Moving, ramblings, and apologies.

Inspired by Hyperbole and a Half, I'm going to regale you with stories of moving house. In about a month, my lease here runs out, and then I'm no longer staying in Brisbane.

Nathan and Joe are much saddened by this.

Anyway, so going back to Ballina is accompanied by many things:

1. Quitting my job. Which makes me quite sad.
2. Deferring uni for a year (which I just checked on. I wasn't sure if it went through, and if it didn't, my 5 days would most certainly be up, and I'd have been turfed out of uni. But that didn't happen) and applying to go to Monash. There is no Monash campus in Ballina; I'm studying via distance ed as I have done before... but that was for high school.
3. Packing up my books and whatnot before I leave on Saturday. 

The packing up of books and whatnot is what irritates me most. Firstly, it is a horrendous effort to get a hold of boxes.

"What ho," you say, brow furrowed, "but surely your brother is Woolworths Gatekeeper of Doom?"

Indeed, my brother is one of those Woolworths Gatekeepers. However, the conversation went as follows:

ME: Chris, can you please get me boxes from Woolies?

CHRIS: Can't you get them?

ME: You work there, though.

CHRIS: Get them yourself.

A few hours later, I texted him pretending to be Mum. This was an unwise move, as my mother is a technophobe and has only just learned how to open a text message. When I next saw Chris, the conversation ensued as so:

ME: So, did you get those boxes Mum told you to put aside for me?

CHRIS: No, I did not get those boxes you told me to put aside for you, but Mum's aware that you kidnapped her phone now.

Finally, I decided to go back to Brisbane and get boxes. The guy at the counter was lovely. "Sure," he said, "I'll put aside boxes for you. We're getting in a load tonight, so I'll tell Chris to keep as many aside as he can."

"Chris?" 

"Yeah, our produce guy. The 2IC."

Chris, at this point, was carefully stacking mangoes and glaring at me.

"Oh. Okay," I said, shifting my chocolate and mince. "Well, my name is Natasha Pavez, P-A-V-E-Z, and you can just call my brother and let him know my boxes are there, because my phone's on the fritz."

"Wait, Pavez? That's the produce g -" And the guy promptly scribbled out my name, wrote in capitals PUT ASIDE BOXES FOR YOUR SISTER, CHRIS and beamed at me. "I'll let him know."

"You, sir, are fantastic."

And Chris kept up his scowling til I left the store.

When I saw Chris this morning, he was alternately excited because he'd just bought Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood, and cranky because I was the bringer of bad news. One, that Chris had to move too, and two, that he had to put aside boxes for me at work.

He said, very sulkily, "I put them aside for you. You can go pick them up when you finish work." Muttermuttermutter. "I have a game to play. So I can't get them for you."

I returned after work, and guy at counter went to find me my boxes. The same guy as yesterday, so that was a bonus. He returned with a trolley.

"Um... Chris put aside a lot of boxes. I think he took 'as many as possible' literally."

The trolley, now in my living room, is a flipping jack-in-the-box of boxes. 

Anyway, so I have started packing. I started with my beloved books, and in a Crinkle Cut Variety Multipack 20 (which, I'll assume, carries 7 packets of 20 packets of chips), I have cleared ONE SHELF.

Just one.

I want to take a photo, but Bellatrix is in NSW, so I can't.

I also have forgotten to buy packing tape. My logic wasn't too sound; it was a tossup between pizza and packing tape. I went with pizza, though I could have eaten most anything in my cupboard. I am now quite literally the proud owner of $3 and nothing more, as I donated the rest of my coinage to charity.

And in this wasteland which I call a room, I have to somehow locate my flipping HSC results. Somehow, this gets me into Monash. I think I burned my HSC results in glee. Or they were the closest thing to hand when I needed to draw. Either way, my HSC results are not in this room. 

I just phoned Mum. My HSC results are something of a mystery. "Where would they be?"

"I don't know. I thought you kept them, because I'd do something stupid like burn them."

"That's true, I did say that. Call me in the morning, I'll look then."

I wager they're watching TV.

"Did you pack up your room?"

Guiltily looking at my lone Crinkle Cut Variety Multipack 20 box, I told her I did and hastily made my exit.

Now I'm the proud owner of $3.20. And... my medicine. For my bad cough. WHICH DISAPPEARED ON ITS OWN. Never am I buying medication again.

Okay, so in packing up my DVDs, copious numbers of magazines (I will be slaughtered when my mother sees them), and CDs, I have noticed a few things:

1. Pride and Prejudice's case has vanished.
2. Dr Parnassus has vanished. Not the case, mind. Just the DVD.
3. Lo and behold! Pride and Prejudice has been found under a copy of Queensland Brides.
4. Huzzah! Dr Parnassus has been found inside Pride and Prejudice!

Actually, another problem, prompted by my seeing Crowded House's Woodface (best. album. evs, I might add). Why on earth does Sirius not read it? It makes no sense. Apple, I demand an explanation. You also didn't allow Sirius to read Linkin Park's iconic Meteora, the last album they did before they became sensitive Twifails.

Okay, back to packing.

The DVDs and CDs and copious amounts of magazines got packed in a Corn Flakes box, which is upside down.

However, Kelloggs manufacture their boxes with a gaping hole, which is okay for Corn Flakes, but not so okay for Scrubs, Vogue, and a huge Spanish dictionary.

I cannot be bothered repacking this box, so I will leave this for when I return and I am inevitably scolded.

Okay, attempting to carry that box did not work.

The hole ripped open and I got a Spanish dictionary to the toe.

This isn't a meagre paperback dictionary, either, like my French one. This one is like this. No, I didn't pay $93.95 for a dictionary, I got mine in Melbourne for $30 because I went down a creepy-looking side street and found a v. tiny bookstore. 

Either way, it hurt.

To repack that box in NOT a Kelloggs box.

I should ask Chris to buy me packing tape.

Wow, he said yes.

In an attempt to pick up the other box, it tore as well. This is where working in a bookstore had its benefits; the boxes were DESIGNED to carry about 50 books at once, generally hardcover. (By the way, until you've lifted a box of Dan Brown's latest bestseller, retailing at $60 or the low low price of $54.95, you have not lifted a box.)

Maybe I'll just pack my suitcase, because that physically cannot tear.

Packing my suitcase is kinda boring and also very demoralising. I am sitting here, scowling at various items in my room.

Sims 3, if I hadn't have bought you, maybe I could have bought packing tape.

Ticket to go home, if I hadn't bought you, I could have bought packing tape.

DKNY Be Delicious perfume, if Papi hadn't bought you, maybe he could have bought me packing tape.

See, the thing with Chris is, he may SAY he'll buy packing tape, and he will do that. The question is when. And it is a sad sad day when I can't even afford $4.50, because I need $1.70 to get to Roma Street on Saturday to catch a bus home and th -

If I hadn't have bought that muffin I could have bought packing tape. CURSE YOU $4.50 muffin!

Anyway, and then I've got to start a new job somewhere (which apparently is at the pub in Alstonville), and then I will have funds.

Young Victoria DVD, even though you are in Wollongbar, if I hadn't bought you we would have been solid (though I would have been sad come hometime).

So I danced around my room for a while to Eddplant and Dashboard Confessional; I now have posted a horrendously emo Twitter post. Life in Technicolor begins with the music from The Escapist, which is a song hidden at the end of Death and All His Friends (hi, yes, I listen to Coldplay, what's your point? That I know way too much about it? Shush). 

and

in the end

we lie awake

and we dream of making our escape.

and 

       in the end 

                       we lie awake

                                            and we dream of making our escape.

The song only has that as its lyrics, one verse repeated twice, yet I honestly love it more than I love Swallowed in the Sea. And it sets me off. I don't know why, but it makes me wonder what happened to me. Why I feel like I need to flee home, and why I'm spending the year in Wollongbar again. I mean, yeah, I know above all that this is the right choice for now - I kind of need to learn to drive, for starters, and I can do that far easier down home. I also need to save money, as I spent my Year 12 blowing it in huge hits when I thought $50 was cheap. (Goodbye, money, I'm sure the Sunshine Coast and Melbourne economies adored you.) I want to get back in the headspace of Year 12, not where I was a nutjob but where I craved writing, where I craved books, and where my tongue danced around Spanish and English in this strange language that my Tata and I speak in (my cousins also speak it, but less sarcastic and less rantily about authors). I want to also regain my sense of adventure. By year 12, I was in desperate need for adventure. I think I needed it, but also needed to be connected to home, hence why I fled to Brisbane. Next on my agenda, after however long I'm at home, I think I might go to Melbourne. Get my RSA and RCG for Victoria and just amble on down there, and see how I go. Maybe Sydney.

The advantage of Distance Ed means I'm pretty much open with possibilities as to where I can go.

I'm being coaxed by Glen to go to the Sunshine Coast; the only disadvantage of doing that right now is lack of transport. Not saying Wollongbar's got transport, by any means, but that at least there I have a Tata who drives me anywhere, given I beg nicely and pay him at the end of the week (he doesn't like being paid however). Brisbane's transport is quite brilliant, Melbourne's is fantastic, and Sydney's? I'm not too sure, but I do know it's flipping expensive. 

Okay, quick diversion.

On Alex Day's channel, I saw a video about dreamlines, where Master Day writes down his dreams for the next 3 months and then, at the end, comments on how he did, etcetera so on so forth. I myself have decided to do this, as I'm on holidays now. Yay!

My list, which is currently at home, is:

• Do 40 hours of driving. At the speed I am allowed to travel in NSW (QLD doesn't have these laws, but in NSW I'm restricted to 80km/hr), this should be a breeze. I can apparently get 120 hours in 6 months, according to my father, if he takes me driving daily. THEN I GET MY Ps.
• Write at least 40,000 words in my novel. Really, not much to do. I'm taking it slowly, as NaNoWriMo failed with stresses and angst and me really just not feeling like writing. 
• Get a job, which may have happened.
• Get accepted to Monash, which may happen.
• Get published again (and the bridal stuff doesn't count in this total, as I've known it was going to happen). A nice side dream would be payment for being published, but we can dream.

So in three months, I shall review this and see how I've gone. If the novel's done, we can safely assume the goal for 6 months' time will be to get an agent, and get it sent off to be edited/published/whatever.

And that, because I am all levels of procrastinatey right now and really need to turn off the computer, is my apology for abandoning you guys for so long. I apologise profusely, really. I attempted to write, and just could never get anywhere... but I think tonight God's unlocked it again in me.

Ah, craft and arts and things of the heart. Darn confusing, is what they are. 

But oh so worth it.

Embarrassing musical choices

I am generally not the best when it comes to choosing music. For the most part, I don't really care if others hate the music I listen to - in fact, the more it's loved, or well known, I somehow am more attracted to it. Perhaps its the underdog syndrome. But whatever.
The point is, I was on YouTube (and seriously, YouTube just whittles away hours of my life. I started watching Glee videos and ended up on, dare I say it, Backstreet Boys). It was quite a lot of fun, really. I was revisiting the bands of my youth. The usual suspects - Backstreet Boys, as mentioned above, though I wasn't a real fan; Britney Spears, whom I also wasn't a fan of; Spice Girls, also not a fan; AQUA, unashamedly a fan, though of their lesser known hits; and Lou Bega, until I hit 10 and realised how sexist the man's lyrics are - were on my list, and then I came across a band whom I loved for probably at least a year. For all of my emo phase, anyway.
That band was Simple Plan.

Yeah. This is Simple Plan.
I had this picture on my wall.
I used to try hugging it.
And you thought I was weird now.

Now I know, I know. Simple Plan had a heyday. They had sell-out concerts, they had a couple of number one hits, and for the emo-girl like me - dressed entirely in black, dyed black hair, wearing Converses and scowling at the world whilst thinking No One Understands Me - Simple Plan was it. I didn't understand the arguments people thrust at me. "But," I remember one person saying, "they're Canadian."
I didn't care. I loved Canada for this reason. I learned flipping FRENCH for this reason. (Though my other choice was Indonesian; it was an easy pick.) And so, I bought all of Simple Plan's albums (see: 2) and listened to them, carrying an archaic Discman around through Sydney (before iPods, kids) and blasting such dulcet tunes as Welcome To My Life into my 13-year-old eardrums.
With regret, there often comes that feeling of "Surely I wasn't that obsessed, right?"
Oh yes. Oh yes I was. You can ask anyone who knew me during this dark period in my life and they will attest to the fact that I was obsessed like my Nana is obsessed with finding me a husband, or like my parents are obsessed with me marrying this guy we all know. I carried around books with Simple Plan plastered on the covers, I wept when I was forbidden from going to their Brisbane concert, and I wrote fan-fics surrounding my exciting adventures were I to suddenly develop a reasonable musical talent and meet the band.
In Canada.
And I - at least, my 18 year old hindsight and poorly-stored memories attest to this fact - honestly believed that I was going to marry Pierre Bouvier:

Yeah. This guy.

Meanwhile, my best friend at the time was going to marry David Desrosiers:

Anyway, I'm cringing in shame at this time in my life, and one day I'm going to find an emo photo of myself and post it here so you all can understand my shame.
The point is, this band was responsible for a very shameful time in my life, and I'm pretty sure they are the only band I am fully embarrassed about liking. I still listen to the Used (though very infrequently; they're a little bit... insane), to Blink 182 (wins), to most of the bands I adored at this time. Except Simple Plan. My brother and I went on a rampage when I realised my failing and snapped my two albums, one single, in 4 neat pieces.

If there's a moral to this tale, inform me of it. Don't like bands when you're in a very impressionable emo phase is the only one I'm getting.
Or perhaps, it's if I must regret liking a band, Simple Plan seems a pretty apt choice to regret.

Interesting side note - in my Googling of Lou Bega, I found out something epic and rad. His name isn't actually, Lou Bega. In fact, Wikipedia has this to say:

David Lubega (born April 13, 1975), also known as Lou Bega, is a German musician of Italianand Ugandan descent, and is famous for his song "Mambo No. 5". This song is a remake of the Perez Prado instrumental from 1949. Bega added his own words to the song and sampled the original version extensively.

I now want Lubega as my surname.

...and oh dear, I'm listening to Perfect. Curse you, YouTube automatic shuffle! I USE THAT FOR ALEX DAY! Why are you on a roof, Pierre and co? Why are you on a roof? That's very dangerous!
(A clear indication I am getting old before my time, for when I was younger, I only thought, "Oh my gosh! They are so rebellious and so brave! They are so cute with their nose piercings and pop-punk uniforms!")
Also, I wish my parents let me draw on my walls. My room would've looked awesome. I wouldn't have emo-ishly written, I'm Sorry I Can't Be Perfect on my wall... actually, scratch that, I may have done.
And Addicted. You'd think I'd turn this shuffle off, wouldn't you? But I now have to watch these. It's like a curse I'm under. Actually, 13-year-old-me, maybe you'll be able to tell me - why the heck did you wear sweatbands/cuffs with studs? And horribly baggy pants? I wonder what you'd think of my fashion tastes now. Also, 13-year-old-me, the original doesn't say "I'd run a thousand miles to get you", but... yeah, you know, okay. I'm horrified I still know the lyrics.
Now it's Shut Up. Far out, this brings back memories. Year 8, when I thought I knew all about life. A heinous lie. I also unwillingly started singing along (keep that on the low-down). This video is so lame, it's kinda cute.
...what's happening?
I am now quietly urging Sebastien Lefebvre's Myspace page to load his cover of Ke$ha's Tik Tok (those three words hurt to spell). I like his voice, I'll say that. I just think my ears are bleeding from the song itself.

Well, there we go. I finally closed YouTube, the Myspaces, and even the Twitter-stalks I ended up doing.

Perhaps it's not regret.
But that's there's a whole lot of memories that music contains, shameful yet colourfully so.
After all, to quote The Cat Empire - music is the language of us all. And for me, language is more important than most things, a grasp on words, and if my words contain my thoughts, my desires, and my past, my musical choices do too.
But no, Simple Plan, I'm not joining the fan club again. Nor the mailing list. My email address back then (fairly sure it was something like simpleplanloverxx@girlfriend.com.au, or possibly ilovepierrexx@girlfriend.com.au. I think I even had one named after Branden Steineckert of The Used and now Rancid fame, because I thought he was sooo hot with his piercing on the bridge of his nose) has vanished into the wild, and your incessant emails to it as well.

Have a lovely Sunday, readers, whatever you get up to.
(There's a reason I've not provided links to videos or anything. I'm not wishing my emo-year-8-ness on you.)

NOTE:
Does anyone remember Lee Harding, finalist on Australian Idol?

Pretty sure he came third.

I just looked over at my digital clock, and there's a sticker of him on it. I also have a letter, a photo, and a tee. I also recall talking to him on the phone, dead tired and also hugely embarrassed. Oh wow, I have an awesome family. They engineered that, because they win. Even if now, I don't listen to Lee and he's probably designing comics again, it's lovely to think that a quasi-Nana went to an Australian Idol show to get Lee on the phone for me, her emo quasi-granddaughter.
Go Chileans!
That, right there, is another memory box. It also includes shame, but heaps of happiness at the same time.
Wasabiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
And in the years after Idol, he hugely changed. Far out, he started... well, this video shows the difference. And this:

...what happened to the Lee of old?!

The music from that band (Rock City) is pretty good, actually. I'm not going to shun it.
EVEN LATER NOTE: Okay, I'll admit it. I went on to YouTube today and watched Shut Up. Don't spear me!

Haircuts

I've never, ever given a haircut to anyone. Except myself, and that's turned out all levels of fail until recently (because when you have a fringe that runs straight across your forehead and you actually have depth perception which didn't exist 5 years previous, it's not that hard to do). I've had the cutting my hair whilst it was in a ponytail. I can't really remember the specifics of that one. My mother just tells me it was hilarious, watching me weep as Dad took out the hairtie and my hair clumped to the floor. I've cut my fringe, which ended up being about 2cm long. And about 2cm above my eyebrows. Not a good look. Also, I've tried cutting my hair into a bob. I have not tried that since.
So, you can imagine my reaction when Chris, armed with a $15.99 Remington Shaver Set, said, "Tash. We're doing this."
I looked up from conversations on Facebook - yes, mine is the scintillating life - and eyed him. "Doing what?"
"Cutting my hair."
My brother's hair is, from afar, a thing of beauty. (Up close, not so much, because he hadn't washed it.) He had been gifted with the luscious locks of my Chilean ancestors, and had it growing long and reaching the stage of curling. My hair, by comparison, makes me look adopted when standing with my cousins. It is dead straight. It is dark brown, to be sure, and some people do mistake it for black from time to time. But my hair is so persistently straight that I try curling it, and I have to put toffee product, curlers, and sea salt spray in it, then sleep on it, and then pray fervently that Brisbane'll experience a non-humid day for once.
Anyway, I was distraught. "Cut your hair? How short?"
Chris shrugged. "I dunno."
Seeing as I don't understand the numbers on clippers, Chris clued me in vaguely. As far as I can tell, where Chris had hair which nearly rivalled my preferred length, he has now been left with downy soft hair 1cm long.
One. Centimetre.


Doing this was quite weird. I'm tiny, and my brother in comparison to me is at least 15cm taller. I come up to the kid's armpit (not a good thing to realise). Chris solemnly handed me the clippers, and I set off.
Only problem was, Chris has thick hair. And he was not up for me hacking off a bit of the foliage to fully destroy the forest. It was like trying to cut down the Amazon with nail scissors.
And suddenly, the razor started emitting a loud, disconcerting buzz.
"What's that?" I asked, thrusting the razor at him.
Chris flicked the razor off and on, and the noise still whined from it. (Apparently, whining electrical objects is my lot in life.) 
We had destroyed the razor. 
So, another $15.99 clipper was quickly bought from Woolies across the road, my brother's scalp was given a chance to breathe, and now I am left with nothing more to do.
Sadface.

Vicious hunting

I don't particularly like the reasoning that in all of us, there is a hunter gene. We're all aching to hunt down our prey, and either death-roll it (a la crocodile, which really is admirable. Spasms leading to death is how it should be), or leave it in our web for later. This dislike is probably just because I am neither particularly athletic, nor willing to hunt out anything beyond shoes, but still, it stands that I don't like the reasoning.

The biggest spots of 'hunting' I've ever done have involved chasing. And not generally with an outcome that's pleasant:

• Chasing my dog, Inca, after she's run away (and left Tuscany sitting pathetically on the driveway because she, too, shares my idea about running). Dog is captured with many shouts in anger, and my shame only amplifying this as I've generally forgtten the leash and now I have to carry this stupid Golden Retriever home. Who at this stage has more often than not, found a pool then found a construction site and thus is covered in mud.
  
• Chasing after a 3-legged lamb to give it cuddles. This involved me in a pen that probably was the size of the average living room/kitchen combo, racing after this lamb. With three legs. Who I couldn't catch. Even when I tried to be tricky I did it at the pace of a glacier, and the lamb, moving at its normal and accepted speed, fled. Lamb was never captured, and in my attempt to vault the fence dramatically I cut my leg and got a splinter. So the fist-shaking, "I'M GONNA GET YOU SUCKA" was not very emphatic.
• Chasing after someone in a game of Capture the Flag, or something equally ridiculous. Game went as so: I saw one person getting far too close to our side. I sprang off from the line with thoughts of the admiration I'd receive at such an accomplishment - the unfit, slightly overweight girl (at that time, I'm good now but still no less fit) capturing the athletic guy and saving the day. That's when I can't remember anything. I can't remember anything. Can't remember anything.... and then the memory comes back with someone sitting in front of me, asking if I knew where/who I was. I responded snarkily as I had no idea why I was in agony. "She's herself, Jared. She's fine." Anywho, then Trina gasped, "YOU HAVE A NOSE BLEED!" I got very excited about this, and promptly fainted. When I got home, I had blood on my face, a very big and puffy upper lip, and after weeping softly to myself in the corner of the living room because my family was mocking me, I trailed from room to room, feeling rather regal in my purple, cat-spotted dressing gown, talking about complete and utter idiocy that I believed was crucial at the time.

Even sushi-trains, I can't work out. This is where Kathryn satisfies her so-called hunter longings, and with skill and finesse, both captures and devours her prey. I sit there lamely, eyeing off dishes from across the other side, which people take. Kathryn eventually gets so ashamed at my rumbling tummy, she just goes around the other side, grabs the three dishes I'm trying to get my hands on, and lets me sit eating chicken chippies and tempura prawns. In a sushi restaurant.

Mainly, the reason why I'm considering this is because today - 4 minutes ago - I had to brave that cruel cruel world of class-scheduling for Semester 2 uni. I had it all sorted out - I'd work my butt off at night on writing concepts and creativity, then work during the day, while having 4 days solid to do this (or, until I found a job, I'd sleep, write and knit like a crazy spinster). But others have ideas too. Those may be similar to mine, or they'd end up being, "No, I wanna go out at night and go clubbin', cause dat be where my bros' at." Channelling You Got Served aside, I was forced to do something that I'd not done. Hunt.

And with great skill and finesse, I got the classes that finish at 9pm, start at around 4pm, and don't exist on Thursday to Sunday.

Winning at life may not come often, but I think I just did.