Minnow, at 27

Okay, okay.

This is obviously not Minnow at 27. Actually, the debate last summer was that this was, in fact, not Minnow at all, but some random child inserted into her family's summer holiday photo album.

Because, if you've ever seen Minnow's Michael Jackson family home video, you would know she was the most adorable child that ever lived. All big doe eyes and eyelashes nine feet long, wiggling around someone's living room; dragging the Thriller record around to beg her relatives to put it on. Again.

She just had to dance!

This is my hands-down favourite Minnow story, ever.

Anyway, I've known Minnow 9 years now, and somewhere there is a picture floating around from our freshman year, where we're sitting in a dorm room with Natalie and I've got a terrible haircut and a big eyebrow ring, and Minnow looks just as cute, comfortable and sure of herself as she does today.



Excuse my camera's terrible night vision, but this is one of favourite pictures of Minnow, taken when we visited her and Charlie last summer, in Chicago. It makes me smile, because somehow I imagine her giggling to herself about some quiet, silly joke.

That today is Minnow's birthday is important to me for so many reasons. First and foremost, because Minnow has been perhaps the most constant friend I have ever had - a steady voice and comforting presence, despite lots of miles and months apart. Just as she so quietly, steadily succeeds and grows in her life, she also remains an source of inspiration for me, and many others.

In Baltimore, she and Charlie had a poster on their wall from an old World War II British government campaign. "Keep calm and carry on," this poster said.

For me, this is Minnow at her very root: calmly achieving great things without big fanfare. She writes, she draws, she paints, she knits, she sews, she cooks, she runs, and she always sends thank you notes. She also dances to Michael Jackson.

But you knew that already.

This birthday is also important, as Minnow is the kind of friend who never forgets my birthday; who spoils me with love and packages full of beautiful things. If you're lucky enough to ever receive one of her packages, you know what I mean.

As a less-beautiful-but-hopefully-just-as-thoughtful package is winding its way across the world to her doorstep, I use this moment, this post, to help celebrate Minnow.

A tremendous woman, a noble friend.

A great dancer, too.

A word on our car.

Feast your eyes up this, our mode of transportation: the Daewoo Matiz.

(Pictured here in such heavenly light, parked in front of the Audrey Wilkinson winery in the Hunter Valley, with Kate. Picture by SteveO!)

Also known as “The Beast”, “Massive Attack”, and “The Clown Car”.

This car is a borrowed gift from Jon’s mum and her twin sister, Kate, whose Victorian farm we’ve visited a few times. Kate has used this car to drive about 70 miles to work and home every single day for years, down windy country roads. She filled it to the brim, and whizzed it right through deep, dirty puddles, squat little wombats, and piles of goat turds. It was modest, and served her without fail. She was so enamored with her little Matiz, in fact, that she mourned losing it. And when she finally decided to give it to us, she drove a parting lap so her grade school students could wave goodbye.

Allowing us to use in while we’re living in Australia was a kind and noble gesture, and I’m very grateful. It is such a generous act, in fact, that I don’t even mind my life flashing before my eyes whenever I get inside.

It’s a manual, without power steering, and our knees bump the engine. But it DOES have four doors and the two front windows are powered (well, whenever you can wedge your hand in between the stick shift and the seats to press the button, that is). We’re fairly certain some country animal is living and/or died inside, as despite a thorough interior clean, removal of the seat covers and multiple air fresheners, we can’t get rid of the death smell.

(As an aside, it reminds me exactly of two smells on this earth: 1) when a squirrel nested in my Ford Taurus while it sat on my parent’s driveway during my Freshman year of college. It smelled like a combination of acorns and wet dog, and there were maple leaves EVERYWHERE. Also, 2) when I left my backpack in Jon’s Singaporean dorm room while we travelled around Thailand, and an iguana crawled in, latched on, and died a very stiff death. Despite washing and washing that bloody thing, the smell never came out. I finally threw it out – and it was a nice backpack!)

Anyway, Jon and I have an ongoing argument about me learning to drive this car. It usually goes something like this:

Jon: I drive all the time. I’m sick of driving. You should learn.

Me: my last memories of learning to drive a manual car include blowing the fuse on Derrick Kunes’ Jetta’s electrical system, resetting the dashboard and all its radio stations while facing oncoming traffic. It did not go well, and I’d rather not repeat that experience in a foreign country, on the opposite side of the road, with a clown car.

Jon: You’ll be fine. You already practiced once and didn’t die.

Me: Last year, I had to pretend I was sixteen again and learn how to drive in the UK and I FAILED my test once before passing – though I’ve been driving TEN WHOLE YEARS - and it was possibly one of the most embarrassing experiences of my life. I’ve done my time. Not doing it again.

Jon: You can learn in a parking lot somewhere!

Me: I will someday give birth to your children. This is the ultimate trump card, and I am playing it.

Truth be told, I feel awesome that we’ve had the same tank of petrol in our car for the past month – and despite lots of weekend runabouts, we’ve still got a quarter of a tank. It’s also remarkable that we can zoom around car parks and pull up in spaces usually reserved for motorcycles. So there’s that.

But me, negotiating traffic in Sydney’s hills via The Beast? Hmm.

I’m not as brave as the wombat-thudding, puddle-braving Kate.

Because it's Friday, and my plans to leave work early have been thwarted.

1. If you're reading this stateside and haven't discovered Triple J Radio, you need to. Commercial free, awesome public radio that supports great music.

2. This is painful, and yet kind of good: Ellen Page + Harmar Superstar + Some other girl doing "Don't Stop Believin'." (This one's for you, Minnow!)



3. Dooce had her baby. What do you think of the name Marlo?

4. I'm ashamed I looked through most of this gallery. I've got a serious celebrity crush. Don't tell my husband.

5. Speaking of hunks, this is great article about Rafa. He is, interestingly, highly ambidextrious.

6. We spent the recent long weekend tasting wine in the Hunter Valley with SteveO & Kate. I have yet to do a proper post with pictures, but my favourite moment was meeting up with some other friends from Sydney, sitting on the veranda here and tasting wine while watching the sun set over the vines. It was a fantastic weekend of grown-up, cultured fun.

7. We're thinking of throwing a Christmas in July party, as it's wintery here and we're craving the mulled wine and roast veg we never had this year. Thoughts?

When a little motivation is needed

The Running Superfans. I love these guys.

What it looks like from the other side

I had the weirdest dream a couple days ago, involving some of my Interwebs BFFs.

In my dream, and I was doing my regular blog roll, and I visited a very abandoned Pioneer Woman. In my dream, she hadn’t posted anything in months, and the effect was very much like clambering through the cobwebs of an abandoned house. Old, retro pictures and forgotten stories lay lifeless on the page, frozen in time. Dear readers, it hurt my feelings. I felt neglected, as if my friend had simply deserted me, and the only remnants of our friendship was a couple old casserole recipes and a bad picture of her flower garden.

This is important for two reasons:

1. It illustrates how I’m sure my many thousands of faithful readers (hi, Mom!) feel when I don’t post for a month. All you’ve been left with is smooshed Lamingtons and silly idioms about unemployment. For that, my appologies.

2. Secondly – and I’m reaching here – it exemplifies my transition back into the working world. My plans of pottery projects, 3-tiered cakes, and reading to the elderly have been shelved while I struggle to balance an entire day at work followed by any productive activity, whatsoever. I have had to relearn how to both work full time AND work out, clean my house, and make dinner, and it’s certainly a shocking adjustment. The clothes strewn all over my house in random piles can certainly attest.

The strangest moment in the past few weeks in my new job (which has been great, thanks!), was witnessing the tearful goodbye of a well-loved designer here, who was leaving with her partner to travel the world for awhile. I pinched myself at the surreality of it all: having been in her exact same position, leaving a job and team I loved to engage in a year of total and utter, exciting uncertainty. Through her tears she couldn’t even articulate a response to her boss’ kind remarks, and although I don’t think I ever actually visibly produced tears when I left my old job, I certainly cried my bliming heart out in the weeks running up to the actual departure. What an emotional shitstorm THAT was.

Watching this poor girl face a countless stream of goodbyes was a reality check in my changed circumstances. In total honesty, I was overcome with joy that I was not in her shoes; that I was not packing up my life, saying farewells and riddled with worry over flights and foreign muggings. I was practically dizzy with relief. Of course, our situation here is still chock-full of ambiguity, but I’m so grateful to have a flat and a job, making plans with friends and getting involved in the community. Most importantly, I’m thankful that I can go home tonight and spend the weekend wearing a dent into our couch.

So, I have become an agoraphobe. Now all I need are some cats.

Or maybe it’s Post Traumatic Travel Disorder, of which the most common symptom is getting cold sweats when touching a backpack.

Either way, until we move back to Minnesota, start living with my parents (hi, Dad!), and get season Gopher Hockey tickets, I’m technically still travelling. But thank the sweet, sweet lord it no longer involves a Lonely Planet and cheap, roach-ridden hostels. I’m way over that.

Bring on next week’s trip to the Hunter Valley with SteveO & Kate, where we’ll drive up, stay overnight, drink our weights worth at Aussie vineyards, and drive home the next day, to continue working on that couch dent.

Bring on my late twenties, a steady paycheck, and a place to call home.