Sharing is caring/creepy…

Soooo let me tell you everything.

And by everything I mean everything.
The less I know you the more I will tell you.

Over sharing is my defense mechanism when it comes to meeting new people and I’m inexplicably drawn to people who do the same.

Yesterday at work one of the grandmas made a point of telling me that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She also told me that she was still in her pajamas (at 1 in the afternoon).

I think that she told me to make me feel included. Either that or she thought it was that obvious that she should get in first and point it out before I started questioning her lack of support.

It was a tiny bit awkward. But all good things are.

I have a history and a reputation for over sharing. I think I’m getting better. Or maybe I’m just not getting out as much as I used to.

The number of people who know about my lucky undies that I wear when my football team is playing is a classic example. That people text me on game day to make sure that I’m wearing them is an example of the high regard in which they are held.

Unfortunately the lucky undies have resulted in the worst year in the history of my beloved football club.

They have brought all lucky undies everywhere into disrepute.

I wonder sometimes whether it’s too much or if it’s just what makes me who I am?

I question if people need to know everything about me. If they care? If they think I’m funny or strange?

But what I know is this… Leave me with an awkward silence and I will fill it with information that you will never unlearn.

I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…

If you saw me walking down the street you would be unaware of the fact that I am on a pilgrimage.

If you saw me in a cafe though you would understand.

I am on a quest, pilgrimage, spiritual journey to find the perfect lemon tart.

Yes. I am that shallow.

I have become just the teeniest bit obsessed with finding the lemon tart that will stop me in my tracks and have me declaring to the world that I’ve found IT.

But here’s the thing. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for. Is it a slice (or 2) of a large tart? Is it a small perky tart that you can pop in your mouth in one go? Is it a tart for one that you can cut with a fork dividing easily into bite sized portions?

I know what it’s not. It’s not a slice of mass produced tart with a high crust and an unnatural yellow colour with brown circles burned on top.

It’s not the one from the French bakery near the station. Though I thought it might be so I checked… thrice.

I think it should be soft. Slightly wobbly. Terribly tart to taste but with lasting sweet undertones that complement my black coffee. It probably doesn’t have candied lemon on top but I could work with that if necessary.

I don’t know what it is or what it looks like but I will continue to search.

Because I’m obsessed.

And possibly because it’s not about the tart at all.

10 reasons that I’m not attracted to Justin Timberlake…

1. His hair. I could never be attracted to that hair.

2. Oh man.

Damn it.

He’s had a hair cut (in the past 10 years) and now…

I AM a teensy bit attracted to Justin Timberlake and yes, I know that the feeling isn’t mutual.

He is not my type. I never liked him in his boy band days. He’s too polished and sculpted and wears pants that are far too fitted and alternatively too loose for my liking.

However against all the odds my opinion of him has changed.

His opinion of me hasn’t.

There is no point in pursuing this train of thought.

(Train of thought. Ha. Did you just picture a train driving around my head and coming out my forehead?)

(No. Right. Never mind.)

Anyway… There is no point to this rambling but sometimes no point is better than too many points and pointy things can be dangerous and you could lose an eye and that may cause you to cry me a river and yep…

Never mind.

The long and the short of it…

There is this myth that your hair always looks your best when you leave the hairdressers.

This is definitely not true for me.

It had been 12 months since my last hair cut and my hair needed a decent chop because of this.

My hair dresser is lovely and amazing and puts up with me and my fickleness so he deserves a medal.

So it’s all me.

He knows it. He says I’d be better off without the mirror during the process because I stress and fret and visibly disintegrate the longer the process takes.

Maybe if I was a long hairded beauty who went in for a trim and a blow wave I’d come out feeling a million dollars.

But no. I go for the make over. The new do. I don’t look like me when I leave.

And if I don’t look like the old me and nobody says that they like new me what am I to think?

Maybe it is a “boyish” cut. But I have boobs that err on the massive side so I know that I don’t look like a boy.

But girls have long hair. Long hair is pretty. This is a stereotype reinforced from a young age.

So my attempt at being different and unusual fails. I feel flat. Ugly. Plain. Etc.

I then start to question if I am ridiculously vain for feeling this way. Then I feel worse. And end up doing the weekly grocery shop in leggings and beanie.

My husband thinks that the haircut is sexy. He thinks his opinion should matter most to me. Maybe it should.

So in the meantime should I base my sense of worth on what other people think of me? Or if I can bake the perfect batch of cupcakes? Or if I look good in black? Or if I can parallel park like a pro?

Or maybe I’m good enough as I am. On my own right now. Dancing in the kitchen to Nina Simone and licking the peppermint buttercream icing off the spatula while contemplating another coffee… without a mirror in sight.

Generation Friendship…

You know when someone you don’t really like gives you a lovely and heart warming compliment and then you think “hey, maybe I do like them”?

Yeah? Well this post isn’t about that.

But it is about friends. Friends across the ages. Young and Old.

I have a friend who is 12 years younger than me. When we hang out I use the words “hang out” a lot. Because we’re “hanging out” and “totes awesome”.

We also go and see Miley Cyrus intellectual films that challenge our views of the world and discuss politics other fun stuff like that over hot chocolates. She doesn’t like coffee.

I also have a friend who I have known all my life as a friend of my parents but who is lovely to me. We talk about black coffee, sport and attempt to out sarcasm each other as his family makes my family brunch.

One of my best friends is 12 years older than me. When I stay at her house she plays me music I’ve never heard of and we watch videos of bands from the 80’s at an offensive volume. We also eat cheese, jersey caramels and drink elderflower cordial. Yep. We know how to party.

And then this week at work an Albanian grandmother invited me to come over for coffee and cake. I can’t wait. This lady (I can’t keep calling her grandma… or can I?) is hilarious. She loves her grand kids and whinges about her husband.

I’ve performed elective lap band surgery on my friendship circle recently.

My head was getting too full. My heart needed nurturing. I have a smaller circle of close friends now but I still have my have my older and younger friends that share their thoughts, wisdom and kindness with me.

I’m incredibly lucky and blessed to be included in some pretty special people’s lives.

Age doesn’t matter. It’s how you use it that counts.

Taking the weather with me…

It’s been cold here today. Really cold. And now the sun is setting and I’m taking a few minutes to warm up and get ready for rush hour in our house.

The sky today was gray with rain and hail. The sky today was also blue with bold white clouds and a rainbow that was clearly visible from the Woolworths car park.

I am a little bit obsessed with clouds at the moment. (I wish more people would Instagram cloud pics. No, not really. Just people who are able to take good pics of clouds. Off on a tangent much?)

I also see quite a few sunrises and feel in a weird and slightly self absorbed way that they are a gift for me.

Pink, purple and orange hues sent to wake me up in awe.

Today I was driving home from work and started crying at something on the radio. Then people texted the radio station saying that they too were crying in the car.

In sadness we are not alone or unique.

My rainbow was also your rainbow.

My sunrises… well some of you are still asleep when they happen so they must just be for me.

We’re all different. We’re all the same.

Maybe I’m falling slowly.

Maybe it just feels slow because I’m over thinking everything… again.