Dear KH Chroniclers,

It is my great pleasure to annouce that after months of drama, pitches, planning and unemployment, I am finally departing on my whirlwind adventure overseas.

I would like to thank you all for your support, comments and encouragement over the last 10 months The KH Chronicles has been in operation. This makes for my 100th post and seems a fitting way to end what has been a life-changing 'way to waste time'.

While The KH Chronicles may be going on standby while I am away, I am proud to offer you an alternative fix...

Where In The World Is KH? will be chronicling every hostel, happy camper and horror story as I make my way from Summer Camp to snow-capped mountains. I'm making no promises that it will be every day (we all know the internet is entirely to unreliable for such a declaration) but regular(ish) posts are a promise.

Cheers once again, and for the last time...

Ciao for now. xo

Real

Tomorrow, I am flying to New York City.


I have been telling myself this all day, trying to make it sink in. But it still feels surreal, a fantasy, like at any moment I am going to be wrenched awake and faced with the sad reality of my boring life.

But this is real.

The backpack sitting on my bed, stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey and the zippers straining to prove it, is real. My crisp passport with all but one international stamp, lying snug inside my travel wallet, is real. The ticket waiting for me at Brisbane International Airport, is real. My seat on the plane to New York City, is real. All. Oh. So. Real.

I still feel a little lost – like I should be feeling more. Like I should be scared shitless or so excited I can’t sleep. But despite the ‘real’ I am faced with as I pack up my life and kiss everyone goodbye, I still feel strangely empty inside. There are no overwhelming nerves tempting me to chew off all my nails. No buzz of excitement pulsing through my veins. Tonight- my last night in Australia, my last night with my family, my last night eating a home-cooked meal and sleeping in my warm little bed – feels like any other ordinary night.

It’s as if I am somehow at peace with all the excitement and the nerves. I have spent 10 long months coming to grips with the fact that I am going that in my own head, I think I am already gone. I think I left a long time ago, the moment I first saw the website for Appel Farm Summer Camp.

But I can’t deny that the excitement still gets to me. It creeps up on me every now and again and gives me a nudge, a reminder that even though I might feel calm, this is still the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. This is still the bravest, the biggest, the ballsiest leap of faith I’ve ever made. You can’t fool yourself out of that kind of excitement.

Tomorrow, I am flying to New York City. Tomorrow I am gone.

Ciao for now. xo

It's About Time

Tick tock - here that? The countdown is officially on. Not only have we entered the home stretch, we are approaching the finish line with surprising speed.

I can't believe that six months ago I didn't think the clock could tick any slower. Now it feels like the minute hand is spinning around at warp speed. And the realisation is most profound - not only have the last two weeks of my time in Queensland sped past like a V8, but the last six months, not to mention the last five years.

That's right. I've been out of highschool for five years. Where exactly did that time go?

Oh that's right... into a HECS bill.

Time has always been an enemy of mine. Every corner of my life is ruled by time. Deadlines. From my profession right down to boiling the kettle to make a cup of tea. Everything is a matter of how long it will take to do something, how long I have to complete a task, how long I have to wait. I am a walking expiry date, terrified of going mouldy.

It's always been this way. When I was in Year 12, I knew the end of the year held this monstrous rite-of-passage where I would finally move out of Gympie and to the big smoke in Brisbane. Nothing and no one was going to prevent me from doing so. I didn't want any excuse to stay in Gympie. So in those final months I stayed well away from boys and any ties they might bring.

It was the same when I moved to Sydney. Once I made that decision, I didn't want to have to leave anyone behind. Finding myself a boyfriend so close to moving away would only further complicate my ambition, so I denied myself and moved into my new digs in New South Wales as a single gal.

And literally like clockwork, I'm now back in the same place. Leaving again and not wanting any further reason to make it hard on myself. The deadline of going away is difficult enough without the addition of a broken heart.

So I'm a walking expiry date. Always have been. And maybe that means I haven't had as much (well, let's be honest Mr. Abbott) any experience when it comes to working in the romance department. Maybe that means I am an emotional cripple, a commitment-phobe, and the poor boy who eventually decides to love me is going to have an interesting time dealing with my fear of settling down, but whatever. At least I am not mouldy. My plan had cause. I am free to do whatever I like, with who ever I like, where ever I like without anyone or any boy to tell me otherwise.

But the plan isn't flawless. I may not have a boy to leave behind, but there's always someone. Or somebodies. And being back in Brisbane for these last few days has reminded me of that. It may be easier not growing mouldy and always being the one who leaves, but you can never escape the sting of leaving somebody behind.

I guess I thought I didn't have that much to lose by going overseas. Brisbane seemed like an eternity ago, I had a small circle of friends in Sydney and had spent the last year busting my butt in job which was a daily struggle for survival. All the stars seemed aligned for ditching it all to go overseas. But being back in Brisvegas with my friends has totally thrown me. I am reminded of everyone I love and who loves me and who have continued loving me despite all my galivanting around. And who will love me when I leave. And who will love me when I get back. And who will love me when I eventually leave again. Friends like that are hard to find and mine must be awfully forgiving, for all the whiplash I put them through.

So this post is dedicated to those people - Brisbane and Sydney alike - friends who have welcomed me into their lives even though I so frequently leave. Friends who keep up with me as I run ahead of my deadlines and who I know will never, ever let me grow mouldy.

Ciao for now. xo

The Sound of Silence

After 15 hours of driving, three too many cups of McDonald’s coffee and one horrifying experience with a pit toilet just outside of Grafton, my mother, my self and all my stuff finally made it safely home. I have officially left Sydney. And in 17 days, I officially leave the country.
Despite all the hoopla that led up to my going overseas, leaving Sydney feels like the first step of many. For the last six months, I’ve felt like a sitting duck. I’ve been counting down the days till I leave like an excited child counts down to Christmas. This trip has been the bright, shining beacon of hope that has guided me through life’s putrid swamp. And now, it’s a mere 17 days away.
It’s strange being home. For the last 18 months, I’ve been living in a city which literally never sleeps. I can’t remember a night which hasn’t been interrupted with the screams of a siren speeding down ANZAC Parade or the grumbles of the gutter cleaners as they sweep the leaves and litter and cigarette butts out of Sydney’s streets. At first, those sounds kept me awake for hours. Now, my nights are empty without them.

My parents’ place may as well be in a different world, let alone a different state. Garbage trucks and the loud whir of air-conditioning fans have been replaced by bird calls and the stop-start sound of a postman’s motorbike. You can actually hear the wind.
And nighttime is worse. There is nothing but silence. A silence so deafening, it keeps me awake. There are no gutter cleaners or wailing sirens or the faint conversation of the tenants who live upstairs. Just silence – thick, empty silence.

Lying awake last night listening for the sound of anything – cars, dogs, an axe-wielding murderer coming to slice me in my insomnia – I realized this was what I had been craving for the last six months, to be free of all the loud, stressful sound in my life. The sound of every minute ticking by in which I wasn’t making money, the sound of people telling me ‘No’ or worse, the empty sound of people telling me nothing at all. The sound of my computer loading my email account and the sound of the sigh which escaped me when I saw the inbox was still empty.
Finally, after months and months of sound, there is nothing but silence.
As I lay in bed, I realised my moving out of Sydney and my making the first step towards my trip, means I no longer have to be defined by those sounds. Instead, they have been replaced with silence. A silence which means I have nothing and no one to answer to, no responsibilities, no stress to be preoccupied over. A silence which can only be filled with one thing – my thoughts.
And they are unwaveringly, unabashedly, 100 percent obsessed with what will happen in 17 days.

Ciao for now. xo

Writing's On The Wall

Sister Dearest and I are a bit obessesed with street art at the moment.

It comes as I prepare for my last week in Sydney before heading back to Queensland in lieu of my departure. As I visit my favourite places, eat at my favourite cafes and make the most of my final smog-laden breathes, I've been made privy to a side of Sydney which up until now, I've always taken for granted.

I frequently walk past street art but rarely stop and really appreciate it. Maybe it's because I live in a city where everything is on fast forward or the fact that I am surrounded almost entirely by concrete. But you'd think then that the coloured artworks which are secretly painted onto billboards and building walls in the witching hours would stand out amongst the city doom and gloom.

It's not until I take a moment to really look for it that I discover that street art is everywhere. The one-way streets and alleyways which coil throughout Surry Hills are an urban gallery of guerilla artworks. But this is no haphazard vandalism. This is the result of a creative eye and of careful planning. This is the result of a few creative individuals who want to make our city more beautiful and who want art to be available to the masses.

Politicians, city counsel workers and people with no creative appreciation are quick to label street art as grafitti - 'vandalism' by a public nuisance who couldn't keep his paint brush on the paper.

One of Britain's most famous public nuisances is Banksy, a guerilla artists who is no stranger to narrow-minded opinions. His own outlook on politics, war, homophobia, sexism, religion, materialism, advertising (shall I go on?) has been painted, sprayed, glued and 'grafittied' across every possible surface in Britain. The Metropolitan police consider him a vandal and his work an eyesore. What Banksy is is a libertine who believes that the true defacers of public property are the advertising giants and political executives who's slogans contribute to the inadequacies which filter through our lives.

It may not be quite as serious in Sydney, but the city's most famous creative milieus - Surry Hills, Darlinghurst, Kings Cross and Newtown - have gained their fame courtesy of the creative types who push boundaries (and buildings) with their artworks. It's why people - executives, lawyers and bankers alike - flock to these suburbs. They set up their houses and fill them with brands and BMWs and material goods and relish their being apart of such a socially-distinguished suburb.

Ironic really, given the messages these urban artworks were painted to promote.

Ciao for now.

(Image Credit: Banksy and Darlinghurst Nights)

SIDE NOTE: Wear Are The Pants?

All I can say is... Amen!

Ciao for now. xo

A New World of Excitement

It's exactly one month until I go overseas.

One month.

That's 31 days.

31 more days of twiddling my thumbs, frugally counting every dollar and shamefully abusing my journalism skills by investigating every minor detail I can dig up about Appel Farm, my summer camp and soon to be home away from home.

And don't even get me started on the Facebook stalking. Needless to say, it's hitting an all time high. Is it so wrong that I want to see who my fellow counsellors will be and what the camp looks like, based on the thousands of photos posted between 1960 and now?

I don't think so.

Now that the count down is really on, now that I am a mere month away from traveldom and can almost feel the aeroplane cabin air sucking the moisture out of my face, I'm getting excited. Really excited. The kind of excited that keeps you up at night (no kids...not THAT kind of excited...) but the excited that gives you verbal word vomit wherein you can't speak, write or dream about anything else.

And I'm not kidding about the dreams either. I am a woman obsessed.

I tried to put it off for as long as possible by denying myself the excitement. I tried pushing camp and my inevitable travel plans to the very back of my mind and not indulging in them. Partly, because I was worried that if I gave into the excitement, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. For six months, I would have to put up with this rabid excitement eating away at every aspect of my life.

No, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. And neither would anybody else.

But the excitement eventually found me. It sniffed me out, jumped up on to my lap and wagged its tail while looking longingly into my eyes. So I gave in and allowed the excitement to make itself at home.

And has it ever.

Hence the word vomit. Now that I am no longer living in travel denial, all I can think about is camp. All I can talk about is camp. All I can facebook stalk is, you guessed it, camp. I am obsessed and greedily hungry for any smackeral of information I can get my hands on. Every photo, video or review brings me that little bit closer to working out what is in store for me - who I will meet, what I will do, who I will be. And the more information I find, the more the excitement intensifies and even if I try to abstain, the excitement ends up power spewing all over the people I love.

But after everything that's happened in my attempt to make this adventure possible, I figure I'm allowed to be excited. I'm allowed to do a celebration dance simply because I purchased my backpack today (I actually did - both purchase my packpack today and do a celebration dance). I'm allowed to toss and turn all night because I can't stop going over every detail in my head. I'm allowed to let the excitement in.

I'm allowed, because just like buying your first pack and crying at the gate of the airport and taking a million photos nobody else cares to see, it's part of the backpacker's rite-of-passage to be excited.

And to make everybody else jealous.

Ciao for now. xo

What Internet?

Hello my loves!

I know it's been awhile. I know it looks like I've forsaken you and that The KH Chronicles has fallen subject to laziness. But it's not true! The KH Chronicles has fallen subject to the internet, or a lack there of.

Without any kind of connection at home (my modem seems to have waved farewell and passed on to the land of dead modems) I have had to come to the good ol' library in order to pump this post out. Hopefully, this will only be a short term fix, as much like a dog who won't pee when it's watched, I get nervous knowing that the people around me are shiftly watching my screen.

So sit tight! Report back! Hopefully within the next 48 hours my new modem will be purring and fresh posts will be coming your way.

Until then....

Ciao for now. xo

WHO Do You Think You Are?

Ergh... I am so sick of all these body-image-self-love-anti-flagellation messages that seem to awash every magazine cover I come across.

It's not the idea of loving one's body that jerks my chain. It's the ironically backwards way these magazines go about trying to make women feel more comfortable in their skin. When really, they're saying one thing and doing the complete opposite.

I know it sounds like I'm flogging a dead horse. I've touched on these topic plenty of times before. But it just goes to show that as boistrous as some (okay...most) magazines are in the messages they promote about body image, they aren't getting the message themselves.

This week's guilty party is Who - usually one of my more favourite glossips for their superb balance of celebrity garbage and fashion front-runners - but this week, the trash talk and fashion faux pas fall short. Because gracing the cover is Rikki Lee Coulter, Lisa McCune and Johanna Griggs beneath a bright pink banner CELEBRITIES WITHOUT MAKEUP.

I know what you're thinking, because I thought the exact same thing. Sweet - celebrities baring their blemishes, puss-filled pimples for all to see, pores the size of Peru , blackheads, bags under the eyes - all those ugly traits which us normal people hide beneath layers upon layers of Revlon Ultra-Conceal.
What better way to perk myself up than to see 'the beautiful people' looking like every day, normal hags.

Well not in this magazine they don't.

I'm sorry to dissapoint, but there was nothing oozing, nothing red and nothing inflamed from excessive squeezing. In fact, normal was far from what I saw. These women looked like they'd walked out of a three-day spa fix in the Maldives where they'd been scrubbed, soothed and spray-tanned within an inch of their relaxed lives.

In other words, they looked beautiful, and therefore, completely unrealistic.

Staring at these flawless complexions, I became confused. What was I supposed to learn from this? What message was Who trying to sell me? Here are three women who look even more beautiful without make-up, tanned and natural, yet completely unnatural at the same time. Maybe one in every million women look that good without a link of paint, leaving the other 999,999 to feel even more self-aware of their 'beauty'.

It seems now, not only do we have to cope with hoping to look beautiful with makeup, but we have to cope with hoping to look beautiful without makeup too. Awesome - another message about body-image which has further scrambled my insecurities.

So I don't know what to think anymore - about Who or about body image. It's all smoke and mirrors, if you ask me.

But if it's reassurance they were going for, had they feature Rikki Lee with a dirty big Z-I-T on her nose, I'm pretty certain I would be feeling a whole lot better about the face that greets me in the mirror each morning.

Ciao for now. xo

Keep your thoughts, and your Facebook posts, to yourself

I don't begrudge those who are in love. It must be a wonderful time. A time for existing in your own couply bubble. A time for getting comfortable with all the things you despise about yourself. A time for getting comfortable with all the things you despise about someone else. A time for feeling all gooey and mushy inside. I don't begrudge any of this. I just don't appreciate it when someone else's romantic goo and mush gets all over my life.

You know what I'm talking about - PDAing. Public Displays of Affection. Not being able to turn a street corner without seeing two people practically jumping each other or playing a spot of tonsil hockey or rubbing noses or cooching and cooing each other. Train platforms, bus stations, Myers cosmetic counters, the park bench, McDonalds. Like pigeons, PDAers are everywhere.

And now, they're on Facebook too.

PFAs - Public Facebooks of Affection.

Example -

Sarah Needy is missing her man. He ducked out to get some milk and it feels like eternity!

Jenny Overshare is sooo lucky to have a boyfriend who'll massage her bunions after a long day at the office.

Sally Obsessed is deciding whether to polish her engagement ring or try on her wedding dress again. Hope my hubby-to-be doesn't come home with a surprise bunch of flowers and catch me out!

Um...bucket anyone? Or maybe a spew bag?

It doesn't stop there though. It gets better...or worse. PFAing is not limited to profile updates alone. There are those PFAers who like to take it one step further and post their viciously vomitous PFAs on each other's walls, subjecting the rest of their Facebook community to the ins-and-outs of every romantic thought, notion or activity which might occur in the day-to-day happenings of their relationship.

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumkin-Eater: just in case u forgot, your da man of my dreamz. xoxoxox

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: ditto. except your not a man. 

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumpkin-Eater: i can't wait until i becum Mrs. Molly Mad-Hatter-Pumpkin-Eater. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: I can't wait 2.

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumpkin-Eater: I love you pumpy-wumple-kins. xoxxoxox

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: me 2 molly-jolly-wobbles.

(NB. All stupid spellings and TXT-references included in this example are not a representation of the grammatical abilities of this writer. They are merely a representation of the idiocy of Generation Y and what this writer believes to be further proof that 70 percent of those highschoolers who graduated between 2003 and the present must have flunked English.)

So maybe a slight over-exaggeration but you get the point.

The thing is that PFAers don't really see the sticky line of goo and mush they trail across their Facebook pages. They post these things completely unawares to the hacking-and-gagging happening on their friends' computer screens all over the planet. Why? Because they are happily bobbing about in their little Bubble Of Coupledom. And when you live in the little Bubble Of Coupledom, who gives a flying fart what's going on outside? You've got each other and the Bubble's thin film of smugness to surround you and keep you warm at night.

I'm not jealous, of course. In fact, if someone posted something so romantically wretch-worthy and with so many damn spelling mistakes on my Facebook wall, the relationship would fast meet a gooey, mushy end.

So take that, Molly Mad-Hatter.

Ciao for now. xo

P.S. I just re-read this to check for spelling mistakes before posting and decided that maybe I'm becoming a little too cynical in my twenty-something age. Then I checked my Facebook and spotted a PFAer operating without a license and almost gagged all over my freshly purchased sunflowers. So whatever. Cynicsm rules. We might just get married. Isn't that right, cynny-winni-cisms. xoxoxoxoxo

(Image Credit: Le Love)

Dressed to (Un)Impress

When you're looking absolutely atrocious and you're hair is so oily you're not allowed anywhere near the ocean for fear of oil slick and you're wearing your favourite tracky pants with that t-shirt you got playing netball back in 1984 and you're wearing no make-up and no perfume, and occassionally, no deoderant and you're about to walk out the front door to run an errand or get some milk, there's always a moment. A pause. A consideration. Should I get changed? Should I put something else on just in case I run into someone I know or like or used to like or got down and dirty on the dancefloor with that time?

And sometimes, vanity gets the best of us and we have a power shower before leaving the house and of course, based on this alone, don't end up seeing anybody we know.

But then there's those times, that against all better judgement, we think, "Oh, it'll be fine! I'm only running to the shops for five minutes." And in doing so, tempt the Gods to embarrass us by any means possible. And that usually involves inevitably running into the last person on earth you want to see looking the way you do.

On Monday, the Gods made a fool of me in exactly this fashion.

With the winter weather being as chilly as it is, I was kicking around the house in my favourite pair of 10-year-old tracky dacks with my greasy hair slicked back into a pony tail - I was looking about as dapper as a drug addict. When Sister Dearest suggested we should do a load of groceries, I thought perhaps I should change. But the trackies were just too comfortable to replace with a pair of arse/thigh/calve-contriscting jeans, so on went a pair of pluggers and out the door we skipped.

It took about 60 seconds from the time I parked the car and walked into Coles before the inevitable happened. There, standing in the middle of the fruit and vege buying a Perssimon, was the Hot Dish Pig.

Who is the Hot Dish Pig I hear you ask?

Hot Dish Pig is the glass collector (also known as, a glassie) who works at my local pub and without fail, is there collecting glasses like his life depends on it EVERY TIME I pay the pub a visit. And he looks looks like a sex god.

Because I don't know his name, nor anything else about him, he has been christened the Hot Dish Pig (I realise that a dish pig and a glassie aren't the same thing, but it was the first thing I came up with when I saw him and it's sort of stuck since then). Anyway, I think he is nothing short of gorgeous. I also like to think that working as a glassie isn't his only vocation - that really he's a struggling muso/artist/writer that is looking for a muse who looks exactly like I do. But for now, the fact that he can carry 20 glasses at a time is the only thing I know about him.

I probably don't need to point this out, but we've never spoken. Ever.

Anyway, so there in the fruit and vege buying a Persimmon was the Hot Dish Pig. (I don't know if it was actually a Pesimmon he was buying. I'd like to think it was a Pesimmon. I'd like to think that an interest in exotic fruits from Japan is one of Hot Dish Pig's special traits. It's what I love most about him). And there standing across from him with her jaw dragging along the ground and her cheeks burning an attractive shade of red, wearing tracky dacks and a hair slick, was me - looking like a true Surry Hills local.

So what did I do? I made an emergency phone call to Bestie to tell her what had happened and spent the next 10 minutes trying to stalk him in Coles without him seeing me or recognising me as 'that girl' from the pub who makes shameless sex eyes in his direction when I've had a few too many beers on a Friday Night.

Unfortunately and not surprisingly, this story doesn't tie up nice and neatly like some some kind of sickening rom-com. We didn't reach for the same tin of creamed corn and he didn't offer me the last loaf of bread which went on to be the beginning of a beautiful happy ever after. Why? Because I looked positively feral? Afraid not. I'm guessing that it has something to do with the fact that I was so embarrassed at being caught looking like myself that I made a conscious effort not to make so much as a breach of eye contact with him.

When I berated about it later to Bestie, arguing that this could have been THE moment had I not looked like ass, she brought up a good point. If you only ever run into people you're interested in when you're looking like you crawled out of a drain, isn't that a good enough reason to look terrible all the time? Because if you spent hours primping and preening and ensuring you're not one stray eyebrow hair away from perfection, it practically insures you'll never accidently run into anybody you like. I could have changed into a pair of jeans when I was going to, but then Murphy's Law would have made sure Hot Dish Pig didn't decide to do his shopping at the same time as me and I wouldn't have seen him at all. And been reminded how divine I think he is. And how much I should just pluck up the courage and ask him his name.

Murphy, the Gods or The God - whoever you think is behind the controls of our romantic destiny - sure has one sick sense of humour.

Ciao for now. xo

A Hole Lot of Effort

The time came a few weeks ago when I had to undertake that task which befalls us all some stage. I tried to shimmy out of it. I kept putting it off and putting it off and putting it off. I tried to convince myself there was nothing wrong. But eventually, I knew I was living in denial. I knew the time had come. So I called up the dentist and I made an appointment.

That was three weeks ago. Today I went back for the second time to have two fillings done. Oh delight.

I've had a fair amount of fillings in my time. There's a few reasons for this - I sucked my thumb as a kid, I have acidic saliva, whatever. Getting a filling is pretty standard when I make a trip to the dentist. Another hole? Fill 'er up.

It's kind of crazy that a cavity, something the size of a pin prick, takes so much effort to fix. There's a whole dentist tool belt required just to fill one up. There's squeally drills and vibrating drills and drills which feel like they're digging a trench right down to your gums. There's the sucky tube and tweezers and pliers and God knows what else, poking and prodding around. You'd think they were filling in a pot hole, let alone a cavity.

It would be so much easier just to let it go, wouldn't it? Just to let the cavity exist and even despite the pain, go along existing with it. I mean, that's what we do with every other aspect of our lives. We know there are holes in our relationships, holes in our confidence, holes in our self-esteem, holes in our happiness. We've got all the tools to fill them up, to smooth them off and to move on in a state of completeness, but we don't.

Because after awhile, we start to like the shape of them. They become familiar to us. They become a part of our identity and filling in the hole would make us feel different. Complete, yes. But not necessarily any better. The holes claim things and cause things and make us angry and frustrated and sad, but despite all the pain they inflict, filling them in would be more painful. Filling them in means change.

I write this with a fat lip. A lip so fat I feel like a walrus. I caught the train home with a hundred hot men and I wasn't able to smile at any of them because my cheeks were too numb to show any emotion. I have a sore back from the dentist chair and am not allowed to eat for another hour. And, while I may no longer have a cavity in my tooth, I now have a huge cavity in my credit card. Everything about this situation sucks and is proof that there's nothing worse than filling in holes.

Alice in Wonderland sure would have turned out differently had they filled that rabbit hole in with cement.

Ciao for now. xo

Life vs. Art or Art vs. Life?

When the time comes when you can remember particular quotes, story lines and outfits from Sex and the City, right down to the very episode name, it's definitely time to a). consider why that's the only thing you have to offer on your resume. b). look at yourself for a long time in the mirror or c.) stage an intervention.

So in order to cure myself of my Sex in the City addiction, I'm going cold turkey. But while I realise most rehabilitation centres probably wouldn't recommend replacing one addication with another, I am replacing Sex in the City with a new television series with which to see the world.

The Secret Life of Us.

Having not watched it on TV the first time around, I am finding sweet sweet satisfaction in The Secret Life of Us. It's almost...ALMOST...on par with Sex in the City. Not in terms of fashion (as the 90s truly was a hideous time for men and women alike) and not in terms of New York (I'm afraid Melbourne's St. Kilda plays a sad second fiddle) but in terms of everything that is heart-renchingly, rip-your-guts-out realistic about relationships.

Here you have eight normal people, living normal lives and doing normal things - like eating dry Corn Flakes out of the packet on the way home from the shops - and it's this uncontrived realism that makes The Secret Life of Us so addictive. It's their thought processes, the way they behave, the messes they get themselves in and out of - it's so relative that it feels like you're watching your own life on television.

Which is what got me thinking - are 'we' the stimulus for these kinds of shows or are these kinds of shows the stimulus for the way we behave? Do we see ourselves in the characters created in The Secret Life of Us and Sex in the City because they're based on us or because we're based on them?

We watch these kinds of television shows because we want to escape the daily life, the daily grind of duty and responsibility and reality, but is it reality (or a version therefore) that we're actually escaping to? While there are certainly elements of unbelievability about Sex and the City - I mean what kind of writer can afford Jimmy Choos and Prada when their only source of income in a weekily column - what about The Secret Life of Us? There is certainly nothing contrived about their lives. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't. There are no loose ends tied up into pretty bows for the sake of a happy ending. Sometimes those loose ends are just left to blow in the breeze. They don't live outside their means. They live realistic lives and have realistic relationships and the more I watch, the more I get caught up in their 'reality'.

Or should that be 'our' reality? If the lives of the characters I am watching are so relative to my own, perhaps it works the other way too. Perhaps I am in fact flaking out in front of the television set watching myself and marvelling at my own human abilities and ineptness?

Maybe that's what makes it such thrilling television. It has all the thrills and spills of life's little rollecoaster and all you have to do is buckle yourself into the couch. It's like watching your life without actually having to live it. And when the times get tough, when you're caught in a love triangle or when you think you might be gay or you're dumped by the love of your life, you can switch off and escape back to reality.

I can't work out if that's a sad revelation or not.

Ciao for now. xo

Open Seseme

Making all these grand travel plans has made me realise that I'm not a very flexible person.

Once I get it in my head that something is going to be a certain way, I obsess over it. I build it up and build it up and build it up until it sits upon a pedestal so high that nothing can reach it. Reality stumbles at its feet. And I am ultimately left dissapointed by my grand expectations.

In fear that my overseas trip is going to fall subject to this flaw of mine, I am making conscious efforts not to develop unachievable expectations. I figure, by having no pre-conceived ideas about how things are going to be and not creating fantastical scenerios in my head - like meeting Prince Charming or bumping into Anna Wintour in the street and her offering me a job - I can't be left miserable by what reality dishes out.

Therefore, I am being open-minded, flexible and accommodating.

And it's speaking of accommodating that I was recently faced with my first test - before I'd even left the country.

Before heading off to camp, I will be spending my first two nights in New York at the Hostelling International Hotel. Beds are bunk beds and accommodation comes in the form of the following:

1. One room with four beds 

2. One slightly larger room with six beds.
3. One even larger room with eight beds.

4. One very large room with 12 beds.

Hmm - a far cry from the queen mattresses and 3000 count cotton sheets of Los Angeles SLS Hotel.

So here in lies the question - When staying in a hostel where it costs a golden goose egg to have your own room, do you...

A. Fork out for the more expensive rooms, share with three to five other people and be tucked in nice and tight beneath your comfort zone.

B. Forego buying a few coffees over the space of the next week and opt for the eight bedded room

C. Slum it with the other poor-as-beggers backpacking plebs and opt for the cheaper room which comes with the complimentary experience of being out of one's comfort zone and meeting random people you might never see again.

Tricky... very tricky.

As I weighed up the options, bouncing back and forth between the 4 bed room and the 12 bed room, I realised this was a defining moment. If there was ever a time to break through my inflexibility, barge through the Holier Than Thou travel routine I've developed (a result of travelling for work and getting spoilt for choice with pillow menus), then this was it. 

So I made my reservation, clicking on the 12 bed room and keeping all my appendages crossed that I don't get stuck with someone who snores.  

I'm so flexible, I'm like a human pretzel.

And with the $15 bucks I saved by sharing my sleeping quarters with 11 other travellers, a pretzel might be just what I buy as I take a walk through Central Park.

Ciao for now. xo

The Cure

I’ve developed a thing for feet. Not a fetish as such. I don’t get woozy when I see them. I don’t want to dip them in a chocolate fondue fountain or stroke them while crooning “My precious, my precious”.

My thing for feet is more of a concern, a personal interest in their health and well-being. Just like some people spend their pay packet on products fit for cleaning, cleansing, toning and abolishing acne from every square centimetre of their sunny disposition, I finance the world of feet care. Nail clippers, moisturising creams, pumice stones and buffer pads. I have one whole bathroom draw dedicated to my feet maintenance, not to mention a collection of nail polishes which could revival the OPI headquarters.

Who knew there were so many shades of red?

However, upon graduating from university, accepting my first real job and suddenly coming into more monthly pocket money than I was accustomed, my fascination for foot care took toe treatment to a luxurious new level.
I discovered that you don’t have to soak your feet in your own bath for half an hour before bursting a blood vessel trying to pumice your foot calluses into obscurity. You don’t have to put your back out trying to clip, file and buff each individual toe, nor carefully apply perfect layers of Cherry Red nail lacquer only to kick your toes on your way to the kitchen. In fact, the tedious task of foot care can all be left up to the trained professionals at your local nail salon.

How could I have not known about this before? How could I have gone 22 years without experiencing the sheer, blissful indulgence of having someone tending to my toenails with so much professional passion?

Indeed, the best sins are those which feel disgustingly glamorous. What could be more indulgent than paying a woman to rub my feet with her own two hands as she sees to my every crack, callous and cuticle?

Not having to do anything other than sit their like a lazy lard with a foot fetish. Sure, I can choose to throw my nail technician the occasional bone by chatting about the weather or the differences between Fairy Floss and Cotton Candy pink. But it seems nail salon employees are about as eager to speak to you as you are to put your darling, dainty toes through a meat mincer. And so it is that we both keep to ourselves, them washing my feet like I am Jesus and me continuing to flip through my trashy magazine with all the airs and graces of the salacious celebrities I’m reading about.

Okay, so putting out the pennies for a pedicure does seems to assume the type of caste system long outlawed by Western politics, but I figure the concern I hold for my 10 little piglets is keeping at least five bunion beauticians in business, so it's not as sinful as it seems.

However, there is a small problem with becoming familiar with this kind of treatment. When you lose your job and become suddenly poverty stricken, any unnecessary expenses must be immediately exterminated. And that means no more salon spas, no more deep tissue toe massages, no more fantasy feet. When the times are tough, one must become her own bunion beautician.

Returning to the days of scrubbing my own feet flat and rubbing moisturiser into my own calluses and holding a steady hand as I carefully paint each individual toe is only a further assurity of my demise. I'm sure it's how celebrities feel when their careers take a plunge into obscurity and nobody offers them free Chanel to wear to the markets.

While I must come to terms with this sad culling of pleasure from my life, with it comes the opportunity to re-connect with my footsies. After all, once this tumult of bad luck is over and I finally get my foot in the door, it's them I'll have to thank.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: So About What I Said)

Let Me Hear Your Body Talk

Bestie and I went out to The Sheaf on the weekend - a watering hole in Rose Bay which attracts some of the more attractive animals from the Sydney jungle, and is therefore an attractive destination to frequent as a young, single female.  A good time is always guaranteed there. It's a bit like Brisbane's Royal Exchange Hotel- except without the ever present stink of stale beer and vomit wafting up from beneath the deck's floor boards.

It just being Bestie and I, we found ourselves to be easy targets by gentlemen who were out on the prowl. It's that whole 'divide and conquer' techinque - two women standing together alone are much easier to speak to than a whole gaggle of women. Anyway, I would have been fine with all this useless chit-chat if the men who were approaching us weren't rude, judgemental idiots.

Upon being approached by a duo of men, (who in honesty, and judge me if you will, we wouldn't have blinked at in any other circumstance), both men began talking to Bestie, leaving me to stand silenty with my hands in my pockets, listening to their conversation. I wasn't grumpy. I wasn't bored. I was simply being silent. However, despite this being the case, one of the gentleman who appeared to be the alpha, turned to me and said, "Why are you so serious?"

Me? Serious? You've got to be kidding, right? I'm about as serious as a joke store.

To which I replied, "I'm not being serious. I'm just standing here."

To which he replied, "Well, you look serious. You look serious and unapproachable."

Me? Unapproachable? You've got to be kidding, right? I'm about as unapproachable as an excited puppy in a playground.

To which I replied, "Get out of my face, you judgemental ass! Why don't you take your serious and unapproachable and stick it were the sun don't shine!"

Ha - not really.

But what did follow was a rather heated conversation about this man judging me without any clue about what kind of person I am.

Now while I understand and agree that something like 80% of what you express is through body language, I don't understand or agree with this man coming up and accusing me of being serious and unapproachable. As far as I am concerned, I was being neither. I was being silent. I was waiting for the conversation to take a direction I could join in with. And if this man wanted to get to know me, he could have asked me anything else other than "Why are you so serious?" He could have asked where I was from, what I did for a living, what kind of shampoo I like to use - questions I would have been happy to answer and which would have given him a little insight into the kind of girl I am. But no - this presuming idiot decided to go fire up all my cylinders with 'serious and unapproachable.'

What I didn't appreciate was the fact that, according to this man, I was not allowed to be silent and inactive. I was not participating in the conversation because it was not my conversation to participate in, not because I was being haughty and disinterested. What was I meant to do? Whip out a sudoku while my friend finished her conversation? Whack a toothey fake smile on my face in case anyone was confused about whether I was happy and excited to be there? I WAS happy and excited to be there! And if this man had taken the time to start a conversation with me before jumping to conclusions about my being 'serious and unapproachable' he might have worked out that I am A HAPPY AND EXCITING PERSON TO SPEAK TO!

Anyway, his loss. Bestie and I made a quick getaway to the bar where we ran into a strange South African man who said he thought I was adorable. And then kissed me on the lips. But it's okay, he was gay.

At least, I think he was. You never can tell at The Sheaf.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex and So About What I Said)

The Customer is Always Right (Unless They're Wrong)

Today was one of those hectic days that makes me stop and realise how much I hate my life.

They don't come around all that often, which is good because I hate it when they do. I was working a full-day at The Cafe (7:30am -4:30pm, which I realise is not what you white collar workers consider a 'full-day' of work but is a hell of a long time to be on your feet) and I was getting absolutely slammed. It's like everybody woke up this morning and thought "Hey, let's go to that little cafe in Surry Hills and harrass the floor waitress by being the shining example of the worst customers ever."

They arrived in droves and they just kept on coming. I couldn't keep up with the demands and had so many hands waving in my face I was worried I'd lose an eye. As I cleaned up after a table of four, with the next group anxiously tapping their feet in wait, I remembered what it was I hated about waitressing.

1. You go through shoes at least once every 3-6 months. With so much oil and food particles ending up on the kitchen floor, not only do your shoes start to stink, but they start to rot. It's gross. You quickly learn not to wear your favourite shoes to work because they will only end up in the trash (tied up in a bag, inside another bag). Even Volleys aren't immune to this fate.

2. The menu is not a guide. The menu isn't there to look pretty and to give you an idea of what the cafe keeps in stock so you can make up your own dish at will. The menu is the menu. And, dear customers, if you don't want what is on the gourmet sandwich you're looking at, then take your lazy butt up to the sandwich shop where they will happily cater to your fussy preferences. Being picky not only makes the waitresses and the kitchen staff annoyed, but it slows everyone down which means you don't get your meal as fast as you'd like. So really, the only person suffering is you. Oh, and me.

3. Customers who get agitated because their detail deficient ordering means I have to ask a lot of questions.
Example:

Customer: "I'll have the beef sandwhich please."
Me: "What kind of bread would you like that on?"
Customer: "Well, what kind of bread do you have?"
Me (in my head): They're written on the menu you idiot! Stop wasting my time!"
Me: "We have sour dough, multi grain, soy and linseed or turkish."
Customer: "Sour dough."
Me: "And would you like your sandwich toasted?"
Customer: sighing and looking agitated. "Yes."
Me: "And would you like a drink?"
Customer: "Yes, I would."
Me: "And what would you like?"
Customer: "A bottle of water please."
Me: "Would you like table water or to purchase a bottle of still or sparkling?"
Customer: looking even more agitated. "Table water"
Me: "Is there anything else?"
Customer: "Yes, I want a coffee."
Me: "What kind of coffee would you like?"
Customer: "A long black with a side of milk."
Me: "Would you like hot milk or cold milk."
Customer: "What is this? A bloody interrogation?"
Me (in my head): Well if you bloody said what you wanted, I wouldn't have to ask you so many questions! Make up your mind before you wave me over and we won't have to have this stupid conversation!

End Scene.

4. Customers who think they're first to be served as as soon as they've sat down. If you've come into a cafe that is packed to the rafters and you've managed to find a seat, the first thing you should do is be greatful you found a seat at all. And then sit tight. If the waitress is running around like a chook with her head cut off, that means she's busy. If she doesn't come over to you right away, it doesn't mean she's a terrible waitress who deserves to be burnt at the stake. It means she's busy. If you wave at her like you're drowning in a rip and she acknowledges you, that means she knows you're there and she'll be with you when she can. If there are other customers waiting to be served, that means they've been waiting longer than you and therefore the waitress will serve them first. SO WAIT YOUR BLOODY TURN! SHE'S BUSY!

5. Customers who butt in. If I could punch every customer who's butted in while I've been serving someone else, half of Brisbane and half of Sydney would be walking around with black eyes. Customers who butt in are generally regular customers who have forged some kind of 'surface level friendship' (which isn't a real friendship, it's only surface level) with the waitressing staff and therefore believe they are of greater importance than all other customers. They're not. They've just a regular customer who is butting in.

6. Regular customers who expect special attention. I would walk over hot coals for some of my regular customers, they are that nice and understanding. Others, I would throw onto the coals and then break dance all over. Just because a customer comes in every day, orders the same thing and are known by name, doesn't mean they can make demands or demand special attention. Yes, you're a paying customer, therefore you are going to pay for the same service everybody else in the cafe is paying for. Unless you want to tip me for it and then you can have whatever you want. I'll crown you the King of Sheba and kiss your feet if it means you'll stuff 5 bucks in the tip jar. But unless that's the case, no deal.

7. Sore feet. You think wearing uncomfortable heels to work is bad? Try being on your feet for 8 hours straight.

8. Customers who order one thing and once you've written it down, change their mind so you have to scribble it out and make the docket messy and confusing. And two minutes after you've handed the docket into the kitchen, decide they want rye toast instead of sour dough because they suddenly realised that sour dough is white bread in disguise and is full of carbs which would make them fat and unlovable. So you have to piss-bolt into the kitchen and change it before the naive kitchen hand puts the sour dough on and wastes a perfectly good piece of bread on a customer who is too indecisive for their own sanity.

9. The general lack of gratitude and the misunderstanding that just because I'm a waitress, means I'm a stupid, uneducated nit wit. Sometimes, I feel like printing a T-Shirt for work that says, This is not my real job. This is a no-other option job. This is so I can pay my bills and feed myself when I'm hungry. I'm actually a hard-working freelance journalist, who once worked as a full-time writer for a credible publication but now works from home and only gets paid when she gets commissioned. I went to University. I got a degree. I graduated with honours. I'm smart and savvy and independent. I'm not just a waitress with a death wish. SO STOP JUDGING ME!

10. Coming home at the end of the day with coffee splatter on your legs, arms and somehow behind your ears, coffee grind underneath your fingernails, second-hand smoke in your hair (and lungs), the stink of sweat and food all over your clothes and a general dissatisfaction with the world.

I know most people (and for a time, myself included) think that waitressing is a second class job. But I beg you, for the sanity of waitresses everywhere who are actually out-of-work artists trying to get by or university students trying to pay their rent or suddenly unemployed struggling freelancers who are going overseas in two months and need to make an much money as possible, by any means possible.... be kind to your waitress.

And give her a bloody big tip, because she may just write a rip-snorting blog which could turn your name to mud.

Ciao for now. xo

Such is the Life of a Writer

As you can see, we've had a bit of a Autumn clean out here at The KH Chronicles. I've been meaning to do it for awhile. The original zeal I had for the layout had grown a bit mouldy and a lot of the sections I had included with the hope of posting in regularly, hadn't been used in quite some time. KH Commentary was getting a repeated flogging, while Silver Screen was barely seeing the light of day.

So I thought it was about time I did something about it and voila! New layout! With the easy-click Blogspot, it really is as easy as that.

As I clean out my own blog trash, I'd like to send out some cudos and a warm hug to Erica Bartle over there at Girl With A Satchel. Having been through a particularly tough week in the eyes of the media, she too, has decided to have a bit of a makeover and initiate some changes at Girl With A Satchel. It takes guts to admit to yourself that you've made mistakes, let alone admit them to your peers and the public. And while I love every inch of Girl With A Satchel (after all, it was what inspired me to start my own blog), I heartily commend Erica for the changes she is making and her strength in the firing line of the often cruel and quick-to-judge media.

Being a writer brings with it certain responsibilities, responsibilities I am very wary and respectful of when I am writing for print publication. I double check my facts, I read over every line and assess their different interpretations. I make sure the copy is bullet-proof before I file, because once it's printed, it can't be un-printed.

Sure, statements can be retracted and apologies made, but there will always be copies of your words, whether on hard paper or simply ringing in the readers' ears. People think that the news grows old, that it becomes replaced, but the news is like an elephant - it never forgets. Just like Julia Roberts explains in Notting Hill, "Newspapers are forever" - the day may end, the newspapers may get thrown away and the stories may go out of date, but they can be referred to and brought back to the forfront at any time. Newspapers are forever in filing.

And it's easy to forget that blogs work the same way and therefore deserve the same respect and wariness. Like Erica explains in her post, blogs are, by their vary nature, biased. But while we can write whatever we like with as much opinion, gusto and freedom as we care to divulge, we must still take care and responsibility for what we are posting, just like we would when submitting for print publication.

I faced this very dilemma last week when writing Dear Lara Bingle. While The KH Chronicles does not operate on nearly as high a visitor turnover as Girl With A Satchel does - in fact many of my readers are my friends and family and are therefore more forgiving - I am still responsibile for what I post here. While the way I write and what I write about is biased, cynical, sarcastic, ironic and often subtly offensive, that doesn't prevent me from suffering the same consequences as what I would if this style of my writing was published in a larger forum. After writing Dear Lara Bingle, I questioned whether it was suitable to post (especially given the current defamation issue between Lara Bingle and Fevola.) After some careful wording, I decided to go ahead and post, crossing my fingers that the relatively unknown KH Chronicles would not suddenly find itself in the middle of a media hail storm.

We are all entitled to our own opinion and while we verbally share these with freedown between each other, it does become a completely different story when they are written down and shared in a public arena. Such is the life of a writer. Sure, you can giggle or commed the writers who bravely share their tactless opinions each week in their newspaper columns, but guaranteed, their emails and pigeon holes are flooded daily with abusive letters and detailed complaints at the comments, no matter how hilarious, they have publically made.

So dear readers, I encourage you to support the writers you love to read.They go out on dangerous limbs to bring you content which can be interpreted in a million different ways and can leave them dangerously open to being shot down. However, while our opinion can fast be our undoing, it is what makes us unique and to lose it, would be to become one step closer to living like the machines.

Ciao for now. xo

GO.SEE: Shady Pines Saloon, Darlinghurst

Saddle up your horse and shine up your spurs, cowboy. We're heading to the Shady Pines Saloon.

If you've ever dreamed of swaggering into a Western bar with your thumbs tucked into your pants, chewing tobacco and with a sneer that would put Clint Eastwood to shame, this may be the place to do it.
The Shady Pines Saloon is but another of the boutique bars to crop up in the Surry Hills/Darlinghurst/Kings Cross area, but unlike the shabby chic stylings of many of these intimate watering holes, the Shady Pines brings a whole new niche to the market.

As its name suggests, the Shady Pines is a fully decked out saloon bar, complete with mounted stag horns, skinned cow rugs and the kind of tables you should be dancing on in a corset and a ra-ra skirt. There's an authentic selection of beverages (and the usual for those not so brave) and best of all - a free bowl of unshelled peanuts for guests on arrival.

And don't go expecting Black Eyed Peas to be pumped out the stereo. If you've got a problem with Jonny Cash and Dusty Springfield, that's definitely going to be a problem.

But it's all part and parcel of this great concept which is pulled off stylishly by owners, Anton Forte and Jason Scott. The kind of bar which you'd find wracking up big business in LA works just as well in down-town Sydney.

Giddy up, I say.

Shady Pines Saloon
Address: Shop 5, 256 Crown St Darlinghurst, 2010
Hours: Daily, 4pm - midnight
Menu must-have: The free bar nuts - delish.

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: The Friend Ship

When we're younger, our friendships hold all the possibility of lasting forever. We exchange 'best friend forever' necklaces like there some sort of tangible promise and believe they're going to hold strong the bonds that will last us in to the future.

Then we get to highschool, our Peter Pan ideals get shot to hell and those cheap necklaces we once treasured becomes knots in the bottom of a jewellery box. We grow up and change. We make new friends and with these new friends, we make new promises.

Then highschool ends and we all dispurse and start living the lives we were born to lead. We walk down different paths and make difference choices and meet different people and soon those best friends we so truthfully promised to stay in contact with forever, are nothing but names on a Facebook friends request.

When I think about how many friendships and best friendships I've made over the last 22 years and how much work has gone into keeping those friendships alive in the face of, well, life, it makes me worry about the fate of my current friends. Will they too suffer from this seasonal change which seems to take place every few years? And if so, when is it that we meet the friends who are going to be our 'best friends forever?'

I hate wondering if the people that I'm sharing my life with now, what can be argued as the 'best years of my life', are going to be there in a few years when my life, once again, changes. When a boyfriend becomes a husband, when I become a mother, when my babies become children, when those children become adults. Will the people that I'm living my life alongside be there for when all that happens? Or will they too, only go on to be referred to in past tense?

We all want the Sex in the City-style relationships that last beyond youth, beyond marriage and beyond motherhood. I want to believe that this is it - that the people that I consider my friends and my best friends are the people who are going to be the guests at my wedding and the family friends to my family and on my bridge team in the retirement home.

I guess I just don't want any more friendships to end up knotted in the bottom of a jewellery box.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)

MAIL BOX: Dear Lara Bingle

Dear Lara Bingle,

RE: That not-so-attractive and rather naked photo of you and the media fallout which has the all too familiar stench of a publicity stunt.

In the beginning, there was a part of me that sympathised with you. Being not nearly as attractive as yourself or having the kind of physical attributes that drive the boys wild, I find myself faced with your same dilemma on a regular basis. Not that I get caught out in my birthday suit, but that a hideous and embarrassing photo of myself becomes the property of the all-seeing, all judging public.

Afterall, when you're a member of the Facebook revolution, this is just something you have to come to accept, isn't it Lara? The fact that when other people take photos of you, they can then do with them what they like, including posting them on Facebook for all of the Facebook world to see. Too many times, Lara, too many times have I logged in to see some heinous, horrible photo of me looking like a haggered old woman or the twin of Susan Boyle. It's just not fair, is it?

And some what worse for you - getting caught without your kit on! How embarrassing. Good thing you look the way you do because if it had been me, I'm pretty sure all the tabloids would be questioning why they were running a picture of a giant frumpy albino Cabbage Patch doll.

Yes - I sympathised. I condolled. I felt your embarrassed shame. That is, until I heard the rumour that you sold your side of the story to Woman's Day for the tidy sum of $200,000.

Then I was not so sympathetic.

If this was true, as least you wouldn't be one of those WAGS who's riding on the cricket pads of her all-too-wealthy cricket playing husband. At least you'd be out there making you're own money. And it really makes me question my existance in the world when I think about how many cups of coffee I would have to serve in order to make $200,000 and how many hours your interview with Woman's Day would have gone for before you would have had enough money to buy yourself another Aston Martin.

Despite the designer perfume I'm pretty sure you're probably wearing and even despite the fact that you're brand new agent has denied it, I can't help but smell that all-too-familiar stench of a publicity stunt. It's hanging in the air like that faint whiff garbage juice gets when it's been sitting in the sun too long. Can you smell that? Perhaps we should call your new PR agent to see if he can smell it too?

Well, good on you, Lara, for standing up for women's rights and all that jazz. You're doing a fine job. Not too mention, earning a few extra dollars to put towards your big wedding celebration. When is that happening again?

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Chop Chop

A few years ago, I made the monumental mistake of cutting my hair short. I did it on a whim, a really stupid, irrational whim. My luscious long locks were hacked off into a blonde bob, one I didn't know how to style or maintain correctly and the whole drama resulted in me becoming self-concious and overly precious about my hair.

It was my own fault. I was the one who went in 'wanting a change.' I was the one who said "Sure, go ahead and chop it all off." I was the one who sat in the hairdressing chair while the hairdresser cut it way shorter than we discussed and I was the one who DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING.

We've all been there before. We've all sat in the hairdressing chair watching the hairdresser snip away our hard-grown tresses, our mouths clamped shut but our insides screaming, "STOP YOU HAIRDRESSING MASSACIST! STOP YOU SILLY EXCUSE FOR A PAIR OF SCISSORS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!" and yet not said a single word. That is, not until you've got home to the private safety of the bathroom where you ball your eyes out and clutch at the missing locks like they've been horrifically amputated.

When you've been through this kind of hairdressing trauma, you'll find stupid smart-arse people will make stupid smart-arse comments which are somehow meant to make you feel better. "It's just hair, it will grow back" is up there amongst the 10 Most Stupid Smart-Arse Comments Made By Stupid Smart-Arses. It's not just hair, it's an extension of one's physical character and confidence and it doesn't just grow back like some kind of refridgerated fungus. It takes time and time isn't something you have a lot of when you're nursing a haircut that looks like its been initiated with a rusty hacksaw. "Why didn't you say something when it was getting cut?" Because my hairdressing tunic turned into a straightjacket and I somehow managed to swallow my tounge. "Why didn't you say something after it was finished?" Because I didn't want to cry infront of the hairdresser and have to spend the next half an hour sitting infront of a mirror, staring at the thin line of mascara running down my cheeks. "Why don't you go back to the hairdresser and tell them you're unhappy with it?" Because I don't want to become the hairless by-product of Sweeney Todd meets Edward Scissorhands you unsympathetic fool!

Needless to say, while my hair did indeed grow back, I vowed never to go short again and for the last three years, I have been the happy hoarder of a crop of long, blonde locks which no hairdresser has managed to pry from my tight grasp.

Until yesterday, when I had them all chopped off again.

They say a change is as good as a holiday and after everything that I've been through over the last 10 months and despite all my vows and promises, perhaps a change was just what the hairdressing doctor ordered. The long hair had literally become a weight on my shoulders. So armed with opinions I was prepared to voice, I went to my (new and trustworthy) hairdresser for the big short chop. When I came away, there were no tears, no tantrums, no plans to send angry poison letters to my wayward hairdresser and absolutely no regrets.

It's funny how simply getting your hair cut can give you a new lease on life. Without the dead weight of long hair, I felt surprising relieved, like I had shed some sort of burdensome weight which had been holding me back. The world didn't seem like such an unconcorable place anymore. I felt adventurous. I felt like myself again, but a shorter, blonder, bolder version. Say hello to KH 2.0

Ciao for now. xo

Technological Difficulties (and a wee spot of jealousy)

My dearest Chroniclers - my sincerest apologies if you have lost sleep over the last week in worry that I had been hit by a Mack truck, fallen down a Sydney sewage drain or sold all my worldy posessions to join some kind of anti-internet cult. This is not the case. I am alive and well.

My computer however, is not.

The poor thing, despite putting up with me for the last five years, decided last week that it had had enough. It through in the towel - and its hard drive - and went on strike, consequently leaving me completely out of touch with the technological world. It has now taken up a bed in Computer Hospital were its getting a hard drive replacement and a bit of formatting surgery. I've been promised that by the time I get my computer back, he'll be looking better than ever.

So until then, I have to make do on Sister Dearest's swanky, brand new Dell Notebook, which is about the size of of a small tote. While I love my lappy-top dearly and appreciate everything he has done for me, I can't help but feel a little jealous of the Dell. It feels, looks and smells, new. The keys are crisp, the screen is devoid of fingertip smudges and I don't have to wait a freaking month just for it to load an internet page.

But don't tell lappy-top that - he gets so jealous when I type around.

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Who's Name Is It Anyway?

Meeting new people is always a verbal struggle for me. Not because I’m shy or socially inept or suffer from some kind of conversational phobia which causes me to turn bipolar. It’s because when it comes to introducing my self, the conversation always goes somewhat like this:

“So, what’s your name?”
“It’s Kristen.”
“Christeen?”
“No, Kristen.”
“Oh, I see. Kristy.”
“No, Kristen."
“Kirsten?
“No, KRISTEN!”
“Right. Sorry there, Courtney”

I’ve suffered through this same conversation so many times, I’ve come to hate the sound of my own name. Occasionally, I’ll throw a spanner in the works and say my name is Kate so I can save myself from banging my head against the wall when the inevitable dyslexic banter begins.

This whole issue could have been avoided had the responsibility of my naming been given to myself rather than my parents. But did I get a say? Did I even get a vote? No, my parents went right ahead and christened me Kristen, resigning me to a life spent constantly correcting people (a trait which, believe me, strangers do not find endearing).

It really doesn’t seem fair that the one thing we’re stuck with for the rest of our breathing lives is beyond our control and opinion. We’ve got no rights when it comes to the name we will be known as for the next 90 years. We’re completely at the disposal of the two people who bore us. We can only gurgle in hope that they’ll have more sense than Gwenyth Paltrow and Nicole Kidman put together. Imagine Apple and Sunday Roast when they’re old enough to wonder what in the nine circles of hell their parents were smoking, when they decided to name their offspring after a fruit and a weekend dinner dish. Luckily, celebrity spawn such as these have a large enough inheritance to fund the years of therapy they’ll need to survive eternal tabloid torture.

Indeed, there is nothing quite as dangerous as a celebrity in possession of two brain cells to rub together. Naming your child Fifi Trixibelle is proof in the baby pudding that while adults may be older, they are certainly no wiser than their newly born infant when it comes to generating a name that sticks. When you’re name is Moxie CrimeFighter, one can only wonder where some of these lightning bolts of inspiration stem from.

If this is the case, perhaps my parents were concerned that by handing over the naming rights, they would end up with a daughter known as Barbie or Big Ted or Gemima Puddleduck. I’d like to think they’d have greater faith in me than that, but apparently they thought Kristen was a safer bet than anything I could have come up with at the observant age of four.

However, what my parents failed to realise upon whacking my whacky name on a birth certificate is that what appears to be a simple, two-syllable name has about a trillion different variations thanks to its phonetic sounds – Kristian, Kristy, Kristeen, Kristina, Kirsten, Kirsty and Kirsteen. Trying to get my name out as clearly as possible generally involves firing so much spit at the other person, they require a bathing suit. Add a few alcoholic beverages and some dance music to that equation and they may as well drown in my saliva.

However, I can remain grateful to my parents for one thing. Being born a child to the Baby Boomers saved me from the type of over-indulgent spelling burdened upon The Millennial babies. Krystynn, not only looks like the result of a chemical imbalance, but just has way too many Ys for my liking.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)