Clotheshorse #3

I'm pleased to say that I managed to get through my February "Wear My Wardrobe" challenge - in fact, there are a bunch of clothes left over that I didn't get around to breaking out. They were mostly tops and dresses, and some sadly because they didn't fit.

However, due to general busy-ness and forgetfulness, I missed out on taking pictures of all of them.

So here's a few:

It became necessary to break out the jeans
once I'd exhausted all my skirt options.

You can't really see the black Cue dress I'm
wearing, but who cares? A cute puppy is
the best accessory.

I know this isn't an outfit, but I've become slightly
obsessed with my regrowth. Sure, I've been calling
it "targeted balayage", but it's actually my natural
hair colour. That's the most I've seen it in years.
It's so bland and devoid of personality.
It's like the Miranda Kerr of natural hair colours.

This was the outfit I wore on February 28,
the last day of the wardrobe challenge.

Now I have a confession to make about the final day of the challenge. You'll see I wore a smart green blouse with a fairly regulation black pencil skirt. The skirt was a relatively recent purchase; only worn two or three times before.

At some point during the day, the zip on the back of the skirt broke. Just busted clean apart. I only noticed around 3pm, so I could've been walking around for up to six hours with my underpants hanging out.

Not only that, but they weren't nice underpants. They were flesh-coloured underpants. So it may have appeared as if I was walking around with my bottom on display, like some sort of journalistic baboon.

The busted zip was such a complicated affair, I couldn't get the skirt off myself. I had to get The Wah to physically rip it off my person, and while that sounds a little bit saucy, it turns out it wasn't remotely erotic for anyone involved.

I'd like to lose mass so that the prospect of ripping clothes from my body was appealing, rather than a medical necessity.

So now it's March, I'm trying another challenge. I've put a blanket ban on crisps and lollies, and have ruled out eating any chocolate besides Red Tulip (it's Easter time, and it's just cruel to rule out Red Tulip, when it's not available the rest of the year).

We'll see how we go. I'm sure the exercise and nutrition experts among you will tsk-tsk, believing that a well-rounded holistic approach to mass reduction is the only way for true success.

But for some reason at the moment my only chance is to make a game out of this stuff.

Now I've just got to follow the rules...

Clotheshorse #1

The February diet/fashion/clothes-wearing/whatever challenge is proving interesting.

There has been no weight loss, and no discernable upping of exercise levels. But we carry on, stiff upper lip, chin chin and all that.

Here are some photographs from the week that was:

A peplum dress. This is about as peplum as
I'll go. The peplum craze has gone too far.

I'm putting this pic up because I forgot to take a solo one. Also because
I'm insecure and I met Mick Foley and I want you to be impressed.

This is a Stella skirt I rescued from a friend.
It has an elasticated waist and is still a bit
tight.  Always makes you feel good.

This is just a mess. A mess.

I love this Basque dress. It's actually a size 12, but
I'm not sure I can get away with it anymore. I've helpfully
pointed out the problem areas that show why.

You can see my bust is really too big for this top.
The navy Review skirt is actually quite shiny.
I can't get bigger because it's already too tight at
the waist. And this was the first night I'd worn it. Sigh!
Love the shoes, but again, they cut my heels to pieces.

All of these clothes have now been hung up at the back of my wardrobe rack, with everything else being shunted forward. The experiment continues!

Mass Effect

Let's talk about mass. Because quite frankly, it's weighing on me.

It's been years, if at all, since I publicly griped about my size on this site. One, because it's generally boring. Two, because I've never really been, for want of a more PC phrase "fat enough". And three, because I've never wanted to make slimming pledges I knew in my heart of hearts I probably couldn't keep.

But I feel I need to write about it now, because it's become an issue that I no longer feel I have any control over. I need to take some control back, and perhaps clearly elucidating my thoughts can be a small step in that direction.

I have reached - for me, it is important to note - the "fat enough" stage.

I can't even bear to tell you what my mass is. I can't bear it. I'm ashamed, and embarrassed.

But I will tell you these facts.

I am 20 kilograms over my "ideal" mass.

I am 15 kilograms over my "goal" mass.

And I am 10 kilograms over my "that's really the upper limit" mass.

Much of this mass gain has been in the past 7 months, after I badly injured my left ankle the start of July, then spent the rest of winter hibernating in a den of carbohydrates.

It was only in September that I got the diagnosis of a torn tibia-fibular ligament, and with travel and starting a new job, then Christmas, now floods, I've yet to get the physio I really need for it.

But that doesn't really matter anymore. The ankle is well enough to move. I just haven't been moving it.

And so I'm comfortable writing here now because I realise this isn't about me, as good-opinion-seeking Natalie, wanting to hear platitudes of "You're not fat".

I'm writing because I am carrying too much mass on my frame. Yes, I'm tall, and I'm still in relative proportion, and they are the only reasons it doesn't "show" as much. What you don't see is the pain in my knees and ankles, which surely would be helped by having to haul less mass around. You don't see the increasing tightness of my bras, as my bust inflates. You don't feel the weight of excess flesh on your thighs, feeling like you're wearing sacks of flour strapped just above the knee.

Exercise - I've got to get back into it. I bought a FitBit late last year and have been wearing it religiously to monitor my steps every day. My target is the baseline 10,000 steps a day, but often I fall short, around the 8000 mark. But if I keep at it, and finally get into a daily walking routine, I might start seeing... I don't know. Something. Anything.

Diet-wise - I don't know what I'm going to do. I have all the knowledge for a healthy diet - lots of vegetables, lean protein, small amounts of carbs and sugar. And yet, I get bored cooking. I don't know how to make enough exciting healthy dishes. I don't have time, for God's sake.

My biggest problem has been junk food. I'm constantly snacking, constantly looking for something to put in my mouth. It's must be the same motor memory as smokers. I'd say I self-medicate with food, but that wouldn't be altogether true - mostly I'm just eating things because I can't stop eating things.

However, in July 2012 I made a promise to myself to cut out McDonald's and KFC for a month. I had the habit of dropping in and grabbing things off their $2 menus. It was a bad habit, so I stopped. For a month. I did it. I did have KFC later in 2012, but have stopped again as of January 1. And apart from the odd ice-cream or drink, I have not had any McDonald's food since July.

Good habits can be formed.

So I'm going to try something this month that could be tangentially beneficial.

I've placed a self-imposed ban on buying any new clothing, footwear or make-up.

This might not seem like much to those of you averse to shopping, but wandering through the Queen Street Mall is one of my key ways of relaxing.

This is not financially disruptive - I never buy ridiculously expensive stuff, and almost always buy on sale - but it is a way of hiding my increasing mass. "Nobody need know the size", I think, or "This brand always runs small", as I reach for a looser garment.

Well, bollocks to that. Time to face facts. I've got a shitload of clothes. I recently gave five bags of no-longer-worn gear to a charity shop, and I've still got a wardrobe full.

I'm going to try to wear all them across the month of February. That's 28 days of outfits. Once an outfit has been worn, it can't be repeated. I *may* have to reuse some bottoms as I don't have as many skirts and pants as I do tops, but I'm going to limit it to twice for each garment.

I'm pretty sure this is going to be as hellish as all get-out, and require a fair bit more planning than I probably realise. But I'm going to give it a go.

If nothing else, it should confirm to me exactly what doesn't fit/what I don't like wearing anymore, and I can reduce my wardrobe down even further. Then, come March, I can re-examine what it is I actually want to wear, and what I need to do diet/exercise wise to make it happen without the heartache.

I started on Friday 1 February with this Maiocchi cherry dress:

It's a lovely frock, but already getting tight across the bust. And while I was wearing it, the cherry pin at the front of the belt just popped off as I was walking. Just popped off! That's not a good sign.

Then on Saturday night I dressed down to attend Cliff Richard in concert:

It's nothing fancy, because I had the realisation that I probably shouldn't burn the nice stuff too early. On the plus side, this outfit plus accompanying multi-coloured Converse sneakers meant I got asked for ID at the casino as my Mum and I went in to have pre-Cliff dinner. Why yes, I could be under 18, thank you for asking.

Every few days I'll post more photographs - mostly so I can keep track of what I've worn.

Remember November: Freers

This is probably quite a Brisbane-focused Remember November entry, because I'm not sure how far and wide the tuckshop spread of Freers crisps was.

It's very difficult to find any photographic evidence of the once-beloved snackfood company through image searches. As memory serves, Freers folded sometime in the late 90s, before the internet's true purpose as a nostalgia attic came to the fore. And being as how its products were delicious, but wrappings disposable, it's understandable why no packaging has survived to be snapped, suitable filtered and uploaded.

So I've resorted to drawing a dodgy paintshop-style picture of my favourite Freers product:

Freers Cheese Popcorn (40g).

Ahhhh, you can sense the memories coagulating in the drool seeping from the corner of my mouth.

Freers made a few popcorn varieties, but cheese was the only one I ever went for. There's something about the cheesiness of cheese popcorn that comparable cheese snacks (Twisties, Cheezels, Cheetos) can't actually replicate. I'm not sure if it was a particular type of chemical they put in the seasoning, but boy. That shit was like catnip to primary-school-aged Girl Clumsy.

Our tuckshop stocked 40g bags of Freers popcorn for 40 cents. 40 CENTS. My peak Freers-gorging period was 1991/1992, so this wasn't that long ago. As I recall, Mars Bars were about 80 cents at the time, so even for a chocolate-lover like me, Freers popcorn represented the best possible use of the occasional dollar my mother would give me for a tuckshop treat.

I'd saunter up from the Year 6/Year 7 lunch area once, maybe twice a week, shiny gold dollar clenched in my sweaty, nail-bitten hand. I'd purchase two bags of Freers cheese popcorn, and use the remaining 20 cents for a Funny Face icy pole. I'd down the Funny Face first while the ice was still sharp and full of cola or raspberry flavour. Then I'd bust open the delightfully light yet full Freers bag, drinking in the scent of all that virgin cheese popcorn goodness.

The contents would disappear rather quickly after that.

I'd save the second bag for after school, or eat later at home, secretly in my bedroom, or out for a walk, somewhere no one else could find me and demand some. I didn't like to share.

Sadly my primary school days came to an end, and with them my ready access to cheap delicious Freers popcorn. My high school tuckshop did have deep fried chicken-and-corn bars, but they could never inspire the same sort of devotion.

Freers could occasionally be sourced at Franklins supermarkets, but the popcorn varieties seemed to be discontinued; and then the company wound up, forever dashing my hopes of a cheese popcorn revival.

America seems to have dozens of cheese popcorn options available, but for some reason Australia hasn't embraced that particular form of junk food. The only place I can source it now is from Kernels Popcorn at Chermside, and it's relatively expensive. Certainly no 40 cents, that's for sure. And it's still like catnip for me; I really have to ration out my visits lest I wind up on A Current Affair as some sort of demented popcorn hoarder, sitting Smorg-like on my own increasing body weight of air-popped snacks, batting off nutritionists and sensible people with tubby lard arms.

So it's probably for the best that Freers wound up. But still, I mourn them.

Remember November: Fido Dido

I've heard it said that influenza is to the common cold what a category five cyclone is to a sunshower.

While I had no reason to scoff at the description before, I certainly never will again, given that a bout of Influenza B has gone all Hurricane Sandy on my ass.

I returned from Burma, via Singapore, with symptoms of what I thought was a regular headcold, the latest in a long line of sniffles and sinus problems that I seem to have encountered with alarming super-frequency this year.

But after several days' deterioration, I went back to the doctor to politely suggest this wasn't just a regular cold. Blood tests were ordered, a nasal swab was taken, and a positive confirmation for Influenza B was the result.

For the past six days, all I've been able to do is sleep and stare blankly at the television. Sometimes I even managed to activate the remote control to put something on the television. But basically, it has left me wiped more thoroughly than a baby's .... oh, I don't even have the energy to finish that untoward analogy.

Lesson learned - next year, I'm getting my god damn flu shot.

I've still got a bunch of travel articles either ready-to-go or almost-ready-to-be-written, and I do plan on posting them in coming days/weeks. However, I couldn't help but notice today marks November 1. Two years ago I ran a month-long series called "Remember November", a daily dash of nostalgia served up in bite-sized, hopefully entertaining morsels.

So I thought I'd give it another try. And how appropriate to start with cartoonish early-90s soft drink marketing devices?

I actually remembered the concept of Fido Dido while in Burma. My memories were stirred by the official soft drink brand of Myanmar, named "Blue Mountain". Its official slogan was "Just Drink It!" which sounded more more like an order from the ruling military junta than a tantalising temptation for carbonated beverages. But it reminded me of other drink slogans of my youth.

I don't even remember 7UP existing before Fido Dido, at least not in Australia. The simple, line-drawn, wavy-haired character and his cool-to-be-clear demeanour, were as tightly bound with the PepsiCo-branded lemonade as the "dynamic ribbon device" was with Coca-Cola. People wore Fido Dido T-shirts and badges. Kids at school had Fido Dido pencil cases and rulers. And why? Because Fido Dido was cool.

Fido Dido didn't follow authority. Fido Dido didn't need permission for anything. Fido Dido wore singlets with his own goddamn face on them. Take that, The Man.

Every time 7UP rebranded in the 90s, there would be Fido Dido, in some sort of new incarnation, even occasionally in wild 3D.

Eventually Fido Dido seemed to fade from the public consciousness; like N*Sync's music and Bill Clinton's sexuality, it was just another nonchalantly carefree 90s fad that wouldn't play post 9/11. But sometimes, it's still nice to crack open a 7UP and think about those heady days when a simple cartoon could be simultaneously a corporate shill AND an anti-authority figure.

Watch This Face

I took in an almighty dinner and show while in Beijing last week, which left me not only full to bursting with Peking duck and mandarin fish and pork pancakes and gungbao chicken, but confident in exactly why the Chinese pick up so many gold medals come Olympic time.

The performance that accompanied the meal was a display of precision timing, athleticism and skill. For example, is it any wonder that China trumps the field in rhythmic gymnastics, when this woman did some ribbon twirling - with dough?

I don't recall competitive tea-drinking at the London Games, but there's got to be some reason why this fella has trained so hard to become a flamboyant Nespresso machine:

I thought alcohol reduced your motor skills, but it turns out not for this bloke:

And finally, nearby, there was a cat sitting on cigarettes, while other animals watched on:

OK fine, that wasn't part of the show, but HOW CUTE IS THAT PHOTO NO REALLY YOU GUYS LOOK IT'S A CAT SITTING ON CIGARETTES.

Anyway, the big showstopper at the restaurant turned out to be the Face Changer. The commentary was in Chinese, but I think his name was Yoshi. And he was AWESOME. Seriously cool stuff.

Now, I've yet to Google this particular art form and find out spoilers, so I'm theorising two possibilities on how it's done.

1) Sleight of hand. The masks are hidden about his costume, perhaps magnetised, and just attach onto his face when he whips his clock across.

2) Gadgetry. The masks are on a rollback springy type device hidden in his hat, and through the use of some sort of button, he's able to shift them up and away as needs be.

How do you think the Face Changer does it?

Having My Cakes

It's widely acknowledged (at least on this website), that the song "Africa" by Toto is possibly the greatest piece of music ever composed.

Sure, my Dad may tell you Beethoven's 9th is a stunning tribute to the glory of the human voice, and my Mum may tell you the Rolling Stones rocked back in London in the '70s, but did Ludwig Van or Keith Richards ever come up with the phrase "As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti"? NO THEY DID NOT.

So when my plans to host a little soiree at my parents' house (I probably should respect their music choices a bit more) coincided with my friend Kate's foray into the world of commercial baking, I knew there could be only one outcome: The Africa Cake.

Pernicious

You may remember I recently engaged in a no-holds-barred fight with gravity and grace, and came off second best to a flight of stairs at Parliament House.

What you didn't know was that physical decline was only one element of my physical decline.

A Good Wrap

I often try to prepare my lunch the night before a work day. Just as often I squirm out of it, saying I'll do it in the morning, I'm too tired, it's a hassle, there's no delicious black olives, etc etc.

But when I actually bother, I find myself becoming giddy with a tiny degree of excitement.

It starts with the tortilla wraps, which I subbed in for bread some years ago and never looked back. Then some light honey mustard dressing, a few slices of honey leg ham, tasty cheese, green capsicum, mixed salad leaves, and delicious, delicious black olives.

I think it's healthy. I hope it's healthy. Because, the thing is, it's virtually the only lunch I make.

And even though I know how it will taste, I still get excited by the prospect. By the time I'm wrapping them up in clingfilm, I'm almost disappointed that it will be a sleep and a morning's labour before I can get stuck into those bad boys.

It's not much, but it's mine. ALL MINE.

And I wonder - is it wrong to have some foods that are a comforting, pleasurable routine? An island of familiarity in what can so often be a day of confusion?

Double Trouble

Man of mystery and chicken lover (wait, that doesn't sound right), Disco Stu and I road test KFC's infamous "Double" burger. The Wah is there to capture it all on high definition digital video.

KFC has no reason to be proud of itself by offering The Double - except of course in the only way it counts - marketing. It truly is a gleeful triumph of "F*** You, Health Nazis". Bravo, Colonel Sanders, bravo.

In the future, aliens will discover the fetid remnants of The Double, and begin to piece together the downfall of human civilisation. Unfortunately they will cook one up as an experiment, and be doomed to repeat our mistakes. Take that, aliens.

Love it Light

Diet Coke. It's a product aimed at women, and one that I will imbibe if my beloved Pepsi Max is not available (still nowhere near as satisfying).

Over the years, Diet Coke ads have remained relatively consistent. A bunch of go-getting modern women, coping with the demands of an active work life by enjoying a refreshing Diet Coke. Sometimes it was a hunky man enjoying the Diet Coke, but at least it was within sight of those sassy office ladies.

So I almost, almost got angry when I saw the latest ad for Diet Coke:

But then I realised that this is just the eventual, logical conclusion that Diet Coke was always going to come to. Having followed the real life office ladies for 30 years, it was only a matter of time before they outsourced the job.

And so I have to applaud the out and out ballsiness of Coca-Cola, for not even attempting to hide the subtext of this new ad. Consider:

The "women" are still office workers, but now, they're marionettes. Big heads, tiny bodies. Because that's the ideal we're all working towards. That's why we drink Diet Coke.

The "women" are not just literal puppets, but figurative puppets. Of the Coca-Cola empire. They put on a song, we all dance to it; ie, we ALL drink Diet Coke.

The song that's played is "Maniac". Because you know, all women are crazy.

OK, maybe that's a long bow. But still, kudos to you, Coca-cola. Kudos. It's the most baffling, unfunny ad for a soft drink - possibly ever. But at least you're not even pretending. Your theme is "Love it Light" - and you really, really do.

Randomousness

Some random photos:

The Bendable Candle Lighter is apparently "Great For Candles!" By the way, did I tell you about my "Waterproof Bear-Hurling Trebuchet"? It's "Great for Bear-Hurling!".

What the f*** is this bulls**t? Mars Caramel? What do Mars take us for, fools?

It's pretty simple. Your Mars Bar is made up of THREE components - a crispy chocolate coating, a delicate layer of caramel, nestled above a bed of delicious nougat. The Mars Bar REMOVES THE NOUGAT. I'm sorry Mars, you just can't DO that sort of s*** and still call it a Mars Bar. Would Christians like it if you deep-sixed the Holy Spirit then insisted the God/Jesus combo was still a Holy Trinity? NO THEY WOULD NOT.

And this is a wider message for chocolate companies. Stop muddying the f***ing waters already. Isn't it enough that we have Cadbury blocks in every conceivable nut and filling combination - do we have to have them as ice-cream versions as well? Isn't it enough that we get our bubbles of minty Aero goodness from a block of the stuff, rather than a flimsy dairy dessert? I CAN'T COPE WITH ALL THIS MODERNISATION.

I thought I should try oatmeal. You know, porridge. You can see for yourself above how humourous The Wah found the whole idea.

I tried to microwave the porridge twice last week at work; on both days it exploded in a gooey milky mess.

I was following the instructions, I don't know what I did wrong. Maybe the microwave was too powerful. Maybe the milk was laced with nitro-glycerin. Damn explosive-uddered dairy cows.

The Voice of a True Aberration

Many of you will remember my devotion to Pepsi Max; a love so enduring that when I die, I expect my remains to be pickled in a large vat of the stuff, Nelson-style.

Late last year, Pepsi began a promotion called "Summer Rewind". It offered free retro Pepsi t-shirts in a number of varieties - all you had to do was collect specially marked labels. Some were worth 1 point, some 2, depending on the size of the bottle, and you needed 10 to get a shirt. The best part was free delivery - you simply entered your codes into the website, clicked on the style you wanted, then sat back and wait for awesome commercialised vintage fashion to hit your letterbox.

Pepsi Max is our beverage of choice here at Chez Clumsy, so we made sure to buy specially marked bottles when we could, and I began collecting the labels.

It didn't take long to accumulate points, and through December, January and early February, Pepsi retro t-shirts began turning up regularly at Chez Clumsy. Pretty decent shirts too; nice cotton, with good quality screen-printing. I even "girlied" up a few - slicing off necklines and roughly cropping sleeves to make them more "stylish" (if you accept that unhemmed and uneven edges can be stylish).

At some point, the shirts ran out, but Pepsi obviously realised they were onto a popular promotion. People were happy to walk around advertising their product - as long as the garment doing the work was kind of trendy and old skool. So they restocked, and my efforts continued.

I *may* have gotten a little excited.

But then, a couple of weeks ago, I received a large envelope from Pepsi DEMANDING my labels and proof of purchase receipts. Turns out I'd ordered enough shirts to be seen as suspicious - or at least just a tad on the greedy side. They didn't accuse me of anything directly - but the meaning was clear: "You've had your share - now come up with the proof you really did buy all that carbonated cola or we'll think you're running a dodgy eBay resale scam."

But what I don't understand is how you're expected to follow their "rules" - which involve keeping all the labels AND your proof of purchase receipts. I do in fact have a bunch of the labels all rubber-banded together in a small box. But receipts? Ha! OK, I probably could've held on to supermarket dockets, but you tell me what little cafe or newsagent or foodcourt kebab shop gives you a receipt for your 600ml bottle?

So the fine print fascists at Pepsi are now holding my shirts, and as I'm unlikely to be able to send them receipts (OK, I've lost the reply paid envelope they sent me), will redistribute them to other, more conscientious consumers.

I mean, really. What has the world come to when a girl can't collect a Smorg-like amount of t-shirt treasure just so she can cut them up willy-nilly? I mean, didn't someone fight a war about something at some point?

If it wasn't for the fact I'm addicted to Pepsi Max, I'd seriously consider boycotting it.

Murder Cakes

Sunday. I was feeling a little bad about not doing any hands-on volunteering for the flood clean-up, so I decided to bake cupcakes. It was a fun process; interrupted only by the surprise shattering of a glass tumbler that The Wah had been retrieving from an overhead cupboard.

Once cooled and iced, I asked a buddy on Twitter who'd been out and about where I could deliver some of these (reasonably) delicious treats without getting in the way.

He tipped me off that the lovely Janet Leach, purveyor of exquisite designer goods through Artery Store, had seen her lovely old Queenslander inundated. While a mass clean-up effort had rid the street of most of the mud and muck the river had deposited, she remained without power.

I packed up about ten cupcakes, along with some oranges, bananas and a bottle of wine, and headed down to West End.  Janet said she was delighted to receive my little care package, and I was very pleased.

Monday. I got home from work and The Wah said "Your attempt to kill me failed, by the way."

"What?"

"I was beginning to eat one of your cupcakes and I found a large piece of glass in it."

Huh?

What?

Oh no!

"Oh yes. It was lucky I didn't bite down on it."

It turns out we hadn't quite cleaned up all of the broken glass.

"But... but I gave Janet those cupcakes. And she was going to save them for.... her children!"

I could see the headlines.

JOURNALIST KILLS INNOCENT CHILD FLOOD VICTIM: CLAIMS SHE WAS HELPING

GLASS HALF-FULL? MORE LIKE CUPCAKES HALF-FULL OF GLASS

IS THIS WOMAN WORSE THAN HITLER? YES, SAYS EVERYONE

Aghast, I desperately messaged Janet, telling her oh my god Greg found glass in one of the cupcakes because a glass broke when I was baking and I thought it had all gone on the floor and oh my god please  check them or better yet throw them away just throw them I'll make you some more oh please god don't let me have killed your children.

Janet got back to me, saying the kids had in fact eaten a cupcake each for afternoon tea - OH DEAR GOD - but were fine. She also said she'd throw the rest away, just in case.

The Wah now refers to them as my Murder Cakes.

I'd say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but in my case, it seems the road to hell is paved with POTENTIALLY DEADLY SHARDS OF GLASS.

Remember November: El Maco Shaker Fries

There are any number of "for a limited time only" menu items at major fast food chains that could provide fodder for Remember November. Just last year McDonald's launched its "Lean Beef Burger", which supposedly tasted even more rubbery than a balloon full of Congolese condoms. It's now been relegated to the annals of fast food history, along with those absolutely revolting KFC Bowls - the ones where they threw mashed potato, gravy, popcorn chicken and who knows what else into a plastic container, then charged you $5.95 for the privilege of eating something that would actually become tastier when you threw it up.

Of course, I personally don't tend to indulge in these fast food fads (just give me the cheeseburger, man). But there was one, back in 1993, that I yearn for, even occasionally dream about. Silly? Perhaps. But then, I ask you to watch this commercial and NOT drool over the prospect of El Maco Shaker Fries:

Sure, OK, the ad is just a little bit completely racist. But to THIS gringo, Shaker Fries were the absolute star of the El Maco promotion. Take a little sachet of nacho-like seasoning, throw it into a bag with the fries, then shake like a Mexican mayoral candidate.

Oh, the deliciousness! Oh, the flavour! Oh, the preservatives and MSG!

My brother and I would ask for extra sachets everytime we went to the Golden Arches. We knew we were on a limited wicket, and eventually the covers would come out. Generally the staff were quite nice about it. Maybe we looked a bit bogan and they didn't want to ruin what was probably the most exciting part of our week. Whatever. We stockpiled well, and once El Maco ended, had a good two months' worth of sachet goodness to sustain us. Of course, once that was all gone, we became like desperate heroin addicts during flood season in the Golden Triangle. We tried making our own out of paprika and chicken salt. But it wasn't the same, it was never the same. To this day, my brother and I will remember the passing of El Maco Shaker Fries with a brief pause, solemn nod of the head and the shared, unspoken thought that maybe one day, one day - El Maco will ride again. ¡Vamanos!

Remember November: West Coast Coolers

To this day, I cannot tell you exactly what is in a West Coast Cooler. It's described as a "wine cooler". What is that? Is that normal wine, just chilled more? Is it a watered-down wine, or a souped-up wine? Is it coloured? Flavoured? WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

This ad, apparently from the early 90s, does little to inform me, except to indicate that West Coast Coolers encouraged big hair, big dance moves and big sunglasses:

Admittedly I'm a teetotaller, so my knowledge of the grape and grain is rather limited. And I don't recall my parents ever having West Coast Coolers in the house, even when they seemed to be the drink de jour in the mid-1980s, so I never smelt or tasted one. By the time I was of an age to go to parties where alcohol was present, the girls tended to go for those Lemon Ruski Stollies that they could swig down by the six-pack before attempting to stand and realising the vodka content had somehow spirited away their sense of balance and decorum. West Coast Coolers seemed a distant, and rather daggy, memory.

My clearest recollection of West Coast Coolers though dates back to the years my family lived on Thursday Island, way up at the pointiest bit of Cape York. My father was the harbour master, and we lived in a ramshackle Queenslander provided for the HM by the state government. It backed onto the local football field. I remember my brother and I would run out to play on it. On Sundays in particular it would be covered in stripey West Coast Cooler bottletops. We used to pick them up and collect them, even turning them into a primitive currency. It was something like 75 WCCs to the Aussie dollar. Until I found an actual, real-life, sharp blue paper ten dollar note, flipping across the field in a strong breeze. Obviously, aged 5, that made me a billionaire, and I gave up WCC collecting to brainstorm ways I could spend my newfound fortune.

#30before30: Drink Alcohol

I can never really satisfactorily explain why I don’t drink. The best answer I can give is “I don’t like the taste.” Alcohol was never a taboo in my house growing up; hell, if my Gran had had her way, I would’ve been downing Moet by the bottle by the time I hit 14. She maintains it’s the only way to drink (although now in her mid-80s, she’s slowed down to only two or three glasses a day).

I never really saw drinking alcohol as “rebellious”, in the same way I never really saw smoking as “cool”. Perhaps I am a bit of a control freak, but I don’t need a lubricant to be able to talk to people, and I seem loud and obnoxious enough without booze.

#30before30: Drink Tea

My mother swears by the restorative power of a cup of tea. She’s not the only one. Indeed, one could say that Britain’s addiction to tea really powered its Empire and slave trade back in the 1700s. They liked tea, so they bunkered down in the subcontinent, and they liked sugar in their tea, so they needed to steal a bunch of Africans to work their cane plantations in the Americas.

Yes, there are many reasons to dislike tea.

Weapon of mass destruction.

But historical indentured servitude and the treatment of humans as beasts of burden aside, I’ve just always hated the taste.

“It’ll relax you when you’re wound up, and pep you up when you’re feeling down,” enthused Dan, as we relaxed on his white sofa with a cuppa. “It’ll warm you up when you’re cold, but also cool you down when you’re hot.”

I’d made the trek to Dan’s Moorooka abode to take part in the simple act of “having a cup of tea”. For at least 12 months, Dan had been on and on at me to drink a bloody cup of tea with him. “I've never drunk tea, it’s horrible stuff,” I’d say. “But there’s a ritual, and an atmosphere and a mood, and a real delight to share a cup of tea with someone,” he'd flounce back. I’d tell him to put his skirt back on, the big girl, and the conversation would stop. Until the next time he brought it up.

"Go on, go on, go on."

When I decided to do #30before30, I knew that “drinking tea” would inevitably be on the list. Dan would have been a teary mess had I not agreed to it. I just couldn’t face the prospect of all that EMOTION. Sheesh. So, I decided to step forth and think of England, and wrap my laughing gear around a cuppa.

#30before30: Eating at a Michelin-starred Restaurant

The lovely Amanda got in quick on my #30before30 call for challenges, and pointed me towards this Sydney Morning Herald article about Tim Ho Wan, the world's cheapest one-star Michelin restaurant. Amanda herself is only a few kicks away from having a baby, and so she urged me to feast on dumplings and wontons instead.

And so it was that on Saturday 4 September I found myself hustling out of a taxi onto Kwong Wa Street, Mong Kok, a bustling market shopping area of Kowloon. I could tell which tiny hole-in-the-wall shopfront was Tim Ho Wan by the line-up out front.

The restaurant stood out between hobby shop after toy shop after model shop.

I wandered up past the row of motorbikes to see a well-dressed but stern-looking Door Lady speaking in rapid Cantonese to the 15 or so wannabe diners forming a vague sort-of lumpish queue in front of her. Occassionally she'd scrawl a number on a scrap of paper and hand it to someone; then she'd scribble another number on a blue sheet taped to the glass door; then she'd disappear inside for a while. Occasionally people were let out, and others let it. This was some sort of waiting list. I had to work out how to get on it.

The End of Thigh July

I'm quite surprised and proud of myself that I made it through the Thigh July No Chocolate Challenge. I was almost tempted to continue through August, but that seemed to bust the whole "July" narrative a bit. And I'm all about creating a satisfying ending. It wasn't about getting stuck into some chocolate, no.

It's interesting that it took me a few days into August to break the cacao fast - for some reason, I just felt it was wrong to eat chocolate. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I even bought a bar of Peppermint Aero on Monday, intending to eat it - but instead gave it away!

I don't know if I've actually learnt anything from the experiment, but I'm going to try to restrict my chocolate portions a bit more, and perhaps that's enough.

Now! I haven't eaten any Cheezels or Twisties yet in August, so I'm going to see how I go avoiding those for a month...