Monthly Archives: November 2014

What happens in waiting rooms…

Today I decided I wanted to be Roxie Hart. This happens more often then I’d like to admit.  It’s not tumblr_n94aqmASig1tcc3imo1_500like I admire her at all. It just that I know all the Chicago songs, and I think her haircut is cute. But fact of the matter is, if I was to be a Renee Zellweger character, I’d probably be closer to Bridget Jones than Roxie Hart. I may not be able to sing – but I can drink and eat dessert for dinner. We all have our strengths guys.

What I really wanted to write about was hospital waiting rooms. In Brisbane the lines are particularly bad. You have to sit there with your broken bones and appendicitis, until you start to disturb the other patients with your pain noises. I sat in one on Sunday with my boyfriend, Peychaud (still a code name) and tried to guess all the diseases I could possibly be exposed to. Everytime I wander into a hospital I wonder if everyone in there is like, “I wonder what she’s here for. Maybe she picking up someone, maybe there is a small spider living under her skin somewhere”. I can’t be the only one trying to guess what people are in for based on their outward appearances. There isn’t a lot to do in waiting rooms. As I looked around this particular waiting room, no one was touching the enormous stack of trashy magazines, no one was watching the badly dubbed movie that was likely made in the 40’s. No one is even talking. They are just angrily staring at each other. It’s like the Hunger Games in here. I just know that man sitting next to me is hoping that I will die just so he can move up in the queue. That is what it gets like.

But the thing that makes me feel like this whole situation is being controlled by some unseen game maker is this crawling monstrosity sitting at my feet. It’s a small child with eyes that say “I’m nothing but innocent.” Then it head-butted my leg a few times then settled on my shoe for a quick nibble… Did you know children do that? I could feel its little teeth trying to bite into my shiny heels. They are practically made of steel, so it did nothing to my shoes. So that’s one problem down.

What does one do in a situation like that? The mother is probably in for some serious reason. Grandmother is distraught and confused, struggling to keep an eye on little Fang. Speaking of Fang, she is now crawling up my leg with her saliva covered hands and now I’m worried she is going to try and lift up my skirt.

I’ve had dogs bite the shoes on my feet before and it’s taking all of my brain power not to automatically shake it off. Or kick it. It’s not like I dislike them – it’s just a (literal) knee jerk reaction.  After another minute of toddler gnawing I was praying that Fang’s Mother would get called in before us. Peychaud had already been waiting for two hours and together we had waited another hour, and I was willing to let Fang senior skip the queue just so I could get out of this looming awkward situation where I accidentally kick this blue eyed ringletty cherub out of my future.

But that was my Sunday.

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The only cure for writers block, or, a brief history of potatoes.

If there is one thing I can guarantee above all else, is that there will be times, month levels of times where I am not inspired. I’m not inspired to read, I am not inspired to write, and I am certainly not inspired to clean my kitchen. Just do those shallow sorts of cleans were you wipe all around the toaster, knowing full well there is a loafs-worth of crumbs sitting under it, and thinking, ‘that, is a job tumblr_nf5knc47881ssbvp5o1_400for another day’.

Of course, the rest of the world does not except that. There are hordes of people who don’t think writers block is a thing. Those people are probably electricians. They probably don’t get kitchen-cleaning-blocks, or electricity-blocks. You really need to have a fragile mind, susceptible to the environment it lives in, ready to give in on a whim. But those minds belong to artists- the ones who don’t have a flow chart of steps to follow when they don’t know what to do next.

So I suppose this is my long winded way of not really apologising for being so very absent online. But none of use care about this, so let’s move along to the theme. Potatoes. Or I guess you could say – its fighting through writers block with a sturdy essay on the world’s dietary staple.

There are a million reasons why potatoes became the most popular crop in Europe. They provide excellent sustenance in the way of vitamins and carbohydrates. They fed more people per acre than nearly any other crop. They were easy to grow and taste pretty fabulous with salt and butter (what tumblr_mqpzpvtq1H1qklt4yo1_500doesn’t, am I right). Mostly I think it was bred into the genomes of the Europeans, and it never left. I swear my grandmother is part potato herself, and I’ve seen baby pictures of myself, I even looked like a potato. I am yet to meet an Englishman – or any man, that doesn’t value a potato.

However, the simple potato has quick a number of deaths on its hands. During the mid 1800’s, Ireland, the potato whores, were so incredible poor, they relied solely on the potato to get by. They were probably the healthiest poor people ever. Then when the potatoes suddenly started rotting in the ground, the Irish began to starve. If there is one thing that Voldemort taught me, its too always have a backup plan. Or 7. What happened was this: an airborne fungus drifted over after being freed from ships that had just travelled from North America. Spores settled on the leaf of the plant and infected the potato, which in turn, infected the thousands surrounding it. The potatos fermented in the ground and left off a stench, that could rival that black death. I once found a potato in the back of my cupboard in a similar state. To this date I have not smelt anything worse. I’d rather a small animal crawled into my bed and died there.

potatoIn 1853, some railroad dude who was far too big for his boots (to hospitality workers, the customer is always wrong) had a whinge that his potatoes were cut too thickly, and sent them back to the kitchen. I would be angry on behalf of the chef, but what happened next changed the course of potato history. The chef, after a long day of similarly bitchy requests cut the guys chips up paper thin and fried them – probably just to spite him. Though it obviously had the opposite effect.

How the simple potato had grown from mass murderer, to perfect party host. Just goes to show how one vegetable can completely turn around.  Makes me feel pretty hopeful. For the sake of this blog anyway.