Another weekend over already? I don’t understand. Why does this keep happening?
I went down the Great Ocean Road on Saturday and went on the Otways Fly. Not a giant insect created by science; instead, a network of catwalks miles above the forest so you can see the view and not disturb the ecosystem. Although really, all you do is look down and shit yourself at how high up you are. I was not alone. Actually I didn’t mind the flywalk; what I did mind was climbing the turret up to the really high bit, and only because it swayed alarmingly in the wind. But the weather was really nice and I got some good photos, and hey, I’m not dead. I lost my sunglasses though.
Also, on one of the information signs was details about the animals and birdlife you might see; birds, spiders, ghost shrimp. You think I am joking but I am not. Our favourite, though, was the carnivorous Otway Black Snail. Awesome name. And guess what we saw???
AIIIEEEE!!! He is lunging for my jugular!Flee! Flee for your lives!
Oh god, I don’t want to admit how long we stood by the side of the path and made jokes regarding killer snails. You may have some idea of my capacity to entertain myself endlessly; multiply that by a strong desire to kill time before climbing onto an incredibly high deathtrap and you have some idea of the state I worked myself into.
And just in case you think I am misrepresenting the height of this: I stood on one catwalk and made the others go to the (slightly lower, but otherwise exactly the same) observation deck opposite me. Then I leaned over the edge as far as I could and took this photo. I think this was when I lost my sunglasses, because I sure as shit wasn’t paying any attention to anything but my own person falling over the edge.
There’s a snail waiting for my body at the bottom, I know it.
I had to buy a new hairdryer yesterday. While trying to disguise the ratty nature of my haircut, I contorted into a spectacularly uncomfortable position and dropped my old hairdryer into the toilet. Did you know a hairdryer will not explode if dropped into a toilet, but instead continue to work, merrily blowing bubbles and spattering toilet water all over the bathroom floor? It is true. Also scary. I pulled the plug out of the wall by the cord, despite being in mortal fear of being electrocuted, because really, what else could I do? I then threw the hairdryer into the shower. Rats 1, Jac 0.
I have returned. I always say that, I think. But I have! I went to the Central Coast for a wedding. There I reunited with lots of other people who live in Melbourne, most of whom I hadn’t seen in over a year, because you know Point Cook is a very long way from Prahran. (Hint: it isn’t. It’s just that no one wants to go to Point Cook.) Anyway, apart from taking the piss out of those who live in Point Cook (and keep in mind I come from New Zealand so had absolutely zero legs to stand on, although that could have been the alcohol) I found the Central Coast to be awesome. Not that I knew where I was going or what I was doing. I flew into Newcastle, went to pick up the rental car, and when the rental car guy asked me where I was going I just looked at him blankly. He seemed reluctant to hand over the keys until I dredged up a snippet from my memory: “It’s something to do with a bird.” (Hint: Budgewoi. This is totally birdlike!)
We filled the car to capacity with people and luggage (not mine, I took carry-on only, and smuggled on a metal nail file I AM SO HARD CORE oh god it was a mistake I swear) and took off. Mr. T was driving (and here you sense a large part of my recent blogging absences) and two people we had never met were in the back, Austin Powers was navigating on TomTom (“groovy driving, yeah!”) and we made it to our destination within our 100km rental car daily limit. Then I went swimming in the ocean and got pummelled by some great waves, and only almost drowned once. Swimmer of the year! Also my ear filled up with water and I could not shake it out all weekend, causing me great anxiety for the flight back. (I am shit at both foreshadowing and remembering what I said five minutes ago, so I will confirm this caused no problems and I did not have to scream with sinus pain on the landing. Score!)
I haven’t downloaded the weekend’s photos yet, but I feel the need for a beachy one. Here’s a fish.
La La LAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
So I was in Clayton, looking for some strange food for the ongoing Strange Food Swap. My favourite item from this visit was the packet of chips – Cuttlefish flavour. (I also got some Green Pea flavoured ones, but the Cuttlefish ones had a big picture of a cuttlefish on the front and you can’t beat an
invertebrate cephalopod cthulhu for deliciousness.)
But then I saw this and instantly bought it for myself. A big tin of biscuits with awesome packaging! Look, it’s Mr. Choice! For only seven dollars!
When I popped open the tin to trial the biscuits, I found they were all individually packaged. I snacked on one of each flavour in the car on the way home. The little coconut ones were delicious, and I have pulled those all out to keep. Every single other biscuit tasted like fake banana flavouring. And not just the creme-filled ones, as you might expect, but even the chocolate-chip cookies. Why fake banana flavour? I hate fake banana flavour. And why must ALL the biscuits taste like fake banana, even the plain Scotch finger type ones? And why are the coconut ones so delicious when all the other ones taste crap?
Ah, Mr. Choice, you have left me with not much of a choice at all. Coconut! That’s all there is! And, of course, the awesome tin. Now I just have to decide what to store in it.
Look, this whole ‘blogging regularly’ thing is overrated. I prefer to duck! to weave! to capoeira between your expectations and your demands! Also, I haven’t really been here and it was my birthday and I just suck, alright, I admit it.
I got my hair cut off (me: “NO. Layers.” hairdresser: “Of course not!” result: Layers, duh) which is OK now, but in the first few days there was much ranting to the air and flailing of arms and judicious putting-the-hair-up experiments, because nothing says ‘I hate my hair’ like tortoiseshell combs. This is why my usual haircut is a straight blunt cut, layered round the face. I even know how to ask for it,see? But oh, no, I get BORED, and let the hairdresser DO things, and even when I see them stealthily cutting layers into my hair I think, “oh no, that’s not a LAYER, after all I asked for no layers, it just must be the angle I’m sitting at,” and BEHOLD, my hair is all layered to shit and the hairdresser looks delighted, like they have surprised me with THE VERY HAIRCUT I have secretly wanted all my boring blunt-cut life, yet have always been too clueless to ask for. Which, suprising nobody, is filled with layer upon layer upon layer, like a Sarah Lee danish. Anyway, after pulling all my hair straight back off my head and seriously investigating this new trend in headbands, my natural lethargy has kicked in and I’m over it. Now I just leave it flat and layered, looking like rats have chewed on my head. This always happens when my hair gets layered, but hairdressers have primal hair instincts and squeal “LAYERS!” when they see my head and again with the rats. Bah. It looks fine when I do it properly, but that requires a hairdryer and clipping my hair into sections and drying with a round brush and this mysterious stuff called Product and really, how can people do this every morning? Oh, right. Because you don’t want your hair to look like rats have chewed it. What if I tell you that you could sleep for an extra 20 MINUTES if you put up with the rats? No? Right. Just me, then.
Oh I forgot the other thing about the hair. I picked something up from reception and one of the receptionists, who is about 21 and whom I really very sincerely like, said, “Oh! You got your hair cut! It looks great!” I put no stock in this, because really, what else can you say? I routinely tell people who look like crap that they look great. Because what good would it do to say the opposite? Anyway, I said, “Thanks!” or something, because again, what good would it do, and she continued to talk about the colour (and I do like the colour) and then went back to the haircut. “I really like it!” she enthused. “It makes you look older.”
To someone who turned 32 two days before.
This, frankly, is the most awesome compliment I have ever received. Because she SINCERELY meant it. It manages to insult and delight in equal measure! What more could you possibly ask for?
What did you do this weekend?
I made a chicken.
I’m not really sure which came first.