New blog alert...MINE!!

A-hoy-hoy.

So, as I alluded to in the previous post, I've created a new blog. WHEEEE!

I hereby invite you all to visit me at my new base, that of Pretzel Thief.

Unfortunately, visiting doesn't mean you get a virtually-delivered hot pretzel...or DOES IT?!

See you over at the new digs!

::crickets chirping, tumbleweeds rustling::

[Started this post on the 17th but finished it today, the 30th of March.]

Man.

What does one even say, huh? Right?

I know.

Last post in late September...well, then.

I guess it's been a combination of pre-wedding madness and running around (the wedding was November 20 last year), writer's block (I know, INSERT EYEROLL HERE, what a copout) and perhaps apathy? Yeah, sounds about right. That's the combo right there.

Thing is, I kind of miss writing a blog, but maybe not THIS particular one. So should I start afresh with a new one, one with a different (cooler) name and some such? One that I would actually update fairly frequently?

I'm pondering that for the moment (and trying to think of a cooler name, heh).

For anyone who still visits (...yello?), yes, I'm alive and well (thank God)...and the wedding was amazing and beautiful and touching and...just perfect. Both my husband and I were relaxed from the start of the day, and this continued throughout. We had a blast, the ceremony was very special and wonderful and we danced the night away. Needless to say, we didn't want the day/night to end, but we'll always have the beautiful memory of our wedding day. I know, right, could I make it sound any more generic? I suppose I don't want to delve too much into detail because I like the idea of keeping it all private, you know? Keeps it more sacred, somehow. (Also, I'm lazy, in case you haven't figured it out.)

In the first few months, it felt weird saying "husband"; like anything new, this soon turned into a normal thing and I now no longer cringe every time I say it. One simply grows into it, becomes accustomed to it, then starts to LIKE saying it. DUH. In short, life is great, we're healthy and happy (husband quit his horrid job last week and is now looking elsewhere, though the talented designer he is, he'll be in a new place in no time!) and, oh yeah, "married life" is exactly the same as the life we had when we were cohabitating. Bwah!

Okay, well, that's all from me...She Who Disappeareth Into Thin Air!

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me

My paternal grandma passed away Sept 1.

That's pretty much why I've been absent from this here blog (not that I update very frequently in general, I know). With grandma's death went my writing mojo. Wow, could I BE more selfish with my white girl problems about "ooh, I've got writer's block now that my grandma died!"

My grandma got a major stroke about nine months after the death of my dad (back in Nov 1993), her firstborn. She never spoke of dad; she simply couldn't.

In spite of losing both her firstborn and her husband in quick succession (under the horrid circumstances of a bloody civil war in what used to be Fmr Yugoslavia), and after 15 years of illness most recently being diagnosed with motor neuron disease, grandma was ALWAYS a fighter, always brave and always inspirational.

I am, and forever will be, so proud of her, and in awe of her strength, dignity, grace and unquenchable spirit. There is so much to say about her and yet not enough.

RIP, grandma, we love you. We'll miss you more than even we realise right now.

Seen on train home last night...

A girl with long, stringy bleached-blonde "hair" (shudder), an orange tan that'd make Oompa-Loompas recoil and reach for the nearest eye gouger, and a set of the clumpiest, SCARIEST fake eyelashes EVER.

3cm long lashes, peeps, I shit you not.

I'm sure her fluttering of them caused a category 5 hurricane somewhere in the northern hemisphere.

Did I mention The Scary? (Uh, YEEEES, capitalisation is beyond required.) It's like she had been 'bazooka-ed' with the most garish makeup known to (wo)man. I mean, who wakes up one day and decides that that look constitutes prettiness? Er, Emaciated Girl with Snake Lashes and Ratty Hair Extensions, that's who.

On a completely unrelated (and normal) note, it is now less than three months until THE WEDDING (eep!), and although pretty much all the big stuff has been set in stone for a while, there are a few small(er) outstanding items...such as my veil! Or do I get a birdcage? Here are the ones I like: this and this.

What do y'all think?

Now, wait just a goddamn minute!

It shouldn't be a surprise, really, that my last post was on June 27 (clap...clap). Hell, I'm surprised I stepped out of my World Cup cocoon long enough to even get THAT entry out.

Ooh, hey, what's that -- lemme distract you with this new design layout. PRETTY SHINY THINGS!!

But seriously.

The World Cup obsession continued, though sliiiiightly waned as the matches dwindled down. After that, I became too lazy to write because of -- wait for it -- my then-newfound obsession with The Office. And I mean MASSIVE.

(That's what she said!)

And whilst I do realise I'm about five years behind (pshaw), I LOVE IT. I always MEANT to watch it when it started up, but never did, and then it seemed pointless to watch an episode on TV when I didn't know the characters, all their nuances, blah blah blah.

My fiance and I are now up to season 5, about halfway through...

But that's not fascinating information, now is it?

(Though, Michael...WOW. And Dwight K. Schrute is a god. An evil, hilarious, PSYCHO god, but a god nonetheless.)

I don't know why I update my blog so infrequently. It's probably a mix of lazyness, apathy, writer's block, lazyness some more...wow, I'm really selling myself here, huh? Maybe I'm no longer interested in keeping up the blog? Maybe I'm too bogged down with work priorities and wedding planning and hanging out with my nearest and dearest.

...And/or maybe I'm just a lazy bizzotch. Quelle surprise!

World Cup(ped)

Oh, I'm sorry -- have you been coming here expecting me to post something?

(...Have we met?)

Jesting aside, interwebs, I have a confession to make: I am a total and utter World Cup- and football-phile. Like, I'm on such a World Cup high that I shudder to think the withdrawal I'll suffer once it ends in two weeks (noooooooo).

Well, I'm not so much on a high NOW, or haven't been since both Australia AND Serbia crashed out of the first round early Thur morning Oz-time.

I've been in annoying funk over Serbia and/or Oz not progressing. I mean, it's just football, right? I should get a grip, snap myself out of it, 'build a bridge and get over it' and pipe the hell down already, no?

Yeah (and I will)...but this is all just too bittersweet, dammit. Sure, indulging in some innocuous schadenfreude over Italy crashing out has helped ease my somewhat verklempt state, but...waaaahhhh.

Methinks accumulated fatigue from many a sleepless World Cup night is prolonging this damn 'funkdom'. Reading about Lucas Neill's (Socceroos captain) post-match tears in The Australian probably isn't helping matters, either. (Neill, you're even hotter when you cry, if that's possible. I love a man who isn't embarrassed/scared to get emotional.)

Once again, I'm proud of both Serbia and Australia...good on you, fellas. They were both so close and yet...

And it pisses me off that Ghana got through on only TWO PENALTIES, and nothing more. It also pisses me off that Australia's coach(-no-more), Pim Verbeek, didn't make crucial changes in Oz's first match, in which they were thrashed by Germany 4-0 (a loss that isn't reflective of Australia's ability, as evidenced by their beating Serbia 2-1 in their last group match).

Finally, it soooooooooo pisses me off that referees make shitty calls which jeopardise players and/or matches (in Australia's case, Tim Cahill being red carded in the Germany match and Harry Kewell getting the same after only TWENTY-FOUR minutes of game play). For f--k's sake!

Soccer needs to come out of the dark ages and introduce video replay. It'll put a stop to histrionic theatrics and insipid diving (hello, Italy), and ensure fairness overall. The fact that FIFA are so resistant to introducing it leads me to believe there might be something shady going on behind the scenes. I mean, why the hell would they not want to introduce something that would end frustration and unfairness?

PAH!

Oh, also?

Every 4 years, the World Cup drills home the indisputable fact that footballers are a sight to behold and, quite simply, damn sexy. Hubba hubba! Thanks for the delish eye candy, FIFA.

And now, let me present the Aussie contingent of utter sexiness (might as well end this on a happy note, no?), thanks to the awesome, uber-witty blog that is Kickette:

"Thunder (In Our) Down Under: The 5 Hottest Australian World Cup Players"

Ahhhhh...Harry! Timmy! Lucas!

Loving the following text about Lucas Neill by the Kickette girls:

"...there’s just something about the hot-headed shelf-bottomed team captain that gets us going in the morning. As one helpful reader pointed out, we should base these lists on whether we would 'strip them immediately in the street or just stop for a chat.' And on that note, Lucas, please remove your pantaloons."

Bwahahahahahah.

Amen to that.

And here's another (shirtless) picture of the delectable Tim Cahill.

World Cup wounds sloooowly healing...

Too relaxed and busy lazying around to think of a title...

..Duff beer for me, Duff beer for you, I'll have a Duff, you have one too.

Happy long weekend, my fellow Aussies!
God save the Queen, indeed.

(Long weekend, woo hoo!!)

P.S. The World Cup has begun and I am a happy woman. HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY! I love football (and yes, it's football, not "soccer," sheesh!) and will be supporting Australia (DUH) and Serbia (...being Serbian and all).

P.P.S. ...Mind you, in the Australia-Serbia match (what were the chances they'd be in the same group, gah!), I'll be going for the Aussies more as they're the underdog...Serbia, being a football-mad country, has always been veeeery strong (er, 'cept for 4yrs ago when they were beaten 6-0 by Argentina. Now, let us never speak of that again).

P.P.P.S. Have I mentioned the clusterf--k of awesomeness that is the long weekend? Oh, all right. (But it is...so, so awesome!)

Morsels

I flip crêpes like nobody's business. And crêpes are the perfect accompaniment to cheesy 80s films like "Iron Eagle," which was on TV last night. For the uninitiated, Iron Eagle is the poor man's Top Gun, but just as testosterone-fuelled (read: eyeroll-worthy) and with equally copious amounts of 80s tunes (where the synthesiser is king). In a nutshell, it deals with a teen son going to save his fighter pilot father (as you do) who's been imprisoned in 'eeeeeeeviiiiiiiiil' Pan-Arab territory. I had a little 'squee!' moment when I flipped to the channel it was on, because my brother -- who during his teens dreamed of being a fighter pilot -- made me watch it with him oodles of times. I didn't mind 'cause Jason Gedrick was a cute "teenager" in spite of his wooden, stilted acting.

____________________

Liza Minnelli executing a hilarious, high-camp "Single Ladies" + Samantha's spazz attack in the middle of a bazaar + the gorgeous dresses/outfits that I'm (not-so-)secretly coveting (mostly Charlotte's) = an underwhelming yet pleasant, and ultimately not-too-bad effort for "Sex and the City 2." I rolled my eyes at the clanging puns and Arab stereotypes, but also laughed at...well, the funny stuff. (Also? When I grow up, I wanna be Samantha. Er, body-wise, that is. I mean, hubba hubba...the woman is dynamite!)

____________________

Dear "Every Girl in Her 20s to Whom the Following Applies": You are young, no? Young, however, doesn't also mean 'stupid', which is what I think when I see you dyeing your hair geriatric-white. I'm sorry, but WTF? Why you would want to bring hair-aging forward is beyond me. There'll be plenty time for that, y'know, LATER. Say, in 40 YEARS. Lose the Pepé Le Pew streaks, for crying out loud. Gah!

____________________

I happened upon an episode of "Entourage" a few weeks ago (first time I've ever seen the show)...

So (and forgive my flippancy) the show seems to be, in essence, about a bunch of puerile boys who are given free rein in Hollywood (thanks to their A-lister best friend, Vince), which involves a lot of obnoxious posturing, 'hugging it out', back-slapping, high-fiving, occasional brawling and saying 'bro' a lot?

(Did I mention the obnoxious part? ...Oh, FINE.)

And yet, in spite of itself, it's a strangely compelling show. Or maybe I was just particularly tired last night. Hmmm. All the same, Adrian Grenier (aka 'Vince') will to me always be that dude from that Melissa Joan Hart teen flick named after that Britney song. Melissa Joan who? Exactly. (Sabrina the Teenage Witch, anyone?)

P.S. I'm sure Adrian Grenier cringes at the realisation he was in said movie.
P.P.S. Probably doesn't cringe enough, seeing as he still has THE EXACT SAME HAIRDO(N'T). Oh wait, he recently got a haircut? Whatever, my point remains.

...Quack-quack-quack-quack, goooooooo DUCKS!

So, who here loved/was obsessed with/couldn't get enough of the Mighty Ducks movies as a kid?

Because, Internet? I was obsessed, with a capital O.

I was eleven, and the movie(s) made me fall in love with ice hockey, with the Twin Cities, and, most especially, with one Charlie Conway, played by the just-gets-better-with-age Joshua Jackson who was then a veeeeery cute kid/teenager.

HOO BOY did I fall in love. Well, 'fall in love' - I was completely and ridiculously infatuated and he was my first actor crush (notice I didn't say 'celeb', seeing as barely anyone had heard of Joshua Jackson in the mid-90s, but if you mentioned "he played Charlie Conway," everyone would go "ahhhhh, I know him!").

This infatuation was so grand that I once forked out, like, 12 bucks of my pocket money (POCKET MONEY, people) on an imported US teen magazine ('twas either "16" or "Teen Beat"), simply because it had a two-page spread on him (this was pre-Dawson's Creek so finding anything Josh-related was virtually impossible). The article was about his Showtime movie "Ronnie and Julie," and when I read that he had (apparently, according to the article) started studying architecture at the University of Vancouver, I WROTE HIM A LETTER.

...True story.

I have a vague recollection of trying to sound all cool and mellow and interesting in this letter, and I may or may not have gushed about what a fantastic actor he was (heheheh) and how I also wanted to play ice hockey (oh God, I hope I didn't say I wanted to be a Duck like him). Oh, to find that letter now! I can only imagine the hilarity and how much I could snark it out.

I ended up addressing the letter to 'Student Joshua Jackson' (crikey) at the University of British Columbia, because the University of Vancouver didn't and doesn't exist (nice going, MAGAZINE). The letter came back with 'return to sender' scrawled over it, along with "No such student exists" next to Josh's name.

Needless to say, I was dismayed; in my mind, Josh would have read the letter, fallen madly in love with me, flew me over to Canada--

ANYWAY!

(Bwahahah.)

And then, circa 1998, Dawson's Creek blew up and it was like a gold mine: I could watch my crush every week and bask in his televisual glow. A few years into DC, I still 'loved' him, but the obsession of my preteen (tween?) years had long before begun to wane as I started getting unrequited crushes on, you know, REAL LIFE BOYS. (But I was always and WILL always be a Pacey and Joey 'shipper!)

What prompted this post, you ask? Lately, I've been seeing a lot of Joshua Jackson in the media with his girlfriend, the lovely Diane Kruger - they make an adorable couple and seem very down-to-earth. Plus, Josh just keeps getting more handsome and strapping as the years go by. (Ah, he'll always be my first ever movie crush!)

Yes, this DOES expand to a bigger image...go on, click on it. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.
As for getting to play ice hockey as a kid, well...never happened. I brought it up twice or thrice, but my mother would fix me with a stare so firm, and maybe she cocked an eyebrow, and MAYBE she even burst out laughing, but the crux of it all was that she said, in no uncertain terms, "No daughter of mine will be playing ice hockey...I mean, are you crazy? You're a GIRL! Ice hockey is a violent, dangerous sport." In spite my sputtering, pre-feminist protestations to the contrary ("B-b-but...the DUCKS, ma, the Ducks!"), nothing ever eventuated and I was forced to stick to rollerblading in my yard and using a makeshift hockey stick in the form of a broom, which I used to practice the triple deke (I know, I KNOW).

You can imagine how THAT looked.

(Several months ago, however, a new, state-of-the-art rink arena opened here in Melbourne -- with not one but TWO Olympic-sized rinks -- and they're offering beginner ice hockey lessons. As a way of fulfilling a childhood wish, I am TOTALLY gonna do it. All they ask is that you know how to ice skate, which I do, so...SCORE!)

Anyway, I thought it'd be a swell idea (heh, 'swell') to do, for my next post, a review of "D2: The Mighty Ducks," because, my God, imagine the snark factor. How fun would it be to review a kids flick with many an eyeroll moment?

So I will...very soon. I promise snarkiness galore and a laugh or two. What do you reckon?

Ho hum...

Wednesdays are really lame, aren't they?

...Yeah.

That is all.

(WELL, I do have two fun posts in mind but I'm at work and, as such, obviously can't delve into them like I'd like to. But they are a-comin' soon!)

Prepping

Booking an awesome, sophisticated wedding band full of bona fide musicians: $______ (to be confirmed).

Having to pay a second deposit on Thursday for the reception venue: $1,500.

The hysterical, therapeutic laughter when you and your fiancé realise how this wedding tends to cause sporadic 'pseudo-brokedom', and he suggests jumping ship and shouting everyone Subway instead: PRICELESS.

There are some things in life money can't buy. For everything else, there's--

Oh wait.

I don't HAVE a Mastercard. Hell, I don't even have a credit card.

(Which, I imagine, can only be a good thing. Even during times of the aforementioned pseudo-brokedom.)

'Lazy' doesn't even BEGIN to describe it...

WOW...the 18th of March. That was my last post?

Huh.

...Can I get y'all to join me in a chorus of how much I sucketh? Let's take it from the top, peeps.

You know, I could use a litany of excuses: I lost track of time (I mean, MY GOD, it's May ALREADY?!), my brother moved to London indefinitely (sniff!), the new editing job, blah blah blah 'excuserrific-cakes'. And, while these reasons might all be valid to a certain extent, I cannot honestly say that I don't have 20 minutes every now and again to sit down and write something.

Because DUH.

Why don't I just come right out and say it: I'm a lazy little shit. THERE!

Hmmm...sadly, that wasn't as liberating as I would've liked. Maybe because I've been admitting it to myself for eons, or what seems like eons, anyway. Ah, sweet, discombobulating honesty!

Yes, interwebs, perhaps I do have a hell of a bit of a lazy streak...and for that I apologise. And yes, I do subconsciously make excuses à la "pfft, whatever, it's not like I have a (big) readership, who's gonna miss me!" and the like. 'Cause that's just shitty of me and almost 'ooh, woe is me', no? Exactly. And I don't wanna be like that; what's more, I'm NOT like that.

Here's to more frequent posts...!

(Please don't give up on me!)

(Heh heh.)

Soooooo busy...ack!

Yes, that's right!

What, you don't believe me? Well, I AM!

Seriously, though, this new job has had me scrambling. I'm loving it, though, don't get me wrong; very much so! It's quite dynamic in nature, in terms of having to copy-edit copious documents on a daily basis, and there are shitloads of deadlines every day...but that's what keeps one on one's feet, no?

It's been keeping me in check, without a doubt.

Anyway, in short, I'll endeavour to be a better blogger in the coming weeks...hell, coming DAYS, even.

We-ell, isn't someone being ambitious!

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye! (Fear not, the blog ain't a-closin' down!)

My last day at The Job That Shan't Be Named was on Monday.

(Blink. Blink blink.)

You know, there was a time when I honest-to-God feared I wouldn't find a new job. That's how trapped I felt. I know, I know, über-dramatic much? I thought I'd either a) be made redundant or b) languish away (further) in my cloud of gloom.

I mean, hold up--

I lasted just over 1.5 years in that job. (That's YEARS, plural.) The job of doing ADMIN ALL DAY EVERY DAY OH MY GOD. Ahem...see, I'm only a little bit insane as a result of it! Juuuust jesting. (Or AM I?! Okay, I'll stop now.) And please don't get me wrong - I'm not undermining admin work by a long shot (every job has worth), but it wasn't what I had signed up for. My role insidiously morphed into that, and I was peeved.

But that's okay. Because I'm outta there now, out-out-out! I'm rapt about my impending editing/proofreading role and, by golly, I'll make something of it!

And on that cheery note, allow me to indulge in some randomness. Mmmkay? Heh.

At some point last week, I decided - nay, realised - I'd seen virtually everything: a young, non-hobo-looking girl was CLIPPING HER TOENAILS[!] on the railway station platform, then continued the activity on the train. OMG... Oh, and that sound you just heard? That was my BRAIN EXPLODING INTO SMITHEREENS! What the Dickens is wrong with people? Ack!

Soooo...I have something of a confession to make. I sort of inexplicably like Taylor Swift's particular brand of country-twang pop, especially that oft-played You Belong With Me. AND I'M TWENTY-FIVE. Zuh?! I like it in spite of the lame-o "she wears high heels, I wear sneakers, she's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers"-type lyrics (why yes, I know the lyrics; please shoot me now). My 14-year-old self would have been all over this song back in the day, and played it loud and proud. And probably would have copied Taylor's earnest bopping in the video, complete with singing-into-the-brush 'shenanigans'. My present-day equivalent, however, is slightly more reserved ('cept sooo not) and resorts to furtive, low-volume listening here and there. My fiancé is aware, though, and he still loves me. (Aren't I the luckiest woman alive? Damn straight!) The song may be mawkish but it's catchy and utterly singable! Just the same, if you don't hear from me in the next 24h, I'd put it down to a potential overdose from the saccharine schmaltz of it all.

Speaking of randomness, I can't help but wonder ('Carrie Bradshaw'-ism totally intended) whether this blog is...directionless, in a way. I mean, most blogs have some sort of a story, no? And characters within that story. If I were to ask anyone reading this blog (who are you, where are you?) to tell me something about Fiancé or my brother or mum or three best friends, I doubt they'd be able to do it. And that's my fault, because I get so caught up in not revealing too much that I end up revealing...not much of anything. Right? So, I'm going to work on changing that. (And also resurrecting the 'Awesome Photos of the ____' segment, and maybe make it a monthly thing, not weekly.) Maybe that's why I'm lacking in traffic. People have nothing to invest in, no story and 'protagonists', if you will, to invest in. So I plan on describing my lovely peeps in more detail over the next coming posts. And also writing more about my love for music. Did you know I'm a soprano-soloist in a chorale? Not many people do. I've been singing since I was four-years-old and HOO BOY do I love to sing (Fiancé can attest to that, beliiiieeeve me).

The other day, I randomly discovered that 'wooden spoon' is slang for...you know. The male appendage in its...ahem, flourishing state. ARRRGGGHHH! I feel so naive and dumb and like an unwitting harlot. (Hee!) I mean, LICKING the...the...good God. As if I would knowingly name my blog that! The reality is that it's all so innocent because I named the blog after a fave pastime of mine as a child when my bro and I would fight over the left-over cake mixture. That's it! And now, now that I know what wooden spoon stands for, my blog name is all innuendo-laden and shit. What do I do? Do I suck it up and say 'who cares!' and 'lickety-lick, suckers!' or is this grounds for changing the name? Oy vey.