Last Christmas, I bought Paul Trapeze lessons. Now, this was probably a selfish gift seeing as the lesson was for two, but oh well, it was a bounding opportunity.
We finally found time last week to book our lesson which was at Sydney Olympic Park. We arrived a couple of minutes late and walked in to a class of about eight others stretching and learning the art of the Flying Trapeze. I was oddly nervous. Not about the height or the drop, but mostly about not being strong enough. After we put on our harnesses, they asked who wanted to go first. I immediately raised my hand. (I love going first or being in the front of the class. I am a very visual learner.) So, I held my head high and climbed up the massive (and narrow) ladder.
Once you reach the top, you’re asked to step onto a teensy tiny platform. It felt like I was on a floating grass patch in a Mario game. As much as I wished for a *PAUSE* button, it was exhilarating. That is until this platform for ants became home to three people! Feeling claustrophobic and legless, I was anxious to get off. I knew that going back down that ladder from hell wasn’t an option. Nope, grabbing onto the bar and flying through the air was the only way. So that’s what I did.
Now, I don’t want to sound too conceited, but I was absolutely phenomenal at Trapeze. I know, I know, I was surprised myself. Who would have thought that a tiny little asian gymnast was hiding inside of me?
Now the only problem is, I’m addicted. All I can think about is flying through the air on a Disney Cruise or in Cirque Du Soleil. You can see my amazing circus skills below:
As a Jew, I don’t get super excited about Easter. As a chocolate and creepy costume enthusiast, I get super excited. Please feel free to post the most awesomely creepy Easter Bunny pics you can find on my Facebook Page. I think we will all appreciate them.
Here, I’ll start.
I was recently featured in an article by Alexandra Cain in the Sydney Morning Herald about self-publishing! (Along with David Meerman Scott, Kate Edwards and Melissa Macdonald!)
“Although self-publishing used to be a sign a book publisher wouldn’t touch the title, it’s now considered a legitimate step in signing a deal with a mainstream publishing house.
Successfully self-publishing shows a publisher you have a ready-made audience and increasingly, authors are using canny self-publishing strategies as part of the process of signing a book deal.
A veteran self-publisher is online marketing author David Meerman Scott, who has so far shifted nearly a million paid books across eight titles….”
READ THE REST HERE!
I discovered something really big today. I was watching a rerun of Friends and noticed how cute Rachel’s haircut was. (You know, the bob she had during Season 7.)
Anyway, long story short, I thought to myself, “I totally want that haircut again.” But then I talked myself out of it because I am getting married in July and need long hair.
Then I realized that exactly one year ago, I went to my hair stylist and asked her to give me the ‘Rachel Bob’ from season 7.
I bet, if you did a study of all hair salons and asked them when the ‘Rachel Bob’ haircut is the most popular, it’s during Friends season 7 reruns. Which is March in Australia.
New Theory: There is a direct correlation between the “Rachel Bob” haircut request and the Friends rerun schedule.
Be honest. Have your haircuts directly reflected Rachel’s hair on Friends?
Paul and I recently bought a house. And by house I mean a frame and walls that provide us with shelter. With that being said, there is a lot of work to be done and Paul is Mr. DIY.
One of the things I have learned from our little endeavour (aside from how to properly grout tiles) is that I am a perfectionist control freak and this may destroy my relationship. Three things that can end a marriage: Assembling Ikea furniture, Adultery and Home Renovations. Luckily for us, Paul is a wiz with an Allen Key and we both don’t have time to cheat (nor do we want to.) Unfortunately, we have all of the time in the world for home renovations.
Today, Paul left me with a bucket of blue paint, rollers and some edging tape. I am starting to think that he doesn’t read any of my stories…
Let’s recall “Summer Paints Her Walls Red in 2003″
I am really good at starting projects. I am not so great at finishing them. I also have this weird disorder where I get some random idea, obsess over it, let it completely consume my life until the idea becomes a reality, and then regret it 45 seconds later (see: various tattoos, jobs and boyfriends). At the age of 15, I decided that I needed to have a red room. An older girl on my cheerleading squad had one, and I was sure that if I had one too, it would make me incredibly happy and undeniably cool. Not to mention, I had just seen Destiny’s Child’s house on MTV Cribs, and if Beyoncé said a dark color scheme attracts romance, love and artistic energy, then I knew that my life would be perfect once I had completed the task.
Donna was sold on the idea when I announced that I could do all the work myself. Of course, I promised it would not be like my other unfinished room projects like when I turned it into a tacky, romantic motel suite look-alike. An unfortunate amount of pink, and a queen-sized waterbed were included in that one. (But let’s be honest, I was six when that happened, and clearly I had matured. My new idea was not just a fad). I convinced my mom that all I needed was some paint, brushes, rollers and tape, and then I would be satisfied with my room for the rest of my life. So off we went to Home Depot to gather the supplies.
The minute we got back to the house, I raced upstairs, moved my furniture to the middle of the room, and swept up the abundant amount of crap from under my bed. This haul included, but was not limited to, ponytail holders, Corn Pops, some pictures covered in a combination of hair, sand, and syrup from 1996 (when I had my regretful, one-inch-short, lesbian secretary haircut), and a massive (unused) condom collection that started when I was ten. Ok, I better explain that one. You see, my brother has always been into skateboarding and used to hang out at a skate/head shop called Smoke. Every time I was in there with Donna to pick him up, I would grab a handful of free condoms because they were colorful. (I especially loved the blue ones with the reservoir tip.) So, really, me hoarding condoms was his fault for hanging out at Smoke so damn much. Anyway, for the next step in my room remodelling, I put on a holey t-shirt/sweat pants combo and pressed play on my stereo. After an intense two-hour preparation that included dancing in the center of my room to a mix of Tatu, N*Sync and Britney, I needed recharging. A box of pepperoni Bagel Bites and a gallon of Jolt cola did the trick. I was officially ready.
I picked up a brush dripping with red paint and thought it would be so fun to draw a few things on my stark white walls before I fully transformed them in to the Moroccan fortress of my dreams. First up: a frog. This is my go-to art. Then, after getting creative with hearts, I decided to write my name and declare my love for my high school boyfriend. Finally, with such a great canvas to work with, my inappropriate, 15-year-old self inevitably could not resist what I was about to do next. It started with the balls, which gauged what size the shaft was going to be. And as I carefully rounded out the head, I decided that I was pleased with the appendage that had just been painted on my wall. It only needed the final touches: hair, veins and, of course, flying sperm. So, to recap, there was now an eight-foot long, throbbing penis on my wall surrounded by my name, a frog, some hearts and “I love Ricky.” (Good thing that Richard wasn’t a dick.)
I showed Donna, who was mildly entertained, but told me that I needed to paint over it. Five messy coats later, I was sweating and hyperventilating with my head between my legs because my artwork was still clear as day. A gigantic cock continued staring at me from my bedroom wall. Even after working into the wee hours of the night, slopping on more and more coats to try and hide my anatomy lesson, it just kept showing through! I also observed that there was an equal amount of red paint on our wood floors as there was on the actual walls. Time to admit I was in over my head. Around 6AM, I threw in the towel, and Donna had to hire painters to fix the “mess” I had made. Two grown men walked in to cover up the red light district that my pre-adolescent bedroom had become. Awkward silence ensued while they professionally painted over my “art” and transformed the walls into a nice, neutral shade of beige. I tried to still be involved and help out, but making eye contact was nearly impossible.
Come to think of it, pretty much all of my future DIY projects also failed. I always end up spending $100 on craft supplies only to hot glue gun my beach shell picture frame to my mom’s carpet. The only thing close to a successful endeavor involved bedazzling jeans for my 9th grade entrepreneurship class. I started a “Spirit Jeans” business that would trick out students’ pants for pep rallies and game days. It was going really well, until I caught a glimpse of myself wearing them in the mirror. I looked like Prince’s younger (slower) sibling. You know, the one who got a little hyper and bedazzled 98% of the surface area of her pants to be just like her big brother! I have since retired from the Do It Yourself Industry and now mostly partake in the Don’t Involve Yourself one.
I just don’t think Paul would have wanted me to paint our laundry room blue if he had read this.
