Birthdays, Mustachey Kittens and Bourbon Street at 7am

It's my birthday today. I turned 23, and while I realize that Next Year Me and every Me that has a birthday after that will hate 23 year old me for saying, I feel just a touch like this is the beginning of the end.

I think that actually 22 was probably the beginning of the end, but this time last year I'd only been back in the country for less than two days and I was too jetlagged and New York-Hung Over to care much.

This year I just got up at 5:45am, left the boyfriend asleep because he was working a night shift tonight and needed to sleep in, and went to work :S

 Mustachey kitten from Apartment Therapy. If ever get another teeny kitteny thing to be friends with Wayne, it will definitely be a mustachey kitten. Maybe called Nigel. Nigel and Wayne.

But the girlies (and charming accented gentlemen) decorated my computer screen and my desk with balloons and ribbon and a Happy Birthday banner for when I arrived. And they made a little fuss with carrot cake and sparklers. Which is insanely lovely, because they've barely known me a month. They're darlings. All of them.

This teeny birdy is from one of my favoritest blogs. Mackin Ink is written by a very charming American woman with three twinkly daughters, who bounces around the world with them and her hubby, and writes very beautiful words. Read her, she's lovely

My lovely boy had a cake waiting for me last night, and has issued me an IOU for a little iPad and attatchy keyboard or Microsoft Surfacey clicky thing before I go back to school, so I can take lecture notes all stylish-like and don't have to trek my jumbo pink laptop back and forth. So exciting. I want to do the clicky dance from the Microsoft ad. Such a sucker for musical advertising.

Bourbon Street, New Orleans, the morning after. Most tourists don't see it, but  at about 6am street sweepers come down Bourbon Street, scoop up all the rubbish and beads, and then spray lemon scented hospital grade disinfectant all over the streets. So Bourbon Street at 4am smells like beer and puke and smoke. By 7am it smells lemony fresh.

And I have a work Christmas Party at a restaurant on the water in Brighton Le Sands on Friday, and a lovely brunch and shopping day planned with my awesome mother, Kate.

It's no Bourbon Street night out, but birthday loveliest has definitely taken the edge off having to grow up. Maybe next year I'll be around to walk through lemony fresh Bourbon Street in the morning for beignets and lattes.

Typical Wednesday. What of it?

So I get home today...

...and Mr Richard has bought me a birthday cake and is singing "Happy Birthday Eve to You!"
Totally makes up for the cranky people I spoke to on the phone today at work.

Now he's trying to learn to play happy birthday on his piano iphone and throw rice on me.

Kittenface.

I was going to write a proper post, but I have a kitten who has decided that his new favorite game tonight is trying to attach and eat my fingers while I try to type. So since he's insisting, I may as well introduce him.

 This is Wayne. R named him, after I said I wanted the name to remind me of New Orleans. He suggested Lil Wayne, and then spent the next hour calling the kitten nothing but. Now the kitten wont answer to anything else...only Wayne and Kittenface.

 This is how he feels about me writing this right now. I've temporarily relocated him to my lap, but he's clawing my foot a bit so I'll have to make this quick.

He was rescued by a friend who found him wandering around alone. She thought he was a bit teeny to be out on his own, so she took him to the vet. He didn't have a microchip, so she took him home and found him a safe room where her big puppy couldn't eat him, and put posters up to try and find his owners. A few weeks later, she'd still had no luck, and she couldn't keep him there locked up in one room away from the puppy, so she asked if anyone wanted him. R miraculously said yes, and we picked him up a few days later. R likes him just as much as I do, he just wont admit it.

He's one of those cuddly little things that follows you room to room. He gets in the way of whatever you're trying to do. Beats you to the bath, sits on the laptop's keyboard, beats me to the bath.

And he's especially fond of recipe books as beds. This is him relaxing on the open pages of Jamie's 30 Minute Meals (while I'm trying to plan dinner) but he's also quite partial to Cajun Country Cooking too.

Everything is coming up rosy

So things are looking rather up. 

Not to jinx myself or anything, but I'm kind of coasting right now. Do you ever get the feeling that you're on the verge of something interesting? Not when you know everything will go your way, but when you know that things are going to change...and it's going to be big.

I love this feeling. The only other times in my life I've been in this position, I was sort of not in the right mindset to embrace it. Now? Bring on the change. I've kind of learnt that every single thing I'm used to can fall apart, and I'll be fine. I've got all kinds of fall backs, and even if I didn't, I've got the strength now to pick up the pieces.

I'm enrolled to go back to uni next year, at a really cool campus, and in a really cool course.I'm studying to become a speech pathologist. Which is super cool, because it's a helping-people-and-doing-good kind of job. Even the days it sucks, at least I'll know I'm contributing in a very direct, tangible way to bettering people's lives. It's also an industry that is experience massive growth, a huge shortage in pathologists and a massive demand. The option to work in public or private health, to run my own practice, to work with the wealthy and charge lots, or to work for next to nothing in a community that needs the help. I can do this work all over the world, and I can earn as much, or as little as I want, and work as much or as little as I want. I'm pretty excited.

I'm also moving house in less than two months. We've been looking at little run-down rentals by the beach. We're going to downsize, ostensibly so I have less financial pressure on my while I cut back work hours to study, and so we have a better chance of saving some money to travel with. 

I've also got a shiny new job. Also with a major florist company, but this time the environments couldn't be more different. Have you ever been in a really horrible situation - a job, a relationship, a friendship, whatever - and it wasn't until you actually got out of it and into something functional and sane that you realised exactly how effed-up it was? Thats how I feel about my last workplace. I knew I wasn't happy, I knew that some of the people I was working with were toxic, but it wasn't until I started working in this lovely office, with sweet, funny people who want to help. In a company that isn't run entirely on someone's ego, and that has actual policies and supports in place, where my boss talks and listens, and doesn't shout, gaslight, verbally abuse and throw temper tantrums - often when he's the one at fault. It should be a given, but I'm still amazed every time someone acts like a decent human being in this office...the contrast couldn't be greater between it and the last company. 

I've got not a damn thing to complain about at this new place, and I'm so excited by that.

Cheating on my blog

It's been far too long an absence, little blog.
I'm pleased to report that my absence has not actually been because I've been lazy and neglectful and not writing at all. I actually have been writing. I've been road testing a couple of options, because this blog was starting to feel a bit angsty. I kept going to start a new post, and it kept quickly turning into a woe-is-me self pity party about miserable and uncomfortable things like miscarriages, workplace bullies, funerals I've attended and people who have been astonishingly nasty to me. And I don't want to fill this pretty little space with all that negativity. This was meant to be about adventures - the good ones and the ones that turned sour. But not about everyday, banal misery.

The thing about writing is that for me, at least, can't help but wander into the cathartic category. So I couldnt write here without writing about the sad things. So I found somewhere else to channel it. Have you ever heard of the 750 Words Project? Here's the theory:

"I've long been inspired by an idea I first learned about in The Artist's Way called morning pages. Morning pages are three pages of writing done every day, typically encouraged to be in "long hand", typically done in the morning, that can be about anything and everything that comes into your head. It's about getting it all out of your head, and is not supposed to be edited or censored in any way. The idea is that if you can get in the habit of writing three pages a day, that it will help clear your mind and get the ideas flowing for the rest of the day."

The problem is, that while I can muster the motivation to get up a bit earlier and write three pages before work if I start at the leisurely hour of 9:30am as I did previously, when I changed job to one requiring regular 7:00am starts plus smart casual grooming standards, the idea of getting up at 4am just to write first thing in the morning didn't really fly.

I also dug out a brand new 365 Journal that I bought years ago and didn't use, because I had already started one in another colour and tried to write in it every day. Its actually reasonably easy, because theyre single, unlined pages per day. So when you have a crap day and don't want to go into it, a large fonted "fuck" in the middle of the page would suffice. Other days you write really tiny to fit it all in. If you're like me, you forget to take it with you a lot, so you have lots of notes scrawled on napkins, and envelopes, and work stationery stuck into it. I love my 365 books. The dream is to have a lovely row of them, each one documenting a year in my life. I'm not quite that disciplined yet. I journal in fits and starts and then when things get too rough, I don't want to play anymore and I stop writing until things calm down, and I get bored and restless and need to inspire myself again.

So, I'm trying to turn over a new leaf with this blog, and focus on the loveliness. And in that spirit, here's some prettiness:

The baby lop ear rabbit I had when I lived in Summer Hill. His name was Iago (he had a brother called Othello) and he slept in a vintage suitcase and ate bok choy and celery.

 I like very few things more than how clouds look from planes...when I was little I daydreamed about getting out and walking on them. I hate how information gets in the way and ruins plans like that.

 This bird lives in an old Irish pub in Glebe. I've forgotten it's name, but it tried to join in our shoeless pool game one afternoon.

 Back when I worked in a Swedish stationery shop, this is what happened when we worked too many hours, had not enough customers and not enough to do. We invented faux Swedish names, made name tags and called each other by our Swedish names for the whole day. We also perfected our Swedish chef impersonation, ate lots of ginger snaps, learnt pointless swedish phrases - like "Santa is coming" and "Register Fairy". <3

My American Crush

I don't know if Americans are aware, of if they even feel the same, but when you're Australian born and bred, it's hugely politically incorrect to love the USA.

Sure you can holiday there, and you can have a good time. But when you return, you must have a couple of 'stupid american' stories, a couple of "australia does this better" comparisons and you must promise sincerely that "It was fun, but you could just never ever LIVE there"

Just quietly, I don't really feel that way.

I've never been very patriotic about my own country. Not that I hate it, of course not, this is a wonderful place to live and I wouldn't have given up my childhood here for anything, but I'm well aware that the world is a big place, and I'm not ready to claim 'greatest place on earth' just yet. Not without seeing everywhere else first. And I'm also aware enough to know there are things about my motherland that make my blood boil, and damage it's 'greatest place on earth' ranking. Namely, our track record with our indigenous people, our appalling attitude towards refugees, the lack of legalised gay marriage and the inherent racism that still permeates our society outside the centre of our major cities.

So when I came to visit the States, I wasn't prepared to apologise for liking it so much.

The list of things I've loved is ridiculously long, but the revised version is as follows:

1. Macaroni and cheese is a valid meal, and one people make from scratch, using actual recipes. In Australia mac and cheese is a microwaved instant meal. It's on the same level as 2-minute noodles, and you should feel insanely guilty for eating it...and you may as well end it now if you feed it to your kids. I love mac and cheese. I'm all for legitimizing it.

2 Thanks Giving. Whatever criticisms one might have of the US, you cannot argue with Thanks Giving. I think it's a lovely tradition. One day I really want to make Turkey and sides from scratch and have my whole family together with the sole purpose of celebrating what we're grateful for. What a lovely thought. Thanksgiving doesnt exist in Australia, and Christmas is in the middle of summer, so it's waaaay to hot to eat roasted turkeyness. I'm thinking a Thanksgiving in July, when it's cold and rainy and we all need some comfort food.

3. Almost limitless cities to explore. Australia has two worth living in, and a handful you could consider as a second choice. Sydney and Melbourne are it. I'm in Sydney. I've lived in Melbourne and Brisbane too, and visited Adelaide and Perth. Theyre nothing special. I was bored after a week.
In the states, I could go to a different city every week and in a year I would still be discovering and learning new stuff. The cities I visited in the month I was there were all completely unique, and I was enamoured with every single one.


In conclusion, I left my poor heart behind in New Orleans. It yearns to be back there more than any city I've ever been to.

I still crave the sun in Miami. Australian sun stings in summer. It burns through your skin in just a few minutes. In Miami the sun warms you to the core, but you never burn. It's blissful. And the people are beautiful, bouncy, shiny things.

San Francisco treated me good. Wanted me to read, write and paint. Wanted me choose discerningly what cocktails to drink, sourdough to buy and wanted me to lean Juliette style out of the fire escape of my dollshouse terrace and be courted by an artist. And San Francisco definately wanted me to buy a puppy.

And New York. New York. He's like an enourmous old chandelier. It shines so damn bright that it's dazzling, and all you want to do is get amongst. The city never sleeps because nobody in it wants to miss a single second of it's sparkle. And the grime and the flaws only make me love it more. The same way I'm drawn to antiques with cracks and fading plaster, the Bronx, the darkness in Harlem, the graffitti in the subway call to me.

Last years adventure part 1: San Francisco

 I don't know recall ahow much I've told you about my Big USA Adventure.

It consisted of San Francisco, New Orleans, Miami and New York. In that order. 

San Francisco wasn't on the original agenda. LA was, but people kept warning me against LA, the hotels I looked at there were so exxy the weekend I flew in, so I decided last minute to bypass LA and go straight to San Francisco, a city so many people raved about.

It turned out to be the perfect choice. The achitecture in Frisco is adorable! The houses are these whimsical dolls houses in gelato colours. I'm also slightly enamoured with fire escapes on the outsides of buildings (they just dont exist here!) and San Fran is full of them.

 The first night I arrived I went wandering. I was staying on Lombard Street, so all around my hotel were gourmet cheese shops, dog groomers and pretty antique shops. Total love. I stayed in three different hotels, in three different parts of the city, went to China town, and the italian food/strip club area, to a bar you needed a password to get into that looks like a library, and where the drinks are super strong and mixed by dapper gents in hats...and the coolest part (and I'm setting myself up for a bit nerd ribbing now) was the nature museum!

 Entry into the museum's exhibits is by raised walkway above a series of manmade swamps, rockpools and rivers. At one point  I was walking over glass with a stingray swimming along underneath me

 The museums draw card is a four story, man made, indoor rainforest, with a spiraling walkway all the way to the top, and a deep pool at the bottom full of fish and oceany creatures. The natural levels of the forest are explaind as you ascend, with each layer's plants and animal life explained so you know what to look for.

 The whole place is full of pretty little birds, two austere macaws and when you reach the very top, you find yourself literally surrounded by swirling butterflies!

 I should mention at this point that my Iphone had a lot of photos on it too, but that it was lost before I could back it up, so these are the best of what I could take with an ailing old normal camera.

 photographing butterflies isn't easy! This one just wanted to hang out though.

Stingray!

I'm busy trying to search for a passion to pursue still. I'm changeable and I get bored easily, but when I'm passionate I'm unstoppable.

The Perks of This Job...

The spoils of working for a florist - bundles of roses to fill all my vases and wrap up for lucky favorite friends.

A Real-Estate-Orgaphy, Part 1.

I've found a sure fire way to make myself instantly dissatisfied with my life.

It involves apartment hunting in Sydney, Aus, while simultaneously reading Real Estalker. (Go on, torture yourself: http://realestalker.blogspot.com.au/ )

It's like eating mi goreng instant noodles while you watch Master Chef. Totally depressing.

We're geating a head start on the apartment sourcing, because we're planning to move again at the end of the year. Several reasons. We want downsize pricewise just a *teeny* bit. We're spoilt with our apartment right now - it's this huge modern one bedder with a courtyard, in this condo type block with a pool, gym, spa, sauna and BBQ area, 24 hour onsite management, two security doors and swipe card access to get into our hallway or underground parking. 

 The bedroom, dining/study/extra cooking space part of the living room, and the comfy, in front of R's giant mansized TV part of the livingroom.

My issue with it is that theres only two of us, so we don't quite need this much space, the kitchen is on the smallish side of tiny, and we both like to cook....Mr R especially likes to cover every possible surface with okra and semolina powder. We also dont use the facilities nearly enough to be paying for them, the suburb we live in is barely a suburb yet - theres no cafes or restaurants or shops or anything. It's literally a train station, dentist office and chinese grocer amongst all these highrise apartment blocks.

I don't dig it. It lacks character.

My last home was a bedroom in a split level Victorian terrace with ornate cornices, archways and my bedroom was massive with an original marble fireplace, and shitty flatmates aside, I loved that room. That house was just on the city fringe, walking distance to the city and to the harbour, full of hipsterish cafes and second hand bookshops, wine and tapas bars and 5 minutes from the job I had managing a boutique stationary store in a historic landmark mall. Like I said, shitty flatmates aside I loved it there.

Livingroom/hallway in the terrace. Note mosaic female bust, and doorway to shitty flatmate #1's bedroom :P

 

 

Original marble (plus Ikea wardrobes, tonnes of candles, vintage smoking stripper poster and suitcases)

Before that I had a room in a two bedroom, blonde brick 1970's deal with an ageing bathroom and kitchen. BUT it was in a gorgeous suburb my lovely late father lived in, where I have fond memories, where the man at the indian diner and the boy at the fruit shop used to flirt with me/give me fresh flowers on the weekends, where I used to buy sweet potato chips at the deli and order woodfired pizza from the rival italians on the main street. My flatmate hadn't turned shitty yet, and my apartment had a wrap around balcony I could access from my bedroom, on which I kept two pet bunnies (Othello and Iago....Othello was the black one), and  a table and chairs for noodles and drinks with a dreadlocked interloper we used to host. We used to have mass sleep overs there with my old Uni friends. Once we lost two of the girls, one of them was sitting on the doorstep when we got home, the other showed up a few hours later with "Harry from Lewisham" who's cab she'd stolen and then invited in for a shower.

 

Mass sleep-overs in the teeny livingroom.

baby Iago, who lived in a vintage suitcase when he was inside

 

Before that was my parents modernish, glassish, gorgeous coastal house. And before that was a 100 year old farmhouse - complete with farm, stables converted from an old milking shed and a swimming pool.

 My mother's ah-mazing house, two blocks from the ocean, swimming room, huge gourmet kitchen. That woman has worked her butt off raising me and my sister on her own and working insane hours at an insanely stressful job. Moving into a home where she can watch whales from her balcony in the morning is a more meaningful triumph than anyone can imagine.

 So now we (I) want to go back to the Inner West of Sydney, where theres a bit of a village-y vibe, nice cafes, nice delis, trees, pretty terraced houses, where everyone has a puppy and you're never more that 15 minutes to the city.

The problem with that is that R has his little heart set on modern, clean, shiny...and the Inner West is mostly Victorian terrace houses or fairly ugly boxy brick 60s/70s apartment blocks. The terraces we can't afford, and the boxy brick things are mostly unrenovated and R would sooner camp than pay for their ugliness. So needless to say I'm struggling to find the few modern apartments in the area, and the few nicely renovated terraces, semis or art deco units in our price range. And in the meantime I'm torturing myself with multi million dollar Manhattan penthouses and Miami condos. Dammit!

Something else photo-ey coming soon.

x

Pretty Little Updates

A teensy little update on whats been going on since I went on hiatus. 

Work  was a little crazy - Secretary's Day and Mothers Day in the same fortnight mean big bucks for the flower people, and lots of our corporate clients have been gearing up for conferences and EOFY parties.

I managed to bail out on them for a week to go to Fiji for the wedding of a darling friend. Apart from a cabbie calling me fat on the way back to the airport it was blissful. My baby sister broke up with her high school schmuck boyfriend before we left so she arranged photographic evidence of her cuddling a hot Fijian fire dancer as a big facebook f-you to the ex. I like her style. There's nothing more intimidating to an ex boyfriend than his girlfriend moving on with someone blacker than he is. Because he *knows* she's comparing them, and he suspects that if the rumours are true, he wont quite hold his own in the size department.

My darlingest Tilda...and I don't remember his name but he twirls fire and sings for a living.

Darlingest miss Tilda and my fabulous mother, Kate acting like fools in the bathroom of the international departures lounge and Sydney's Kingsford Smith airport. 

ALSO I'm on Pinterest now! Check me and my awesomeness out at http://pinterest.com/elodierose/

And thank you to everyone who has been kind. I've been a wreck lately, and a bit useless about returning messages, writing, catching up etc. I think I'm a bit back now, and I'll try harder. Promise

Thats Him.

He's pretty cute.
And we've got some serious ivory/ebony contrast going on right now.

Mr Richard.

Once upon a time, I was walking along Glebe Point Road from the entrance to Broadway shopping centre, to my car, which was parked next to the 7-11.

I was in a teensiest bit of a bad mood, because work was being lame as usual. I was on the phone, listening to Miss Nic from the Chatswood store whine about how much she disliked work at the time.

There was this boy. One of those boys who harrass you to sign up to a charity/sponsor a child/try this hand cream on the street. This one was really pretty though. I could tell he was watching me, so I stayed just withing his sight until I got off the phone, then walked back past him.

He asked how old I was. I was 21. So I lied. I told him I was only 20 still, so he couldn't keep bugging me about his charity thing...if they ask how old, it means you have to be 21 to sign up. I'm tricky like that.

When I said I was 20, he asked when my birthday was.

When I said November he said

"Oh, so we can get married in November then?"

and I said

"Oh no, the age is 18 here, we can go right now".

And the rest is history, as they say.

We didn't get married, but he listened to me cry on the phone over nasty flatmates, and I cooked meals for him when he was on his own, and he called me every week when I ran away to the States for an adventure, and he came and gave me money when I came home broke. And he came to stay at my parents on the beach, and met my grandparents. And we got an apartment together, and he helped my stepdad move all the furniture in, and I scrounged second hand stores to find us a cheap fridge, and I decorated the whole place one weekend when he was away on work, and we spent Christmas together, and drank Moet on the floor of the apartment on New Years. And I quit my job, and got a new one, and his company collapsed and left him broke. And a tonne of bills came in, and we had to scrape together money for groceries, and we're still barely getting by. And we got pregnant, and I got scared, and he made me feel better, and then we lost our baby.

And he's still the only thing making me feel better.

Devestation.

I'm so tempted to delete this whole blog.

We found out this week that I've miscarried our first child, and the sickening nervous excitement in the last few posts is making me positively ill.

All my pointless stressing about money, the apartment hunting for a second bedroom, reading stupid 'expecting' books and buying Richard "How to be a Great Dad for Dummies" and onsies with the outline of Ghana on them was such a waste of time.

And I was so cocky. So sure I was going to be a success at making babies that I TOLD. And now I have to untell people.

Fuck this.

I miss my little peanut. For a little while there I was special. I had something wonderful that infected everyone who knew with happiness. Now I'm just empty.

Richard, of course has been amazing. But I caught him crying on his own, and I heard his voice crack when he called Ghana and told his mother. And seeing him so sad...sadder than I've ever seen him, is the worst part. I'm so good at compartmentalising my grief that I could probably go on pretending it never happened. But I feel like the grim reaper, forcing a black cloud over everyone I tell.

I might delete this blog. Except that I can vent here without anyone I know reading it.

Baby = Official

Womens intuition doesn't lie apparently.

I just came from the doctor, and just got off the phone with the new daddy to be.

We're officially pregnant. And thats as much information as I've got right now.

I'm skipping work tomorrow to have an ultrasound and find out how far along we are, but I don't think it can be more than about six weeks...surely not longer than two months anyway.

I'm scared out of my fucking mind. Terrified. And amazed. And so unbelievably confused.

Daddy to be is estatic. I'm scared everything is going to change. He just got more motivated to make money and provide. He says his mother in Ghana will be thrilled. Mine might be too. Maybe.

Fuck.

I'm swinging wildly from crying and lamenting that I might never run amock overseas by myself again, and thinking "well, I did that. This is a new chapter". And this man I have. This man. They say you shouldn't have a baby with someone if you wouldn't want your son to turn out just like him. My son could rule the world if he turned out just like his daddy. I'm not worried about him at all. He'll be an amazing father.

I'm worried about me. I don't cook as often as I should. I don't wash up for days. I'm lazy. I have a short temper. I don't know if I'll be any good at this.

And I have no idea where to start.
Totally overwhelmed.

I'm going to go call my mum :S

I think I might be having a baby

Yep. You heard it here first.
Before friends, family, baby daddy.

This is unconfirmed info. But I know.

I'm late, I'm queasey. I just know. Intuition or something maybe.

So I'm oddly calm maybe because i haven't told anyone so I dont have to actually make any plans yet. I'm sure I'll start freaking out soon.

But really, as petrified as I am, the decision is a no brainer. We're together as a couple, we have a stable place to live (although I had kind of hoped to have a backyard by the time I had a baby), we both have jobs, and while our saving are pretty miniscule right now, we have a few months to save up. I also have a hugely supportive family who will help me out as much as I need. I've got it luckier than lots of expectant mothers. I've even got a few girlfriends who already have kids...some of them have two now! There will be no shortage of advice from my mummy and my aunty I'm sure.

God I'm scared.
This is the biggest, scariest, most permanent commitment I'll ever make.

But funnily enough, all I want to do is pick baby names.

Suggestions?

The Wish List

The Car:

Everyone has those things that will mean they've made it. Or, if you're me, theres the things that means you've made it in real terms, and things that mean you've made it in crazy celebrity terms. One of those things for me is the wheels. You know you've made it when you close the deal on your dream car, or if your're really super lucky on your super-fantasy car.

So heres my current fantasy cars. When I drive one of these off a showroom floor or a carlot, I'll know I've made it.

A black lincoln continental - super shiny, blacked out windows and dropped low on it's wheels. Oh and those are suicide doors too. This car isn't for everyone, but its got some serious OG cred about it. Would be comfy as hell to cruise in and I can just picture how powerful it would look on the streets of all my favorite cities. A car this big would be an absolute pain in be-hind to park...but thats a downside I'm willing to live with.  When I own this car it's going to be all black leather inside, with  a pretty, curly 'R' monogramed into the headrests. The same R will be engraved into the chrome on the door handle, and into the rims. I'd also like it painted in silver really small on the back end somewhere...so people would know it's mine from the street. I'm vain like that.

OR...

A cranberry red 911 Porsche. So pretty, and little and sexy. Good for zipping around teeny streets in Italy, and picking up boys in Miami. Yep, this car is cute as hell. I want

I start at my new job tomorrow, in the office of a big florist chain in the city. Mucho excited, obviously, and feel the need to post some flowery inspiration.

We...me and the Boy, just got back from a wedding out in the country, in a little town called Milthorp, about four hours away from Sydney. It was super lovely, except maybe for the senile minister who forgot his glasses, but pretended he could read anyway, forgot the bride's name briefly and dropped the rings. The couple made paper origami flowers. So beautiful, and the bride wore a white and purple dress, and hot pink shoes.

I love it when men cry at weddings, and the father of the groom made his daugher and his new daughter in law cry too. My 80 year old grandparents joined the dancefloor, and my little sister caught the bouquet. She sent a text to her boyfriends to tell him she caught it, so she was the next to get married, and his reply was "cool, who are you marrying?". I don't think he's keen?