Dear Sir,
I should like to thank you most sincerely for your recent proposal of marriage, but I feel compelled to point out that I am doing you an immense favor in refusing. I realize you were rather swept away, but, as it has escaped your notice, I might just point out that I do not cook, clean nor like children. I also wish to live on a different continent. Should these small flaws leave you undaunted, you are most cordially requested to restate your request after a cooling-off period of sixty days.
In order to allow you to consider the matter more fully, perhaps I should eluci-, if not officially, -date.
Cooking I find unnecessary and a supreme waste of time. Please do not ask what I eat for dinner; I am dreadfully bored of this question, and have been for some time now. I eat dinner when it finds me; when it doesn't, I don't. I see no reason to waste my time looking for it if it can't be bothered to look for me. The same could be said for your would-be rivals, though perhaps this is a heartless time to so indicate. I shall desist and return to the topic of cooking.
What more can be said, though? It is all very well for those who have hours upon hours at their daily disposal, and, to be fair, I am not opposed to other people cooking, but cooking is not for me. I am sure you would agree that cereal is among the best of meals ever concocted, and apples, sushi and chocolate compose the remainder of a remarkably well-balanced diet.
As for cleaning, my room lives in a constant state of disaster, meaning that it can be problematic to walk from one side to the other. It is rarely problematic for me, seeing as I have years of experience mastering this delicate feat, but even those who have lived with me longest have sometimes found themselves sprawled, limbs up, on their backsides when attempting to navigate the unsettled territory. Although I do what I can to keep it tidy, it is an ever-raging battle from which, frankly, I do not always advance as victor.
I might point out that most of the objects in the room are really very nice ones. I am quite keen on most of them, except for the Important Papers, but they, so they insist, are Important and must be kept, regardless of aesthetic value or lack thereof. The Kleenex present a slightly stronger case for disposal. Perhaps I shall attend to them this afternoon.
As for children, I wish that I liked them. Infants I adore, for they are adorable and easily transportable, and teenagers I enjoy, for they are enjoyable and occasionally affable. Children, though, I have never liked, not even when I was one. Instead I preferred to parlay with my teachers on the playground, for I found them much more conversant and generally more agreeable.
I have been told repeatedly that my own children I shall like, and though I daresay this may be true, I shan't like to put it to the test any time soon.
As for continents, I am hard pressed to say which I would prefer, though I can almost guarantee it shall be the opposite of whichever you'd pick. If you are American, I prefer Australia. If you are Australian, I prefer America. As you see, I am afraid I really am abysmal with accents. Do forgive me. Perhaps we should leave it at that for now.
Incidentally, I also do not like cheese, bananas or olives, and I'd prefer to avoid lamb and pork. I remain exquisitely unaffected by poetry, and can't stand atmospheric lighting. I find slow music irritating. I refuse to awake before noon on a Saturday, and am prone to buying overseas plane tickets on a whim.
I can be tempted by milk (not dark) chocolate, roses (etc.) and long walks on the beach, though no walks of any kind anywhere else. I also am unfond of mountains.
As you can see, I remain a most unsuitable object of your affection. However, as aforementioned, should you still wish to press your cause, please so indicate after a hiatus of not less than sixty days.
I remain most respectfully yours,
Ms. Kirribilli Kim
Post-Script: The weather really is not unpleasant this time of the year, though I fancy it shall be even better in sixty days' time. Should you wish to restate your case, I can think of several acceptable locations in which to do so. (Location, location, location, they say. Going on precedent, I think they may be right.) Do bear the contents of this missive in mind, though, as it may not be suitable to mention them again later.
Post-Post-Script: My favorite flower is the frangipani.
Post-Post-Post-Script: I shouldn't be holding your breath, if I were you.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
quicko: blocks
The blocks in Sydney are what I'd consider quite vast -- many (for example, between Goulburn and Liverpool, or Liverpool and Market) are roughly double the length of a typical American (.1 mile if I'm not mistaken) city block.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
to tea or not to tea
I've been trying and trying to come up with an idea for one of those funny, creative columns like Mic Looby and Bill Bryson write, but the only thing I can think of is public transportation. Which I've already written about to distraction, but it is the one constant in my life.
I feel like I should have a story in mind, but I don't. Just several nagging images that I thought would artfully reshape themselves as witty paragraphs, but have succeeded in nothing of the sort. I was going to call it quits and say I had writers' block, but I gave myself a deadline of writing this piece and one more by Saturday and time is clearly running out. Thank goodness I'm not terribly strict on myself.
Except really lately I have been. If you don't know me rather well, you may well be surprised, but I can be ridiculously good at being ridiculously strict on myself if there's a good reason, like becoming a mermaid or starting to notice excess baggage in my smile (yeah, right, like I was going to give you a link for that one!).
I'm nearly at the end (huzzah!) of two seriously deprived (and yet, may I report, I do not yet consider myself depraved, except, of course, in the total sense) weeks. I have been going without sugar in my tea.
Perhaps you do not realize what a humongous sacrifice this is. This is either because you do not drink tea or because you have poor taste. Frankly, I see no other alternative.
For these two weeks, I have also given up all sweets except one small piece of chocolate after lunch, as well as anything save fruits and vegetables for dinner. That I can live with. It's the sugarless tea that's driving me mad.
When I lived in England, a friend once told me that if I went for two weeks without sugar in my tea I'd never go back. I tried, and went right back. But that was years ago now, and I thought I'd give it another go. I'm somewhat disturbed that I have no great recollection of the last endeavor except, at the end of it, thinking that I probably could manage without sugar, but just preferred having it. I now know better.
Every cup of tea has been painful, and I have an average of 3-4 cups a day. Missing two sugars each. A co-worker said he once gave up his two sugars for a similar length of time, then immediately raced up to three. I can't say I blame him.
All my co-workers know I've given up sugar in my tea. All my students know. All my Facebook friends know. I'd be putting it on the prayer chain at church, except I think I might just barely manage to manage the last two days. Besides, most the prayer chain's already on Facebook.
I hate to harp, but I must reiterate: I am going for two weeks without sugar in my tea. Have you tried tea without sugar? It's revolting. Fortunately, I have developed a very strong character with regard to revolting tea as, as I mentioned, I have lived in England, which almost guarantees one has learned to stomach revolting tea for the sake of society. Come to think of it, that's probably why the sugar didn't bug me so much then. My tolerance was really quite high.
Take for example the time I was attending a family friend's baby's christening lunch. I was rather young and adventuresome and not yet terribly refined in my tastes and thought I'd be daring and add a sprig of milk to my already honeyed and lemoned tea. The tea curdled, but, not realizing I'd done anything wrong, I forced myself to drink the concoction until my hostess' mother looked over at my teacup and insisted I empty it down the drain, which I initially protested, but soon succumbed.
Nowadays I wouldn't consider myself a tea snob; it's simply that that I like a strong Twining's English (or Irish) Breakfast tea with ample full cream milk put in before the two sugars. Surely that isn't so much to ask? I mean, some days I even prefer Earl or Lady Grey, and, in rare instances, I feel the urge for some white or peppermint tea. Minus the milk, of course.
But now I have soldiered on through 12 (and counting!) very tedious days of taste bud trauma, and am eagerly awaiting Sunday morning's breakfast. Until then I'll be whining on public transportation if anyone needs me.
I feel like I should have a story in mind, but I don't. Just several nagging images that I thought would artfully reshape themselves as witty paragraphs, but have succeeded in nothing of the sort. I was going to call it quits and say I had writers' block, but I gave myself a deadline of writing this piece and one more by Saturday and time is clearly running out. Thank goodness I'm not terribly strict on myself.
Except really lately I have been. If you don't know me rather well, you may well be surprised, but I can be ridiculously good at being ridiculously strict on myself if there's a good reason, like becoming a mermaid or starting to notice excess baggage in my smile (yeah, right, like I was going to give you a link for that one!).
I'm nearly at the end (huzzah!) of two seriously deprived (and yet, may I report, I do not yet consider myself depraved, except, of course, in the total sense) weeks. I have been going without sugar in my tea.
Perhaps you do not realize what a humongous sacrifice this is. This is either because you do not drink tea or because you have poor taste. Frankly, I see no other alternative.
For these two weeks, I have also given up all sweets except one small piece of chocolate after lunch, as well as anything save fruits and vegetables for dinner. That I can live with. It's the sugarless tea that's driving me mad.
When I lived in England, a friend once told me that if I went for two weeks without sugar in my tea I'd never go back. I tried, and went right back. But that was years ago now, and I thought I'd give it another go. I'm somewhat disturbed that I have no great recollection of the last endeavor except, at the end of it, thinking that I probably could manage without sugar, but just preferred having it. I now know better.
Every cup of tea has been painful, and I have an average of 3-4 cups a day. Missing two sugars each. A co-worker said he once gave up his two sugars for a similar length of time, then immediately raced up to three. I can't say I blame him.
All my co-workers know I've given up sugar in my tea. All my students know. All my Facebook friends know. I'd be putting it on the prayer chain at church, except I think I might just barely manage to manage the last two days. Besides, most the prayer chain's already on Facebook.
I hate to harp, but I must reiterate: I am going for two weeks without sugar in my tea. Have you tried tea without sugar? It's revolting. Fortunately, I have developed a very strong character with regard to revolting tea as, as I mentioned, I have lived in England, which almost guarantees one has learned to stomach revolting tea for the sake of society. Come to think of it, that's probably why the sugar didn't bug me so much then. My tolerance was really quite high.
Take for example the time I was attending a family friend's baby's christening lunch. I was rather young and adventuresome and not yet terribly refined in my tastes and thought I'd be daring and add a sprig of milk to my already honeyed and lemoned tea. The tea curdled, but, not realizing I'd done anything wrong, I forced myself to drink the concoction until my hostess' mother looked over at my teacup and insisted I empty it down the drain, which I initially protested, but soon succumbed.
Nowadays I wouldn't consider myself a tea snob; it's simply that that I like a strong Twining's English (or Irish) Breakfast tea with ample full cream milk put in before the two sugars. Surely that isn't so much to ask? I mean, some days I even prefer Earl or Lady Grey, and, in rare instances, I feel the urge for some white or peppermint tea. Minus the milk, of course.
But now I have soldiered on through 12 (and counting!) very tedious days of taste bud trauma, and am eagerly awaiting Sunday morning's breakfast. Until then I'll be whining on public transportation if anyone needs me.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
quicko: mixmaster
A brand name. For, you guessed it, mixers. Much like Kleenex or Tylenol or Band-Aids or Scotch tape or Saran wrap (or Hoovers, in England).
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
quicko: "winter"
This might be a repeat photo for those of you whose computers are displaying this Sunday's adventures properly, but mine isn't and I took the picture with this thought in mind, so I'm afraid you're just going to have to deal with it: this is winter in Sydney.
Monday, July 26, 2010
quicko: a confession
I have a confession to make. I watched Good News Week tonight. I'm not actually sure if this is a bad thing or not, but I felt like it was safest to just confess up front.
The reason I mention Good News Week is that it had an American on it. Not one I'd ever heard of, nor particularly wanted to hear of, but an American nonetheless. And based on his experiences on the show, I just wanted to point out that this is a Very Useful Blog. He clearly was not a dedicated reader, for, if he were, he would have avoided pitfalls, got more jokes and generally disgraced himself less. So, in case you should ever find yourself thrust in front of a live viewing audience, I'll give a quick summary of what would have helped him:
--an inkling of Australian politics. Chiefly that the current debate is raging between Tony Abbott and Julia Guillard.
--the Big Pineapple is simply that. A giant fiberglass pineapple.
--drop bears are purely fictional.
--root is slang for sex.
--heaps is utterly overused here. (And also as an adjective.)
--newspapers are physically somewhat bigger here. (Wider spreads.)
Okay, so I might have forgotten to address that last concern, but most of the rest (barring possibly the Pineapple, though he could have got that from Bill Bryson) would have been supremely helpful to him, had he been reading. Which you, most thankfully, are. I told you this was a Very Useful Blog!
The reason I mention Good News Week is that it had an American on it. Not one I'd ever heard of, nor particularly wanted to hear of, but an American nonetheless. And based on his experiences on the show, I just wanted to point out that this is a Very Useful Blog. He clearly was not a dedicated reader, for, if he were, he would have avoided pitfalls, got more jokes and generally disgraced himself less. So, in case you should ever find yourself thrust in front of a live viewing audience, I'll give a quick summary of what would have helped him:
--an inkling of Australian politics. Chiefly that the current debate is raging between Tony Abbott and Julia Guillard.
--the Big Pineapple is simply that. A giant fiberglass pineapple.
--drop bears are purely fictional.
--root is slang for sex.
--heaps is utterly overused here. (And also as an adjective.)
--newspapers are physically somewhat bigger here. (Wider spreads.)
Okay, so I might have forgotten to address that last concern, but most of the rest (barring possibly the Pineapple, though he could have got that from Bill Bryson) would have been supremely helpful to him, had he been reading. Which you, most thankfully, are. I told you this was a Very Useful Blog!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
just another sunday
So this Sunday started pretty normally about noon, which is precisely when a Sunday is supposed to start. By 12:50 I'd tuckered myself out checking my email and Facebook and was about to crawl back under the nice warm covers when I happened upon the Rocks' Aroma Festival website which advertised, among other things, famous harbourside camel rides.
Now I had no idea there were famous harbourside camel rides, but seeing as the website told me they did, I was clearly just out of the loop. Tom Cruise was famous for years before I realized who he was, so really, anything is possible.
I'd been thinking halfheartedly of going to the Aroma Festival, but the half dozen closest friends I thought to call all had other plans, so, in the end, it was really the camel rides that tipped the balance over the edge. Then, one friend did show up, too, so it all worked out beautifully. Don't you just love happy endings? Well, hang on. It's not over yet. We haven't even got out of the house yet, actually.
The temperature having been slightly unpredictable but generally brisk, I opted for the boots. You may recall the boots -- the stunning wear-them-everywhere-but-OH!-no!-they-hurt! boots. Having bitten the bullet for the afternoon, though, the next problem was how to wear them. I had, you see, been planning a blog post in the recent trend of fashion statements about the absurdity of the style wherein all the women seem to be wearing their boots on the outsides of their jeans. I'm not sure whether this is a cause or effect with regard to skinny jeans, but seeing as I also am fundamentally opposed to them, I had no intention of hiding my slightly flared leg jeans away. Putting everything on and thinking through such important matters, though, I suddenly realized that everyone I could immediately recall wearing boots over their jeans was a rather fashionable sort of person and, suddenly, it hit me that in Sydney at the moment it is really much more stylish to over-boot instead of inner-boot. So with a bit of debate (pictured below) I eventually caved to fashion and decided I quite liked the effect. If the boots were going to hurt, we might as well show them off, hey?
The wardrobe thus decided, the boots and I set out to find our camel.
It turns out the Aroma Festival is actually quite large -- huge, I think we could even go so far as -- and the camels, believe it or not, are not the star attraction. Evidently coffee is.
I do not like coffee. Goodness knows I've tried (Much as I've also exerted considerable effort to acclimatize my taste buds to bananas. They never acquiesce, much less appreciate the efforts.), because I think it would really be terribly sophisticated of me to, but I've never been able to like coffee itself. The smell and the flavor, though (read: coffee flavored ice cream), I am all for, so felt sufficiently justified in traipsing along to an Aroma Festival. Besides, I do like tea (English Breakfast. Not much else.) and chocolate (Thankfully pretty much all varieties, except, of course, chocolate covered bananas. Milk chocolate is my favorite, though, if you were thinking of buying me a present.).
And so I found myself meandering around the many, many, many coffee and tea and chocolate and cupcake (I can do justice to a cupcake!) stalls spending most of my time taking pictures, because, after all, I do have a blog to think of. Besides, the Rocks is a ridiculously stunning piece of scenery and I just generally can't help myself. The blog's a great excuse, though.
While I pressing through the crowd listening to live music (brassy trumpets!) in the Latin Quarter I bumped into a former student, who seemed happy to see me, yet slightly suspicious that I was there on my own. It didn't really bother, me, though, as I'd just arranged to meet a friend at the Oasis.
It's always slightly risky to agree to meet someone in a place whose whereabouts you're unsure of, but I had a pretty good hunch it was straight ahead aways, seeing as it demonstrably wasn't where I currently was. I moseyed on through the crowd, which took considerable skill, seeing as it was such a sprawling crowd and I had to pass dozens of chocolate stalls and photogenic scenes on the way. I think I fell a bit shy of actually meeting the "see you in ten minutes" mark, but we did all manage to meet up in the end.
The Oasis, it turns out, was precisely where I thought it was, just at the base of the Bridge, which happened to be the Turkish center, complete with (magic?) carpets, dancing, music and, of course, Turkish tea. Altogether delightful.
We meandered around various tea and chocolate stalls (many of which were creatively named -- Your Nuts and Kick Ice Coffee spring to mind) until my friends needed to depart, which left me with a significant decision: did I throw in the towel and leave with them, or did I continue on my own, in pursuit of camel rides? I am pleased to announce that I decided to carry on.
First, though, I stopped back for a bit more trumpet music while I finished the latest Lord Peter Wimsey story I wanted to finish (turns out the doctor was poisoning his own wife out of sheer jealousy). Then I stopped by the Overseas Passengers Terminal to look down at the famous coffee cup mystery picture, which this year was Marilyn Monroe, representing a considerable step upward in beauty from last year's Mona Lisa.
Finally, though, I managed to trot back to the camels. Lord Peter and I spent another lovely forty-five minutes together waiting our turn to ride, and it was most definitely worth it. I got to ride Aloki, a female camel named after an Aboriginal term from South Australia, or so the man told me. I got the impression he was unsure of the meaning, but knew that anything Aboriginal should fly with the tourists. Worked for me. The other camels in our line-up were Ruby, Aussie and Israel, and I am convinced I got the best one.
We didn't go terribly far, but for $5, it was a pretty decent harbourside camel ride. It was over all too soon, and my greatest regret was that no one phoned me at such a time as I could answer with, "Sorry, could I call you back in couple minutes? I'm just on a harbourside camel ride at the moment. They're famous, you know."
Now I had no idea there were famous harbourside camel rides, but seeing as the website told me they did, I was clearly just out of the loop. Tom Cruise was famous for years before I realized who he was, so really, anything is possible.
I'd been thinking halfheartedly of going to the Aroma Festival, but the half dozen closest friends I thought to call all had other plans, so, in the end, it was really the camel rides that tipped the balance over the edge. Then, one friend did show up, too, so it all worked out beautifully. Don't you just love happy endings? Well, hang on. It's not over yet. We haven't even got out of the house yet, actually.
The temperature having been slightly unpredictable but generally brisk, I opted for the boots. You may recall the boots -- the stunning wear-them-everywhere-but-OH!-no!-they-hurt! boots. Having bitten the bullet for the afternoon, though, the next problem was how to wear them. I had, you see, been planning a blog post in the recent trend of fashion statements about the absurdity of the style wherein all the women seem to be wearing their boots on the outsides of their jeans. I'm not sure whether this is a cause or effect with regard to skinny jeans, but seeing as I also am fundamentally opposed to them, I had no intention of hiding my slightly flared leg jeans away. Putting everything on and thinking through such important matters, though, I suddenly realized that everyone I could immediately recall wearing boots over their jeans was a rather fashionable sort of person and, suddenly, it hit me that in Sydney at the moment it is really much more stylish to over-boot instead of inner-boot. So with a bit of debate (pictured below) I eventually caved to fashion and decided I quite liked the effect. If the boots were going to hurt, we might as well show them off, hey?
The wardrobe thus decided, the boots and I set out to find our camel.
It turns out the Aroma Festival is actually quite large -- huge, I think we could even go so far as -- and the camels, believe it or not, are not the star attraction. Evidently coffee is.
I do not like coffee. Goodness knows I've tried (Much as I've also exerted considerable effort to acclimatize my taste buds to bananas. They never acquiesce, much less appreciate the efforts.), because I think it would really be terribly sophisticated of me to, but I've never been able to like coffee itself. The smell and the flavor, though (read: coffee flavored ice cream), I am all for, so felt sufficiently justified in traipsing along to an Aroma Festival. Besides, I do like tea (English Breakfast. Not much else.) and chocolate (Thankfully pretty much all varieties, except, of course, chocolate covered bananas. Milk chocolate is my favorite, though, if you were thinking of buying me a present.).
And so I found myself meandering around the many, many, many coffee and tea and chocolate and cupcake (I can do justice to a cupcake!) stalls spending most of my time taking pictures, because, after all, I do have a blog to think of. Besides, the Rocks is a ridiculously stunning piece of scenery and I just generally can't help myself. The blog's a great excuse, though.
While I pressing through the crowd listening to live music (brassy trumpets!) in the Latin Quarter I bumped into a former student, who seemed happy to see me, yet slightly suspicious that I was there on my own. It didn't really bother, me, though, as I'd just arranged to meet a friend at the Oasis.
It's always slightly risky to agree to meet someone in a place whose whereabouts you're unsure of, but I had a pretty good hunch it was straight ahead aways, seeing as it demonstrably wasn't where I currently was. I moseyed on through the crowd, which took considerable skill, seeing as it was such a sprawling crowd and I had to pass dozens of chocolate stalls and photogenic scenes on the way. I think I fell a bit shy of actually meeting the "see you in ten minutes" mark, but we did all manage to meet up in the end.
The Oasis, it turns out, was precisely where I thought it was, just at the base of the Bridge, which happened to be the Turkish center, complete with (magic?) carpets, dancing, music and, of course, Turkish tea. Altogether delightful.
We meandered around various tea and chocolate stalls (many of which were creatively named -- Your Nuts and Kick Ice Coffee spring to mind) until my friends needed to depart, which left me with a significant decision: did I throw in the towel and leave with them, or did I continue on my own, in pursuit of camel rides? I am pleased to announce that I decided to carry on.
First, though, I stopped back for a bit more trumpet music while I finished the latest Lord Peter Wimsey story I wanted to finish (turns out the doctor was poisoning his own wife out of sheer jealousy). Then I stopped by the Overseas Passengers Terminal to look down at the famous coffee cup mystery picture, which this year was Marilyn Monroe, representing a considerable step upward in beauty from last year's Mona Lisa.
Finally, though, I managed to trot back to the camels. Lord Peter and I spent another lovely forty-five minutes together waiting our turn to ride, and it was most definitely worth it. I got to ride Aloki, a female camel named after an Aboriginal term from South Australia, or so the man told me. I got the impression he was unsure of the meaning, but knew that anything Aboriginal should fly with the tourists. Worked for me. The other camels in our line-up were Ruby, Aussie and Israel, and I am convinced I got the best one.
We didn't go terribly far, but for $5, it was a pretty decent harbourside camel ride. It was over all too soon, and my greatest regret was that no one phoned me at such a time as I could answer with, "Sorry, could I call you back in couple minutes? I'm just on a harbourside camel ride at the moment. They're famous, you know."
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