Littlest of fish.

I booked a plane ticket yesterday.
And today I was confronted by the realization that you will not be there to hold my hand.
I feel a little like an eight-year-old girl shuffling about her parent's bedroom in her mother's black, patent leather stiletto heels. And once wearing the shoes, she has to learn how to keep her balance.
It's daunting; like nothing else i've ever done... and I'm incredibly scared about getting it wrong. I can picture it now: me standing by my friend in the airport thinking, 'okay... what do i do now?'
And I think, that's why I need to go.
This is like nothing else i've done.
But there no way to learn how to balance in stiletto heels other than taking the time to walk around. Even if you have a few stumbles in the process.

Dear Diary

I woke up on the wrong side of the day today.

Have you ever done that? Woken up after a mid-afternoon cat nap to find the sky has darkened. You don't know what time it is, and you roam around with a clumsy shuffle of the feet thinking, 'how bloody long was I asleep?'

I feel as though I've been robbed of a day. I'm sitting here now, unsure about what what I want to do.

Maybe I should just climb back into bed and sleep away the rest of this backward evening.

Quarter-life Crises.

I have often questioned why someone chose to name the age of twenty-one a momentous feat, and disregard twenty-five as a mere bump on this 'hill' we are tumbling down with such un-relenting pace. It is afterall a quarter of a century. Twenty-one is of no significance to us, really. We're just mimicing the tendencies of big-brother USA. And if fifty is going to be named a significant event, twenty-five should be considered no less important. Is that not logical? Or am I simply going on a rant about nothing?

Anyway, I've started off by trailing onto a tangent. That is not what I sat down to write about today.

Of late I have felt, as I quickly approach that age bracket of 21-25, an anxiety pressing down on my chest, hard. I'm about to have my fingers pried from the childhood to which I desperately cling, and be flung, face-first, into that dark realm of faceless suits, closeted alcholism and looming deadlines. I want to run into the warm embrace of my mum and have her send away this ugly world that's coming out to get me. I'm not ready. Please mum, I don't wanna go.

I've seen it happen to older friends. I'm being pulled into that spiral of irrational panic where you fleet halfway across the world, drop out of uni, end relationships, dye your hair blue - anything to side-step that transition from carefree youth to overworked drone. And of course i'm exaggerating...there are adults who are inspired and full of life, but I fear the reverse like I once feared the dark stare of the drooling monster under my bed.

It is often overlooked, the quarter-life crisis; it is hidden by the great, black shadow of the dire straits of the fourty-something year olds of the world. Are the fancy cars and lurid affairs of the middle-aged so different to our tattoos and trashy parties? We are both but trying, with no real hope for success, to halt an unstoppable force. We're clutching onto tufts of grass, scrambling for something secure to hold - for none of us are ready to meet this hill's end.

The Art of Selling Oneself.

I have an interview tomorrow for a prospective internship at a very broadly-read travel magazine - well it's as broadly read as travel magazines get - and I'm just a liiiittllee bit terrified. The whole concept of an interview just makes me uncomfortable... all that subtle ass-kissing and self-glorification; it makes me want to bail.

Right now, I'm going through the 'prepping' process; making sure my resume is in order, putting together a portfolio of my work, doing some reseach on the publication...practicing my handshake. I feel as though a lot rides on a well excecuted handshake, and I really have no idea why, but it's something I have had drummed into me since childhood...that, and don't talk to strangers. I can remember hearing things like: 'the handshake must be firm, but not overpowering, it should not be drawn out for too much time and always look the owner of the opposing hand in the eye during a shake. A weak handshake implies a lack of self-assurance and in the business world is a major no-no.'

This is where my problem with interviews lies: you are being judged from the moment you meet; even on the way you touch the interviewers hand. What the hell? That just freakssss me out. You see, me, i'm the kind of person who walks into desks and stutters when nervous, i'm the person you see who spills coffee on their shirt or beetroot on their jeans (true story), i'm the sort of person who somehow manages to screw up a handshake...

Even when it is a 'casual' interview...it never actually is. There is this totally manufactured relaxed vibe that everyone knows is bullshit, coz you're still there to try and get the job and they're still there to scrutinize you. I usually sit there willing the time to pass, waiting for the formalities to end and wishing I could skip to the part when I call a friend and complain about how I went. It's pretty funny reliving the course of the interview once it's over (well, most of the time) ...going over whatever crap you scrambled together in order to make yourself seem a whole lot better than you really are. 'Sure I can speak fluent Italian' (I can construct basic sentences), 'I have an extremely high wpm average' (I use facebook a lot), 'I really really love kids, or the clothing at cotton on, or tupperware' (I want the money).

Luckily, or maybe unluckily, I actually do enjoy the magazine I'm prepping for; I don't have to lie about a great love of some product I don't give a damn about, which really adds to the nerves. I know these things are almost always less scary than we mentally build them up to be, but having a panel of strangers judge whether of not they would like to pick you for their team is pretty damn unnerving. Who knows though, maybe if watch where I step, speak slowly, keep away from coloured foods or drinks and hold a steady hand, mayybbeee it just might go okay.

Memory Hoarding

So, I recently went through and cleaned out my entire room. And I don't just mean I put away the mound of clothing enveloping what once was my chair... I went through all my drawers, my shelves, boxes, even the arbitrary 'stuff' taking up the space beneath my bed. I filled about four garbage bags, mostly with things I didn't even know I had.


As I went through the piles of what I now could only call rubbish, I was a litlle saddened by the idea that I had failed to hold on to those select reasons why I had chosen to pack away that stick figure cartoon, movie ticket, or dried flower. These were once meaningful symbols that took me back to a stupid joke made in drama class, a kiss shared on a park bench, or a night spent cavorting around the city when meant to be sharing popcorn and Tim Tams at a movie night in Hurlstone Park...now, they are just a bunch of faded notes and discoloured petals. How heatbreaking is that? 

Well, I guess the only way you can make space for new memories is by letting go of a few older ones.

Nom nom nom

So today I went a little crazy in the kitchen with my new fave veggie: pumpkin (well my favourite for this month at least). I spent close to five hours straight in the kitchen, and thought i'd document a few things to share with all of you in blogger-land.

As Martha Stewart-esque as this may sound, a day in the kitchen seems to relax me (at least when all turns out well it does). Whenever I'm bored and looking for something to pass the time, this is where I seem to end up. Those who know me well, know that I am a lover of food. A foodie through and through, little excites me more than the prospect of a good meal (creating and enjoying it alike). So it can be assumed, I am sure, that today was a whole lot of fun for me - as sad as that may sound :).

The first, and most time-consuming, thing I made was pumpkin soup. I have tasted loads of different types of pumpkin soup over the years - some awesome, others not so great. I cannot stand lumpy and watery pumpkin soup... the consistency grosses me out. For it to be a great pumpkin soup, it needs to be smooth, creamy, and well-seasoned.  I have found a recipe that really delivers in all these areas. I am not afraid to brag a little here; the soup I made was pretty damn delicious. I found it on www.taste.com, take a look: http://www.taste.com.au/recipes/5175/pumpkin+soup

I got a little bored while waiting for the soup to cook so I used some left over pumpkin to make pumpkin scones: which can be incredible if made properly. I found a recipe on one of those old-school tea towels with equally as old-school recipes printed across their fronts. I'm not so sure what happened to these scones, but instead of becoming fat, golden, lumpy and heavenly, they turned out more like deflated car tyres. That was pretty disappointing, but they were tasty all the same.