Insomnia Part Deux, In which I give the Mosquitos and Other Night Critters a Christmas Feast of my Flesh

Have you been wondering about this "In which" business? In which I do this and In which I do that. I guess you probably have. I just can't help myself you see Jules Verne uses it for each chapter title in Around the World in 80 Days. For example Chapter 18 "In which Phileus Fogg, Passepartout and Fix go each about his business." Jules was pretty hip for 1873 and his chapter titles although generally useless in the sense that they tell you absolutely nothing at all are most definitely my favorite part of the book. Which I have now been shamefully reading for well over a month. Shameful in that I have nothing else to do except read most of the time. Also I have started reading, via actual book and not the Kindle, a book called Faithfull, less steamy romance novel and more about Marianne Faithfull. Yeah I still don't really know who she was but apparently she dated Mick Jagger for a while and slept with all of the Rolling Stones and almost Bob Dylan. What a woman. I think she also had a music career but lets be honest why would she talk about that when she can write an entire novel about her acid tripping days in the 60's and take credit for the revolution that was 60's London. Also she quotes herself as saying "Yeah man" a lot. I guess that comes with the LSD.

Um that is not how I wanted to begin this Christmas Day Eve post but it's 2am here and what can I say these things are on my mind. And guess what else. LK arrived yesterday...Hooray...and literally we arrived at the farm, cracked a bottle of Champagne and entered the pool at which point the biggest rain cloud positioned itself directly over us and about 4 minutes later it was raining. Didn't I tell you this would happen? And now everything is dripping; that sound the leaves make when they are wet. It reminds me of home. And a little bit of winter. Except...today was Christmas day here and after the pool we went to the neighbors house and had a huge water fight, buckets and buckets straight over the head. No one was safe especially not the little kid with the water gun who got his comeuppance let me tell you. And if this doesn't sound like Christmas I can assure you it felt nothing like it. There is a lot I missed about Christmas this year. The crisp cold weather, Mom's well thought out messages written on the newspaper we always wrap our presents in, the kind that read "Travel light, travel far then travel home" a hint at the passport case she gave me that year. Ice skating and Peppermint Schnapps hot chocolate and Dad's cashmere sweaters with the moth holes that I shamelessly sleep in, talk about decadence.

The AC was cranking here earlier, which may have something to do with my current insomniac condition. LK went to sleep at 8pm so there is no doubt she will be up at about 4am. And I probably will to. Did you know Queensland doesn't have daylight savings. The entire continent does just not Queensland. But what's better, it has something to do with the cows not being able to adjust to the time difference or something. If you don't believe me google it. I won't be offended, I didn't believe it either. A good search would be "Daylight savings, Queensland, cows" it also says something about fading curtains which if you ask me is an amazing reason to have sunrise at 4:30am and sunset at 7pm but hell what do I know.

Well that is all really. Sunrise is in 2.5 hours now so I might just try and get what I can out of it. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and may you always have a cashmere sweater to sleep in.

*Not my photo above.

A blog in which I just needed to publish something to take up space so that Jacob isn't the first thing you see on my blog. Because it's awkward...

But then so is this.

I have a girl crush on Petunia Face (click on my blog title for her blog) Everyday I read her blog and think oh my god we should be friends and also how can I be more like her. She's hilarious, pretty, we live/ lived in the same area and she is an excellent writer which I really admire. We really would be perfect for each other.

I wonder if she listens to Taylor Swift furtively with her headphones on scared someone might ask her what she is bobbing her head to only to have to reply "You belong with me" while she dreamily looks off into the distance thinking about her dive instructor. Actually the memory of him is fading I mean really I can't sit around and wait for him to realize we were meant for each other forever I think I am going to move on. And now you are all collectively sighing and saying behind my back - Thank God it's about fucking time - to which I would reply - A girls allowed to dream and torture anyone willing to read my blog -

Thank you for that by the way. I love it when you tell me you read this nonsense. Because sometimes I feel like maybe I am sending my ridiculous and random thoughts out into a big black hole as deep and overloaded with crap as my purse is.

The weather at the farm has been fantastic, really about 74 and breezy. LK is coming out here in two weeks and I just know all the rain they have been waiting for since October will come the 4 days she is here. (I only say this in a reversed psychological way so that maybe it actually won't) Brittany Spears new music video is on TV right now and since I have Taylor Swift on Brit is muted and let me tell you the video looks suspiciously like porn. Shocking. Have you heard of Robbie Williams, British award winning musician. Used to be heavily into drugs but has since found god I guess. Anyway there are few things that I find creepier than clowns and Chucky, this video is one of them.

Enjoy.

Lions, Tigers and Long Lost Cousins, And Also The Most Disturbing Thing I have Heard… Lately Anyway

This last week was pretty amazing for me – I spent it with cousin Tina who I haven’t seen in 18 years and yet you would never know we didn’t know each other. We ate…and ate and ate in what I believe was a successful attempt at making both our father’s jealous – they are brothers and so the same in the ways of food appreciation and well… so much more – Lebanese, Vietnamese, Prawns (pre-peeled courtesy of Shaun) and Salmon so fresh and delicious it is possible – in fact very likely – that I actually dreamt about it last night. Well anyway it was a great week, in which I may or may not have bought 2 pairs of shoes and a hat that looks just like one that I have in a box at the farm, where I am at this moment on my way back to.

And in other more amazing and way less mouth watering news, you can purchase, for this rapidly approaching holiday season, Scent A La Michael Jackson. Let me elaborate, not the cologne he wore but the actual scent of the man and mystery himself. The product was developed using a DNA sample gotten from his hair. Yeah really though. AND yet almost more disturbing he isn’t the first. Elvis and Marilyn also have their scents bottled and sold for what I imagine is a large profit to what kind of people I have no idea. But I am thinking they should probably do a holiday gift box trio. “Elvis, MJ and Marilyn a Scent for Any Occasion.” As soon as Tiger Wood’s funeral is over we can add him to make a quad gift box, because while the occasion “being a scumbag, trying to cover it up and getting caught” is hardly new I don’t think it’s yet covered in the trio. But seriously people there must be more news worthy stuff going on right now. Isn’t there? For example if Kristen Stewart started dating unknown awkwardly white toothed – likely on steroids - Jacob in real life. See that would be news worthy. Speaking of New Moon, it was excellent except Edward/ Robert Pattison looked mildly anorexic which I can’t figure out and don’t find attractive. I am still on team Edward though.

So before this Twighlight talk goes any farther I’ll just update you, I did get to help decorate a Christmas tree albeit wearing shorts and a tank top in 90 degree weather. And it was magical. Christmas is fast approaching and it feels more like spring break than the holiday season but hell it’s not like I had white Christmas's before now. I am heading back to the farm where I expect it will be even hotter than Brisbane and where I will spend Christmas. Stay tuned, if I get to fruit pick you can be sure there will be some serious self-deprecating and if you’re lucky maybe even a photo.

In the meantime, I may boycott writing until Tiger Woods so very predictable predicament stops being headline news, or hell freezes over whichever comes first.

*Above photo Freakishly white teeth and steroids. Cougars simmer down the kid is only 17.

Tank Top Tans, Denim Shorts and the Rat Tail…It’s all becoming too okay

Oh how I miss Polo shirts, khaki shorts and boat shoes. I miss a haircut without the weird long fringe at the back. I got my haircut a couple of days ago by Jade my British roommate and hairdresser who, when it got dark outside had to use a headlamp to cut my hair. Anyway she set up shop and went to town on our entire room. So before leaving for 3 days of camping on the beach with no showers our entire group was well groomed. Fraser Island is the largest sand island in the world. So the drill is they set you up with a big fourwheel drive car (pictured above) and camping gear and off you go to get stuck in sand dunes and go swimming in lakes and get your bag ripped apart by a dingo because you forgot you had a fruit and nut chocolate bar in it – fat kid here - and left it out in the middle of camp. You also get to pay $5 for a small bag of ice, get third degree burns on the bottom of your feet pushing your car out of the sand, also you get to wash your dishes in the sea with sand…actually this is really fun and I would do it all the time if I lived on the beach… and not shower for 3 days. But actually none of that matters because it’s pretty much an amazing time. I got to sleep under the stars and have the beach to myself at sunrise and I met a few nice Brits, Danes, Swedes and Swiss in the process.

The East Coast is almost over with, I’ll be in Brisbane in a couple days. Noosa is nice, I was informed yesterday that I came here when I was 7 but that’s why you never take a 7 year old anywhere. I like Noosa, pretty sure because it reminds me of home and as I missed Thanksgiving with my family, friends and the food, so I am allowed to like it for that reason alone. I know you were wondering and yes I have entirely given up on Eat, Pray, Love maybe when I am finished with Around the World in 80 Days I will give it another go. But the latter is excellent, and not just because David Niven (one of my favorite actors ever, sorry Michael) played Phileaus Fogg in the original movie.

Hope you had a good Thanksgiving, I ate PB&J's for everymeal on Thursday while you were feasting on turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and if you were at a Krikorian Thanksgiving probably some hummus and rice too. So you can be thankful for that!!

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Huge Fish; Hot Mess Goes Diving…Again…

In a secret attempt to have more conversation topics in the unlikely event I were to run into my Gorgeous Dive Instructor a third time and give him a second opportunity to propose to me.

Did you know it is hypothesized that Dr. Suess books having a theological foundation? Me neither. And yet that has nothing to do with anything except I will yet again complain about Eat, Pray, Love. Elizabeth for the love of God, and all of your readers, why the Hell didn’t you stay in Italy where we could all have gained 20 pounds (15 of which you “needed” to gain) vicariously through you. I will push onward but the Ashram in India just isn’t doing it for me – don’t worry I am sure Julia Roberts will sex up the part and they will manipulate enough of the story…like your self imposed celibacy…to make it a worthwhile film to see. In the meantime Bram Stoker’s Dracula was a masterpiece and while it took me a full month to read (during which time I did have to take breaks) it really is worthwhile. Just don’t expect an outdated Twighlight ladies because Bram wasn’t targeting sexually frustrated women of all ages when he wrote the thing.

Sooo I went diving…again and guess what! despite my apparent motives I think I have the diving bug. Yongala is different from the Prodive boat, see above photo for an example. 30 minutes out to the dive site, it was like being on a speed boat in rough water, thrilling and also a little bit unnerving knowing that for only my tenth dive I had to go backwards out of the boat James Bond style into the swelling waters. Luckily my dive instructor and guide; a red headed, freckle faced, 125 pound look alike of Johnny Depp with a handle bar mustache (believe me he was) did a great job of making me feel comfortable in the water. He took me down to do my 30 metres (90 feet). The slew of nasal sprays and other over the counters I used did the trick so getting to the depth was no problemo.

My roommates at the dive “hostel” - better described as a house with a dive shop in the garage and bunk beds in every room upstairs - were (2) American couples who have dived all over the world and if this dive didn’t inspire me to dive more they certainly did. Did I mention they were in their late 50’s sleeping in bunk-beds (I can assure you they are staying at 5 star accommodations everywhere else) nonetheless they had a pretty good time. This post is getting a little long and boring but anyway I don’t have much to compare the dive to but there was a Grouper the size of a Mini Cooper (Note to mom, they don’t hurt people) a sea snake (apparently poisonous and killer if they get your ear) and turtles galore – possibly my favorite, if cats lower blood pressure I think sea turtles probably do too – these treasures were amidst the thousands of small fish that are swimming around you all the time going on about their life as if you aren’t there. As for the actual shipwreck, you can hardly tell it is one except for the odd shape the coral takes in certain places.

Come to think of it my Dive instructor looks like he could easily have fathered Michael Anthony Hall. I wonder if M.A.H. is capable of growing facial hair though? Hmmmm questionable…I’ll leave you to ponder that and also what I looked like in a wetsuit, snorkel mask and wait for it….a wetsuit hood.

If that doesn’t make you laugh I am at a loss…except for what I wasn’t going to tell you which is that my hood kept getting a big air bubble at the top, approximately the size of a second more oblong head. Yup no one else seemed to have the bubble just me. And even 10 metres down I could hear M.A.H’s dad laughing and pointing at me. What can I say except I don’t think there is any photographic evidence of this. Thank God.

Molly Ringwald, Rainforests and A Tribute to the Load of Laundry I have Going Right Now

MS and I arrived in Cape Tribulation today. The whole way up cursing the travel agent who told us to spend 2 nights in Port Douglas and 1 night here. Cape Trib, for those of us not lucky enough to have done a lot of tropical rainforest traveling, is magical. Despite the influx of tourists this area gets the Cape is extremely well maintained and hostels, hotels and the miscellaneous other establishments; such as an ice cream tastery (is that a word anyway?) are well hidden from the road so that while driving along you really feel like you are one of the first people to discover this wonderland of baskets ferns, cassowary’s and early afternoon rain showers. It helps that there aren’t too many cars on the road today. Our “Jungle Surfing” dreadlock rocking guide tells us it has been a slow week here.

ANYWAY I feel like I have been a little sleep inducing lately. Like where did my edge go. Things have been going too well maybe? I have been liking everywhere I have been and hence am having a hard time making fun of myself which let’s be honest makes reading this less fun for you. I could tell you about the sunburn I got on my back – no I haven’t learned yet – or how I seem to think that straightening my hair in 80% humidity will work and yet never does. I could tell you how it has become regular practice to smell my clothes to determine how clean they are – see when you are traveling there are different levels - clean, wearable but smelly, smelly but wearable, dirty (which does not disclude it from the wearable pile) Only the really rank shit gets put in the laundry bag. I could tell you how I have come to wear the same thing pretty much every-night or how I have ditched clothes at 3 different locations to make more room available for the unnecessary purchases I have been made, including but not limited to a hat and another pair of flip flops (I nominate the clothes ditching for the Hot Mess Hall of Shame) this practice was first used by CS in 2007 during our romp around Europe, while effective it does make one wish they had just known not to pack their butterfly dress because neither the dress part or the butterfly part really appeals to yours truly, the angel of darkness. My jungle surfing helmet read “Tinkerbell” yesterday which is laughable isn’t it.

I could tell you all about all that but instead I choose to simply apologize for being so obvious. Because really who doesn’t think the rainforest is magical especially done via car rental with one of your best friends who has even less experience driving on the left side of the road than you do. I mean really people it’s like extreme driving – except the rental car has about as much get up and go as a snail and in a battle between Kangaroo and it the Kangaroo would surely prevail. Also the ride goes something like this

MK to MS – “Intentional” commence windshield wipers.

MK to MS – Commence windshield wipers instead of blinker, “Shit, Damn it, not intentional”

So you see it took both of us looking both ways at all times to get up and back to Cape Trib, because we never knew quite which direction cars were going to come from.

I will be going silent whilst (very Australian word to use especially in menus) heading down the East Coast for the next three weeks. There may be a click or two for fun if I feel like it but generally probably nothing. I’ll be busy diving, kayaking, sailing and fourwheel driving. If I live to see the end of it all I will end up in Brisbane to see my cousin Tina, who doesn’t know she is the namesake of my first two cats – have I already told you about that? – because when I was 7 she was 16, she had a perm and was about the coolest person I had ever met. Don’t worry we can bond over our mutual appreciation of the straightening iron these days.

See you in a few. It just occurred to me you were probably waiting to hear my argument in favor of puppies, but that will have to wait. It’s 10pm and “Eat, Pray, Love” is calling. How come no one told me it is was an effing SELF HELP book?

PS I wasn’t going to tell you this but MS doesn’t want to hear about it again. I ran into my gorgeous dive instructor yesterday and luckily had just booked another two dives so I looked extremely adventurous and cool if I do say so myself. And yet he forgot to ask me to marry him? I don’t know maybe he didn’t hear my proclamation of love. It would have been hard to focus on my words in between my stuttering and fully blushed cheeks. What can I say did you expect any less from your Hot Mess?

Cheers. See you in December!

Melbourne, Melbourne, Melbourne...Melbun?

I still feel uncomfortable saying it. The damn R is really harsh coming from my mouth in Australia. So I will have to be content saying the R every second time and Melbun every other… equal opportunity to offend all. And on that note it seems despite my best efforts to travel to a place where I could understand and be understood there are things here that don’t quite translate. Phrases too that while I understand them they clash culturally. For example when I first arrived in Sydney the weather forecast was… fine. Which, I mean, is that a nice way of saying it is kind of crappy outside with a chance of rain? Among others cheers, breakie – breakfast – mozzies – mosquito's – oh also way back when apparently the derogatory term for an American was a Sepo…wait for this. Yank rhymes with septic tank which…obviously is why you would call us Sepo’s. While this is apparently an old term MS and I still get called it enough to make one think contrary. Also the word “Awesome” is thrown around about as much as “rad” was when I was in second grade – which naturally makes me happy –

Anyway Melbourne is a city of culture and cafes, wine and hidden alleys that lead to unbelievable bars and restaurants (so unbelievable in fact I wanted to ask are you really walking me up these creepy dark dank concrete stairs that were behind a black aluminum unmarked door to kill me…only to be taken into a gorgeous open high ceiling ed room with beautifully crafted windows and a view) This is Melbourne although not everything amazing is hidden from plane view; the cafes with endless outdoor seating that far outdoes Paris, the river teaming with crew boats – what are those called anyway – and what may be the highlight of my trip to date, on land anyway, the Melbourne Botanical Gardens.

It’s a city for food and wine. We took a trip to the Yarra Valley which is Melbourne’s wine country. It is stunning and even better the tastings are free. An all night tasting event at one of our hidden bars pours us onto the street at 5:30am and puts us on our ass for half the next day but even that day is spent restfully with a walk and a mildly embarrassing amount of Mexican food to cure our hangover – Please mail me a burrito with lots of hot salsa, my craving isn’t quenched yet and I have a feeling it won’t be for about 8 more months – The races on Tuesday are a world of their own. At 5’-6” (on a good day) catching a glimpse of more than the horses head is tricky but I enjoyed hat scoping more anyway. MS and I of course partook in our own hatage and somehow by the end of the day I almost felt like a normal hat wearer

We rushed frantically to the airport this morning without what felt like a proper goodbye to the city. But something tells me we don’t need to say goodbye because we will find our way back.

See you next time for a little commentary on Australian men and why I think puppies are better than babies.

Hot Mess Goes Diving

And if you thought I was a hot mess on land you should have been there to see me in my scuba gear. As I write to you I am back at the farm for a day before I leave for the Melbourne Cup, my ears are still popping. Not the kind of popping you get from the airplane, the kind of popping that makes it sound like you are underwater. Whohoo a souvenir! Also the porch I am sitting on as I write to you is swaying back and forth, back and forth making me feel like A. I am still on the boat and B. I just had a couple breakfast cocktails. But you will be happy to know I am officially certified to dive without an instructor. A fact that my mother can't seem to fathom and given the facts I can't blame her. 3 days of diving would hardly prepare me for the James Bond swimming with the sharks diving I am sure she is envisioning. Speaking of James Bond, my scuba instructor is his younger more attractive - sorry Sean - Irish brother who I am in love with. Of course it was a one-sided romance, he is way out of my league - pun intended laugh now - Hot Mess doesn't look hot in a wetsuit especially when you add the weight-belt around the mid-section. And in case you thought I had a chance once I got out of the wetsuit picture this. Me hopping around the boat deck wiggling and jiggling to get out of the damn thing. Goggle marks for days and then of course I had a cold...so just like my mother did when I was little we had a conversation about my snotty nose and how it was making it difficult for me to equalize. Amazing. Yup the romance was there alright.

C'est la vie, I was at a little bit of a disadvantage and anyway he doesn't date hot messes. In the meantime I am happy to say I have 5 new Dutch friends who I think would love it if I came to visit them - I think we understood each other... Hot Mess in Holland has a beautiful ring to it doesn't it? I was even promised a job in a chocolate store at the airport which sounds tasty.

But back to the diving. Wow, it's a serious pain in the ass. Setting up the equipment, forcing yourself into a wet wetsuit, which in itself is totally demoralizing, then slipping on 40lbs of gear and the flattering mask to go with it.

It is worth every second. Because as soon as you jump in the water you are weightless and no sooner do you jump in than you want to be descending into the calm underwater. The fish flock to the boat for the food they get from leftovers so within minutes you are swimming with the fish. Neon colors, changing colors, stripes, spots and turtles it is peaceful and weightless and utterly calming to be in the quiet watching an entire other world go on around you. And the coral is stunning, cauliflower shaped green bowls are my favorite. They are vibrant and incredible and untouched. So by the forth dive when we go out on our own for the first time nothing else matters except getting in the water and going. A few nerves about finding the boat with a compass (which proves futile, I have to come up to find the boat direction anyway) but other than that it is all triple flips and cartwheels and a friendly bottom dwelling shark.

See you in Melbourne for the Cup. If you have a hot tip on the winning horse let me know. In the meantime the land will be rocking me to sleep tonight...or is it the pre-dinner cocktails I had?

Fried Onions with Liver and Osama Bin Ladin...Plastic Surgery or Not?

Tonight was a night of discovery in the “big house” on walkamin farm. Dermott who has been here 3 months and counting, showed all the house residents how to keep the shower head (which is on a hose) from falling out of the cradle. So myself Stephanie the English girl and the three Irish boys all crowded into the shower to see the secret trick. The tutorial was excellent but unwarranted and I would feel to stupid explaining it as it is so simple. It's the little things people and having a shower-head continuously fall on you while showering can really rake on your nerves.

Also for the last two weeks I have been itching non-stop, I know I already mentioned this. I am allergic to something here, but now that I have discovered the over the counter anti-histamine I will probably never find out what it is my skin is painfully allergic to. Thank the heavens and dear god now a mosquito bite feels like child’s play (there’s your secret optimist in action) Except apparently you can’t keep taking anti-histamines because they are bad for your liver. I don’t know much about that except tonight our resident Bulgarian Toto cooked liver for dinner with onions and pickles. Dionne his 13 year old son who has the best English in their family of three, initially translated it as black lung, which would be ironic if he smoked…. But he doesn’t and in fact it was liver and despite my half assed whooing and hawing they served me up a full plate. Toto knows I love grilled onions and with the extra serving he gave me he knew I could never turn it down. Maria opened a bottle of sparkling white wine (she won’t drink red for the same reason many of us still can’t look Captain Morgan in the eye) And thus the evening began…with my second dinner - the first of which was a delicious breakfast burrito which I made with pita bread as a tortilla, processed cheese as a vague reminder of “Mexican blend,” some downright spicy El Paseo which I picked up at the store for way too much money but it was totally worth it and scrambled eggs (it still freaks me out that they don’t refrigerate their eggs) –and a lively conversation in half English, half Bulgarian and half mime ensued. Topics ranged from Cattle Farming to Osama Bin Laden and why wouldn't he have plastic surgery to escape and live a free life (Dionne's contribution) to transgender plastic surgery to hangover cures. Miming affords these kinds of transitions I suppose.

Maria moved here from Bulgaria last year, Toto one year prior and while they love Australia they also miss Bulgaria - so during tonight's dinner we revisit some of their previous life, the a small vegetable garden in Maria’s Mother’s home (of whom she may never see again), Maria’s fabulous hairstylist that she misses and hasn’t been able to replace and without knowing it suddenly they are nostalgic for loved ones and their old life yet they never overlook the hospitality and home they have found here and I can’t help thinking for them thank god for Skype, Maria skypes with her parents almost daily. For me it is a reminder that I’m really not gone all that long and I am really not all that far away either. And suddenly I have taken a turn for the sentimental…yet again.

So in an effort to get this posted and overwith before you start shedding tears…let’s just say I write to you a little sentimentally, a little drunk (thanks to Maria) and extremely full. Oh and if you didn’t catch the processed cheese reference earlier let me reassure you, I haven’t changed my ways. I have at least one slice in everything I make….the stuff is genius and delicious and a reminder of home.

Cheers and Nas Drava (Bulgarian, a rough spelling) I’ll see you next week hopefully with some underwater photos from some diving in the great barrier reef.

Adventures in Australia - From What I Can Remember When I Was Seven Anyway

I'm back. In Australia that is. I was last here in 1991 I think. Oh the early 90's how great were they. I mean really they gave us a lot to be thankful for. Women's sports coats - back already - and hellllooo acid washed denim. Not as good as the 80's - which you know how I feel about them, dear dear Michael Anthony Hall - Anyway I was 7 in 1991 and doing my 2nd year of first grade which while somewhat humiliating at the time, never really set me back. I am still trying to decide if being the last to turn 21 of your friends or the first is worse. I was definitely first. Although lucky for me ex-bf was 24 at the time so I guess it really did all work out at the end. I was actually thinking about ex-bf brett earlier today as the sprinkler, which is about 20 feet away from the patio I sit on to write to you was spraying water on me while spinning vicariously around and spraying mostly everything except what it needed to spray. You may wonder why he came to mind...well I'll tell you. He was getting his Bioresource and Agricultural Engineering Degree from Cal Poly. Yeah I don't know what it means either except he was working to patent a special type of sprinkler head that was a supposed to direct the water more effectively. Well Brett I guess they haven't gotten your design over in Australia yet.

I digress. So 7 years old and this is what I remember of my last Australian visit.

Australia 1991

Long Flight - Mom made us change into PJ's

Cane Toads - Dad told us they spit poison and could kill us, so we had to stay away from them (more on this stay tuned)

Hotel with Pool on top of roof

Uncle H making breakfast with thick cut bacon

Mom and Dad Making us wear these horrific mullets caps - Pictures above, I may be scarred for life from this.

Holding a Koala Bear - This memory is likely only valid as there is photographic evidence and without it we can't be sure I would have remembered it

Kurt being chased by an Emu - Fucking Hilarious

Hotel with neon lights and waterfall in pool

Guy at hotel with neon lights and waterfall in pool partially swallowing cane toad - in an adults show we clearly weren't supposed to see - evidence to above reference of cane toads is clearly contradictory- (more on this stay tuned)

Eels

My Cousin Tina and her fab perm

And that's all.

*Parents, the above is a good argument in favor of not taking your children anywhere of substance while they are under 7 years of age.

So... from now on my adventures and embarrassments and everything else I document will be me from Australia AND while I was meaning to rename the blog something more fitting the truth is I really won't be anything but a hot mess while I am here. The humidity makes my hair curly, frizzy and huge. I am one big bug bite/ Rash (allergen still to be determined). While driving on the right side I routinely turn the windsheild wipers on instead of the blinker. And while I strive to be a fearless and carefree lone traveler I am anything but. So Hot Mess I remain but pardon me if I didn't want to call the blog Hot Mess Down Under. Hot Mess in Australia doesn't have a good ring so stay posted or send me suggestions.

In the meantime I write to you fondly from a farm outside of Cairns near a town with a spanish sounding name while being eaten alive by "mozzies" in the middle of effing nowhere. And if I didn't know where I was I would think I was in Paradise (but in my Paradise I would be able to get Mexican food)

Stay tuned for Australia in 2009.

Everyone's a Hot Mess at the Airport

Which is why I think I love the airport. I mean really thank you airport security for making us all strip down to basically nothing, remove half of the contents from our over stuffed purses and briefcases, liquids, computers and other miscellaneous electronics and then have us walk down through the metal detector in our purple socks with the hole in the left big toe praying that our necklace won’t set the detector off so that we have to spread our arms and legs, while in spandex, to be individually checked by the security guard. And that wasn’t even me people because what did I tell you? Everyone is a hot mess in the airport. Everyone has to adjust and fret to get their liquids out of their bag and take their shoes off really quickly so you don’t hold up the line and then put the shoes back on without a bench, hopping around on one effing foot while you tie the laces. Everyone is a hot mess at the airport, I suppose that bitch I always talk about – the elusive non-hot mess would wear flip flops so she can just slip them off and she probably didn’t overpack and have to put 20 pounds of electronics in her backpack. Fuck it I quit. I guess all I can say is there are a lot more hot messes at the airport than usual. And the girl with the purple socks was me.

Insomnia and On Why 3am is a Totally Obvious Time to Turn on the Fire Hydrant Below My Window to Clean the Street

It's 3am and my third to last night in my Nob Hill apartment and I woke up in a panic. At first I thought it was raining and then I thought LM was taking a late night shower and then I realized it was neither and jumped out of bed to confirm that the fire hydrant below my window had burst and call the fire department and save the world with my knowledge - you know a couple of psychologists' did a study in New York about a woman who was killed while 37 people witnessed it but know one called because everyone thought someone else would have already called - I was not going to assume anyone had called. Except actually the fire hydrant had not burst rather a SF City employee had turned it on intentionally I imagine to clean the street or something. So from 3:00 - 3:10 am I got to pretend I lived next to a soothing waterfall which is when I decided the Chinese food in my fridge had probably, with age, gotten better (because it wasn't very good the first night at all).

And late night eating is best done in the dark because then it doesn't count.

I am already feeling a little nostalgic for this place because while these disturbances are irritating once in a while I am going to miss hearing the fog horn and cable car outside my bedroom window. The sound of excited tourists being taken for a ride by the cable car drivers who favor single young women - getting on the cable car in SF is like getting into a club in Vegas if you're cute, and without men they let you on for free even when it is packed - and ring their bell at 11pm all the way up Washington St for no reason at all. Even if I could drown these sounds out by shutting real double pained windows instead of the single paned ones we actually have (that even when shut you can feel a strong gust of wind through) I wouldn't. Silence is glorious but there is something comforting about knowing that the world is going on out there with or without me. If this sounds sentimental that's because A. I am hormonal - which according to Wikipedia, among other things, is responsible for mood swings and food cravings... and B. It is 4am.

It's foggy out there; I know because I can hear the horns blowing. The chinese food wasn't better tonight than it was last night but the waffle I am going to get at Nook tomorrow morning will be delicious.

Good night and good morning all!

I Only Complain in an Effort Make the World a Better Place

So today, against my better judgement, I went to the Safeway Deli and ordered a sandwich. Without fail I always end up wishing I had just gotten their sushi which is very good and reasonably priced. But no I went ahead and risked it with the unfailingly mindless deli workers that must cheat on their job interviews to get said position. Hiring deli workers SHOULD be an art. A sandwich artisan should be passionate about making sandwiches. They should make each and every sandwich with love because you can totally tell when they don't. This does not go for deli salads or meat slicing.

So I ordered a turkey sandwich on a sour roll, mayo, lettuce and provolone cheese, this is my heaven, I could live on them. Deli Boy brings me 3 different rolls to choose from. Okay I said sour roll and now you are confusing me. I choose one. Oh by the way I ordered a half sandwich which apparently you should never do. The roll I chose isn't big enough to make a whole sandwich but a 1/2" too big for a half sandwich...apparently. Because he cuts of a 1/2" from the end of the roll and chucks it in the trash can. Let me be clear in full scale he cut off

[-----------]

that much. Like really. No really. Seriously. People are starving (like me who wants to get as much half sandwich for my money as I can) and he cuts off .002 cents worth of bread and throws it away. So I gave him a death stare and rolled my eyes, so then he felt stupid which is exactly what I wanted - not so HE feels bad about himself but so he never does that to anyone else again, see I am making the world a better place. Which I will probably go to hell for but so be it -

Anyway I wanted mayo, turkey, lettuce and provolone. Maybe if I had sang it he would have remembered it the first three times. The mayo spatula had avocado on it left over from the last guys sandwich which I suspect he thought was a favor since they charge what like $2.00 these days for one spread of it. Really though?

And earlier this week, after taking an awesome photography class in beautiful Palo Alto I went and had a similar sandwich where in the middle of my second bite my waiter brought me my check. Ummmmm, he is lucky I was busy chewing I am sure that was all part of his strategy though. I had planned on enjoying the warm afternoon with coffee and dessert but apparently that isn't allowed at this restaurant. Is this God telling me to layoff the Turkey?

So instead I walked across the street to a self serve frozen yogurt place. Apparently I self served myself into lethargy because as soon as I got home I took a nap... at 4:45 which was helpful because I wanted to stay up pretty much all night watching infomercials in an attempt to fall asleep. This is the waiter's fault.

PS I tried to find a hot deli worker pic to post with this so you had something to oogle while reading my rants. "Hot Deli Worker" when googled turned up images of Lindsay Lohan which is baffling.

Batter Blaster and The Bartender. You Heard it Here First

Team,

I know you were all wondering how it works - Batter Blaster that is. And since KM purchased some for me and left it daintily on my pillow I have decided since no one else would want to admit trying it to try it myself. I had to purchase a new bottle as Batter Blaster needs to be refrigerated at all times (don't be afraid to take notes as what I am about to tell you may shock you) Batter Blaster is better than sliced bread. I was a little embarrassed to go through the checkout line with it but the cashier likely confused it with whipped cream and didn't even look twice at it.

At this moment my brother is cooking me a breakfast feast and we had already forgotten about the Batter Blaster we bought yesterday when perusing the refrigerator he saw it and exclaimed "Oh let's have Pancakes" and two minutes later there he is simply shaking, and squirting and Voila a perfectly burned pancake. 4 squirts later we have the perfect pancake with no effort. I can't believe I am about to say this but Batter Blaster may be the way of the future instead of the end of the world.

I can see Martha on TV now "Just shake, point, blast and shoot"

Kurt's Verdict - If you want pancakes and you are really lazy this will do the job.

Organic Batter Blaster's patent is pending, do you think that is for any and all squirtable foodstuffs? I will be putting my patent in for cocktail blasters, instant Mojitos and margaritas here we come. We will call it "The Bartender" and put it in a chic black container. Each cocktail will come, as salsa does with Mild, Medium and Hot. They will be, "Underage", "Lightweight" and "In it to Win It".

Let me know how your first Batter Blaster experience goes.

*I claim any and all profits that come from the ideas presented above.

On My Bed – And Why I’m Going to Miss You

Not you. My bed. I am going to miss my bed.

For the last two years it has been just you and me bed, oh how I tried to fill the void in our relationship - the right side that is – never with very much success though and now I must forsake you altogether. My Australian visa will not let me take you with me. The fact that I called in sick today just to spend an extra 2 hours with you should be testament enough to how much our relationship means to me. I will be devastated if you are not waiting for me when I return home. You better be though I paid good money for you at Dirt Cheap Mattresses, took you out of the ghetto and that suspect warehouse, clothed you in only the best linens and then spent entire Sundays with you literally never leaving your fluffy but firm pillow top for more than the mere moment to get leftovers or cheese from the fridge to eat. Please don’t forget this while I am gone.

And this is how my minor panic attack began. I was lying in bed feeling like I was sleeping on clouds when I realized there are no cloud filled beds in Australia. And also I realized at the same time that I can’t carry all of my beloved clothes in even (3) suitcases (I could never take 3…could I?) Which means…I am going to have to choose. And then there was the dilemma, 2 suitcases or one. How big, how much can I carry on my own? One small, one large or two small. Are my friends going to judge me my new favorite Le Sportsac backpack that I bought completely without cause or need and have been hiding from my roommates. And which purse, I can’t take more than one and what about jeans, jeans are heavy but I want, wait need, all of them. And here I am panicking now and really what about shoes?

On another note I realized I never even commented on Mystic Pizza in my last post even though I referenced it in my title. So here it is, of course it was on TV 14 times between last weekend and I watched it probably twice through intermittently and the entire time I just wanted one slice. Seriously what is so fucking mystic about it? I don’t know maybe I am just hungry but it doesn’t seem right.

Mystic Pizza and More Molly Ringwald

I just saw St. Elmo’s Fire for the first time, and while Molly Ringwald isn’t in it most of the Brat Pack are. Demi Moore is her replacement I guess. And who wouldn’t choose Demi over Molly? Molly could never play an in-debt investment banker who is addicted to cocaine and sleeping with her boss. Molly could however blend into any wall of Demi’s completely pink apartment – Oh the 80’s…sigh – speaking of has anyone been to Urban Outfitters lately? It seems they are coming back – the eighties that is - more so than ever. Urban is infected with neon and floral printed ruffle dresses, one of which looks just like a dress I wore at the age of 7 with a side pony tail and jelly sandals. God I was skinny back then.

But what I was really getting at is have you seen For Keeps? I haven’t yet but I intend to. Molly plays a highschool girl who gets pregnant with her highschool BF. Don’t worry though it is not Anthony Michael Hall – wouldn’t that be disturbing –

By the way I am back at Nook today after a long absence during which time they didn’t miss me at all, and it feels so good. Except that I am here because Stevo our building manager is showing our apartment for (2) hours during the middle of the day and I think people are going to be interested since it is listed at $400 less than what we are currently paying….so that’s nice.

Seniors & Buses, A Right not Privilege? And On Why When I Am Filthy Rich I Will Have a Driver

I am going to call my favorite senior bus riding citizen Ron because it sounds like a crotchy bitter old man, which he is. Last time I took the bus with Ron this is how it went– he hops; I use the term hops loosely because it is more of a slow painful stagger that delays the bus several minutes, onto the bus and instantly the dread of the smell of riding through Chinatown disappears...Ron smells much worse; although, it is debatable whether I have become immune to the fish carcass in a pink bag smell. Ron's assault weapon #1/ Is his halitosis which he unleashes with several coughs and grumbles as he shuffles down the aisle of the bus parting the sea of people. Now you can be sure that while the bus driver intentionally accelerates right after I step up onto the first step that the driver lives in fear of Ron and has therefore not moved an inch and won’t until he sits down. Ron scans the area and begins navigating his way through the crowded bus using his handy assault weapon #2/ his barely called for cane. Helpful Hint: Ron means for you to move out of his way when he swings his cane at your calf’s. He shuffles about half way down and for no reason whatsoever stands over me, whacks me in the legs with the cane and says “seats are for seniors”. Oh right of course you wanted MY seat. One moment let me grab my laptop case, purse and bag of recently re-healed shoes (I keep carrying them downtown to Jacks on Market because if you reheal 7 shoes there you get the eighth free, but I always lose my card before I get to 7...I digress)

Apparently Ron doesn’t have sympathy for my hot mess self because I get another reminder tap to move my ass out of his way and at that I jump out of my seat and before my hand grabs the pole the bus lurches forward and thrusts me into several unsuspecting fellow riders who probably would have been more annoyed at my accidental body check had they not just witnessed my physical abuse by an old helpless looking man.

Of course when I get my balance and gazillion bags in order I look back to see whether Ron made it into my seat unscathed and there he is cane on lap with the evil smile on his face he will wear with him to hell.

If I prayed I would pray for you Ron but lets be honest in Hell seniority doesn’t mean shit.

Totally Awkward Tuesday - Friday Night Pizza Affair

Dear Coworkers,

Thank you for planning that audacious happy hour bar hop. It was a long week and I really needed it. What I didn't need was the two slices of pizza that were inspired by the 5 pub challenge and the stiff drinks that Joe Bartender was pouring me at the Royal Oak - my new favorite bar mainly because of all the indoor foliage they have - What you, dear coworkers didn't see was the after party. I put myself in a cab around midnight and after letting my cab driver get halfway home (I was only 5 blocks away to start with) I requested that he turn around and take me to Escape from New York pizza. I ordered two slices one veggie and one Hawaiian and as I always do I requested -fat kid style - the extra pineapple on the pan be scooped into my box onto - shameful but delicious.

As a rule I like to picnic in my bed with an episode of Arrested Development playing when late night snacking. Which requires me to have enough self restraint to not eat in the cab. This is hard. I indulged myself a few pieces of pineapple but managed to make it back to the house of hot mess with two pieces fully intact. I realize however while exiting the elevator on at my stop on the second floor that I am absolutely ravenous and cannot wait to get into my apartment to eat the pizza. What any girl knows is that my keys will take a two handed search party five minutes to find at the bottom of my black-hole of a purse. Five minutes is too long.

So I picnic on the stairs in my buildings corridor - instead of my bed - where midway through my second slice - Hawaiian of course - I am abruptly interrupted by my neighbor with the USC flag hanging on their door. They always have midweek parties and never invite us. Just last week in fact I came home to a keg sitting right outside the elevator and two USC alums giggling in their doorway looking at the keg - Hello get that tripping hazard out of my way or I will move it for you, straight into my apartment -

Sorry anyway he asks me if I am locked out. And here the awkwardness ensues, clearly as I am not locked out but too ashamed to admit it. So I simply nodded my head no. I can only imagine the hot mess he saw sitting on the corridor stairs eating her dinner - me. Silence ensues for several long moments in which I want to take another bite of my pizza but felt it might be inappropriate. Neighbor boy finally says "no really you look like you're locked out.............. And then I realize the only way I going to Shake this guy, maintain a smidgen of dignity (to be sure most of it was already gone) and get back to my pizza was to lie and let him help me by breaking into my apartment through his via the fire escape -

I pick up my pizza box and overnight bag of a purse and walk through his apartment. He opens the window to my apartment for me. I thanked him for his help - that is making me climb through two windows and across a questionably safe fire escape to break me into my own room while the keys were safely in my purse - As soon as my back was to him I had the other half of the pizza in my mouth. Can you just imagine if I was sneaking in from breaking curfew. Had my parents seen me taking an enormous bite of pizza while literally climbing through my bedroom window...the looks of embarrassment that I would have seen would have shamed me well into my forties.

Instead the next morning my roommates found the morsels of pizza cleverly trailed through the corridor and elevator in the manner of Hansel and Gretal.

On another note apparently any stranger can get into my apartment through the fire escape. We discussed this when I recounted the events to my roommates. LM thinks they might occasionally come over to the house of hot mess to watch TV and eat our food. And it just dawned on me apparently that keg I wanted is just a fire escape and unlocked window away. I wonder if we could get it through with some rope, a strong man and a really good diversion. But how awkward would it be to be caught stealing a keg through a fire escape?

Batter Blaster and Why the World is Coming to an End

Just last Monday, while watching daytime television on my "day off" I realized my American cheese habit isn't so bad. While American cheese is called cheese but really isn't - although I can't tell you what it really is and would prefer no to think about it - the fact of the matter is in some forms it still resembles what it is suppoese to be akin to (sliced cheese).

Just because Kraft thought I might prefer not to cut it up myself and individually packaged them for my convenience does not make it resemble cheese any less. However, never have I thought to buy Cheese Whiz, which perhaps makes me a little bit of a snob. I just don't want to squirt my cheese onto crackers. I want it to start in a solid form so that I can - after I have unwrapped several slices, toasted bread and buttered a pan - feel like I actually worked for my gooey grilled cheese sandwich. Where would the satisfaction lie if you just squirted some cheese whiz onto bread and had an instant grilled cheese. This brings me back to last Monday and the revelation that while I unwrap individual packets of american cheese and hastily throw away the wrappers so that my roommates can't count how many slices went into a given sandwich, someone is squirting not cheese but waffle batter onto a hot griddle and instantly, without more than a mere shake of the can, has a perfect waffle 3 minutes later (actual directions as follows...Shake, Point, Blast, Cook). It's called Batter Blaster and if you haven't seen the extended commercial for it please click on the following link for a demo video that has auto replay in case your mind goes too numb to hit play a second time.

http://www.batterblaster.com/

What's next Hambuger Blaster? Ew sorry that's disgusting but okay if they come up with that just remember where you heard it first.

So anyway you can see why I might think the end of the world is near.

Speaking of prophesizing the end of the world I just started reading "Under the Banner of Heaven" and while all of me says read this it will be interesting I am only 3 chapters in and I am already so horrified I just don't know if I need to read the rest of it. Its like trying to take your eyes of off a car crash though and so I will probably finish it or at least try until it hurts too bad and finally I will revert back to some piece of trash novel that makes me want to go shoe shopping and start a family and then I will - instead of having nightmares about incest, teen pregnancy and religious manipulation - dream of making perfect fluffy waffles without even breaking a sweat and that is how I will get my children to love me.

By the way... Batter Blaster is organic. Do what you will with that information.

*This is not endorsed by Batter Blaster, nor is it intended to recommend its use in anyway. In fact, use at your own risk.

Parka in the Park & Other Random Thoughts

Doesn't Molly Ringwald look good on my page? I mean she just kind of works there. After noticing this I briefly considered making her the main image on my page even though she has very little to do with anything I write about - I could insert her here and there more often I think - I realized there was potential for confusion that this was actually a Molly Ringwald fan site, which would probably trick unsuspecting readers into reading about my inconsequential life instead of THE it girl of the 80's (why though why) which while I secretly think that is genius I realize it would be a tad bit manipulative and I won't sink that low. At least not yet. But speaking of Molly I read that Dolores Park's film in the park is playing Pretty in Pink on August 1st and I think, although I cannot imagine why they picked that over Sixteen Candles even though they are essentially the same plot line - Jake Ryan is so much dreamier than Blane McDonnagh and well Sixteen Candles has Michael Anthony Hall which is always +10 bonus points as long as it is prior to 1990 - I might go. You have to give San Francisco credit for doing that kind of shit. I mean film in the park in July and August sounds really picturesque. Except we are in San Francisco. They should rename it Parka in the Park because that is what you need to stay warm after sunset in San Francisco during the summer months. Speaking of warm weather I have departed from my usual blogging at Nook and decided to stay in the House of Hot Mess for several reasons the main being that last time I was there I kept getting the evil eye from the owner because I was taking up valuable real-estate - a table for two and the bench on both sides of me - and all I ordered was a cappuccino. I mean I get it okay, but after 2 hours there they finally made me and some other girl committing a similar offense share a table and then we were just sitting there each on our laptops trying not to accidentally look up at each other and have awkward communal table moments while we were "working."

So about that warm weather, I always feel obligated on the few rare sunny days in SF to get outside at least a little bit, today in lieu of the outdoors I have opened all the windows in our dining nook and am pretending it counts. There are two fatal flaws about pretending to be productive in the apartment a. The refrigerator b. my bed. Case in point in the time it took me to write the above I visited the refrigerator 4 times. And now I am feeling a little tired from my food binge so before I sign off for a much undeserved nap I'll leave you with this one thought. Remember when, not too long ago, I wrote about my secret love for designer fanny packs and casually admitted I have capri length black silk overalls and you judged me. Take a moment and think about your worst fashion faux pas and fuck off.

My Day Off

It's Monday morning and I brushed my teeth at 11am. My "day off" that I have incurred as a result of the current economic downturn - the same economic downturn I thought couldn't touch me with a 10' pole - is Monday. At first I was extremely upset about the day off, among other things it stifles my ability do my job the way I would like and, of course, comes with a 20% pay-cut. But now I am working towards embracing some of the things it allows me to do. And after all I still have a job. 

The perks of having Mondays off include of course brushing my teeth as late in the day as I want. No one else is around to smell my foul breath, and besides I wake up around 10am with no where to go. I have also taken to shaving my legs twice a week (does it alarm you that it was previously once a week, saying it out loud kind of alarms me), I have more time in the shower these days so in addition to shaving I also exfoliate my feet on Mondays which is nice since pedicures were the first thing to go with the pay cut. Also Monday is a great day to do laundry, clean up the apartment and what I am far more likely to do which is watch TV all day - like right now for instance I am watching Sabrina; Pretty in Pink is on next, maybe Molly Ringwald will inspire me to make my own clothes thereby helping me to live on my now smaller budget!- And there it is; the rationale of a someone who is actually sore from being in bed pretty much for the last 24 hours. 

Well Pretty in Pink is calling me as is the american cheese in my refrigerator. Can someone please tell me who thought Molly should be the it girl of the 80's, I don't get it.

Hippie Headbands & Fannie Packs

LK has been hounding me about this post since I told her she was my inspiration for it. Little did she know that it's all about things I like but she hates; my secret love for fanatical trends.

So there is this adorable girl in my yoga class and I can't figure out if she is a hot mess or not. Anyway the last two times she has been in my class she has worn a sparkly silver headband in the fashion of, as LK would say, an effing Indian. 

Lindsey hates this new trend but I secretly like it. The thing is, as so many super trendy things do, the hippie headband would look absurd on me. It would slide up my tiny head and my hair would go right along with it and pouf out at the top and then eventually and probably at the most embarrassing moment the headband would spring off my head an into the lap of some gorgeous guy - hot mess moment/ v. awkward- Well anyway I wish I could wear one and to yoga no less. Hippie headbands fall into the same secret love trends as the following. 

Shorts one pieces, I realize you have to weigh 110lbs wet and be about 5'-10" or taller to wear them. I have a pair of black silk capri overalls that I love but haven't warn in years because they have been banned by all of my friends; they sort of fall in the same category - except they fall to the mid calf and have OshKosh like pockets in front (Yeah I know that was the first reference to Oshkosh since 1993). Actually LM hasn't seen them yet. I am waiting until she really pisses me off one day and then I will pair them with my crocs (which you should know I only purchased for when I went backpacking and it was totally worth it) I will go out with her in public wearing them and like your mother did in Junior high I will embarass her to shame. And that is how she will know I am mad at her. It's genius.

I also secretly love the designer fannie pack. But then again that too would ride up my hips, create a pouf in my shirt and totally embarass me. Maybe it would pop off at the same time as the hippie headband and then there would have to be an intervention. So don't worry I will leave these trends to those who know how to keep it together.

But as I constantly aspire to embody the type of girl who is able to wear these things - The headband is a physical impossibility as my head is just too small - I'll leave you with this last thought. I made the brilliant choice, as I sit in nook today, not to order the cheese platter designed for two that I typically eat by myself. I ordered the boring old cup of soup instead - I officially hate myself -but anyway what I was getting at is if I kick my cheese habit do you think I can wear a designer fannie pack or a shorts onsie? Hopefully not together but maybe one at a time? 

Union Street Festival/ Insomnia

I am not happy about this. It is 2:30 am, my head hurts and I can't sleep. But I guess that's what I get for drinking all day as if I was still in college; when I never used to get tired or hangovers. Back then God didn't punish me for drinking a fifth of Popov (woof) with little more than a piece of toast to tide me over. I could wake up and go to class after sleeping for two hours. I didn't get that puffy residual drunk look that is so common to me now after a day of drinking in the sun. Dear God why the change of heart? Is it because you want me to grow up and be an adult or because you have finally realized I am never going to join your team? Is this the same reason you have finally allowed my cheese habit to catch up with me and why when I went through all of adolescence zit free you have finally decided to curse me with adult acne? Who knew you were as vindictive as me. I forgive you all this if you would just let me sleep right now.

So yesterday (as in several hours ago) was San Francisco's annual Union street festival. There are several of these festivals during the season. For your reference please search Folsom street festival images. The morning started at LM's friends house at Greenwich and Laguna but in an effort to actually see the festival instead of skirt around it all day attending parties in the area we headed to union to wander around before things got too crazy. Fairly typical street fair but add more drunks than usual and less music. Seriously the amount of live entertainment was a little disappointing, although above average people watching really filled the gap. We headed over to a friends friends apartment that was in the thick of it but ended up at the wrong party. How we found this place I don't know but it was a frat house in the middle of San Francisco. Literally reminded me of a pike house in SLO. It was wall to wall people, men in tank tops and acrylic nails everywhere. I was given a stamp that says friends which I am sure when I finally do fall asleep and wake up will be on my forehead. So we finally find our friends but the apartment is out of beer so we agree to go to the Bus Stop where there is a huge line which we don't want to wait in so we walk around the side of the bar to the back entrance where for no bribe at all you can walk right in. Genius. 

My friend John Tuttle, is saving us a table and when he sees us he stands on the bench to greet us and low and behold two naked white legs. He is wearing short shorts and has a popped collar. I don't know Tuttle are you pretending to be one of them or are you actually one? We finally agree sitting inside a bar on a sunny SF day at a street festival seems wrong and so decide to explore which really means eat some food and 20 minutes later head back to the house party with fresh cold 18 pack in hand. The house has a beer bong tied to the stair railing and a beirut table set up in the living room. I love both of these things (but when am I going to grow up?) I walked home alone at around 7:30 p.m. up Union to Hyde. I almost died walking up the hill and if you think I am exaggerating then you A. don't live in San Francisco and B. Didn't know what I didn't tell you which is at the fair I ate a chicken skewer with the meat of half a whole chicken, Pad Thai, a hot dog, and 2 slices of pizza. I wasn't going to tell you because I am trying to pretend it never happened. I can feel you judging me right now...just stop that's what I have God for. Anyway I hop on the cable car at Hyde (thank god) and I am home and in bed by 8:30 p.m.. But not before I can text several friends to let them know I will be going out in 2 hours which is pretty adorable if you think about it since I woke up at 1 a.m. trying to figure out where I was.

Still can't sleep, I think I will watch the last episode of Parks and Recreation. If you haven't seen it go to hulu and watch it. It is genius, I hope they don't cancel it next season.

Nob Hill Musings

There has been much debate about whether the House of Hot Mess (my apartment that is) is located in Nob Hill or Russian Hill. I like to think the invisible line dividing the two is at Hyde and Jackson. Our favorite dive chinese restaurant U Lee located at this very juncture captures both worlds. It is Zagat rated but still tiny, cheap and a little questionable. It has the flashing neon lights - that in my mind define Nob Hill and a sorry attempt at the twinkle lights that so characterize and separate the two. At this juncture you cross over from slightly seedy liquor stores and cheap ethnic dives to "markets", wine bars and formal world dining. How the two can coexist so closely together is the mystery of any city I suppose. So by my own boarder definition sadly (or not sadly but I will debate that later) the house of Hot Mess despite being posted on Craigslist by our miserly low life landlord as located in Russian Hill is actually in Nob Hill. I should have know this sooner I suppose but it has taken almost 7 months for it to be okay. I should have noticed it the night that Little Asian Man dumped his trash bag full of cans onto the sidewalk underneath my bedroom window and one at a time set each can up on end and proceeded to crush it beneath his foot. I should have known I wasn't in Russian Hill everytime I walked up our entry stairs (which BTW we fondly refer to as the death trap) and was greeted by the smell of urine. Marissa did actually discover that our 1st floor neighbor couldn't be bothered to walk his dog past the entry steps to pee. I have been devising a threatening note in my head that will hopefully scare the old man that lives there - and who is probably paying like $150 a month for the entire apartment thanks to SF Rent Control - into taking his damn dog for a walk. This will be delivered at the same time as the death threat to the upstairs neighbor who walks around in heels 24 hours a day. I imagine she owns healed slippers with fur on them similar to Carrie's when she is trying to have good sex with Burger (that was doomed from the beginning and we all saw it, I mean Burger....really?) So anyway I digress but what I was at one point getting to was, as I sit at Nook (located in Russian Hill, but barely) Is that I kind of embrace living in Nob Hill. Now thank god we are not bordering on the TenderNob or China Town but I like cheap food I can afford and more importantly restuants that I can bring my own beer to. I like divey goodwill stores not disguised as high end boutiques. I like the can lady I see in the morning engergetically collecting her recycling, please note this is entirely different from Little Man can crusher. I like the stoners who work in Le Beau our market... hello they put extra cheese samples out and don't care that I try each one twice. I have nothing else to say about it except I wish I didn't end this post with cheese. But whatever I am a little hungry and Nook has a delicious cheese platter but it isn't really for one...hmmmmm.

Hot Mess Moment – Effing Donuts…

So I have decided to come clean, be honest about my secret envy of girls who are anorexic- oh hell, how about girls who have self control. Like the one who doesn’t eat the bread at the table and only half of her oversized dinner. I envy these girls so much I make comments like “I could look like that if I didn’t eat” or “she looks hungry” or “Her coke habit was the best thing that ever happened to her” or the even more cleverly disguised “I am concerned about so and so, I think she might have an eating disorder…” concern my ass I just really want to be her.

But it turns out I am not. In 2004 a “Mya” was a term, dubbed by my freshman year college newly found friends, for a shot of alcohol that I poured…it was usually about half of a highball glass and took you between 2 and 3 gulps to take. The size was completely discriminate and based upon several criteria including whether or not I liked you, whether you shook your head about wanting to take one or manned up, how drunk I wanted you to be and how drunk I already was. So I am sure you can see why I look upon this dubbing fondly. In 2009 the term has changed slightly. “Pulling a Mya” as it turns out is when one eats miniscule piece of something she really shouldn’t be eating any of. Several minutes, hours or in some very extreme cases a day later goes back for SOME more or over several miniscule pieces finishes the remainder of said item. For example my male coworker brings extra donuts down from his safety meeting and Jeremy goes and takes half of a donut in an attempt to restrain himself. 10 minutes later Jeremy announces he is “pulling a Mya” and goes back for the other half. Right…. Fucking humiliating when my 6 bottomless pit male coworkers have decided you have done this enough times for the entire act to carry your name for life. Now you know Jennifer Aniston would never… but hello Brittany you’re lucky I got stuck with it first.  But then again "The Brittany" is much much worse.

Aha Yoga...or Ahhh Naw Yoga?

That's right I jumped on the bandwagon. I am officially one of "those girls" who does yoga. Or at least I thought I was. I know the postures, even some of the names. The term downward facing dog doesn't make me giggle anymore - although the shear idea of "Happy Baby" still does. I have my own yoga mat, attire and I finally, yes finally embraced the "Ohm" although why we do it escapes me. I even say namaste and bow at the end of my practice; so yes I like to think my hot mess self can fake it through a yoga class (although the whole time I am aspiring to be the non hot mess in the front of the room - you know her she's that one in head to toe Lulu Lemon w/ coordinating mat...she weighs 115 lbs and what is the secret to her pouf? The entire 90 minutes upside down, in the twist, lying on the floor, standing on her head and her f'ing pouf is still intact as is her perfect natural makeup that says I'm not wearing any - Yeah you know her and you can't hate her because your hot messy self wants to be her). Anway I digress. I finally decide after several attempts at other yoga places and free yoga at Lulu Lemon on Wednesdays (which is normally fabulous but the instructor this month, they rotate every month, is a little bit of a yogi-douchebag) I purchase yes the overpriced 20 sesh package hoping that through this I can channel a little of that Lulu Lemon girl that I know is just hiding deep inside me waiting to surface - and hotmessmoment: they have free oranges...mmmm. The first class back at Aha actually doesn't actually go so well for me. Friday night with Sherman the African American Body Building Yogi God. Sherman you don't have me fooled, those pecks are not from Yoga. Turns out Sherman, who had rave reviews on well ahasf.com (hmmm rethink the incestuous review...) is actually a sadistic yogi who I suspect instructed yoga in the military or even more likely the marines. The warm up was hot and messy but I kept it together, this was under the assumption, as Sherman assured us that this was the hardest part. Throughout the 90 minutes Sherman put his hands all over my convulsing about to pass out body to correct me on my posture probably because as a hot mess I don't exaclty bend like Lulu Lemon the yoga superstar upfront; in my defense, were we really made to bend that direction anyway? Come on Sherman couldn't you have looked the other way and let me think I knew my yoga?

45 minutes through the practice, hot, sweaty and I had already put my headband back in 3 times I realized this wasn't going to get better. 50 minutes through the practice I take a child pose. 60 minutes in I decide to half ass the next 30 or I may vomit on cute boy up front - Hot Mess sidenote: he can do that posture with on one arm with body and legs suspended in the air...mmmmm-.

65 minutes in and still on the standing postures I decide to take another child's pose which turns into me on my knees waiting out the latest punishment Sherman has thought up. Sherman catches wind of my plan - to quit - and comes over to make sure all is ok; Hot Mess Moment: "yeah my doctor says I shouldn't do this one on my bad knee..." Not good enough for Sergent Sherman he gives me a similar posture anyway.

And then the abs, um f'ing never ended. The last thing I remember before I passed out is Sherman saying "and twist and twist." - actually I'm not that messy I didn't pass out - Anyway Sherman doesn't like me and I don't like him. Sorry Sergent Sherman I won't be making it to your bootcamp again anytime soon.

PS He played R&B the entire 90.

Aha yoga I'll see you tomorrow.

Aaaah Naw yoga don't count on it.