Burgers of Awesomeness

I've been quite loath to post about food here, because I know that one of the two people who reads this blog subsists entirely on a diet of crisps, chips and cider. Therefore, accounts of delicious food I have eaten are not going to inspire paroxysms of joy within her. But these burgers were just too awesome to resist.

 

One afternoon not so long ago, I decided to try Tui Talk's recipe for Best Soup Bread, which is a reasonably doughy bread with herbs through it (I used parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, partly because we have them growing just outside the door and partly because I'm a dork who loves Simon & Garfunkel). I haven't actually hand kneaded bread in a while, so it was a bit of an experiment. I left the bread to rise, then went out to do some shopping. When I came back, I had picked up some pork mine. Obviously, there was only one thing to do in that situation....

.... make burgers. So I did. Damn, they were amazing.

I don't have any quantities but the burger patties involved mixing the pork mince with chopped red onion, sesame oil, soy sauce, chives and fish sauce. Add in some bread soaked in milk and then squeezed to bind and it's time to make patties!

Served on rolls made from the bread dough, with some fried red onions (mine went a little too crispy.. but still delicious), sliced tomato, mesclun and sweet chili sauce - it was definitely awesome.

(I mainly posted this because I am currently very hungry... and dreaming of these burgers)

What did your lipstick say about you this Valentine's Day, lady?

I’m a bitter and cynical person, so it will come as no surprise to you that I have no love for Valentine’s day. In fact, I’ve waited almost a week to blog about this, just so that it wouldn’t look like I was somehow tacitly endorsing the most horrible display of sentiment that happens on a yearly basis (lies: I was just too lazy to write).

So, I hate Valentine’s Day. I do, however, love all the sexist, gendered bullshit that comes out of the woodwork at this time of year (let’s just forget about the stuff that happens all year round, won’t we?)

One sparkler is this amazing list of what your lipstick says for you, from that bastion of critical journalism, The Huffington Post. Because, of course, women are like Victorian-era children, better seen and not heard.

Shut up and let your lipstick talk for you, woman!

Though you might not like what your lipstick says. Here’s the list from the article:

PINK LIPS say "I am sweet and you can introduce me to your mother"
FROSTED PINK LIPS say "I am a bit behind the times and you can introduce me to the 21st Century"
MATTE NUDE LIPS - " I considered wearing Birkenstocks tonight"
SHIMMERY GLOSSY NUDE LIPS - "Do you watch the Jersey Shore?"
CORAL LIPS - "I intend to be home in my PJ's by 11pm"
MATTE RED LIPSTICK - " You need to work hard pal"
GLOSSY RED LIPS - " Myself and my lip color is going to be all over you"
WINE COLORED LIPS- " Do you read Tolstoy?"
ROSE COLORED LIPS - " Are you Mr. Darcy?
NOTHING LEFT ON THE LIPS - "What's for breakfast?"

Is there any lipstick that doesn’t paint a disturbing picture? If I slap on some nude shimmery gloss during an impassioned discussion about Battlestar Galactica, are people going to suddenly think that I’ve cribbed all my info from Wikipedia?

Apart from perpetuating that old Madonna/whore dichotomy that women have to deal with on a regular basis (red means slut, pink means sweet and romantic), it makes us believe that every woman does and should wear lipstick. Notice how there’s no option for ‘no lipstick’ apart from ‘nothing left on the lips’, which implies you had some but have rubbed it all off (oooh, wonder how you did that, wink wink nudge nudge *vomit*)? If you don’t fit into this list, you’re not doing your woman-ness well enough!

(Though it must be said that ‘nothing left on the lips’ could also imply that it has all disappeared because you have been eating food, which I would totally be okay with, because as a woman-beast I enjoy to eat food OM NOM NOM NOM)

Some of the other suggestions for less-common lipstick colours are actually more interesting than they are stereotypical. Coral means that you’ll be in bed by 11pm? Well since Valentine’s Day this year was on a Monday, I’m assuming that a lot of people would have wanted to be in bed by 11pm because they have to get up early for work the next day. (oh, right, to be a good woman you should be at home cooking and cleaning for your man and not having such a thing as your own job! Nasty sign of independence, that.) If ‘in bed by 11pm’ is meant to be an insult (which I’m sure it is, implying that coral lipstick is only worn by losers with no life), then count me a loser, because I love to fucking sleep. In fact, sometimes I even spend a whole eight hours a night doing it! I know, WHAT A WASTE, right?

If wine-coloured lips really do ask ‘Do you read Tolstoy?’ I’m surprised my friend Kaylee hasn’t already run out to Boots and slapped some on. She has a penchant for well-read men, and if there were a quick way to pick out any literature loving guys without opening one’s mouth, I’m sure she’d be all for it. Sadly for Kaylee, and all us women who like our menfolk reasonably erudite, if wine coloured lipstick really asks people ‘Do you read Tolstoy?’ then anyone wearing is it likely to receive a chorus of  No’s as they walk down the street. How sad.

So next time you reach for the lipstick, ladies, think about what your lipstick is saying for you. Then fuck it and pick whatever you like, or don’t wear any at all. Let people judge you by what comes out of your mouth, not what’s on it.

Chives

Playing Starcraft makes you a mental

I’m not a psycho killer. In fact, I’m not any kind of killer. I work routine jobs, hang out with my friends, and go on the internet. But if you had access to my internet history, and analysed posts I have made on messageboards/twitter/fanfiction websites, you could probably paint a picture of me as some deranged psycho who is mentally unstable and liable to snap any minute.

At least that’s the impression I’m getting from the Wall Street Journal. In the aftermath of the shooting of congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, along with an number of other people, in Arizona this week, the WSJ published the article ‘Postings of a Troubled Mind: Accused shooter wrote on gaming site of his job woes, rejection by women.’ The article then goes on to dissect the content of messageboard posts by the ‘accused’ shooter, Jared Lee Loughner. I bet any of you who have ever written on the internet about problems getting a job, or how you have no luck with women are wondering why the FBI haven’t hunted you down before now, aren’t you. What heinous material to be posting! And on the interwebs no less!

Now, before anyone starts to get angry about how I’m making light far too soon after this horrible tragedy, I will say that it is horrible. I know that. I mean no disrespect. I’m just trying to give some semblance of sanity to a world that has the media running rampant over every small scrap of material they can find around anything that the public considers ‘news’. And let me tell you, what counts as news is a very scary thing.

The article starts by summarising notes found scribbled around his house, saying things like ‘die bitch’ and ‘die cops’ on a letter from the congresswoman’s office, which I’m sure is somewhat relevant to the whole shooting thing. But then it moves into the messageboards. At first, a couple of lines the WSJ focuses on let you think that there is something of concern here. Apparently he was fixated on grammar, and yet he posted “I bet your hungry....Because i know how to cut a body open and eat you for more then a week. ;-)”. Unless he was fixated on bad grammar, that’s decisive evidence that he’s disturbed. Other lines published include him asking if anyone is angry all the time, or whether users would hit a “Handy Cap”, or some weird ranting ‘justification’ for rape. Okay, so it’s useful in painting the picture of him as a disturbed man who was not of sound mind when he committed the crime he is accused of.

But then they start using whatever posts they can find as evidence of his ‘insanity’. But these posts don’t add to the crazy. They’re just ordinary messageboard posts. Somehow, the WSJ is trying to use these as evidence that he is an insane motherfucker and somebody should have noticed earlier. I mean, of course, why wouldn’t you start to get worried when a guy is posting things such as these on the internet?

“How many stars are in the universe?”

“What do Chocolate cookies taste like?”

“This forum made me feel better J”

Under a topic he started called ‘Weight Lifting’ (Shock! Horror!) he “asked whether anyone else lifted. He described himself as 5 feet 10 inches tall and 155 pounds, and said he could do 65 push-ups, bench press 165 pounds, and do 25 pull-ups and 100 sit-ups, (thanks to the ab machine).”

Have you mused about the number of stars in the universe? Have you wondered about the taste of chocolate cookies? (Not me, I know what they taste like, but if I didn’t I’d definitely want to know) Have you ever posted information and advice about your current fitness obsession on a messageboard? Then the WSJ clearly thinks you are mentally disturbed, and you should probably go take a pill for that, or something.

I’d like it if the moral of this tale was as simple as ‘the media are morons and will print anything, even if it makes no sense’. But, sadly, there aren’t enough people in the world to temper the massive wave of idiocy that flows out from printing presses the world over. So the moral really is, be careful what you write on the internet. And I’ve broken that already.

* All material quoted in double marks (“”) is from the WSJ. Almost all the words in single are me being a dick. I do realise I use them a lot.

Some fun facts about New Zealand for the British*

*also applicable to those of any other nationality who do not know nearly enough about this darling Antipodean nation.



New Zealanders are not nicknamed Kiwis after a small brown fruit

Though we do nickname ourselves after something small and brown. The kiwi is a native flightless nocturnal bird, and serves a national symbol for our small island country. Nobody in New Zealand would ever think of eating a kiwi, being as they’re so endangered, but handily enough, nobody thinks you’re asking for a small bird to chop up and put on your breakfast cereal.

That’s because we call the fruit referred to in the UK simply as ‘kiwi’ – wait for it – kiwifruit. Simple (not simples though). Anyone who calls it ‘kiwi’ and drops the fruit is purely lazy, and probably ignorant enough to make the stupid jokes we always hear about being nicknamed after a fruit. Below are some pictures to show you the difference between a kiwi and a kiwifruit. I really hope for humanity’s sake you can figure out which is which.

We are not part of Australia.

Not even close. Australia is, on average, a three hour flight from New Zealand. How would you like it if people continuously thought that your hometown of Chipping Sodbury was located somewhere in Slovakia? If that doesn’t appeal, just pick any country that is longer than a three hour flight from the United Kingdom.

No, we don’t know your cousin Dave who moved to Auckland.

New Zealand is a country of 5 million people. While it’s small compared to practically every other nation that features in the World Cup (being the main reason Brits know there are other countries in the world), it’s large enough that the arrival of an Englishman (and maybe even his extended family) is not a cause for national excitement and news coverage.

That said, we probably do know your cousin Dave who moved to Auckland.

Everyone in New Zealand does actually seem to know one another. I moved literally half way around the world to London and found a roommate on the internet, who turned up to have grown up next door to my ex-boyfriend. Spooky stuff. While this is great for networking and getting your mates to hook you up across international borders, it does tend to result in instances like a bad one-night stand turning out to be flatmates with a guy you went on a date with the night before. Trust me.

We don’t really like our flag, so don’t be so smug about it

While most countries will happily deck themselves out in the colours of their flag for sporting events and other instances of national pride (for New Zealanders, only sporting events are important enough to be considered for national pride), we prefer black with a tasteful silver fern to jazz it up a little. The colours of our flag are red, white and blue, since we have pint-sized Union Jack in the corner of ours, but funnily enough we like to stand out from the multitudes of countries that have those exact same colours on their flag. This hangover from the days of Empire (suck it up, it’s over) gets on many a Kiwi’s nerves. So don’t start with your imperialist crap about how our flag pretty much is your flag. We know. And we’re trying as hard as we can to change it.

New Zealand is probably best described as Britain in the 1970s

Minus the striking miners and riots, of course (our miners just get killed. Awesome). You know how everyone likes to remember the ‘good old days’? When kids didn’t run around in hoodies saying words like ‘innit’, there was no such thing as ‘knife crime’ and the greatest threat to society’s moral fabric was a key-swapping party at a bungalow down the road? New Zealand is kinda like that (probably less swingers, though you never know). Violent crime isn’t that high. We don’t constantly have PSAs telling us to nark on our neighbours in case they decide they are going to blow something up or shove a cat in a dustbin. Sadly, n twenty years or so New Zealand will probably be as shit as Britain is now, but then Britain will be even shitter (heaven forfend!), so we still win.

You probably know more New Zealanders than you think

That girl from Two And A Half Men who stalks Charlie? New Zealander (check her out in Heavenly Creatures, a film about two young girls who have a strange, psychotic lesbian relationship and then brutally murder one of their mothers. Based on a true story and everything). Excited about the upcoming Green Lantern movie? Guess where his sidekick’s from? Yep, New Zealand. How about the guy who wrote the Rocky Horror Show? Grew up in New Zealand! (They erected a statue of Riff Raff in full space garb in the town where he grew up here. Too cool.) Or, if you’re a bit of a geek, you may be gratified to know that under their glossy white armour, every stormtrooper from Star Wars looks like a New Zealander. More specifically, Temuera Morrison, who played Jango Fett in one of the abominable prequels.

We’re to blame for Hear’Say

The tv show Popstars was the first in the world to do that ‘audition people to make a band and film it for reality tv’ thing. The result was True Bliss, a band of such craptastic proportions that it fizzled out faster than all of their later imitation. The only trace left of this truly heinous creation has been the presence of former members in the public eye, acting as z-list celebrities doing everything from volunteering for more reality tv to shilling on infomercials to keep themselves in the spotlight.

The New Zealand creators of the show sold the format overseas, first to Australia and then countries in Europe, creating bands that the world didn’t need in the first place the world over. In the UK, that was Hear’Say. Oops.

Tales from the wax museum

Some of our 'guests' are possible frontrunners for future Darwin Awards. Here are just a few stories to illustrate the kind of crap we have to put up with every day (the same is probably true for most people who work in the tourism industry, or even anyone who has to deal with people. You poor, poor souls).

• A man buys a cup of slush (a frozen drink that is apparently as addictive as crack cocaine, judging by the reactions of most people) but puts the straw in upside down. The girl who served him notices this and tells him, 'Oh, no, sir, that's the wrong way up.' At this point, the man breaks from just regular moment-of-mindlessness into full-blown mental deficient with the IQ of a vaccuum cleaner. Instead of removing the straw and re-inserting it correctly (heh, inserting, I'm filthy), hep tips the entire CUP of slush upside down. As a consequence of that pesky thing called gravity, the slush ends up all over the floor. I wonder why? The man then of course blames the girl who served him, but logically finds no sympathy there. How did this person manage to live to adulthood?

• A staff member is called down to fix a faulty vending machine. He turns up to see a woman standing in front of the machine, which is £3.50 in credit. He asks her what's wrong - she tells him "I put money in, nothing happen." (or some other form of broken English. Spend enough time around tourists and you'll start talking like this, too). He explains to her the usual process for vending machines: put money in, select item, thing comes out (or vice versa, but possibly the concept of more than one way to do things is a bit hard for some people). At the second step (that's 'select item') the woman exclaims in discovery. Is that how these magical machines work? They don't read your mind? I don't just cross my fingers and hope it gives me the drink I want? Revelation! Again, how did this person manage to feed and clothe themselves every day, quite apart from making it out of their hotel and to the wax museum?

Confidence in the human race: lost.

Things I saw at work today*

Two German teenagers lovingly caressing Boris Johnson's hair.

To be honest, that's pretty much standard for my line of work. The entire point of this wax museum is to let people get "up close and personal with all their favourite stars and heroes" (I'm not being a dork quoting it word for word. It's written in my contract that I have to know that). And up close and personal they get!

It's amazing the liberties the guests take (again, company policy dictates that we call them 'guests'. I suppose if we called them customers, they might actually cotton on to the fact that we're robbing them blind while they snap happily away at waxworks) with the figures. I've been known to take some silly pictures myself at work parties, and I can only hope that most of them never make it onto the internet.... but these people will take their stupid (and often politically incorrect) photos in full view of everyone.

The worst is probably a toss up between Stephen Hawking and Hitler. Every day, a steady stream of tourists crowd up (I can't say line up, it's a foreign concept to anyone who visits this place) and take photos behind the author of A Brief History of Time looking like a cross between a rabid monkey and someone who has been involved in a serious car accident. There's taking the piss, and then there's posing behind Stephen Hawking with a spastic face. Bad taste to the extreme.

Speaking of bad taste, the Hitler figure certainly wins in this regard. (Did I just lose my argument? While Godwin's Law is certainly valid, you have to agree that there are certain situations in which it is unavoidable) While the presence of Adolf is enough to get some people quite literally frothing at the mouth with anger, a far larger number of people think it's perfectly natural to pose with him doing a Nazi salute. It isn't. It is so far from ok that I actually get a bit scared for the future of the world when I see that happening.

If that scares you, maybe don't read any further. The latest story from one of the other departments is about the man who asked one of the photographers (who have 'sets' in front of designated figures to take photos in front of and then sell you magnets and keyrings etc.) to take one of their cameras off the tripod and come take a photo of him with Hitler AND Saddam Hussein. After assuring the photographer that he'll definitely buy a copy of the photo, he proceeds to pose between the two (they're next to each other in some sort of progression of evil lineup I suppose) with his arms around their shoulders. Hey, I'm buddies with some dictators, bro! He then proceeds to tell the photographer 'I buy six keyrings, for my family.' I hope his family members pelted him with the keyrings instead of enjoying his horribly bad taste gift.

While there are plenty more stories about how bad our 'guests' can be, I'm depressed enough for one day.

*I wrote this while working at the wax museum, and forgot to post it before now. I've actually left there now.

5 Reasons why celebrities are the BEST figures at Madame Tussauds

Seeing that tourists need more direction, I have written this handy guide outlining why you should only be interested in the celebrities at Madame Tussauds, and completely ignore all the other people, who have probably contributed more to the course of human history than all of the occupants of the A-List Party put together. Why are celebrities so amazing, you ask? Well, read on and learn...

1. They're so sparkly! I mean, sure, Queen Elizabeth I has a crown and a whole lot of bling on her sash, and Henry VIII has all that pimpin' jewellery (not to mention loads of ladies - holla if you a playa by the name of Henry!), but Cheryl Cole has a freakin' TIARA!
2. These people are in MOVIES. Who wants to see boring old politicians, who you can see on the news for free? People are only worth your attention if you have to pay to see them. That's why strippers are so authentic and high-class*.
3. The celebrities are fashion-forward. Doublet and hose? That's so four centuries ago, dahling. And no more of those vintage military uniforms, like Saddam and Castro - it's been done before, and it only works when it's ironic. Nothing suits men like a suit, and nothing suits women like something sparkly (see item 1).
4. People who are alive are so much more cool than dead people. Your friends might actually believe that you've met J-Lo, you know? But it's highly doubtful that anyone would believe in your close personal friendship with Mahatma Ghandi: "We're bros, y'know.".
5. When you touch a fit waxwork, its fitness rubs off on you. Therefore, the only waxworks worth touching are the attractive ones. Sadly, this means that most of the world leaders, writers, artists and even Royals who have moulded and guided the world's recent history are out of the equation. Luckily, it still gives you leverage to try and have a look up Tara Palmer-Tomkinson's skirt.

*Note to any actual strippers reading this blog: I'm sorry. You're probably better than these celebrities. I only denigrate your line of work for comedic purposes. Not like it hasn't been done before.

Things to do on my day off:

On my days off, I like to think that I will be productive. This usually means I make a list of things to do, and then proceed to not do them. This week, I stupidly left my list on the desk while I went on break, leading my coworker/frenemy to modify it according to what he thought I should be doing.

In case you can't read it (and you probably can't, since this is a terribly shoddy picture), I've written it out for you below. Bold are his additions (which he originally wrote exactly the same as my handwriting... many people refused to believe that this wasn't my actual list of things to do).

 Things to do on my day off:
- Have a bath in asps milk
- Washing that man right out of my hair
- Sort out my clothes except the leathers which are fine
- Eat afternoon tears, preferably of a young Irish man
- Go to Primark/Clapham in General is a hole
- Paint my nails/talons
- Put pictures back up on the walls of the lair
- Grind bones to make bread
- Murder first born sons
- Cackle maniacally
- Men

Suffice to say, I didn't complete all of the items on my list.

Guide to being the most AWESOME tourist ever

Working in a major London attraction, I see a lot of tourists every day. Those who aren't from the United Kingdom seem to act as though they're following a set of guidelines for tourists published by some organisation that hands out pamphlets to every person who boards a plane/train/boat bound for Blighty. How else could you explain the almost wilfully ignorant behaviour exhibited by people at my place of work on a day to day basis?

I have searched tirelessly around the nether reaches of the internets to find evidence of such a list. However, my quest has been fruitless. These people must learn it through word of mouth, like a set of Chinese Whispers (is that racist? Hope not) passing across customs barriers. I feel that, since I have not found any evidence, it is my duty to document the amassed wisdom of tourists on these pages, so that future travellers to the fair isle of Britain can share in the same experiences as those before them.

Transport

• Take taxis in London whenever possible. Their high cost is outweighed by the way in which you will become intimately familiar with parts of London while sitting in traffic. Nobody on the Tube the leisure of counting all the windowpanes in a Park Lane hotel!
• If you must travel on the trains or Underground, do not buy an Oyster card. These emit harsh gamma radiation that can cause sudden blindness or impotence. When you use paper tickets, you also have tim to soak up the atmosphere of all of London's stations, as you try to figure out how to insert the ticket into the barrier.
• Do not stand on the right hand side of the escalators. This is a transport rule enforced by Royal Decree of the Queen. As you are not her subject, stand wherever you want! Those people who angrily push past or ask you to move only do so because they are healous of your country's freedom from Royal subjugation.
• The same applies to walking above ground as it does on the escalators. Brits are legally bound to keep to the left hand side of footpaths and stairwells. Proudly display your freedom from tyranny be walking all over the place!
• Walking quickly is only for the proletariat, who are shackled into jobs that demand punctuality. You re a seasoned world traveller, with nothing but time. Demonstrate your superiority be walking as slow as you possibly can, preferably in a large group. This will allow a crowd to gather behind you and marvel at how awesome you are.

Money

• Do not bother to learn what British money looks like. Memory skills are for those who are working, not holidaymakers like yourself. Every time you pull coins or notes out of your wallet you must check their denomination, in case they have changed appearance since the last time you used them.
• Use large denomination notes for very small purchases as often as possible. Shopkeepers are more than happy to empty their tills of all notes in order to give you change. Any apparent disgruntlement on their part is only envy that you have so much money in your possession at any one time.
• If you sign the back of your credit card, it will tempt thieves to steal it and then learn to forge your signature. An unsigned credit card is preferable for all electronic transactions in London.

Shopping

• Always linger in shops and cafes when it is obvious that they are closing. This sets you apart from the average tourists who were scared off by chairs being stacked around them and floors being mopped under their feet. It shows the lowly shop assistants that you are hardcore, and demands their respect.
• If you have not purchased at least ten items that say 'London' on them, nobody will believe that you have actually visited. Better buy every item in the shop, just to be safe.
• Queueing is a way in which the elite in Britain keep the lower classes 'in line', both literally and figuratively. As you are not British, you do not have to queue.
• Shop staff enjoy tricking customers by pricing items incorrectly. Even if there are prices for every item, you must ask someone how much each item is at least once just to make sure.
• Getting your money out before the cashier has finished putting through your order is premature. Like doing other things prematurely, this is rude. Wait until you have seen the total amount to pay before you even attempt to get your wallet out, then spend as much time as possible extracting money. This lets the person on the tills know that you respect their services and do not want to rush them.

A Note About Fat: Part I

This was meant to be a small aside commenting on weight and food issues, inspired by watching Jamie Oliver's American Food Revolution, but it turned out to be so much more. In fact, this is only a small part...

I moved from my hometown in New Zealand to London in May 2009, leaving behind my parents, friends and (almost) everyone I had ever known. Nine months later, I went to the airport to meet my mother who had come to visit. As expected, the first thing she said to me was "How great to see you!".
The second thing: "I don't like what you're wearing. It shows too much of your fat thighs."

Not expected.

That is, not expected if you haven't lived with my mother for 23 years. First off, I should say, I don't hate my mother. This isn't a rant about how terrible my parents are and how I would have been better off if they had sent me off down the river in a basket made of reeds. I think my parents did an amazing job, and I generally look back on my childhood with fond memories tinted pink by the passing of time. However, there is one area where my parents and I disagree, and it has caused some of the most painful memories of my childhood, and also adult life, like the comment above. One part of me that my parents didn't praise me for and want to show off to the whole world in small wallet-sized photographs or framed school reports.

My weight.

What feels like an uphill battle with my parents has been going on for what feels like forever, or certainly since I was old enough to have coherent memories of my childhood. I can remember dressing for a school photo* when I was five years old, and my mum telling me what I should wear to cover up my "chubby bits". As I moved through the years, this was always the goal when buying clothes. To "show off my only thin bits" - my legs. My mother, heavily influenced by the 80s, saw the perfect remedy to her daughter's "problem" in leggings and big jumpers. As fashions changed, I wanted to change too. Let me wear what all the cool kids are wearing! But my mum, and dad too, not that he had much involvement in what I wore, told me that I couldn't wear the fashions of the day, because of what they liked to euphemistically refer to as my "size".

Friends'parents, also, regularly commented on what I was wearing. Comments that started out in a perfectly polite vein, such as, "I like your outfit today..." ended with a sting in the tail that mirrored my parents' comments "... It doesn't make you look as fat as what you wore yesterday." Needless to say, as soon as I had any control over it, I saw those parents as little as possible. But the idea that I looked bad, that I had a weight problem, that there was something wrong with my body, stuck with me.

 As a child, this was deeply disheartening. The messages of popular culture for kids in the late 80s and early 90s had major themes of loving yourself, being happy with who you are, and all the other sorts of positive reinforcement about accepting difference that were delivered to kids with accompanying neon cartoons and a soundtrack of half-hearted rap songs. Being the easily manipulated educated young thing that I was, I lapped this up. People will like me for me! It doesn't matter what you look like, as long as you are a nice person! Accept everyone!

I couldn't understand why my parents didn't accept me.

As I reached my teen years, the time when practically all people have issues with acceptance, their body, and petty things like popularity, I began to see that (in some ways) my parents had been right. They were only relaying the prejudices about appearance and weight that the blissful ignorance of youth had kept hidden from me before. With the onset of puberty, the same judgement came at me from classmates as it did from my parents. Being picked last for sports teams. Hardly any boys having crushes on me (and one of those who did only doing so for a dare!). All traumatic experiences that seem to be handpicked from a reference entitled 'The Worst Parts of Being a Teenager'. Looking back now, I can see that the behaviour was typical pettiness. A way for some kids to make themselves feel superior by putting others down. But at the time it didn't feel like that. They were only confirming what I had been told most of my life. I was fat. And that wasn't something you wanted to be.

I staunchly kept silent about my unhappy moments at school. I did not want to let my parents know that I was anything less than happy with my body. Because, at this time, I had no problems with my body. It was just the way that other people treated me based on my body that caused my unhappiness. And that included the way my parents treated me. Instead of comforting me and offering me sage advice on standing up to bullies and being true to yourself, I knew that my parents would tell me that if I was thinner this wouldn't happen. That in reality, I had brought teasing and unpopularity on myself because I was fat.

My mother's way of dealing with my fat, which I could feel offended her so much through every stinging comment, was dieting. This was my mother's own personal beliefs, in which anything that contained fat was bad (read: almost everything), as well as anything that contained sugar (almost everything else). Celery and carrot sticks. Low fat cottage cheese. Bran flakes and apple slices. These were the foods that you should live off. Shopping for food with my mother was something like a reverse game show. Whenever you pointed at a product, she would tell you exactly what was wrong with it. Everything was "laden with fat" or "full of sugar" or just "really bad for you". Most of the staple 'exciting' parts of a packed lunch (in New Zealand, unlike the UK, everyone brings a packed lunch to school, from primary through secondary) - a small packet of crisps, some dried fruit and nuts, a muffin - were deemed too unhealthy for me. As a result, I ate in secret. I didn't understand why other kids could have these foods, and not be made to feel bad about what they were eating, so I ate those things too. And I didn'r feel bad about it. Take that, mum! Sadly, I probably ate more than everyone else was eating, and what was probably actual overeating encouraged my mum in my quest to 'help' me fit into an 'acceptable' size for society.

I know she was trying to help, to shelter me from the cruel truths and prejudices of the world by making me fit into the mold that society has for 'woman' or 'girl'. But shouldn't she have done it the other way around? Made society less cruel, easier for me to fit in as I was? She gave me an androgynous name, so that my future career prospects wouldn't be determined by my gender/sex, by apparently the feminist revolution didn't extend to fat, as far as she was concerned.

Angry at the way my mother determined how I saw myself, and how I thought the world saw me, and around the same time that I started high school, a friend and I made a pact.We were around the same 'size', and went to the same primary school, so were kindred spirits in our experience as 'fat' kids. We decided that we would take control of how people saw us. No more hiding behind giant sweatshirts, as our parents had dressed us. We would only wear clothes that fit properly, since we figured hiding only made us look bigger than we actually were. I only vaguely remember most of the other rules, but one more stuck with me for many years, and I only broke it recently:

No shorts.

At the time, shorts on girls were worn reasonably short, above mid-thigh, unlike the later trend that led the word 'shorts' to mean any trousers that ended somewhere between your ankles and your knees (more correctly termed capri pants, pedal pushers or cropped pants, though I try to hold back my pedantic nature). I distinctly remember the comparison in our minds with sausages bursting out of their skins. Our thighs were not meant to be shown to the world. So we would not show them. Not nobody not nohow. For years afterwards, I wore jeans year-round. Even in the heat of summer, trudging up a hill on my paper route. Such was my dedication to the cause of not letting anyone see my fat.

In a narrative turn that seems to come straight out of the 'True Life' sections of Teen Vogue or Girlfriend magazine, my friend-in-fat decided to show her dedication to the cause in a different way. She basically stopped eating. In the intervening time between our summer pact and her drastic measures we had somewhat grown apart, so I can't comment as to how much she didn't eat. Her parents never seeemed to worry or show any signs that she wasn't eating at home, but every lunch she brought to school went straight in the bin instead of her mouth. The girls at school gossiped, of course, but this was nothing new. A school with 1200 girls is no stranger to eating disorders, or its more easily disguisable cousin, disordered eating. As terribly damaging as that sort of eating (or not eating) can be, no one can argue that not eating doesn't cause weight loss. My friend lost a lot of weight.

My parents noticed this weight loss, and not-so-secretly wanted this for me.

Often, they would comment to me after just seeing her walk by: "Doesn't she look nice and slim" "Why can't you look like that?". When I angrily told them the 'secret' behind her 'success', that she had practically stopped eating, my parents told me I should "probably give that a go". Shocked, I told them that was what most people called an 'eating disorder', and not exactly desirable. Had they not seen enough lifetime movies of teen gymnasts being pressured by parents to stay slim, and wrecking their bodies in the process? Was this what my parents wanted? Evidently, yes, since my father responded to my eating disorder argument against that method of weight loss with "Well, maybe you should have an eating disorder. At least then you'd lose a bit of weight!". Congratulations, Dad, your wish was granted. There have been periods of my life when I threw up everything I ate, because I was scared of what food would do to my body. But that didn't actually induce any weight loss, just anxiety and a destroyed throat. Be careful what you wish for, Dad.

End of Part I.

Next time: High school, weight loss, weight gain, and what I have learned. How exciting!

* I still have this school photo. Looking back on it now, I see a normal sized child that would not cause me to think twice about her weight if I was a parent. In case you read this thinking 'Damn, you probably were a chunky little thing and just needed to stop putting crap in your mouth' (which I hope you weren't), I was not an exceptionally fat child. A little heavier than the median, yes. Not crisis-level deathfatz, by any means. I still have no idea why my parents started targeting my weight at an early age.

My self-imposed vegan challenge!

This may seem like a complete departure from the tone of this blog so far (not that I've really been posting that much), but, for the next two months at least, this will be the place that I record all my experiences, recipes and pictures of my vegan challenge to myself.

For the next two months, until the 28th of February, I am going to eat only vegan food. I specify vegan food because I can't really call myself vegan - I'm not going to throw out my wool coat, or my leather handbag, or... well, I'm too poor to have any more clothes that involve animal products. Cheap clothes are all synthetic! But I will stop buying wool/leather/silk/any other animal dervived clothing for the next two months (possibly also related to the aforementioned poorness, but it's what we do that counts, right?).

To anyone who knows me, including my roommate, who is shaking her head predicting that I won't make it even as I type this post, it may seem like a bit of a stretch to go from omnivore to herbivore overnight. However, little do (most of them) know my secret passion:

Reading vegan food blogs

I have to admit my secret obsession so that everyone knows I am not going into this unarmed - for about a year and a half now, at least a third of the blogs in my RSS feed have been vegan cooking blogs. They were a welcome distraction to me while completing my Honours year at university back in New Zealand, and I have kept up the habit while over here in the UK. I even ordered a zine or two from those who have them (Swell Vegan, I'm looking at you...), so will love having the motivation to make some of the more 'complicated' vegan recipes.

Before lauching full-on into my experiences in eating vegan, I should probably list the reasons that I decided to make this change:

• As a student of sociology, one of my main interests in veganism is the way that it challenges accepted food norms. In Western society, eating meat, cheese, eggs and other animals products is pretty much accepted as the norm, and while vegetarianism has gained quite a lot of ground, with vegetarian options almost always available when eating out and in supermarkets, veganism doesn't seem quite so accepted. The best way to experience the way that veganism breaks these norms is, of course, to be vegan (who knows, maybe I'll find out that there's nothing hard about being vegan in a meat-and-dairy-eating society, but I don't quite think that'll be the case...).
• To re-evaluate my relationship with food. In the past I've been a bit of a sporadic overeater, and working crazy hours my job has made my eating habits all the more crazy. I hope that by not being able to just grab a takeaway because I'm lazy, and actually plan what food I am going to eat, I will gain some healthier attitudes to food - and healthier food as well!
• For the environmental and ethical reasons. To be fair, I'm sure we've all read the same arguments for being vegan before: eating meat is murder, killing animals is unethical, the way that dairy cows are treated is wrong, etc. etc. All of these issues come into my decision, but the overarching idea is to make sure that my actions come into line with my political beliefs. After all, if I believe in equality and freedom, shouldn't animals be included? If I'm passionate about regulating large producers of carbon dioxide gas because of climate change, shouldn't I also stop supporting meat and dairy farmers, whose dense farming produces large amounts of harmful methane gas? For me, the worst thing to be, politically, is a hypocrite.

Maybe these reasons will expand, as I find new and exciting reasons to be vegan. But for now, it's time to eat! Hmmmm... what's in the cupboard?

Sometimes, I love The Herald

Not often, mind you.

The Herald newspaper is too Auckland-centric for its claims to being a 'national' newspaper, puffed up with self importance because everyone else in the country really cares about what the latest troubles are north of the Bombay Hills. News happens in other parts of the country, too, children, why don't you try publishing some of it? So I don't usually read The Herald.

As part of a recent job, I had to read through thousands of pages of microfilm to search for specific stories - from The Herald, The Dominion and The Press. Being stuck in a windowless basement every day may have loosened my grip on sanity somewhat, but I still think this article found in The Herald says something interesting.

"Hawk-eye watch kept on cults"

"Auckland's own cult-busters are based in a simple white house on the edge of the city's Bible belt at Mt Roskill...
Cultwatch is a Christian-based organisation that draws its workers from across the ecumenical divides. But the group insists that it is not out to Bible bash...
We are talking about central, basic, fundamental Christian beliefs. They are: the authority of the Bible, deity of Christ, Virgin birth, atonement of sin at the cross, bodily resurrection of Christ, and the belief in the Second Coming."

Did you see what they did there? Possibly not. Let's take another look.

"in a simple white house on the edge of the city's Bible belt at Mt Roskill..."

Get it now? The authors italicized the title of the Bible. Just as you would when writing a story that referred to Pride and Prejudice. While it may seem like a small act to many, it can also be seen as a slap in the face to all those fundamentalist Christians whose faith demands that they blatantly deny any authorship of the Bible. In the words of the estimable Ben Agger (someone should really make a wikipedia entry about this guy) in his book Socio(onto)logy puts it:

"In mirroring the world, we forget what is text and what is history."

In the chapter that this quote is taken from, he is referring to the way in which the format of academic journals increasingly forces the social sciences into using 'scientific' formats for their articles, meaning that the aspects of social life that sociologists discuss in their articles become scientific 'fact', and thus unable to be argued with. In this way, academic writing, by claiming to be a mirror and reflecting the 'factual' world, creates that world by presenting those facts as unarguable and true.

The same goes when talking about the Bible, something I am sure that Agger has also linked to this discussion, although for the life of me I can't find any reference in the material I have on hand. By treating the Bible as something that does not need to be referenced in the same way as other texts when writing, it denies that it is an authored document, thus denying all the subjectivities and temporality of the text.

Agger once noted that the editors of his work had trouble when he attempted to attribute the author of the bible as Jesus. But denying that it is a humanly authored text only promotes the sort of injustices that we have seen when people use scientific 'fact' as a reason for a damaging course of action, ignoring all the human subjectivities and preferences that went into creating that 'fact'. By citing the Bible as any other text, we renew the divide between text and history.

And for that I say, GO THE HERALD.

The randomness of trawling through archives...

Part of my job at the moment involves looking through the photographic collection at the National library. Most of the records that I skim past are relatively boring, such as 'Mobil, policemen in car' or 'Photographs of wrecked boats'.

But sometimes, the descriptions of photos are so completely strange, they make you laugh out loud. Luckily, part of my work can be done at home, so I managed to dodge the label of crazy-talks-to-herself-in-the-library-lady.

'Creator of collection unknown
Photographs taken by donor while insane'

Let's just mull this over for a second, shall we?

A collection of three photos. The record doesn't say what the photos are of. Or who took them. But the library knows that they were taken while the photographer was insane.

Brilliant.

Another photo that caught my eye, this time while actually looking through the (really badly organised) folders of photos, was a collection of 'erotic' novels seized by customs in 1990.

Retro porn. Awesome.

While some may think that writing erotic fiction is the pasttime of washed up authors or people who can't get a real job, the pen names some of these people chose reveals genius.

Examples:

- Donna Derriere
- Ina Haystack
- Tom Katt
- Stu Wart
- Dick Wiggins
- Rod Strong
- Justin Case
- U.R. Dumb
- John Boring
- Juan Tonn

Some of these are just standard sex puns. Donna Derriere. Dick Wiggins. Good for a snigger and then move on. Some are more questionable. Aren't you meant to not insult your readers? I wonder if U.R. Dumb sold many books. And also, is Juan Tonn meant to be a really bad play on 'Won Ton'?

Nonetheless, I bet the books by John Boring were real scorchers.

Bet you wish you could get your hands on some of these books.

7 Party ideas brought to you by ALAC

The wonderful folks at the Alcohol Advisory Council have put out a booklet this summer, detailing how to celebrate responsibly. Included are some fantastic ideas for party themes. I will assume that since the tone of the booklet is that you can party responsibly and have fun without getting drunk, these are meant to be fun themes to have instead of comsuming massive amoumts of alcohol at your party. I say, some of these would only make sense if you were *very* smashed.

1. Williams
2. Creepy
3. Quiet
4. Uni Student
5. (famous) lovers
6. Killer Whales
7. Isocoles triangles

I like the way the creators of this list thought we needed reminding that the 'lovers' had to be famous. Like otherwise people would just turn up in pairs acting all mushy? What kind of party theme would that be anyway?

The mind boggles. Also check out #6. A little bit specific for a theme, I think. It's not like you're leaving much room for the guests to get creative... But really, when I think of the theme 'killer whales', all I can think of is this.

Do you think these are fantastic, and can't wait to host a party of your own? Let's take a look at #7 again: Isocoles triangles. Not just triangles. But a specific type of triangle. You can just imagine the host of that party turning someone away at the door:

"No way man, those triangles are equilateral, you're OUTTA HERE!"
So I'm amped to host my next party now... but be warned, those triangles better be isocoles!