ode to food

i have recently completed an elimination diet. the aim was to isolate foods that caused intense sickness of the stomach/nausea that i experience regularly. the diet was unsuccessful in identifying these foods, but i am finding it hard to care today, day -2 of the diet. i have re-entered the world of food (and beer), and i feel like a mighty warrior ready to conquer the world, three pizzas (and a cheesy garlic bread) at a time. to honour this momentous occasion, i have composed an ode to food:

forgive me for my absence, food.
peeled pears and sauceless steak, no longer.
tomatoes, cheese, wheaty beer.
let there be spew.

introducing, teddy bear

our bunny rabbit (ok, lucy’s bunny rabbit) thinks he is a cat

when wet, looks like a rat

and if he continues eating everything he touches, will soon be fat

breaking news: alcohol + sleep = muddled head

i’ve reached the stage in my life when i cannot, FOR THE LIFE OF ME differentiate between dream and reality in certain situations. i have been walking around all morning with a pressing weight on my shoulders, as if i have some unfinished business, or am in the throes of an unresolved conflict. there is something niggling at me that i just can’t quite place. i searched my brain for all possible causes of said niggle.
dreams and reality are seriously bleeding into each other: i know that gene hackman slicing off a sleeping man’s right testicle was a dream (at least i hope it was), but was the conversation about cutting a new line into my hand to create a new dimension of meaning (in palmistry speak) real? i have a cut on my hand, but that doesn’t mean anything. it could simply be the trigger of the dream. did i even have a conversation about palmistry last night? i think i did. my dream terrain is already plenty rocky without the aid of alcohol. my mind is a minefield of confusion and this shit is about to blow. someone get me a contract to write “Transformers 3”, stat. i am on a roll.

ow, my head.

a WHOAHde to mixed metaphors

10 years younger in 10 days … a pictotrip

ten years

It may be quite obvious to everyone who reads this blog, all six hundred million of you (hello Bangladesh!) that we watch a lot of TV. Or rather, the TV we watch becomes like our 4th flatmate – more reliable, less prone to bang on the door at 4am when drunk, constantly amusing, not irritated by the pong from the fridge. And entering our stable of “see it or cry heaps for at least a minute” is the show Ten Years Younger in Ten Days. Find old craggy looking people, preferably with sob stories, inject botox, squeeze into mutton-y clothes and then have Sonia Kruger spin round like a little girl at the end and exclaim, “Oh my Gooooooooo—-ddddd! Is that yooooooo——u? (oh and I think my bony knee just broke.”

It’s on before Lipstick Jungle, OK? And if reality TV bites, it can bite me on the butt. Really. Cos I like it. Anyway this was one of my most favourite episodes.

couple before

Problem number one: wife appears to be midget.


“Beer, jugs of oil and ceramic mugs are all part of a balanced diet. Also, handfuls of air thiiiiiiiis big.”

menin gym

Black shirt dude: “Who’s the midget now!”

Green shirt dude: “Me bro! Don’t hit me with your eyebrows.”

blue teeth

Doctor dude: “Once your teeth are fluro UV rave sticks for the new millennium, no one will notice that you look like Freddy Kruger.”

Make-me-over lady: “Oh, you mean Sonia Kruger? Yes, her face is most unfortunate.”

men in shop

“Stop looking … stop looking … jizzing bejesus who employed me to dress men …”


Recipe for 1 x generic advertising metrosexual. Insert into TV machine, swipe fringe to side, plonk with bronzer. Do not forget embellished hoodie under suit, or all will be lost. Set to dry. Once your little ad-noid is ready, insist he smile cheesily at all times or else, “He will lose the Vodafone account and mini-stapler shaped like an egg!”


Holy gravestone of God, my Grandmother from the past was hidden in there! Exorcism!

couple after

Ok, all that said, I loved this couple.  They both slogged away really hard at their jobs (of which she had THREE), and had cute kids (I think – oh hell all kids are cute), and really seemed to love each other. And now they can smile to prove it.

i like to offer a nice bouquet of thoughts

free salad lunch = good.

rain and slippery shoes = bad.

up north fang mission = good.

possible swine flu / feeling like crud = bad.

next three mad men episodes (and final gossip girl episode) downloaded and ready for viewing = good.

free food and booze this evening = good.

lots of work to do and still writing this inane post = undecided.

i’m no mathematician but i think that this bouquet is leaning on the side of nice.

dear dream journal

dear dream journal,

last night i had a dream that a BRAND NEW Coles appeared amongst the drab assortment of shops down the end of our street. it was magical. four levels, open 24 hours, bright white floors and fluoro lighting. heaven had torn off a limb and dropped it onto percival rd. i set about collecting the things i needed and putting them in my basket. i only had a short amount of time to do my shopping because i had to be at my baton-twirling class at 6am. i scurried around, choosing my bananas and yoghurt and assorted goods. suddenly, my sister was in front of me, asking me to help choose a good couple of cardboard boxes from the box cage (like we used to do when we were kids, in franklins. the boxes were the best part of grocery shopping).the distraction threw me and i looked down and suddenly all the things i had SO carefully selected were nowhere to be seen! i retraced my steps. i found a mandarin on a stack of beautifully arranged tissue boxes, a banana next to the toothpastes. but this Coles was far too big and labyrinthine for me to comprehensively retrace and re-collect all my precious goods. i was distraught. then i woke up. it was the first day of winter.

dream journal, what could all this mean? what is my sleeping brain trying to express to my waking self? that my latent desire to baton-twirl is causing me to rush through LIFE (obviously represented by Coles in this dream)? that my sister is a distraction and must be destroyed? that i need to petition Albanese to get a Coles into Stanmore, stat? alas, dream journal: i may never know.

the mysteries of my mind are deep and innumerable.