of the nutella. [↩]
  2. I reserve the right, if all y'all turn out to be freaks who prefer bread to spoon, to blithely ignore you and go on with my spoonish ways. Just so you know. [↩]

14 February 2010 @ 10:25 | 16 Comments

i have since medicated with a generous application of crepes

There are various permutations featuring the following ingredients: Deb, a laptop, an umbrella, and the weather. Some permutations are rather less optimal than others, like, say, for example, today's: Deb, a laptop, no umbrella, and the entire contents of the Bass Strait pouring from the sky in the space of fifteen minutes.

Yeah, that wasn't my smartest move.

11 February 2010 @ 17:29 | 6 Comments

the zombie apocalypse: i'm ready

Yesterday involving some good news,1 last night required celebrating. Which is how I ended up at one of my favourite locals, a grungy pub with a grandiose name in direct contrast with the ubiquitous portraits of Arab sheiks and its decidedly less than grandiose couches and crazy wallpaper and praying mantis mural.

So, naturally, because I was with speculative fiction writers, and we like to discuss the important issues, the topic of zombies came up. LOTS.

And who cares whether it's already a meme2, it is now.

The question is this: Zombie Apocalypse. You choose: Location. Weapon. Soundtrack.

Karen gobsmacked me with the promptness of her answer (clearly, she's considered this issue in some detail before now) and I very nearly pulled my normal stunt when put on the spot, which is to blush, and stammer, while my brain does a flawless impression of a sponge. Luckily, alcohol, while it does kill brain cells, seems to concentrate on killing the shy ones first, so I managed to sidestep my normal reaction and, even better, summon up an actual answer. Which I shall share with you all, because it amused me, although I do reserve the right to change my answer repeatedly and at any point.3

In short:

  • Location: South Yarra
  • Weapon: A machete or two
  • Soundtrack: Mad World (the Gary Jules cover)

Location is easy: I'm always at work, so it's got to be South Yarra. I'm picturing one of those trendy chic upmarket roof gardens or courtyards, full of ambience and dripping with money I don't own and can't seem to find, and full of people who (if they weren't zombies, obviously) look glam and fab and corporate. Because this is up to me, however, I will look better in my knee-high boots than they ever did even when they were actually alive and not covered in blood, gore, and the brain tissue of their (and probably my) work colleagues.

Zombies, zombies, squished and jostling every inch of this placid courtyard. I'll be on that little balcony off to the right, leaping into their squirming, reaching mass. In slow-motion. Naturally.

The weapon I gave less thought to, admittedly. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going to get usable blades, because at work we don't even have knives sharp enough to cut cake. But I just feel that long blades are going to look awesome with my wardrobe, which, as I might have mentioned, is going to be corporate and hawt. And not a little bit schoolgirl anime, because obviously I'm vicariously reliving my adolescence in this scenario.4

I will probably have my hair back, for practicality's sake. And I will be wearing knee-high boots, not knee-high socks. And, um, I'm not actually a brunette. (Oh, and also? Those three in the background look far too surly. They're probably already zombie-food by this point.)

And as for the soundtrack, well, there's not much to say on this one other than: HECK YEAH I'M GOING EMO ON THE SCORE. This is South Yarra, with corporate zombies, and I'm going down in slow-motion glory. I can think of no better soundtrack to underscore this poignant moment.

  1. In my case, it was dayjob related, so I won't bore you with too many details, but suffice to say the past 2 and a half months has been an examination period, wherein every single report I wrote had to be handed in to be scrutinised by no less than 3 people. Who each gave me a mark. And then all those marks added up. And in order to pass the exam, I had to score a minimum of 95% — which, yes, is INSANE, and possibly is reason aplenty for explaining my strange and frazzled state of late… The good news being that I passed, I passed, frabjous day take that, voice in my head that taunted me with thoughts of inadequacy! [↩]
  2. Seriously, if it's not already a meme, I'd be surprised — but I'm too lazy to google because I've been awake since 5:30am for no reason whatsoever except my circadian rhythms apparently possessing some kind of ninja-competency doctorate in cruelty. DAMN YOU, BIORHYTHMS. DAMN YOU. [↩]
  3. It's a zombie apocalypse! I can't be tied down! I need to be free! And organised! And have backup plans! [↩]
  4. I am including this picture because it ticks the corporate, hawt, and schoolgirl boxes — but mostly because this picture did actually come up when I searched for zombie apocalypse corporate wear. I do not really see why, but I heartily approve. [↩]

Untouchable Face (Ani DiFranco — Dilate)

6 February 2010 @ 6:53 | 4 Comments

strange kind of day to discover

Right this very second, I'm supposed to be writing.

And my body is doing its damnedest to convince me we're not capable of sitting still1 or (horror of all horrors) dragging words out of the murky recesses of my consciousness and slapping them down in some laughable approximation of narrative order. My eyes are sagging in their sockets, my shoulders are starting to climb up around my ears, and my legs keep attempting mutiny by standing. Get up, my mind is whispering. Give it up. Do something easy. Like watching TV. Or reading — there's that juicy book you're in the middle of, just waiting for you. Or what about scrubbing the bathtub? ANYTHING BUT THIS.

All because I'm not quite sure what happens next in this short story, and apparently DECIDING is too much to ask.

Honestly, some days I think if you just accomplish staying in the chair, you've won an epic battle.2

  1. at the desk — apparently lying still on the couch or the bed, reading, we're definitely capable of :???: [↩]
  2. Although words and/or plot wouldn't go astray right now. Any second now. Whenever you're ready, words, plot. No, really, take your time. [↩]

(Return of) The Electric Horseman (Powderfinger — Double Allergic)

1 February 2010 @ 17:18 | 2 Comments