conversing

Mother: Who was I reading about in the newspaper?
Father: Is this twenty questions?

sometimes, living at home isn't that bad.


x

Me: Erm....
VideoStoreGirl: OH! TWILIGHT! This is such an awesome movie!
Me: Oh, really?
VideoStoreGirl: Uh huh- The story is so romantic, and the acting is awesome, and the direction and (I tuned out until I realised she was looking at me expectantly)
Me: Yeah, I hear its up there with Fellini.
VideoStoreGirl: Who?
Me: Nevermind. Can I have the dvd, I have a Twilight party to go to.
VideoStoreGirl: That's such a cool idea! I'm going to do that for the next movie - which is out November 17th, by the way.
Me: ................thanks.

I don't know whats worse - that the conversation wasn't the weirdest or most awkward conversation I had last week, or that she didn't know who Fellini was and she worked in a video store.

Can we still call them video stores when then now primarily stock DVDs?


Oh, and for the record? Twilight made me insanely angry. Angry in the pants.
And drunk in the liver.

wait, is that a ninja hook?

I'm not entirely sure that I know any adults, or that any of the people I know are truly capable of being considered adults. I'm including myself in this sweeping statement, by the way. And by adult, I mean I can't ever imagine not laughing at inappropriate jokes or Freudian slips. Paying bills before the final notice. Writing essays a decent time before the due date. Not eating chocolate for dinner, or beer for breakfast. Not wearing shoes that I know will make me cry the next day, but are beautiful nonetheless. Not having pointless crushes on people I'll never meet. Being resigned instead of outraged. These are all things that I equate with the maturity that I don't have at present. And don't really want to have. I take myself too seriously, far too seriously. You might have noticed. But in the past three weeks, life went a bit odd and I ran out of effort. Sod being an adult.

One of the odd things was that I received an HD for an essay that I wrote the day after it was due. I was very embarrassed about this, as it encourages bad habits and also makes me really confused - the essay was rambling, had no point and insulted the French. But my professor liked it, and I'm not really in a position to argue with him. This lead to me considering French history for next semester, as it seems I've picked up a History sequence by accident. And that means I should probably make an attempt at the French language at some point. I'm still an English major, it just means that eventually I'll be proficient (hopefully) in English & French Literature. Knowing me, it'll be obscure medieval literature written by goatherds, and I'll have to learn Olde Englishe.

I was pondering all this, along with my usual pondering about why academics get such little respect when suddenly I was on holidays. Which really didn't make that great a change to my life as I've had an essay on Revolutions & Women hanging over my head all week. It's nearly done, I swear. Keeping with the trend, most of it is me accidentally insulting the French, I think. I like the French, honest. They believe their own hype, which is something I wish I could learn how to do. Anyway, my head was going at a million miles an hour, and then Emma rang.

This was a Big Deal, because Emma had just arrived back from Edinburgh. Where she'd been for a year. Without me. I last saw her in September, when I had arrived back from Iceland at midday, caught an overnight bus that stopped in Birmingham for 5 hours for no reason and dumped me in Edinburgh very early in the morning. Where Emma was. It was awesome and windy and if we'd had more time, we could have taken over the city. I love Edinburgh, its my kind of city. So I'd left Emma there (reluctantly) and set about annoying the beejezus out of poor Lizzle for a year.

And then Emma came back, and we had to celebrate. We did this by taking over the back room at Badde Manors - we being Emma, Lizzle, Beard, Libby, myself, and some wine. There was much laughing and shouting and more laughing and I remember thinking at some point that these guys are family, that part of growing up is making a new family for yourself. And that possibly, this is one of the few good things about growing up. It's being able to have people there who will tell you when you've got falafel stuck between your teeth (although they're laughing hysterically). It's not telling someone that they've managed to throw ice cream into their wine glass. It's drinking rose shiraz out of tumblers and not feeling pretentious. It's trying new things (like vegetarian food for Beard) and knowing that if you don't like it, the people you're with will be ok with that, even though they'll tease you good naturedly about it forever. It's wandering up and down George Street eating gelato and shouting about politics. It's seeing a hole in the station wall and wondering "wait, is that a ninja hook" and going on a flight of fancy. It's standing on a traffic island while everyone in the restaurant has to listen to you shouting your own reworked version of the classic "I'm on a Boat". It's finding the people who don't mind that you're you, and that you have a tendency to refer to your disagreements as "states of cold war". It's realising that you don't have to be out on a Saturday night, you just need a Doctor Who DVD and a bag of clinkers and each other to have a good time.

So in the midst of all the noise on the drive home, with Brandon Flowers singing in the back ground and Libby realising that she had driven past my house, I felt that perhaps growing up is overrated, that adult maturity is a concept I'll always be chasing, and I decided I didn't really care. I'm just relieved that there are a bunch of nutters with me, telling me to stop thinking and open the next bottle.

Libby, wondering why Beard is taking so long, Me in the midst of laughing, Emma being suave and Lizzle clinging to the pole for balance. We're on a traffic island.

and with that somewhat soppy post, i hope i've captured the promise spring is bringing. we're all feeling full of potent potential, and if i ever get this wretched essay about Revolutions and Women finished, you might see some of my sewing potential documented on here.

um, is the new header ok?

a wingspan unbelievable i'm a festival i'm a parade

This time last week, I was comfortably immersed in a bottle of white wine. This is tradition for all Barton Birthdays once you turn 18, unless you are my father - in which case you immerse yourself in three martinis, two bottles of white, one red, one sticky. Me, on the other hand, spent the weekend quaffing Pimms and Lemonade, Champagne and Sauvignon Blanc. I am nothing if not classy.

My Festival Of Me began on Friday June 5th, when I careened into my final tutorials for International Relations and English. Being the last day of semester, we were doing something 'relaxed' and 'fun.' Trivia competitions. I gave the 'relaxed' and the 'fun' the stink eye by winning both and going home to far more chocolate than should be humanly possible to digest. I passed out into a chocolate induced coma for a few hours before dragging my mother into the city to see Disgrace (detailed in my previous blog entry). We had a nice time out, my mother admitting that I looked 'nice'. High praise indeed. And we had no arguments, which is akin to Israel and Palestine suddenly having a giant party together. Most mother daughter relations are like that.

Saturday began with the instigation of what may become a new tradition. Oh, who am I kidding? Clearly what I did Saturday morning is a habit of mine every time I'm hungry but don't feel like eating in the city. I went to Max Brenner and had a large Italian. um. Large Italian Thick Dark Hot Chocolate. That's possibly better than a Large Italian, to be honest. Then I saw Overlord (again, see previous blog entry), which was in the freeeeeezing Art Gallery of NSW Theatre. I defrosted myself by charging through the sun drenched Domain and into Myer where I solved a sartorial challenge that had been plaguing my mother and brother in less than 5 minutes. My mother was in a tizzy as my brother owns no 'smart clothing'. They had been traipsing through the Sydney shops trying to find a coat that "wasn't expensive, but warm, but not overly la-dee-dah", because Jeremy has a tendency to 'lose' things (ie put them down and never pick them up but instead continue on his merry way until someone points out that he's missing something, by which time its too late to go back) They had been at this for a good hour before I showed up and produced a nifty peacoat off a rack that they had missed. Not expensive, not la-dee-dah (whatever that means, my mother has her own language). Done. Over. Shopping for me time. Which meant going to KIT, my absolute favourite make up store ever. The lovely Amber covered my face in stuff, I don't know what, possibly Spackle, glitter and concrete. I looked awesome. And then I went to see YovankAH, my hairdresser, who tutted at my fringe, which came to my top lip "this stopped being a fringe along time ago, darling". She chopped, dyed and spruced my hair. Then she spent half an hour shouting at my hair to make it stay in Victory Curls. One can of hairspray later, with instructions to spray more hairspray as soon as possible. There was no way my hair was going to change for about three years. There might be a new hole in the ozone layer because of my vanity.


But I looked AWESOME. And once I got home, got some red lippy on, my fantastic Glasgow Dress, I was ready for a night on the town.

This is me, having a good night out. After several drinks and several drinks (hence the shiny). Note my total awesomeness, which would lead you to think that I know how to swing dance, right? Well, I don't. I made an idiot of myself. But everyone at the Roxbury was very lovely, and Libby Bre Lizzle and I were asked to dance by many lovely boys, including this guy
Dead serious, Roux from Chocolat was there. And woah. He totally didn't mind how rubbish I was, mostly because Bre Libby and Lizzle all have some semblance of coordination (which gets suspiciously better as they get drunker). So we danced alllllllll night. And drank. The music was fantastic old big band swing music, which is my new favourite dancing music. Libby and I discussed the merits of building a time machine in order to go back in time, learn how to swing dance, come back and wow Roux, as well as the guy who sort of looked like the one Jonas Bother who isn't totally creepy. Eventually we danced our way out of the Roxbury, heartsandheads buzzing, feet a flutter and grins on our faces.

I staggered home, couldn't be bothered to attempt dismantling my hair. I went to sleep, fully expecting to awaken to a giant frizzball in the morning.



Instead, I awoke to my hair looking exactly the same. Not a hair out of place. Which was slightly creepy, really. So I spent Sunday, the 7th of June, my last day of being 20, terrified that moving would mean my hair would fall apart and be an irreversible mess. The thought of washing it never even entered my little hungover head.

Sunday Night, I descended upon the Shakespeare with Lizzle, her boyfriend The Beard, Libby, Kathryn, Kirstin and Danny. I wanted a quiet boozy night full of laughter and adoration for me. Which I got, mostly by dint of bringing my own cake.


Thats Libby and I, along with my Victory Curls. And my cake


And there we are again! How lovely!
I demanded they all sing Happy Birthday to me, which they did. I don't think I could have grinned much more.

We had a splendid time, so much better than being in some seedy bar with people I haven't seen in years who I don't really like, with speeches about drunken things I've done. Instead, everyone shared stories of their favourite Maddie Moments, the best being Kirstin's tale of our school camping adventures, when we cried over tent pegs which wouldn't go in the frozen ground.
Then when we did get the pegs in, the tent blew over in the night.

I was very lucky in the presents given to me by my friends.
Libby gave me a sonic screwdriver pen:



Kathryn gave me 21 pairs of stockings:

Bre gave me a screenpainting, which I think is an interpretation of me:

and Lizzle gave me much swag:


a Bartons Almond Kisses Tin
(which has inspired me to make some Almond Kisses)

Babooooshka Earrings
(made by Lizzle)


Dinosaur Buttons!!!
I can't wait to put these on something...
I'm thinking a skirt and cardigan set?


A MUSTACHE NECKLACE
presumably given to try to get me to stop
whinging about Brandon Flowers lack of facial hair.
Sorry Lizzle, I'm still distraught.


A bag that she MADE.
GAH. When I opened this, I was gobsmacked that someone
would go to that much effort. For me?


A new ipod case. It looks like it has a face! And is cuddly!

Lizzle also made me a beautiful swing skirt, but I haven't got photos of it yet. But suffice to say, I was completely blown away by the effort she went to.
She's truly wonderful, and I'd be saying that regardless of what she gave me.
(I just wish she'd let me take a photo of her and me!!!)

So after that giftage orgy (although Lizzle gave me presents on tuesday) I once again staggered home, having drunk much more than I thought I had. I did however manage to dismantle my victory curls. I am determined to master them and wear them at least once a week.

On the morning of my 21st birthday, my mother woke me up.
By jumping on me, and squealing in her own brand of crazy-mum-talk.
I responded by burping in her face.
She told me that I hadn't been born yet.

Faced with that existential crisis ( I was born at 6.30 am in the UK, which is like, 7pm in Sydney, so when do I get to celebrate my birthday?) I went to see Sunshine Barry and The Disco Worms. A toddler pulled my hair. See previous post for details. Then I went back to bed for a bit. In the evening my family took me, my new dress and my new shoes out to dinner. I wish I had better photos, but they're all on my dad's camera, and we sent him to Vienna this week (what else can you do with a dad, I wonder?) so you'll have to wait. All the photos on my camera make me look like Wednesday Adams being attacked by a parrot.

Dinner was lovely, the food grand, the wine even more grand. My family were all in fantastic moods, which is rare for us. There was much laughing, toasting of drinks to me, drinking of drinks by me. Oh, and the gift orgy continued, with money from my Grandma, itunes cards from Lisa and Daniel, a new tartan skirt from Granny & Phil (no photos as the size was a bit off, sadly), and this from the Wicked Step Aunt:

her name is Maria, and she used to be a pillowcase. She fits like a dreamyglove, and everyone is jealous of her :)

But the best present of all came from my parents.

A Limited Edition Sailor "Creatures of The Deep" Octopus Fountain Pen
no 65 of 88

I know, right?
My lust and longing for this pen began in Geneva, nearly a year ago. You can't really see how beautiful it is from these photos but it's divine.When Dad and I saw this pen, I announced that I would have it for my 21st birthday, he informed me that I'd "be lucky to get a kick up the backside".

Best thing about this pen is that (and this will sound trite) but I feel like having something so lovely to write with has given me a bit of confidence back, so my writing has been happening!

All in all, I had a brilliant birthday weekend; spending it with people who I love and care for, and who love and care for me. There was much laughter, much dancing, much nostalgia of the "remember when she did this....?" type.

I'm not one for big parties, but this? This was pretty awesome.


And I won't apologise if it looks like I'm showing off, so there.








gah. i promise i'll blog more with shakespeare's 'brevity is the soul of wit' in mind.
also, i hate photobucket and html and technology in general

brief rant re: faily tendencies

There are some websites that one must check religiously. Or as close as religiously as a heathen like me can get. There's Grrl+Dog who makes me giggle and commit to craft. There's Vixen Vintage, who is unpretentious and makes me want to work harder on my wardrobe. There's Random Got Beautiful, which inspires me. There's Twitter, which is unhealthy and addictive. There's God Is In The TV Zine, which I love and adore for their NME bashing. There's my very favourite, Etsy, which is hours of fun. And then there's my new very very favourite website, YouAreBeautiful, which I discovered in Berlin and spent hours smiling about.

Thats not really that many personal blogs that I frequent, as they tend to depress me. And Lizzle, bless her lil' cotton socks, is at fault (I lie. I'd have run into this on my own.) The poor dear has a tedious job (almost as tedious as my last one). But she has internet access all day, which means she trolls the blogging world and finds the weirdest and most wonderful things, which she passes on to me.

And then I feel like a terrible entertainer. (because I don't like the word 'blogger' or 'bloggist')
There are girls out there who provide detailed updates of the clothes they wear every day. After a while, they all look the same. Tall, clear skinned and expensively draped, with a camera that makes them look lovely. There are mothers out there who blog about their entire family, and what little squirt has eaten/vomited/destroyed today. There are pages and pages and pages dedicated to those ridiculous 'harem' pants, which I think are proof that the fashion world needs a good lie down.

Anyway, my point is, what do I blog about, really? Originally, this was a blog to track my trip through Europe, which was great in theory but quickly turned into a cesspit of Angst as I realised how dependent I am on certain people (and alsopossiblymyfavouriteteddy.) Then when I came home, it was more about giving me a platform to rant on when things went wrong.....which tends to happen to me a lot. I don't know why. Possibly it's a flaw in the universe.

And now? Now I fear this blog is boring. I keep meaning to put up things I've written about my skirts, but I kind of feel that this is narcissism. And boring? Stuff happens, and I think 'ooh, I should write that down'. But then I think it would probably go over a lot better in the pub, with the lubrication (ergh, that word is gross) of Pimms. And waving my hands around. I'm very vocal. Also the problem with pictures is that I tend to look belligerent and about forty kilos heavier.

I'm beginning to think that perhaps, what this blog really really really needs is fireworks.


Any other ideas?



ALSO. I know I just whined about fashion. BUT. My birthday is in ten days, and yesterday I ran around like a mad thing trying to organise it. On Friday, my mother and I will be going to see Disgrace at the Sydney Film Festival, then cocktails. I'm planning on wearing my year12 formal dress, which is a gorgeous Japanese red silk wrap dress that cost waaaaay too much and has been worn waaaay too little. So yesterday I took it in to be dry cleaned. And then on Saturday, it'll be a gathering of the gaggle of girls I know, hopefully for swing dancing (if I can find somewhere open on Saturday), and then hijinks at the Shakey. For this, I'm having my blue lace Glasgow Dress fixed up so that I can breathe in it!!! And then Sunday I'll be recovering. In my pjs. And then on MONDAY, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!! I'll be at the Sydney Film Festival in the morning, and then in the evening dining with my family at the very posh Wharf Restaurant. In a divine little number thats a total secret, totally awesome and called Wednesday.

As an aside: I really like naming things, it invests them with properties and personifications. Or the opposite. When I was at Mac Uni, there was a girl in my class who shouted all the time, and a boy who wore vests all the time. They were known as Shouty Girl and Vest Boy. I have no idea what their names are to this day.

OH MY UPDATE WITHIN AN UPDATE!!! We're going to be HERE on Saturday. You should come and dance with me. I'll be the one in blue lace from Glasgow.




........oh. And I still check William Beckett's blog. Because I'm a failbot.

glamour

i did something very stupid last night, and in the warm fuzzy morning, when the hangover is being kept at bay by enough water to fill sydney's dams, i feel very stupid.


i went out without my phone last night.


ten years ago, this probably wouldn't have been an issue. (although if i did what i did last night ten years ago, well. i would have been one fucked up 10year old) but now, in the dying days of 2008, this is a dumb thing. because i didn't come home last night and i still live with my parents. so i'm feeling a bit guilty. they left the alarm off and were probably wondering where i am. they're pretty cool with me rocking up at all hours, but six am?? i haven't done that since the disastrous macq uni days.

so now that my make up has been washed off, i'm beginning to worry about how much of a hooting idiot i was last night, when the champagne was for free and the people were rather nice. when i'm drunk i become the bastard love child of Patsy (from abfab) and Bernard Black (from Black Books) apparently this is hilarious. but at the moment i feel old. old and a bit embarrassed that i didn't know better.

i mean, you can sprout all the Bret Easton Ellis bullshit about disenchantment and distant, but when it comes down to it, kids my generation (are we still children, i don't know) have everything but we don't want it. sometimes i think we're all desperate to be back in the sixties with the threat of the a-bomb on our heads, or the forties with ration booklets in the supermarket. we've had everything given to us, and that's still not enough. so we drink and we take drugs, we stay out all night and act unrepentant.


so i was looking good last night, i know i was. with my newly brown hair (it's not black, shut up) and my heels that i can barely walk in, my cinched in waist and red lipstick. a force to be reckoned with, bait on the hook. but now that doesn't really mean anything, with my mum coming past my room to give me that look that every under achiever has catalogued. that disappointed, "what are we going to do with you" look. i could play the pity card and tell you that i'm used to this, no one expects brilliance from me, just drunkenness. but that's a lie and i'm an honest hungover harpy. i don't like disappointing people, especially when it's something stupid like not coming home. no, not letting them know that i wasn't coming home.

now wide awake and tiptoeing towards the moment when my stomach grumbles and demands food, but instinctively i know it's a bad idea. i threw up last night, in whoever's house i ended up in. their bathroom was huge, and as i tried my best to puke quietly, i wondered about what makes us, makes me, drink so much. everyone does this when they over indulge. they make promises never to touch the stuff again. i don't do that, because i think about giving up sunday afternoons, or post lecture bevvies or having to deal with family gatherings sober, and i think that it's more about boundaries than denial. as a member of a generation who has no boundaries, learning to set them, implement them is a difficult thing. i know, logically that three glasses of white wine is probably more than enough. but when i'm presented with free alcohol and people that i don't really have anything in common with anymore. well. some little part of me (the Patsy part) goes "yippee" and before you know it, i may as well be Ivana Trump.

some people get angry when they are hungover. apparently i get contemplative and philosophical.


if i'd gone out with my phone last night, would it have been any different? would i have rung and said "i'm going to be staying with Hayley at her boyfriend's house."? or would i have waited for them to ring me? would i have come home and tried not to wake anyone up? would i? but thinking all those things doesn't matter, because i did none of them. i got stoned at Hayley's boyfriends place and was probably embarrassing and ridiculous. and god, it felt good at the time, but now its got me wondering how i can expect to be treated like an adult if i refuse to behave like one.

x

and then there's hangover music. normally i play Sigur Ros and Plaid for hours on end, but today all i want to listen to is Skinny Love by Bon Iver, which is one of the most heartbreaking songs i've ever heard. (yes, it totally tops that stupid Chasing Cars song.) it's quiet and desperate and the imagery conjures up cold winters waiting for the sun again. it's the bottom of the whisky bottle, when you're wondering why you went to all that effort when it was always obviously going to end like this - a three week beard and nine packets of cigarettes that you haven't smoked because smoking is bad, but it's supposed to help these moments and it doesn't. it doesn't and regrets a bitch, hindsight's a whore. normally i'd be more coherent, but i'm doing my best to think in a straight line here, so trust me on this. go listen to it.

oh god. someone in my house is making coffee. erk.


x

I told you to be patient
I told you to be fine
I told you to be balanced
I told you to be kind
Now all your love is wasted?
Then who the hell was I?

--bon iver.