Further to my last post...

After I posted a link to my last blog post on ye olde Facebook, I received a comment/message/email avalanche from like-minded grammar Nazis and phrase pedants. It was not only hilarious, but also really, really satisfying. 

One pal in particular sent me this video. Which is the best. 

You COULD care less?

I won't deny that a well-placed comma, or a full sentence used in a text message sends me into a surge of happiness. I won't for a second deny that I value proper use of grammar. I also am prone to fits of anger when the following are used:

• "Irregardless"
• "Much of a muchness" 
• "Preformance"
• "Your" in the place of "You're" 
• "Thusly"

But that's old news, no? Old, oft repeated news. 

I come to you tonight not to gripe again about the same old boring words that send my into a flying rage, or about the fact that I judge people incredibly harshly on their ability to use a full stops and capital letters appropriately. I come with new news, with a brand-spanking shiny new phrase, the latest to incur my wrath. 

"I could care less." 

This is how I feel when you say that.

Really? Really? You could care less? What the Sam Hill is that supposed to mean? WHAT is that supposed to mean? Do you mean what you're saying? DO YOU EVEN REALISE WHAT YOU'RE SAYING?

When I hear someone say "I could care less" about x or y, their tone of voice will usually imply that they actually couldn't give a shit about whatever the hell they're saying they could give a shit/a care/a hoot about.

So you say that you "could care less" about the Melbourne Cup? Well, that must mean that you actually do care at least a little bit about the Melbourne Cup. But check this out: your Facebook status updates repeatedly declare the myriad ways you think the Melbourne Cup is a giant waste of time. So, are you saying that you do care about the Melbourne Cup, or that you actually hate it and couldn't care less about the race that stops a nation?

"I could care less" = You obviously care at least a tiny bit. Because you could actually care less about it. 

"I couldn't care less" = There is no way for you to care less about whatever the hell it is. Which means you don't care about it at all. 

Think about it. Please, for the love of all that is holy, think about what it is that you're saying and what it means. Because if you're don't, there is a (large) chance that you're Doing It Wrong.

Everyone will know you're doing it wrong. 

That's kind of all I wanted to say. I had to vent, because after seeing a phrase that makes NO SENSE - even less sense than "much of a muchness" - become commonplace, I get very frustrated.

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.

Roadtrip Lessons

Welp! I'm back. Just like the near-run/bound/skip back down Mt Kosciusko, the ride back to Melbourne seemed to take a fraction of the time it took to get to our destination/chalet/couples' retreat. Maybe its because I didn't spend the first half crammed into the back seat with two other people within a tiny car. Maybe it's because we passed the time listening to episodes of This American Life. Maybe it's because I knew that soon I'd be home and showering and in my own bed. Not that it wasn't a lovely, fun-filled weekend of course - but there really is a lot to be said for one's own bed, and for being able to watch the latest offering from The Walking Dead. 

You know, if I had my laptop and a slightly less temperamental internet connection, I may have just stuck around. Because it was an incredibly lovely and beautiful house in gorgeous surrounds, with a large and luxurious shower. With the addition of The Walking Dead, I'm sure I would have been pretty much opposed to heading back to civilisation. But that's neither here nor there.

The weekend was really lovely. It was incredibly relaxing, it was full of delicious food, it was filled with good times. I slept enough, I read a lot, I did a bit of writing, and I unwound enough to actually forget what day it was, and to let my phone run out of juice. All in all, a successful weekend.

In any case, I realised THREE THINGS on this weekend away across the border.

1. I've been running around the shiny streets of my neighbourhood recently, and this seems to be helping. 
This isn't to say that I've become shinier, or that I've suddenly invested in a number of rabbit-fur vests and a series of botox injections. Rather, I mean to say that I have become LESS UNFIT. For someone who spent the first basketball game of the season wheezing up and down the court and damn near passing out, the realisation that death in fact is not near after a few minutes of activity is very pleasing indeed. I bounded up the mountain, ahead of the pack. Of course, it was hardly the toughest hike in the world by any stretch of the imagination, but I barely broke a sweat throughout the entire walk. And then, I ran much of the way down. RAN. Very pleasing indeed.

2. More and more, I'm enjoying quiet nights of moderate booze, amazing food, and good television programming more than Ridiculous Nights Out. 
Perhaps it was because we were spending time with a number of people ranging from about five to twelve years older than us, or perhaps it was because I had some serious George R. R. Martin to be get through. But man oh man, if you were to ask what my highlights were for the weekend, I'd reply with wild over the top descriptions of the food we ate, the mountain we climbed, the many hours I spent reading, and the stellar run of programs we watched on ABC. Louis Theroux! Q&A! Louis Theroux while eating dessert? Holy smokes, I'm in heaven.
I'd be lying if I said I'd completely deleted crazy shenanigans from my schedule, but I have of late found that I'm increasingly prone to getting major kicks from a glass of wine, doing some actual cooking, and then watching a whole lot of The West Wing. The weekend just gone only served to remind me of that interesting fact.

3. There's nothing like being surrounded by four couples to constantly remind you of how very single you are. 
Don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining. I revel in my singledom. I enjoy it thoroughly. I am also fully aware of how quickly I become sick of people when I spend too much time amongst them, let alone if I were to spend all of my time with one person. So that ain't no thang. What I'm referring to is the feeling you get when everyone's paired up on the couch, with their arms wrapped around their significant other and you're on the single couch with a novel called A Dance With Dragons. It's not a feeling of loneliness, or of jealousy. It's more a slightly amused pondering along the lines of, "Man, I am such a leftover at this point in time."
In no way am I implying that I was ever excluded by my pals. However, the fact is that when you're away with a bunch of couples, the singles are always the easiest to put in the shitty room with the tiny bed. It makes sense! If you're a couple, you need a bed that fits two! A single person needs one! And so, the single people are relegated to the mediocre room. I tell you what, it might actually be worth pairing up with someone just so each of us might be able to taste the large-room fruits of coupledom, as well as save a bit of money on booze.
"Darling, do you want a piece of toast?"
"Piglet, do you know where my sunnies are?"
"You burnt the crumble! This might be the worst crumble you've ever made."
I adore my friends, but I think the fact that I viewed much of the weekend as an anthropological sight-see into the realm of many couples is a sign that I'm not in the right place to team up with someone romantically. Or maybe that's a lie, and I was just relieved that since I wasn't part of a cooking "team", I didn't have to tackle dinner and was instead put in charge of "cheeses and snacks". Cheese and snacks I can handle, dinner for ten I cannot.

Still on the Road

It didn't realise at first, but I'm actually in New South Wales at the moment. It should have been obvious, what with the ubiquity of NSW number plates and the fact that we're a stone's throw from Thredbo. But there you go. Greetings from New South Wales!

We climbed a mountain (not that difficult) and stood on top of Australoa (not that tall)!

We ate our body weight in delicious food!

Then we probably ate our body weight again in cheese board ingredients!

We drank wine and ate desserts and then watched a stellar line up of TV programming on the ABC.

We ate lunch at a distillery. We played scrabble. And I read about a third of a Game of Thrones book.

Proper post tomorrow.

Blogging from the Road

You thought I'd forgotten about you, right? Hah! Think again. I've told myself that I'm going to blog every (week)day for two weeks, and achieve that I shall. Even if it kills me.

Good evening from Beechworth! And good evening from the tiny keyboard of my phone. I'm currently road-tripping with a posse of friends to Thredbo (I think), to hang out and climb a mountain of some sort (I think?) over Cup Weekend. To be honest, it was one of those things that I readily agreed to months and months ago, and subsequently tuned out of the flurry of Facebook messages that were involved in the actual organisation of the holiday. As a result, November rolled around and I realised I was going to spend five days as a single person with four couples. Which is cool, and I'm sure it'll be a blast of a weekend full of laughs and food and good times, but I also am bracing myself for continually being reminded of how very outside of a committed relationship full or otherwise of public displays of affection I am. In fact, I can hear Mike making out with his girlfriend RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW I can hear kissing noises. I don't think I've ever met a couple who kisses as loudly as they. But that's neither here nor there.

There's one other Lone Ranger coming apparently, as a replacement for a couple that had pulled out. I guess I can only hope that we get along somewhat well.

In any case, that's what I'm doing. Road tripping, and blogging every (week)day for two weeks. I feel like I've neglected y'all in too rude a fashion for far too long. I could bust out the excuses and reasons (and believe me, there are ample), but I suppose actions speak louder than words.

Gird your loins for some regular posting!

Pie or Bust

I got home and wanted a pie. Being an adult person who don't need no permission to do no damn thing, I strode past my housemate and his significant other, clad in black dress paired with obnoxious Peruvian trousers. Rain, cold and any quiet night they were hoping to be having be damned, I wanted a pie. Or a box of Shapes. Or a pie.

I bought a pie, and a sausage roll. I rejoiced. I stood outside the 7-11, with pie in one hand and a sausage roll in the other, gazing at the monumental Choice That Lay Ahead, while the light from the service station shone down upon me. It was a truly glorious moment.

The pie first?
The sausage roll first?
I had wanted the pie initially, so surely it was to be a case of save-the-best-till-last? Or was it?
Eat one now?
Or do I eat both these meaty bad boys from the comfort of my bed, with the cast of the West Wing for company?

A break in traffic, and suddenly none of the questions mattered at all. For as I reached the middle of the road, from my hand tumbled the pie. It fell in slow motion onto the road. My pie looked up at me, distraught, pleading with me not to be left behind.

NEVER! I wouldn't do that, little pie. I wouldn't leave you and your crusty outside and your meaty insides to waste away here on the tram tracks. I wouldn't have travelled all this way only to leave you here to die a lonesome death.

I knelt down to pick up my dear dying pie, to reassure it that no man gets left on my watch dammit. I looked up to see a pair of headlights in front of me, growing steadily larger.

Pie? Jump? Run? Save myself and my food? Or save myself and merely attempt to be happy with the sausage roll I was to be left with?

I leapt out of the way in the nick of time.

The car sped by. I briefly high-fived myself inwardly for still being alive, then inwardly gasped as I realised my pie might have been squashed. AND I'D PROMISED THAT NO MAN GETS LEFT BEHIND ON MY WATCH. How would I break it to the pie's family? Was it really worth not being hit by a car if my pie perished?

I ran back to the middle of the road and looked down. There it lay. My pie. Alive. I picked it up, and did a little dance in the middle of the road. Call it the Pie Victorious dance. If the pie had hands, I would have taken them in mine and spun it around in glee. Instead, I stood there in the middle of the road and ate the pie in about four bites.

All in all, a winner of a Friday night. I got a pie and I continued to live, sans car lodged in my face.

AWKWARD BREAK UP VOYEUR TIME

A while ago I was sitting around with the guys, shooting the shit about something or other. I'm fairly sure the something or other in question was something along the lines of awkward encounters/uncomfortable conversations. In any case, it was a topic of conversation that prompted me to tell the story of how Mitch and I broke up. I guess I thought it'd be funny? I think it's a funny story. I'm pretty sure it's a funny story.

Basically, right as Mitts and I were in the middle of "it's not you it's me", or "better off as friends", or something equally as cliched, we were interrupted by the sudden presence of my favourite cinema studies lecturer. I guess it was our bad for biting the bullet in a public place, and a cafe right next to our university at that. My very favourite lecturer stopped to chat, all friendly-like. He saw Mitts staring at his feet, then his eyes darted to me in increasing panic, to consider my hand-wringing awkward uncomfortable silence. You could see two and two being put together in his head, and the sudden terror in his face as he realised what he'd just walked in on.
"WELL, I guess I'll see you later!" he blurted out at an almost-yell, and damn near sprinted away.
Mitts and I sat there in stunned silence, wondering whether or not to laugh.

Look, even if you don't think it's that funny, Mitch and I laugh about it. Come on, it's the stuff sitcoms are made of! Break up! Interruption by university personality! Awkwardness ensues! I thought it was mildly amusing, but obviously the guys I told it to a little while ago thought it was less hilarious than it was an uncomfortable thing to hear. You know when you're telling a story, and a little over halfway through (read: past the point of no return) you realise it's going to completely bomb when you get to the climax/punchline? It was like that. I'm pretty sure I even tacked on a "and then I found twenty bucks" at the story's end.

I suppose the guys reacted in an awkward way because of all the activities in the world, break ups would probably be near the top of any list entitled "Things That Are Not Much Fun". Right in between getting a wart burnt off, and being fired. Even if they occur in public, they're intensely private moments, and they're rarely the short, digestible length they'd be if it was taking place in a Hollywood comedy.

These were all thoughts going through my head as I sat in a cafe late last week and observed, watched, took the journey with a couple breaking up right in front of me. It was, amongst other things, excruciating, fascinating, and riveting viewing.

I sat down in the cafe, ordered my coffee, and whipped out my notebook. With half an hour till I needed to jump onto a tram, I'd decided to feign at being an efficient-ass motherfucker and get some shit done. FUNCTIONING HUMAN ADULT MANEUVERS would be engaged before I got on with my day. I surveyed the other cafe-goers as I waited for my caffeine. For some context, I was sitting facing the window, my back to a dividing wall thing. Sitting against the window with their sides to me, a little to my right was a young couple. They looked like they were having a rather intense conversation. I took my headphones off, and didn't even have to strain to hear them. That convenient fact was merely because they weren't whispering, such was the intimacy of the space. Rookie mistake, whoever chose the venue.

It was immediately obvious that they were breaking up. Or at the very least, they were in the middle of the talk that comes immediately after someone says "we need to talk", and immediately before a break up. They were leaning in as they spoke, and his expression alternated between pained and concerned.

Then I heard a snippet of conversation:
"You know that I care about you a lot, like, more than anyone else..." he said, clutching her hands in his.

It was at this point that I was like,

While I desperately attempted to look like I wasn't actively eavesdropping and messaging a friend with the details of what I was witnessing, the young couple continued their painful talk.

"I'm at a crossroads right now" he said.
"I just think, whenever we talk about anything we end up fighting" she said.
"Things are just so crazy with uni right now..." he said.
"I believe that if we give this a shot, we really have to give it a shot" she said.

I tell you what, I was engrossed. I'll tell you what else, it's extremely difficult not to look engrossed when you are. I ripped my attention away from the pair as I quickly updated my Facebook status (regarding my cafe entertainment situation, of course), only to tune back in as she was busting out "I know that's a really difficult thing to hear from someone, but it's true." His face was contorted in discomfort. Wait, wasn't he the one at the crossroads? This was getting interesting.

I inwardly kicked myself for not hearing what on earth had been such a "difficult thing to hear" and turned back to my phone, as I received a text message demanding pictures. I'd posted a status update about little surprise drama unfolding before my eyes, and it'd very quickly gained a bit of attention. A friend immediately asked for details about whose fault the break up was. I was about to post a long and juicy reply, full of descriptions of heartbroken expressions (his) and cracked voices (hers). As I tap-tap-tapped at the screen of my phone though, I had a abrupt and surprising crisis of conscience. I deleted my comment.

This lightning bolt of moral dilemma wasn't so much annoying as it was interesting; all of a sudden I was incredibly aware of what I was intruding on, and subsequently sharing with the internets. By that I mean, a break up is an intensely private, personal thing to happen. Neither of them were having a good time, not by any means. Sure, there's quite a bit of twisted delight and train-wreck fascination to be had from my vantage point certainly, but after eavesdropping and keeping a friend updated via text message over fifteen minutes or so, I all of a sudden felt a little dirty. Like I'd been intruding on something I really shouldn't have been intruding on. I knew how much she liked his family, that their friends would all apparently shit bricks, and how their mutual pal Steve was going to be torn - although apparently, Steve was his friend first. Poor Steve.

Oh god, then they began to joke about it. You know, the "we've broken up now, but we're definitely going to keep being friends because we're totally able to joke around about what just happened even though it's obviously super awkward and not comfortable in the slightest" kind of nervous and forced laughter. I almost put my headphones back on. Perhaps it was time to leave, or at least stop listening so intently.

While all this was happening, another guy walked into the cafe and sat down a couple of tables to my right, so pretty much directly in front of the couple. He ordered a coffee and instantly realised what was going down in his immediate field of vision. I have never seen someone slam a latte and bail so quickly. Never. I'm obviously made of tougher shit than that guy though, because I stuck around for another five minutes or so. Even if I was having a small moral dilemma, this trainwreck was way too juicy and riveting to just leave. And apparently, my friends felt the same way. Like I said, the twisted delight of seeing something awkwardly and painfully destroyed right before your eyes far, far outweighs any moral qualms one might feel when one becomes aware of the slightly creepy voyeurism one might be undertaking.

Anyway, by then it was time to catch my tram and I returned my phone and notebook (not a single word of value written) to my backpack. So I left. They were still going. I knew that when I caught up with a bunch of pals the next day I'd tell the story of what I'd witnessed as an epic, hilarious story full of awkwardly comedic plot points. I couldn't wait to tell this story. As I put my backpack on however, I kind of still felt a little dirty, and I kind of wanted to go up to them and be like, "GUYS, IT'LL BE OKAY. ALSO, NEXT TIME EITHER OF YOU BREAK UP WITH SOMEONE, CHOOSE A MORE PRIVATE LOCATION."

Would they remain friends?
Would they work at it and stay together?
WOULD STEVE BE OKAY?

I guess we'll never know. I also know that as much as I don't really feel like I should have spent all that time eavesdropping, at least I didn't start recording their conversation. This is something I've been reprimanded for at least twice, but it also reassures me that I'm not that much of a creep weirdo, one who takes too much pleasure in all things #dark. I AIN'T THAT FUCKED, YO.