"There's a storm a-coming!" That's what was shouted at me and a buddy as we braved our way through Williamsburg's less salubrious neighbourhoods to find haven in the kind of Mexican places that hipst-anic (hipster+hispanic) communities produce best: cheap tacos, good beer and all the latest underground tunes on the playlist. Despite making a return to summer today in NYC - hot pants were donned in SoHo and chiauauas shunned their tiny tapestry waistcoats due to the heat - I bore witness to an explosive lightning show in an overground train station in Bushwick this evening. Then the rain came. So it's a damp posting this evening.
Enough about the weather - evidently, I'm in the States now and people are far more likely to open a conversation about what their therapist said to them than what's happening with the climate. In the last few days since I posted various developments have taken place. I turned 22 in a wonderfully bizzare Indian restaurant in the East Village, complete with novelty thrift-store gifts and free candle-lit ice cream. Panna II prides itself on having look like a child with especially bad taste had been left to decorate a particularly naff Christmas tree in solely shiny and flashing things. They should have a sign warning epileptics off, except you can see it flashing from two blocks away. Having a birthday in a different time zone really is a win-win situation as you get a whole extra five hours of people wishing you a nice day. Therefore any fears of having it forgotten (a very real fear after spending my Sunday at the Lincoln Centre Film Society's John Hughes memorial day and watching Sixteen Candles) were dispersed as soon as I woke up to the ultimate of Maternal Inbox Treats: "you are probably asleep, but it's your birthday here, wakey-wakey!" and got into my office to find cake and post on my desk.
Last Friday I had my brain exploded a little bit twice. First by NY's American Museum Natural History, something which really does deserve its own post, but for which I will currently reference as 'GIANT SQUID SPERM WHALE BATTLE'. Secondly by Refresh, Refresh, Refresh - a relatively cultish comedy/storytelling night amongst funny media types in Chinatown. Headlining were New York's answer to a Twitter-happy Reeves and Mortimer, Wise and Cranky Kaplan, who were pretty hilaire in person, but whose tweet feeds continue to keep me LOL-ing inappropriately throughout the working day. Cranky's possibly my favourite, mainly because his sadistic tweets regarding tortoises remind me of similar boyhood antics that apparently went on between my late great uncle and my grandfather. Follow them both, though - American 'humor' never was so good.
Showing posts with label maternal inbox treat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label maternal inbox treat. Show all posts
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Saturday, 28 August 2010
101 Dalmatians. In mole form.
Although I love it when scientific friends tell me fun facts, in general that whole scheme of things goes somewhat over my head. However, yesterday I got a fun, relevant AND scientific fact through my inbox! Obviously, when the subject heading of an email is 'Internet Mole Facts' it's seriously exciting because:
a) it might be about the subterranean animal
b) I like facts.
But when the content turned out to be the following:
"Beauty spots they may be, but many people with prominent moles consider them unsightly. Having a high number of moles could be a very good sign indeed. It could mean that you are biologically six or seven years younger than your actual age. A study by researchers at King's College in London found that people with more than 100 moles tended to have longer telomeres than people who had fewer than 25.
Telomeres are the bits of our DNA that tend to get shorter as we age. What that means is that moley people may retain youthful looks and delay the onset of the diseases of ageing by more than half a decade."
I was ecstatic. Thing is, I'm a pretty moley person. In fact, this blog should probably be called 'Moleface', except it sounds a bit creepy and I dread to think what the google image results may look like. But this is great news! Finally, being covered in tiny brown lumps and being flat chested until the age of 17 pays off! I may well stay young-looking and smug far longer than my smooth-skinned companions.
This is, of course, all rather academic - and in more than one sense. After all, I spend most of my time in NHS spectacles, high waisted jeans and dubious knitwear reserved solely for, and often bought from, the elderly. Which brings me onto another equally amusing and shocking inbox delivery.
Upon remarking on just how good a word 'fancy' is with my sister, I was reminded of a childhood literary favourite: Fancy Nancy. Normally I'd include and explanatory link here for all the poor souls who have been kept in ignorance of FN's greatness. However, something heinous has occurred and the internet seems to think that FN was an invention of 2005, complete with a totally lame illustration. This was brought to my attention by a Maternal Inbox (Un)treat, subjected: 'LOOK WHAT THEY'VE DONE TO FANCY NANCY!' It's true. All over the internet there is no trace of the original FN, a girl who, rather than this feather boa-ed travesty, helped her Gran grout the bathroom and fought old ladies for handbags with whales on in jumble sales. Indeed, a girl who clearly had a formative influence as I spent most of my childhood watching my Mum grout bathrooms and, admittedly only two years ago, did unsuccessfully battle old women for 20p vintage treats in a jumble sale in High Heaton.
Bowlface has a new mission on its mucky paws: returning the original Fancy Nancy to the interweb, and fast.
a) it might be about the subterranean animal
b) I like facts.
But when the content turned out to be the following:
"Beauty spots they may be, but many people with prominent moles consider them unsightly. Having a high number of moles could be a very good sign indeed. It could mean that you are biologically six or seven years younger than your actual age. A study by researchers at King's College in London found that people with more than 100 moles tended to have longer telomeres than people who had fewer than 25.
Telomeres are the bits of our DNA that tend to get shorter as we age. What that means is that moley people may retain youthful looks and delay the onset of the diseases of ageing by more than half a decade."
I was ecstatic. Thing is, I'm a pretty moley person. In fact, this blog should probably be called 'Moleface', except it sounds a bit creepy and I dread to think what the google image results may look like. But this is great news! Finally, being covered in tiny brown lumps and being flat chested until the age of 17 pays off! I may well stay young-looking and smug far longer than my smooth-skinned companions.
This is, of course, all rather academic - and in more than one sense. After all, I spend most of my time in NHS spectacles, high waisted jeans and dubious knitwear reserved solely for, and often bought from, the elderly. Which brings me onto another equally amusing and shocking inbox delivery.
Upon remarking on just how good a word 'fancy' is with my sister, I was reminded of a childhood literary favourite: Fancy Nancy. Normally I'd include and explanatory link here for all the poor souls who have been kept in ignorance of FN's greatness. However, something heinous has occurred and the internet seems to think that FN was an invention of 2005, complete with a totally lame illustration. This was brought to my attention by a Maternal Inbox (Un)treat, subjected: 'LOOK WHAT THEY'VE DONE TO FANCY NANCY!' It's true. All over the internet there is no trace of the original FN, a girl who, rather than this feather boa-ed travesty, helped her Gran grout the bathroom and fought old ladies for handbags with whales on in jumble sales. Indeed, a girl who clearly had a formative influence as I spent most of my childhood watching my Mum grout bathrooms and, admittedly only two years ago, did unsuccessfully battle old women for 20p vintage treats in a jumble sale in High Heaton.
Bowlface has a new mission on its mucky paws: returning the original Fancy Nancy to the interweb, and fast.
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
100th POST: ZOOTIME
ZOOTIME is the prog-rock effort of The Mystery Jets on their debut album Making Dens. As well as being a piece of useless mid-noughties indie trivia, ZOOTIME is also what I dubbed today's activities. Namely, going to Whipsnade Zoo with my parents for a full day-off childhood reversion and, as a result, Bowlface's 100th post.
Along with the moral and psychological crises that arise with seeing potentially damaged animals in enclosures that are clearly disproportionate to their native habitats, I underwent the natural glee, severe excitement and obligatory fanciful conversations that animals are clearly incapable of which accompany any good zoo trip. Well, any acceptable zoo trip at least - the previous one, to Belgrade Zoo, just brought mild amusement and increasing misery at witnessing the bizarre co habitations of animals that definitely were not designed to know one another.
First discovery of the day was that of a Mara, whose anonymity in the animal world is so great that when you googleimage it, the ratio of photos of the animal to photos of varying scantily clad women is 2 : 9,630,000. Here it is though:
As you may well observe, this is, as Daddy Bowlface exclaimed, a FREAK DEER. Identified as a wallaby and a muntjac before this clearly correct definition, Maras are dead cute and skipped around all over the place. I took a much better photo than this (especially of its bemusing white behind), so sit tight. After a cementing of childhood reversion by falling over and grazing my knee whilst witnessing a naughty sea lion during a rehearsal (total diva), a few more zoological discoveries were made:
- Rhinos like pedicures and enjoy eating floor-Sudocrem as an after-banana treat.
- Red Pandas are basically the Cheshire Cat.
- Dwarf Crocodiles look cuddly.
- Sloth Bears enjoy cardboard boxes.
- Wolverines are the ultimate ANIMAL FAIL.
This last discovery requires deeper analysis. Yes, Wolverine, the animal immortalised in cartoon and pop culture throughout the centuries for long claws, a ferocious attitude and fearsome teeth is a zoological WolverFAIL. Rather than a hefty king of mutant dogs, the Wolverine is actually the king of the weasels. Arguably, in Wind and The Willows, being King of the Weasels was a pretty big deal - but that's a kid's book, the ferocity levels are set at about 3.2. Instead, Whipsnade's Wolverine was a shy, fluffy little thing that refused to come out from under a tree. It wasn't even cute. In fact, I could have chucked a bit of fur fabric on a bush and more people would be interested. I would suggest that Mr. WolverFAIL changed his name to one of the others he goes by, but even 'glutton' sounds a bit too cool.
Even with the WolverFAIL, Whipsnade rocked. What rocked on an equal value was a sibling inbox treat with the subject heading of: BAKE OFFFFF. Yes, Mary Berry and her Great British Bake Off is spreading faster than a viral youtube vid. So far I'm averaging three baking-method conversations a day and, even more exciting, plans are afoot to get a Bowlface team in the bake off to show them how high a scone really should be...
Along with the moral and psychological crises that arise with seeing potentially damaged animals in enclosures that are clearly disproportionate to their native habitats, I underwent the natural glee, severe excitement and obligatory fanciful conversations that animals are clearly incapable of which accompany any good zoo trip. Well, any acceptable zoo trip at least - the previous one, to Belgrade Zoo, just brought mild amusement and increasing misery at witnessing the bizarre co habitations of animals that definitely were not designed to know one another.
First discovery of the day was that of a Mara, whose anonymity in the animal world is so great that when you googleimage it, the ratio of photos of the animal to photos of varying scantily clad women is 2 : 9,630,000. Here it is though:
As you may well observe, this is, as Daddy Bowlface exclaimed, a FREAK DEER. Identified as a wallaby and a muntjac before this clearly correct definition, Maras are dead cute and skipped around all over the place. I took a much better photo than this (especially of its bemusing white behind), so sit tight. After a cementing of childhood reversion by falling over and grazing my knee whilst witnessing a naughty sea lion during a rehearsal (total diva), a few more zoological discoveries were made:
- Rhinos like pedicures and enjoy eating floor-Sudocrem as an after-banana treat.
- Red Pandas are basically the Cheshire Cat.
- Dwarf Crocodiles look cuddly.
- Sloth Bears enjoy cardboard boxes.
- Wolverines are the ultimate ANIMAL FAIL.
This last discovery requires deeper analysis. Yes, Wolverine, the animal immortalised in cartoon and pop culture throughout the centuries for long claws, a ferocious attitude and fearsome teeth is a zoological WolverFAIL. Rather than a hefty king of mutant dogs, the Wolverine is actually the king of the weasels. Arguably, in Wind and The Willows, being King of the Weasels was a pretty big deal - but that's a kid's book, the ferocity levels are set at about 3.2. Instead, Whipsnade's Wolverine was a shy, fluffy little thing that refused to come out from under a tree. It wasn't even cute. In fact, I could have chucked a bit of fur fabric on a bush and more people would be interested. I would suggest that Mr. WolverFAIL changed his name to one of the others he goes by, but even 'glutton' sounds a bit too cool.
Even with the WolverFAIL, Whipsnade rocked. What rocked on an equal value was a sibling inbox treat with the subject heading of: BAKE OFFFFF. Yes, Mary Berry and her Great British Bake Off is spreading faster than a viral youtube vid. So far I'm averaging three baking-method conversations a day and, even more exciting, plans are afoot to get a Bowlface team in the bake off to show them how high a scone really should be...
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
My Mum's having a love affair with American Apparel
Wednesday night. Katie and Alex: For Better, For Worse. Large amount of 'reject' meringues consumed (due to the lack of essential gooey chewy middle, and increased risk of explosion, a whole batch got replaced by a new batch for parental party last weekend). Huge manly fleece jacket adopted. Potential bliss.
I can justify this middle-class, parent-free squalor by having been enslaved to high-end retail for nine hours today. Yesterday, however, I spent my day off in a not dissimilar situation. Unfortunately, penury dictates that I can't always spend my enslavement-free days on bikes in other Northern European countries, so I undertook similar activities to that of a bored housewife. Without a husband or children to entertain, thank God.
Amongst shoe polishing, laundry, and buying some baking essentials amongst other groceries, I also lowered my psychological age by a generation and got on with my 'making American Apparel rip-offs' project. Or so I thought. Because, shortly after fabricating a near-perfect imitation of a circle scarf for £4.95 and a bit of love, my Mum returned (to dinner on the table, may I add) only to announce her recently discovered love affair with American Apparel.
Turns out last week shortly before a ladies-who-lunch lunch, Mummy Bowlface stepped into the American Apparel in Covent Garden, and finally realised why I had been chatting on about AA since the gold leotard-purchasing event four years ago. Granted, since then, as certain leaked documents detail "The New Standard" demonstrate, gold leotards are no longer as hot as lace blouses. Still, Mummy B's grabbing of my homewear favourite, the Sailor Stripe Long Sleeve Pullover, was the sartorial equivalent of hearing Vampire Weekend's debut album played at last years' garden party: an enlightening, delightful moment of generational bonding, just one somewhat tainted by an impending sense of losing my 'edge'. (Yes, that 'edge' which is sharpened by housewifely activities).
On reflection, it makes so much sense that Mums should love American Apparel more than twenty-something trend-following types. After all, they're not going to be made to feel podgy and inadequate by the overwhelmingly attractive staff, nor experience the inevitable sense of competition that seeps from each piece of baby cord; because AA isn't the usual dinner party wear, and, (if we are to believe them), their offspring are just as pretty as that chiseled cheekbone-owning waif in the corner who's folding things with a sense of superiority. Furthermore, for a woman who likes to leave notes directing me to my dinner half a metre apart, the super-clear labelling of every garment in 's', 'm' and 'l' is a dream come true. Too much of my 'acceptable' (i.e, high street originating) wardrobe has been purchased from AA for me to give it up, plus it's just too damn comfy. Although if Mummy B has her way it may soon be making its way, garment by garment, into hers...
I can justify this middle-class, parent-free squalor by having been enslaved to high-end retail for nine hours today. Yesterday, however, I spent my day off in a not dissimilar situation. Unfortunately, penury dictates that I can't always spend my enslavement-free days on bikes in other Northern European countries, so I undertook similar activities to that of a bored housewife. Without a husband or children to entertain, thank God.
Amongst shoe polishing, laundry, and buying some baking essentials amongst other groceries, I also lowered my psychological age by a generation and got on with my 'making American Apparel rip-offs' project. Or so I thought. Because, shortly after fabricating a near-perfect imitation of a circle scarf for £4.95 and a bit of love, my Mum returned (to dinner on the table, may I add) only to announce her recently discovered love affair with American Apparel.
Turns out last week shortly before a ladies-who-lunch lunch, Mummy Bowlface stepped into the American Apparel in Covent Garden, and finally realised why I had been chatting on about AA since the gold leotard-purchasing event four years ago. Granted, since then, as certain leaked documents detail "The New Standard" demonstrate, gold leotards are no longer as hot as lace blouses. Still, Mummy B's grabbing of my homewear favourite, the Sailor Stripe Long Sleeve Pullover, was the sartorial equivalent of hearing Vampire Weekend's debut album played at last years' garden party: an enlightening, delightful moment of generational bonding, just one somewhat tainted by an impending sense of losing my 'edge'. (Yes, that 'edge' which is sharpened by housewifely activities).
On reflection, it makes so much sense that Mums should love American Apparel more than twenty-something trend-following types. After all, they're not going to be made to feel podgy and inadequate by the overwhelmingly attractive staff, nor experience the inevitable sense of competition that seeps from each piece of baby cord; because AA isn't the usual dinner party wear, and, (if we are to believe them), their offspring are just as pretty as that chiseled cheekbone-owning waif in the corner who's folding things with a sense of superiority. Furthermore, for a woman who likes to leave notes directing me to my dinner half a metre apart, the super-clear labelling of every garment in 's', 'm' and 'l' is a dream come true. Too much of my 'acceptable' (i.e, high street originating) wardrobe has been purchased from AA for me to give it up, plus it's just too damn comfy. Although if Mummy B has her way it may soon be making its way, garment by garment, into hers...
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
inappropriate family jokes
Blogging Sunday has clearly become Blogging Tuesday. This is because on the Sunday just gone I spent most of the day, albeit situated near the laptop, but otherwise rolling around, moaning, and occasionally lifting my head to eat a pasta bake that should have been thrown out a while ago. See below.
Also, it's because I'm having yet another De ja vu moment from this time last week. Arguably, the weather isn't quite as poor - if anything it's an improvement on the last couple days - but it's still far from the scorching, tightless days of last week, and not in any way encouraging me to leave the house. Unfortunately, like last week, leaving the house and entering the terrifying commercial palace that is Primark is one of my few tasks for the day.
As pure, unadulterated evidence that I am a near-complete failure of a girl, I find the prospect of going out and buying party shoes an utter ball-ache. (Even the fact I use ball-ache as an adjective, despite not having testicles, suggests a femininity flaw somewhere). Cruelly enough, I have enough oestrogen to cause me to recognise that my one pair of party shoes just will not go with the dress I've dragged out of the back of my wardrobe for my Graduation Ball on Thursday - I'm spending money and begrudging shopping trips as a sole result of unavoidable recognition of poor taste. Via the dry cleaners.
Tuesday Blogging again, then, has come to the rescue in the form of necessary distraction from the chores of real life. Like packing. Leaving Newcastle in an ever-shortening number of days necessitates that I shove my overly large and pretentious collection of literature and glossy magazines into some kind of vegetable box (said box was nabbed from the Grainger Market yesterday, under both the guidance and inquisition of two equally charming and mean market stall holders). The box remains empty and propped up against the bannister. Maybe, just maybe, I'll do something about it. Both bleak prospects of shoe shopping (especially on a £20 budget) and packing were only a slightly better thing to wake up to after a threatening dream about a Primavera-style festival in Cuba, with bomb-dropping and me threatening to throw a vintage camera into the sea.
Some things have cheered me up, however. Switching on the radio to hear the dulcet tones of NME's first lady Editor Krissi Murison chat about being a girl in the music journalism industry, for example, was a nice treat. Potentially even nicer than the morning play about the private lives of gay men they had on yesterday. Then the suggestion of listening to Owen Paul's My Favourite Waste Of Time, which can't help but raise a smile, really. In fact, I've embedded it here as a reward for reading this diatribe of self-pity. Just to top it off, naturally, a familial inbox treat reminiscing on local old men who used to come and do assemblies before it turned out he was being convicted of paedophilia. Black comedy is the best medicine, apparently.
Also, as promised, is a sneaky review of Major Lazer's set at Primavera on Thiskindofmusic...seemingly I have achieved something in the last week other than a collection of equally bad tan lines.
Oh blogging, you're my favourite waste of time....
As pure, unadulterated evidence that I am a near-complete failure of a girl, I find the prospect of going out and buying party shoes an utter ball-ache. (Even the fact I use ball-ache as an adjective, despite not having testicles, suggests a femininity flaw somewhere). Cruelly enough, I have enough oestrogen to cause me to recognise that my one pair of party shoes just will not go with the dress I've dragged out of the back of my wardrobe for my Graduation Ball on Thursday - I'm spending money and begrudging shopping trips as a sole result of unavoidable recognition of poor taste. Via the dry cleaners.
Tuesday Blogging again, then, has come to the rescue in the form of necessary distraction from the chores of real life. Like packing. Leaving Newcastle in an ever-shortening number of days necessitates that I shove my overly large and pretentious collection of literature and glossy magazines into some kind of vegetable box (said box was nabbed from the Grainger Market yesterday, under both the guidance and inquisition of two equally charming and mean market stall holders). The box remains empty and propped up against the bannister. Maybe, just maybe, I'll do something about it. Both bleak prospects of shoe shopping (especially on a £20 budget) and packing were only a slightly better thing to wake up to after a threatening dream about a Primavera-style festival in Cuba, with bomb-dropping and me threatening to throw a vintage camera into the sea.
Some things have cheered me up, however. Switching on the radio to hear the dulcet tones of NME's first lady Editor Krissi Murison chat about being a girl in the music journalism industry, for example, was a nice treat. Potentially even nicer than the morning play about the private lives of gay men they had on yesterday. Then the suggestion of listening to Owen Paul's My Favourite Waste Of Time, which can't help but raise a smile, really. In fact, I've embedded it here as a reward for reading this diatribe of self-pity. Just to top it off, naturally, a familial inbox treat reminiscing on local old men who used to come and do assemblies before it turned out he was being convicted of paedophilia. Black comedy is the best medicine, apparently.
Also, as promised, is a sneaky review of Major Lazer's set at Primavera on Thiskindofmusic...seemingly I have achieved something in the last week other than a collection of equally bad tan lines.
Oh blogging, you're my favourite waste of time....
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Patiotism fail.
So it was St. George's Day on Friday. Unlike last year, when I was made aware of our patron saint killing dragons by stumbling across a National Front protest underneath one of Newcastle's most prided landmarks, it was an M.I.T (Maternal Inbox Treat) that broke the news, and was, contextually, as unwelcome.
Because, rather than an electronic mail inbox treat, it was a more specific mobile phone inbox treat. The latter, foolishly, is never turned off and, during the hours of sleep, normally lives somewhere near my pillow. Sad admission, yes, but it's because it doubles up as an alarm clock, or something. Anyway, at exactly 10.50am on Friday morning I was re-awoken (double nap morning due to my inconvenient biological alarm clock and having walked into the house five hours previously) with a 'jolly' picture of red and white-clad schoolchildren and the announcement that Mummy Bowlface and her team of education monkeys 'had just made flags, dragons after play!' There is no crueler way to be reminded of the horrific things intoxicants do to your body than to be faced with the glowing energy of youth.
That was the patriotic moment of the whole day. Due to the early arrival of temporary summer yesterday a Blakean outside reading experience, doing my necessary university work whilst enjoying the sunshine, turned rapidly into sitting outside a cafe, with friends, staring feebly at the same book for numerous hours. Then came the I.B.P (Impromptu Barbecue Plan), which relieved work guilt as it was clearly a mission of near-military standards of organisation.
Within two hours we had located and cleaned a barbecue, bought necessary supplies, made a large panful of potato salad and even rallied enough troops to make the whole shindig worthwhile. An emergency late-night excursion for more charcoal briquettes even resulted in a new discovery/gatecrashing of Dexters Grosvenor Dance Centre, complete with ballroom dancing couples and an invitation to learn about lessons. It's not every day such an opportunity arises.
Today's not been much better on the work front. I have, however, caught up with last week's Glee, made chocolate butterfly buns and whipped up a risotto. Considering the dietary habits entailed in the last post, I think this is definitely a step in the right direction.
Because, rather than an electronic mail inbox treat, it was a more specific mobile phone inbox treat. The latter, foolishly, is never turned off and, during the hours of sleep, normally lives somewhere near my pillow. Sad admission, yes, but it's because it doubles up as an alarm clock, or something. Anyway, at exactly 10.50am on Friday morning I was re-awoken (double nap morning due to my inconvenient biological alarm clock and having walked into the house five hours previously) with a 'jolly' picture of red and white-clad schoolchildren and the announcement that Mummy Bowlface and her team of education monkeys 'had just made flags, dragons after play!' There is no crueler way to be reminded of the horrific things intoxicants do to your body than to be faced with the glowing energy of youth.
That was the patriotic moment of the whole day. Due to the early arrival of temporary summer yesterday a Blakean outside reading experience, doing my necessary university work whilst enjoying the sunshine, turned rapidly into sitting outside a cafe, with friends, staring feebly at the same book for numerous hours. Then came the I.B.P (Impromptu Barbecue Plan), which relieved work guilt as it was clearly a mission of near-military standards of organisation.
Within two hours we had located and cleaned a barbecue, bought necessary supplies, made a large panful of potato salad and even rallied enough troops to make the whole shindig worthwhile. An emergency late-night excursion for more charcoal briquettes even resulted in a new discovery/gatecrashing of Dexters Grosvenor Dance Centre, complete with ballroom dancing couples and an invitation to learn about lessons. It's not every day such an opportunity arises.
Today's not been much better on the work front. I have, however, caught up with last week's Glee, made chocolate butterfly buns and whipped up a risotto. Considering the dietary habits entailed in the last post, I think this is definitely a step in the right direction.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
"artists" with too much time on their hands
Eggs are an odd enough concept as it is, let alone with a tiny naked baby inside. Where did the unborn chicken foetus go? Given my current state of mind/location/occupation, I could once have thought myself able to slip into the above category. After all, when I'm done stalking people-I-don't-even-know's facebook profiles, checking Twitter every ten minutes and contemplating when I can justify having another snack, maybe creating some crazy art might be the next logical step. I'm clearly not freaking out about the insane degree workload anyway near enough.
However, THIS just shoved me right back into the 'lazy student with a lack of work-related will power' category. Again, another maternal inbox treat - why she didn't send me crazy stuff like this when I was interning and spent my days trawling the internet for weird stuff for the Vice blog is beyond me. There's now a new label dedicated to such email correspondence.
So, there's a lady out there who actually had the brain wave to spend her days making tiny miniature babies and sell them for the best part of $100. Sounds like a long shot, but people are buying them - what you do with them after parting with a month's worth of grocery money is a mystery. Carry them around in your palm and put miniature baby clothes on, I guess. The closest experience I have to anything of the sort was when a friend thought it would be hilarious to carry round a tiny baby doll, which was terrifyingly grubby, and drop it in people's drinks at the pub. That was weird, gross and annoying enough.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
e-mails my family send me
yes, I am aware this isn't the first time a picture of a human dressed in an animal-inspired babygro has made it onto this site. Slight step up from retro Bowl-post 'Notes my Mum leaves me.' I was actually hanging out with Kirsty Golightly today, in an attempt to make that prophesy come true. We wandered around the Quayside and it's many 'Heugh's in the sunshine for a stupidly long time trying to find a couple of speakers reverberating in the North Tower of the Tyne Bridge. When we found it, we left after about three minutes. Then it went silent and we thought we'd broken it. (We hadn't).
Anyway, I came home to two amazing bits of information thanks to Bowlface family members. Number one, from Mummy Bowlface, is that my link from my facebook page didn't lead to Bowlface, but here: http://www.bowlface.blogspot.com/. Rather than the self-indulgent witterings of a bored aspirant journalist, this, as you will discover by clicking, is actually a site offering Bible tours. Unfortunate, no? You can imagine my distress when I find an email with the subject heading of 'Have you got religion ????????!!!!!!!!!!!' (not least because of the superfluous punctuation)
The superfluous punctuation is, however, somewhat understandable. Although it is pretty hard to imagine me offering 14 and 15 day package tours around Egypt, Jordan and Israel, three countries to which I have unfortunately not been, it is apparently a 'Mega site of Bible studies and information'. That 'mega' is highly suspicious.
Fortunately, after that little shock the next familial e-mail was far more comforting, in more way than one. Since the onesie obsession started, was fulfilled, and subsequently brought whole new issues in where I can and cannot wear it (essentially just the house, and certainly not when entertaining), like an addict, I've been on the hunt for the next onesie-equivalent obsession. Bro Bowlface suggested this little site. Verdict: oh-so cosy but somewhat over warm, and perhaps unnecessary given my relative lack of camping holidays. It was superceded today, and I can't stop thinking about how much I want a Kigu.
If I thought the opportunities for onesie-related fun were numerous, those for Kigu-related fun have taken it into a whole new realm. Imagine you're just chilling at home, pretending to be a flying squirrel/tiger/red panda/kitty and then your buddy rings and announces you're missing a 'totally rad' fancy dress party? No need to change! Or, say, you fancy going to the zoo and get trapped in one of the cages - you can just whip out a Kigu and assimilate with the animals.
Maybe this is why I haven't written any of my dissertation today. I bet if I was dressed as a red panda I would have pumped out two in this time, though.
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