This ‘rambling’ post was penned a month or two ago when I was still living in Sydney. However, the content is still relevant, even that pertaining to the dog (yep there’s a dog in it). Just sub the dog for one cat with severe anxiety issues who likes to meow and scratch at my window in the dead of the night. Repeatedly. It seems I’m being stalked by animals with slightly whacked personalities….
Don’t sweat the small stuff. Not always a welcome comment, but true nonetheless One of the biggest sources of stress for me has been things out of my control. Events or circumstances that I can’t do anything about. After years of angst I have finally (or at least for the most part) learned that there is absolutely no point wasting time wishing you could change something that you clearly can’t. Tonight is a very good example of that. It’s some godforsaken hour and our neighbors yappy dog has decided to begin its very long and arduous opera recital. For the hundredth time in the past month. Continue reading
Let’s mosey back to last Saturday night. I’m sitting in bed propped up against the pillows, staring somewhat vacantly at my inspiration board (cheesy as all get out, but yes I have one) and half listening to my little sister get ready for her first night out on the town. Gosh that makes me sound ancient, doesn’t it? I’m in a ponderous state – one reached by a combination of a nine hour shift, a hectic week (exams galore) and a late night baking frenzy. Through the jumble of thoughts, and all things considering I’m surprised there’s not just bits of fluff floating around up there, it dawns on me that a year ago I was flying across the skies over Asia, destined for Sydney with no voice and a very blocked nose. How is it that we remember mundane details such as head colds, but forget more important things like birthdays or where the house keys wandered off to? Aaannyways, it’s a bit of a ‘my god’ moment. One that threatens to bowl you over with a cartload of emotions. Because a year ago the beaten up station wagon (I like to tell myself it’s more akin to a Cooper mini, but lets be honest here) that’s my life took one massive hook turn and rumbled off down an entirely different highway. The destination of which I’m still trying to work out…but probably never will. Eighteen months ago I would’ve been having kittens over that. Now? Not so much. Maybe just one or two. Every once in a while. But that’s normal, right? 
On Monday afternoon we ventured into the city with one destination in mind. Max Brenner Chocolate Bar. The previous evening my sister had taken part in her very last ballet performance at the Sydney Opera House (next year she moves on to a different school/company/whatever you want to call it), and celebration seemed due. Unless you have squillions of money screaming to be spent (both at the chocolate bar and the dentist) or possess the superpower to eat/drink as much chocolate as you like and be none the worse for it, Max Brenner is not going to be your everyday, regular café. For most ordinary citizens it’s a café for special occasions. A place to frequent when you wish to spend some quality time with others and eat a lot of chocolate. Consequently you would think that Max Brenner would be jumping over houses to provide a space that facilitates savoring the moment and encourages customers to ‘stay a while’. For some unidentifiable reason they have failed to do so. 
We’re that family. The one that “pffts” its way down the Christmas aisle in the supermarket. The one that bemoans the playing of Christmas carols on any day prior to Christmas Eve. The one that blatantly abuses the ‘commercialisation of Christmas’. We discreetly purchase our gifts, not wishing to be associated with the cheery, festive Christmas-shopper crowd (though if it’s Christmas Eve its more likely to be bug-eyed and flustered in nature). What’s that you say? We’re a family of miserable Christmas haters? Whatever gave you that impression? Sheesh. Because despite our Grinch-like facade, we actually do enjoy Christmas. And golly gosh, we even have traditions of our own. What kind of traditions might a family ‘allergic’ to most Christmas related festivities have? Why, those pertaining to food of course. 
