Friday, May 29, 2009

scrubs, muffins and motherhood

041 Just chucked on the skirt I was wearing Sunday night. There were two chocolate éclairs in the pocket. This excited and baffled me. Like I needed more proof I had too many beers. Where did they come from? And, while I’m at it, what about the giganto bruises on the back of my knees?

042 I don’t believe in 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner.

043 I’ve used a solarium before. I am ashamed. Vanity over health and I didn’t even feel like it made a huge difference. The worst part is, with summer approaching and a solarium at my gym, I briefly contemplate slapping down a 50 for a handy 100 minute package every other day. Shame. Shame. Shame.

044 Things I incorrectly thought would go away with age: pimples, bitching, the irrational concern over what I see in the mirror.

045 It’s a tough call but I think my favourite city in the world – of those I have been to of course – is Paris. I wouldn’t be surprised if, come September, there’s a new frontrunner following my New York debut. It’s hard to rate it in the same vein, being more of a ‘local’ than a tourist, but Sydney is surely up there among the world’s best. Although I have absolutely nothing to do with that, I am still proud.

046 Scrubs is about to start. I love Scrubs. I can watch the same episodes over and over, and I do. My ex and I owned the first four seasons on DVD and got two each in the ‘divorce’. Choosing which two was really hard. Like picking a favourite child except you can’t just say ‘I‘ll take the prettier one’. I think Elliott and I have a lot in common. I really want Elliott and JD to end up together. And I really want the creators to call it quits on a high rather than enabling a Secret Life of Us death.



i'm no superman

047 I used to think I was ‘being good’ by having a muffin instead of a regular café breakfast. You know, as long as it was blueberry and not chocolate. I am astounded I was so dumb. Muffins are little bald cakes and aren’t even trying to look like anything else. Cake for breakfast. Idiot.

048 I am almost positive that I will be my happiest when I have children. I think I will be a really good mum. I typed ‘I think’ so as not to seem like a wanker. I really wanted to type ‘I know’. Still, I freak out when I think about childbirth. How?

049 My iPod is depressed. On it you’ll find about 80 per cent melancholy. Imogen Heap, Sarah Blasko, Bon Iver, Sia, Radiohead, Clare Bowditch, Angus and Julia Stone, Beth Orton – the list goes on. They’re all great listening but only if you’re in the right mood. I really need to rectify this.

050 Even though I like my job, I miss being a journalist. I like that I miss it. It validates my decision to become one in the first place.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

psychodebacle

finally, finally, finally i have gone beyond simply acknowledging i have a few deep-set emotional issues and am seeking a little help. i have recognised i am not so tough - or at least, i don't have to be - and that asking for a leg up does not necessarily indicate weakness.

i had a light bulb moment exactly six weeks ago. the night before, i had put in a request to an acquaintance for details of a psychologist he had spoken highly of. he had no problem helping out but the details weren’t at hand. he didn’t get back to me that night and he didn’t answer the call i put in the next morning. i do not normally act with such urgency but, on this occasion, i was a woman with a plan and had decided that, this time, i would not let any outside influences halt my progress.

conveniently, i was working from home that day. i rang the doctor. no free appointments. no surprises (said radiohead). but they do provide a drop-in service. i threw off my pyjamas and chucked on jeans and a tee. tied in-desperate-need-of-a-wash hair back and poorly disguised oil slick with headband.

and i ran. from the front door to the doc’s, i ran – no, i sprinted – only to arrive huffing and puffing at a closed surgery. phone lines open at 8.30am but the surgery doesn’t open until nine apparently. it was 8.40.

i could have just gone home. once upon a time i probably would have. promising to go back in the afternoon or next week. maybe getting around to it a few weeks later. but probably not. instead, i waited.

after a mere 20 minutes outside and another 25 in the waiting room, i was blubbering in front of my new doctor asking for a referral. she was lovely. she listened. she validated. she offered tissues and smiled knowingly. then she said i would need to return for a longer appointment so she could gage the best course of action. she didn’t have an open ‘long’ slot for two weeks. a set back, but i liked her so i booked it rather than opting for someone else (and used camelshoes as therapy in the meantime, as you may have noticed).

now, i still like my doc because she’s empathetic and pretty but i honestly have no idea why we couldn’t have covered everything in the first appointment. we seemed to go over the same ground the second time around.

then comes the referral. three numbers handwritten on a piece of scrap paper. professional.

"okay, so do i just need to mention your name when i call?"

"oh, no. you don’t need a referral. just call and tell them what you need".

well, firstly, i need a brain that doesn’t fear judgement and rejection. secondly, i need a chest that doesn’t seize up with panic for no apparent reason. thirdly, i need to know why you’ve just wasted two weeks of my life. pretty bitch.

i get home. i call phone number one. no answer. leave a message. call phone number two. no answer. leave a message. and phone number three. no answer. no message bank.

ahhh, hello? i try my hardest not to get frustrated because part of my ‘improved me’ approach is to not get so easily riled. i do a reasonable job. decide, given it’s a friday, i will give them until monday before i start stalking.

on monday afternoon, i call phone number one. no answer. leave a second message. call phone number two. no answer. leave second message. phone number three. no answer. no message bank.

wtf? these numbers are for psychotherapy services. PSYCHOTHERAPY. what if i was suicidal? i am not – not at all – but there’s every chance someone else calling is. beyond that, it would be a big step for a lot of people to make such a call in the first place. such a response would be all they needed to stop trying.

on tuesday i get through to phone number one. i bite my tongue and swallow the rant you’ve just read and explain my call. sweet as pie. probably not a four and 20 though. anyway, the psychotherapy manager isn’t in. she won’t be in until thursday. she’ll call me then.

to her credit, she did. all new clients must first book an appointment with her, i'm told. she only sees new clients on thursdays. there are no appointments available today. i have to wait a week. deep breaths, deeeep breaths.

a week later and my appointment seemed to be going fine. until…

"i am a fully qualified psychologist and manage this service. our therapists are volunteers. they are all in training and most are in post graduate studies so they certainly know what they’re doing but that is why we’re able to offer a low-cost service".

oh. my. fucking. god. i don’t know if my doctor thought i looked like a cheap skate (hair unwashed and all) but i never asked for a low-cost service. sure, i’d rather pay less than more but not at the expense of a successful outcome. in fact, i mentioned to her that i wasn’t interested in going through the low-cost public health system because of the wait so surely that was an indication of my priorities.

i was gutted. five weeks after my epiphany and i had gotten nowhere. my new psychologist is looking a little less like frasier and a little more like...


"it says here you have abandonment issues"...ahh, der

another deep breath. there’s been a whole lot of those lately. but, since it took so long just to get to this point, i decided not to be so judgemental. at least give it a chance.

my first appointment was scheduled for tomorrow. today the therapist rang. he has the mumps. the mumps? who the fuck gets the mumps? FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. he would be lying low for two weeks. can we reschedule for june 12?

"no, i’m sorry, that’s too far away. i have waited so long already".

"i’m sorry but i cannot do anything…"

"yes, that’s fine. i understand you’re sick and appreciate that can’t be helped but i am not waiting two more weeks. i just want to get started. it’s been too long".

i call phone number two. no answer. leave a third message. phone number three. no answer. no message bank. sigh. call phone number one. speak to the manager. the qualified one.

i have an appointment for next thursday. unless sophie gets scabies.

Monday, May 25, 2009

super mega death shark face

mazz blogs all things movies. she recently linked to this trailer of surely one of the most lame movies of our generation. as mazz did, i encourage you to check it out. abysmal.

still, i see your mega shark versus giant octopus, mazz, and raise you shark attack 3...

oh dear god. not unlike 'the happening', i think this might be one of those movies that's so bad, it's good. get me to video ezy.

words (for me) to live by

i found a quote. it was on a postcard in a book shop. i was just hanging out in the book shop for no apparent reason. i love book shops. i loved the postcard. i bought it. it's on my wall. the quote has become my new mantra.

i wanted to do more here than just say 'here's a quote i like' so i found a pic which i thought complimented the words well. furthermore, this will be the first in a new 'series' i've just now decided to call blogtography mondays which will bring you a weekly photo that, for whatever reason, caught my eye.

so, without further ado i present...

it's never too late to have a happy childhood

Saturday, May 23, 2009

intelligent conversation

the scene: doc’s waiting room. me reading the independent (because it was there). enter man of about 65. ‘learning difficulties’ evident. also evident - my expert knowledge of politically correct terminology.

man: are you intelligent?
me: i can be. intelligent on some subjects, not so much on others.
man: you’re reading an intelligent paper. that’s an intelligent paper. you are an intelligent woman.
me: well then, maybe more so once i finish reading.
man: i don’t like intelligent women. they can work out your weaknesses.

Friday, May 22, 2009

tattoos, coffee and sad goodbyes

031 By time I’m 31, I would like to be married. In fact, it’s a nice looking age for baby number one. Do you think I am pushing it?

032 Tattoo count. Zero. I have nothing against tattoos. In fact I am quite fond of those which tell a story of significance. I briefly considered getting inked many years ago but wasn’t inspired enough by potential designs. Now that I am past that phase, I am glad. With the number of people sporting tattoos these days, I believe not having one is just as much of a statement.

033 I wanted to live in Angel (London) before I had ever seen it. Angelic in her own right, my friend lived in Angel a few years ago and I just loved the idea residing in a place with such a name. Now I live here, I love it. It no longer belongs before jail on the monopoly board. I wish, only for my rent’s sake, it did.

034 Aside from London, I have lived in Wagga Wagga, Norfolk, Canberra, Townsville and the Gold Coast. All had their pros and cons. Some more than others. I could easily live on the Gold Coast again. It gets a bad rap (and I know Siamese Saffron is cringing) but I can hardly fault it. Sun, sand and surf. A café culture which kept me well caffeine-ed. Brisbane an hour to my left and Byron Bay and hour to my right. Apart from all the yucky personal stuff which went down there, it was a pretty sweet time.

035 Speaking of caffeine, coffee with friends is one of life’s simple pleasures. Flat white is my coffee of choice. I just don’t need all that froth and I most certainly prefer my coffee in ceramic as opposed to glass. Brits don’t do flat whites. It’s not a huge deal but I do miss them. Lattes fill the void reasonably when well made. I have recently converted to soy milk. When I am naughty I indulge in a little vanilla. The organic café around the corner from work has vanilla soy. It makes me happy.


dear england. make it happen.

036 I am not wearing stockings today. It’s the first time since October that I haven’t worn stockings to work. The sun is glorious. My legs feel liberated.

037 Maths came much more naturally to me than English at high school. This presented a slight problem because I loved English and hated maths. I think my teachers had a bit to do with that. I put so much more effort into English and, in the end, my results indicated that. I was not born to be a writer. I turned myself into one.

038 I so vividly remember kneeling over the back of the couch, head underneath the curtain, looking out the window and crying as I watched dad drive away. Moments before he had told me, for the first time, he wasn’t going to live with us anymore.

039 Dad left us a number of times. I always think it was six times but I have a feeling it’s more like four or five. Doesn’t really matter I guess. I only remember one other time as clearly as the first. It might have been the last but again, I can’t be sure. This time dad left mum to break the news. He had left overnight. I knew as soon as she sat us down. I started crying. One of my sisters, who would probably have been six, laughed at me for crying. I erupted. I think that might have been when I built the wall. A brief 18 years later, I’m working on pulling it down.

040 There’s a post-it on my computer which says ‘UNCROSS YOUR LEGS’. My legs are currently crossed.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

must. not. delete

every time i do it, i cringe. yet i know i will do it again. you’ll find it examples dotted throughout camelshoes.

you may have already noticed. you probably haven’t. i hope you haven’t. yet i am about to explain myself anyway…

i know how many people read my blog. i know how many times those people come back. i know how they got here. i know how long they spent here. i know where they live. (only the country, don’t be scared). it’s all thanks to a clever tool called google analytics.

so, the fact i would bother to infer no one reads my blog, when i know that’s far from true, is purely a method of self-protection. protection against the haters.

unfortunately, google analytics cannot tell me why someone visits my blog but i know i have haters. so.many.haters. and they’ve been around much longer than camelshoes has.

people have always hated me. not all people obviously. in fact i am quite lucky to be liked be a lot of people. and i am quite partial to those people so stick around, won’t you? but at times in my life it’s been hard to see those who like me past the heavy, sickly fog of haters standing between us.

i had a lot of haters at school. girls always wanted to bash me up. one group in particular. i was a slut apparently. the fact that was clearly untrue was irrelevant. i spent two years waking up every morning sick at the thought of another day at school. i would wish that feeling on no one. thankfully, those fun-lovin’ kids dropped out after year 10 but there were plenty of people willing to pick up where they left off. this time they were people i actually considered my friends, despite the fact i would mentally pre-screen all behaviour for fear of unwittingly inviting criticism. i spent the next two years trying my little heart out to stay in these guys’ good books. as a result, i just became a try hard which prompted the recruitment even more haters.

then there were the haters who i had never met. these ones astounded me. they were from different schools. different years. there were so many of them. i had NO FUCKING IDEA what i did wrong. most weeks i would learn of some random’s plan to ‘get me’. okay, cool. i’ll just watch my back for the rest of my life, shall i?

turns out, that’s exactly what i’ve been doing. i mean, i imagine i am not in their sights anymore but i haven’t stopped watching my back since emma fathead rounded up most of our grade and then some to watch her fight me at lunch time one day in year 6. she never did throw a punch. just followed me around the oval and pulled me down when i tried to escape her by jumping the fence. not sure what’s worse though. the punch, or waiting for it.

i have been shaped by these haters into a insecure and self-deprecating adult. i worry way too much what other people will think of me. it’s why i’ll write a blog entry and then bag myself out for writing a blog entry. i suppose the theory is if i say it first, it won’t hurt as much if (when) someone else follows suit. i am not sure who i am trying to kid because i know full well it will hurt regardless.

that’s the back story. here’s where i’m at right now.

i have recently decided to use camelshoes as a way of holding myself accountable for my life-improving promises. it’s easy to proclaim today will be the last i let my thoughts and actions be influenced by haters of days gone by, but it’s just as easy to fall into old habits because i’ll be the only one who’ll know i’ve failed.

in the real world, i’d never give up so easily. i boast a dogged competitiveness and loathe the idea of failure. i want to be good – no, great – at ev-er-ry-thing. i am going to use this to my advantage.

that said, i hereby declare: i am over it. i am over caring. i am done analysing. i am what i am. i am a decent person. i have my flaws and i’m working on them. but i have a shitload more good attributes. from now on, i choose to concentrate on the people in my life who recognise them. trying to keep you haters at bay doesn’t seem to work anyway. i know a change of this magnitude will take a lot of work. a whole lot of work. this entry is a starting point.

furthermore, i forgive anyone who contributed to my hellish teenage years. there are a million reasons for bullying. i don’t know what yours was, i just hope you’re over it. for your sake and for the sake of those around you. i realise you have not asked for forgiveness. i will assume that, given the opportunity, or the courage, you would like to apologise. if this is not the case, i forgive you for my own benefit which is a good enough reason for me.

lastly, i will not second-guess this blog entry (okay, i will, but i WILL NOT get scared and delete it later). i write because i enjoy it and it comes naturally to me. anyone who knows me can tell you i express myself better in writing. anyone who judges me for it (or anything else) is not my friend. i blog because i can. it scares me but it fulfils me. i won’t apologise for that.


“those who mind, don’t
matter and those who matter,
don’t mind” – thank you, pipsy (iku)

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

a new banksy?

a new bus stop ad went up just near my gym last week. here 'tis...


let's not even talk about the inconvenience of being faced with this en route to another gruelling spin class. instead, i'd like to draw your attention to the ingenious work of angel's vandalism network...

kids these days. they're not even trying.

ps: if the banksy reference went over your head, it'd be worth your while checking this out.

Monday, May 18, 2009

oh, to return to the land of nod

i haven't really been sleeping very well. it's been this way for a while now. it's infuriating. i have no idea how i can go to bed each night, with the minuscule amount of sleep i caught the night before, and feel so very awake.

last night i thought i would try counting sheep.


a sheep.

then i noticed that when i count sheep, they are jumping a fence. then i wondered whether they were supposed to be jumping a fence or whether i had just made that up. then i started wondering, if i had in fact made that up, what were the sheep supposed to be doing? just standing around in a paddock? eating grass? confusing young children learning about plurals?

then i realised that if my crazy brain continued to ponder the most insignificant of life's questions then i would probably NEVER GET ANOTHER GOD DAMN WINK OF SLEEP AGAIN. ahem.

shut up. i'm tired.

Friday, May 15, 2009

advertising, apples and anxiety (and alliteration)

021 I voted for Mark Latham. How embarrassing for me.

022 Good advertising inspires me. Bad advertising infuriates me.

023 I used to bite my nails. I don’t anymore. I bite the skin around my nails. It’s not a good trade off. It’s a nervous habit. I don’t even realise I’m doing it.

024 I am going to New York in September. I am super excited. I have never been but expect to love it. I don’t think the USA gets enough credit as a tourist destination. I think people are turned off by all the Americans. I hear they’re everywhere.

025 Earl Grey tea. Yes please.

026 I cannot listen to my iPod while walking without stepping to the beat. As a result, I kind of strut. Sometimes I’ll be walking along and I’ll think ‘dude, you are totally strutting, quit it’ and then I think ‘ahhh, fuck it, embrace the rhythm’ and put my back into it just a little bit more.

027 I was diagnosed with anxiety depression about four years ago. Until recently, I have been ignoring it as a legitimate problem. It’s more than legitimate. It floors me. I hope now I have acknowledged it, I will be better equipped to cope. I don’t want to be ashamed which is why I am choosing to share this with you. It’s a little bit scary but I do not feel anxious. This is a really big deal for me.

028 Former pets = numerous gold fish. Numerous causes of death. Guinea pig named Kylie. After Minogue. I was a young teeny bopper and loooooved her. I don’t think Kylie liked domestic life very much. She didn’t last long. Cat called Fluffy. She was beautiful. Died of old age. Was very sad. Cat called Sim. I think she was a neighbour’s cat but the neighbours were ferals and didn’t look after her very well so she would always come and visit us. We fed her, she stayed. She had to go to the vet. The vet accidentally let her outside, she got hit by a car. The girl at reception broke the news to my mum and sister as if she was telling them the time. Sister cried. Mum yelled. Receptionist cowered. Lastly, cat who thought she was a dog. Ping Gilly. Ping because she had already been named and Gilly because she had disproportionately large ears as a kitten which reminded me of the best most amazingly fantastic cricketer the universe has ever seen, Adam Gilchrist. Ping Gilly, aka Gillsenen, thought she was a dog. She loved playing fetch. When she was hit by a car I was completely devastated. I cannot imagine the love a mother must feel for a child when I think about the love I had for her. I miss her.

029 I like apples but dislike pretty much anything made with them.

actually, i prefer red. but i liked this picture.

030 I just bought tickets to see Regina Spektor in Hyde Park in June. Bring on my jam-packed June. Reggie is amazing. If you don’t know her, get your butt to YouTube now. I want to wrap myself up in her cover of Real Love, as heard on Triple J’s Like a Version last year.

RIP Bud Tingwell

Sadness (and not just because this news was buried under the host of Matthew Johns related stories).

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

correction

Dear Amy,

You're a big, fat liar.

Dear readers,

Previous blog, while apparently a true story, did not in fact happen to a 'friend of a friend'. I should have known. It never does. I'm going to leave the post up anyway because it's still funny. And the Metro should totally employ me because their version was shit.

Peace out.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

the kindness of strangers

tears have been falling for all the wrong reasons of late but if there was a story to make them flow with laughter; this was going to be it.

a friend of a friend (no, really) was looking after her boyfriend’s dog while he was away. sadly, the dog died in its sleep one night. now, i know all very well the devastation of losing a pet so i do not in any way intend to cheapen the scenario. but what followed simply must be shared.

distraught girlfriend, let’s call her amy (and hope that’s not her name since i don’t actually know it), rings the vet and is told the dog probably suffered a heart attack but that she should bring him in. like most londoners, amy does not have a car. like many londoners, amy’s salary is not conducive to taxi travel. amy, at a loss for an alternative, puts ‘spot’ in a suitcase and takes him on the tube.

now, ‘spot’ – may he rest in peace – wasn’t a small dog and, as a result, the suitcase is particularly heavy. as Amy struggles with him on the escalator, a kind young gentleman offers to help. they get to talking. he comments on how heavy the bag is and asks what’s inside. thinking on her feet, amy explains that she’s a DJ and is relocating her equipment.

once outside the tube station, ‘kind young gentleman’ becomes ‘dead dog thief’ and does the bolt with what he thinks is his new DJ gear.

oh, to have been a fly on the wall when that discovery was made.

Friday, May 8, 2009

tears, boobs and peanut butter

011 I have never broken any bones. Every time I share that with someone I am scared I am tempting fate. The first time I was stung by a bee was the same day spoke about never being stung by a bee. I discovered my suitcase stolen minutes after saying ‘imagine if someone broke into your car and stole my suitcase’.

012 Despite my mum’s orders to the contrary, I used to secretly read in the dark. I reeeeally wanted glasses. I still pass eye tests with flying colours.

013 I shed a few last night while reading the final pages of A Thousand Splendid Suns. From memory, it’s only the second book which has caused such a reaction. The first was Jessica about 10 years ago. In contrast, when it comes to the screen, big or small, I am pathetic. I cannot watch Oprah without crying.

014 I am not particularly fussy with food but there are a few exceptions. Keep me away from beetroot (tastes like dirt), baby corn (tastes like feet) and olives (taste like ewww). I have eaten kangaroo twice and enjoyed it on both occasions, but spent both nights alternating between lying on the bathroom floor and throwing up for Australia. I think that’s the weirdest thing. Can you be allergic to a meat?

015 Flat chested? Embrace it. I have been everything from an A cup to DD in my adult life and I can categorically say, having small boobs rocked my world. Well, not really – that sounds kind of pervy mcperv – but it was such a simple luxury. Clothes fit better and therefore look better. Bras are prettier in smaller sizes. The gym isn’t a two-bra nightmare. I want my B cup back.

016 I had a dream last night that Patrick Swayze signed up for the next season of Dancing with the Stars. He was to partner Pauline Hanson. I adore dreaming. It’s amazing how often I dream about events that are actually happening in my life, except with the usual dreamy randomness like flying or teeth falling out.

017 Before I even started writing this second instalment of 10…ahhhh…things, I had wondered whether it was, in fact, a really dumb idea. Firstly, I don’t know if I can be bothered doing this every Friday. Secondly, I seem to have committed to at least 10 weeks given the three digit bullets. Thirdly, I am scared of your judgement *raises elbows to demonstrate judgy dance*. Way too scared. It’s debilitating. It’s one of my greatest downfalls. I touched on it last Friday. I will mention it again. In fact there’s been a blog entry dedicated to the subject inside me for quite some time. Please consider this my reluctant promise to post that entry within five seven 10 14 days.

018 I am eating peanut butter off a spoon right now. I love PB so much I can’t buy it. A jar would be gone in three days. If I wasn’t already committed to marrying Tim Tam slams, I would wed peanut butter. Peanut butter Tim Tams – get on it, Arnott’s. There’s no substitute for super freakin’ awesome.

do not lick screen.

019 Nineteen in and are there already too many mentions of food? Sorry. I love food. I have eating bipolar. I am either really, really good or really, really bad. Right now, I guess the PB indicates bad.

020 I cannot watch anything with Nicolas Cage in it. Oh, that voice. That stupid, stupid voice...

Sunday, May 3, 2009

one year old - still crawling

blatant cheating. i've back-dated this post. but i had to because i totally forgot to say: happy first anniversary, camelshoes! i bought you a cake...


yeh, i can't answer that. but for more weird arse cakes, click me.

so, since it's been one whole year, i thought i might finally answer one of your FAQs.

camelshoes. what the...?

camelshoes represents two of the most important things in my life. my friends and laughing. combine the two and i'm not sure there's anything better.

i am lucky enough to have a lot of people who i can happily call friends but, like most of us, there is a handful who mean the world to me. this story involves three of those people. meet A, C and F. oooo, so cryptic with the caps. you know who you are.

we all lived on campus together, back in the day, and my god, we did laugh.

one evening, after a post-uni bar round of Frozen Vegetable Olympics, we were parting ways for bed when C yells "camel shoes".

"huh?"

"cAAAmel shOOOes," she repeated, her emphasis implying our stupidity, or perhaps her drunkenness.

"ahhh, you mean elephant shoes?"

"ummmmmm...yes...elephant shoes". a little meeker this time.

we had recently taken to elephant shoes as a term of endearment. in case you didn't know, when you mouth it, it looks like you're saying "i love you". so does "olive juice" but it's not as funny.

also popular during this time was the much less endearing term camel toe. not a popular fashion statement mind, just a popular reason to laugh at people.

to us - four drunk 20-somethings with a giant catalogue of personal jokes - C's slip was hilarious. it also stuck, as so many times shared with those three have.

i am aware this doesn't quite translate on paper. paper = computer screen. but i know everyone can relate to those simple but glorious moments shared with special people.

to me, the term camelshoes, which has morphed into one word for ease of use, represents so, so, so much more than the name of my blog. and every time i am here i am reminded of those things. i am also reminded that, no matter what else is going on, i have always had friends i can count on and i am always capable of laughing - even if it doesn't feel that way sometimes.

the last two/almost three week period has very much been one of those 'sometimes'. one of the most challenging 'sometimes' i've experienced. and here i was thinking i left that shit in 2008. A, C and F have been among a core group of friends who have outdone themselves in their support.

a card arrived from C this week. the words inside were perfect, but also private. the words on front were almost as good and certainly worth remembering:

...i don't need a certain number

of friends, just a number of friends i

can be certain of...

true 'dat




Friday, May 1, 2009

it's a new thing i'm trying

i could just call it 'about me' but i won't. that's boring. i am going to update this weekly. it will certainly help me up the entry rate on this thing. i think i'll do it every friday. you're welcome.

001 I will prove these little titbits will run in no particular order by starting with the fact that the word titbits still conjures a wry smile in me. Similarly, the I cannot say or hear the words route, erect, package, Alicante, dongle (there are more) without an internal giggle. I am okay with this.

002 I believe in horoscopes when they read in my favour and dismiss them as nonsensical when they don’t. I usually turn to them, for fun, during times of need (like now) and it is amazing how often they resonate. You should see the one mum found for me last week! In a similar vein, I am an Aries to a tee.

003 I enjoy getting drunk but, as a general rule, don’t enjoy alcohol. I usually drink beer although I almost never enjoy the first one. I drink red but hate white wine. Also hate rose. Friends always try to lure me to the white side…"here, try this, I think you’ll like it because…", but I never, ever do. Same with champagne but I will happily drink Passion Pop. Yes. Passion Pop.

004 To completely contradict 003, I cannot drink bubbles. They hurt my nose. I never drink soft drink. It’s probably why I never enjoy the first beer. I persevere for the end result. That makes me sound like an alcoholic. I am not.

unless it's passion pop

005 Yes, I think I can dance. That’s because I can. I was born with rhythm, as were my sisters, and we have our mum to thank. I am really grateful for this because dancing is such a simple pleasure in my life. I wish I never stopped taking lessons and often contemplate starting up again. I never act on this thought.

006 I used to eat play-doh, bath crystals, chalk and raw sausages. I was very young. The only reason I don’t find that as disgusting as you do is because I remember how good I used to think those things tasted. Don’t knock it until you try it. Although, you probably shouldn’t try it. Especially the sausages.

007 I could not possibly tell you what my favourite colour is. It changes all the time. Pink, yellow and purple are never far from my mind though.

008 Tim Tam slams are the best. I want to marry them. The only improvement on slammin’ a (packet of) Tim Tam(s) is enjoying the experience with my gloriously beautiful mate Bashy who shares the passion.

009 I have a pretty decent scar on my right knee. I tell people it’s from playing softball, which it is, except it probably wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t have taken a major stack while drunk and ripped the original scab clean off.

010 Most of my best friends are girls but I always connect more quickly with guys. There are two main reasons. Firstly, I share common passions, such as sport and quoting The Simpsons, with boys. Secondly, girls are mean. I feel intimidated by them and worry about what they will think of me. I hate that I am 28 and still feel like this. I am working on it. In the meantime, I am so, so grateful to those wonderful ladies in my life who made me realise the importance of girlfriends.

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