Blogging not Jogging.

L.L.T

Last night there was rain. Really heavy, really wet rain.

The kind of rain I really like. Except when I’m desperate to use the bathroom and we live in a holiday park, so that bathroom happens to be outside and across the road.

(Also, it turns out that running in the rain really doesn’t keep you any more dry.)

And so I was soaked. And my shoes were soaked. And I was mad.

But then I decided to strip. And then I pranced. And the rain fell. And I splashed in the puddles. And my manfriend looked at me like I was mad.

And it was all very hippy. And it was all very gay. And it was all kinds of good for the soul.

I'm pretty sure most people don't really like to work. For most spoilt little rich kids like me, it's kinda something that happens by mistake. It starts out as a means to some extra cash to play with. So you do the milk run, or skin chickens. And you have play money.

But then you move out of home, so it turns in to a means to buy food, pay rent, and THEN have money to play with. So you decide you need a better paying job so that you'll have more play money again.

But then you start wanting more things and more travel and more play money. So you start doing longer hours. And then one day you realise you are working too hard for too little. So you go to uni in order to get a better job, to pay better money, to play with.

Once you finish uni, you start your career and you start working long, hard hours that still don't pay that well. But you think this is OK because you're being 'successful'. (And one day it will lead to big money for playing with.)

The next year you accept a 'promotion' and end up working extra hours every week, because it's on the path to more money. 

By this stage, your original plan of working to earn money to play with, now means that your week days revolve around work, and your weekends revolve around the working week. 

This really doesn't leave a lot of time for playing with that 'play' money. I think this means that some where along the way you've officially lost the point of it all.

For some people, their career IS the point. They are happy to be working hard and earning big.

But for me, I'd really like to steer clear of that formula. I'd really like to find a better balance. And I'd really like to remember that you work to live, not the other way around.

My life today. Woofing in Warkworth. The alarm went off but we still had time to roll around and ignore it for at least 40 minutes extra. The rest of the day then involved a few hours work, earning some money, enjoying the sunshine, eating well, running, sexing, laughing, learning, and it's still only 6.30pm.

I'm pretty sure this is how all days should be. And in my mind, today we were winning.

And so I'm gonna go ahead and post this blog, which probably might sound patronising, idealistic, or just really boring to any fool who might read it. But this blog is a reminder to me. 

When I was little I loved to climb trees.

But then I accidentally got a bit old and started using words like work and money.

(I think this was probably the usual time people stop climbing trees and get a job.)

Since then, the two 'first-world' problems in my work life are a) too many choices, and b) too much pressure to be successful. What does being successful even mean?

The optimists will tell you to follow your passion and find something you love. Don't be governed by the pay cheque.

The pessimists will tell you to find something in demand that pays well. Because in the end, a job will always become just a job, no matter what you do. 

And the realist will just go to work.

In my mind, your job doesn't have to be your life, but you do spend a horrible amount of time doing it. So I figure there are a few boxes it needs to tick to avoid wasting away the time, your brain, and your body all in one fowl sweep.

Those boxes include:

           1) using your head

and/or 2) using your hands

and/or 3) earning such ridiculously good money/short hours that it just doesn't matter (but this last one only works on it's own if you have a big 'funds for fun' jar that is left open for delving at the end of each money-earning day).

So.

Have you ever sat your fat-bum on your fat-bum office chair, drinking your 3rd fat-bum coffee for the day, eating the fat-bum chocolate bar you didn't want but went to buy as a time filler, heard yourself bitching with the other even fatter fat-bums you work with about who stole the rubber band ball from head office? Then realised your soul was slowly being destroyed?

This was me last month. Until I figured out that not one of my boxes were being ticked.

And then I quit.

This felt really extremely good. 

This month I now live in a caravan with my man friend. We climb trees all day and pick nuts for money. (OK it's barely any money at all. But at least ticking box number 2 is progress).

Next month with any luck we can find a new job that ticks box number three as well.

The final goal is to tick all the boxes all at once. (Anyone know anyone looking for a researcher/exerciser/who chooses her own hours and gets paid outstandingly to do so?)

So obviously this is a bit of a dream plan. And obviously it's easier said than done. My parents would definitely prefer I used words like 'degree' more often also.

But it's a plan. One that beats the hell out of working in a dissatisfying office job. 

The point is to stop, look at what you're doing for most hours of every day, and try to make sure it's heading towards your dream.

Today I am officially unemployed again.

This feels a little bit great.

Partly it might be that there has been several alcoholic beverages and a large amount of chocolate since this happened.

And probably because the bank account is currently full of holiday pay to mask the panic.

But here are some other nice words I associate with unemployment.

Liberation. Freedom. Gin. Sleeping in. Staying up. Mid-week and mid-night adventures. Setting the alarm clock just to turn it off and go back to sleep. Cooked breakfast. Forgetting the days of the week. Nut farms ahead. Renewed perspective.

Dear Blog,

I'm sorry I haven't been here lately.

I've been a bit busy being two-footed again.

(You can call me a blog-snob if you want.)

But yesterday I was told I might be needing more surgery of the heart variety. 

So I hope you don't mind if I need to start baking and blogging again soon.

You're a little bit great.

L.L.T 118

Another baking Sunday in Coromandel Street.

The challenge was chickpeas and chocolate.

Their response was zero enthusiasm.

My reaction was to prove them wrong.

The outcome was self-satisfaction. And some really good cookies.

- 400g can of chickpeas

-2 tbsp peanut butter

- 1/4 cup honey

- 2 tsp vanilla essence

- 1 tsp baking powder

- 1/2 cup chocolate chips

-And some other stuff

With an improvised version of this

Rinse and drain the chickpeas then pat them. Place all ingredients except chocolate chips in a food processor and blend until smooth. Stir in chocolate chips. Place spoonfuls on greased baking trays. Bake for about 10 minutes in a 175 degree oven.

Try it.

However. My man friend thinks they are called chickenpeas. So at this point I feel the very strong need to clarify.

Here's why. I love chicken. And I love chocolate. So this one hungover Sunday in Perth, the obsession hit a new level and ended with a chocolate-stuffed chicken breast. (think cordon bleu but with chocolate). You would think with fail-safe ingredients like that, it would be a winning combo.... 

Here is my informed opinion.

Chickpeas and chocolate. Rogue.

L.L.T 117

A recipe for Saturday morning happiness.

Reasons why:

Sunshine. Busy bustling Saturday Morning enthusiasts. Culture. Buskers. And hopefully some Fresh fruit and Vege.

Reasons why not:

Don't go hungry. And don't go hungover.

Unless you're travelling. And there are free tasters of all varieties. Then definitely go hungry. And preferably be hungover. (Free samples never tasted so good). 

Drink good coffee.

Buy good produce.

Make good post-market-dinner.

I know I said this isn't a food blog. But I just love baking. And this week there was some baking that really needs to be noted. 

A mouth-watering meal from Maya (Our couch surfer/ Coromandel Street's most recent, alas, temporary edition).

The main course was a non-faked orgasm of home-made lentil patty, roasted beet, hummus-y, burger-y goodness.

And then, raw coffee and chocolate cookie dough, heated, and served with ice-cream. Pretty much my dream dinner that WILL definitely need repeating. (I'm not going to post the recipes so then I have to get in touch with the lovely Maya the next time I want this taste-explosion in my mouth again).

So that was the recipe. 

Footloose And Fancy Free.

Yesterday this song played in my head all day.

Sometimes I feel like my life could be a musical. (How much cooler would life be if every time you kissed someone, it summoned your own private brass band, complete with trumpets and a triangle and a conductor, to send you into a crescendo of your own happy-ever-after heaven. Or every heartache or low moment just wouldn't seem so bad when accompanied by Celine Dion reminding you that 'your heart will go on'. And no robber, rapist or ridiculer would ever harm you again when there was a brooding tune of doom to pre-empt their every move).

So yesterday the musical starring me, myself and I was played out to Footloose. And the montage went something like this:

WALKING to work with no crutches. Smiling about the simple things.

Using my crutch-less hands to keep the hair off my face when the wind blew.

Using my crutch-less hands to open my own doors without 5 minutes of awkwardness involved at each one. 

Using my crutch-less hands to help a very dear gentleman lock his car and pay the coin meter that his arthritic hands couldn't manage alone. (This was especially joyous when it turned out to be his 85th birthday.)

Watching the glee on the toddler's face that crossed my path as he scuttled from his parents. And remembering the happiness that walking can be when it's new again.

L.L.T 114

What to do when it's 3:00 am and you can't sleep.

Try sleeping up side down. The most adventurous dreams come out of nights spent with your head down the wrong end. Especially if you end up top and tailing with your 28 year old bed-friend. If nothing else, it feels kinda childish and a little bit naughty and definitely not normal. All good reasons to try it. 

What to do when it's 3:00 am and you can't sleep and you've already tried sleeping upside down.

Make Tea. Make Toast. Have a Tea and Toast party. 

(So it was more reading and less partying. But it was out-loud reading. So I'm claiming it).

The tea makes you warm. The Toast makes you happy. The party makes you sleepy.