The festive season begins

It's no secret that the Misses Soft Crab love Christmas. Mostly. And given that it is now December 5 it's time to admit that the festive season has begun. Decorations are everywhere, the weather is heating up, on Friday when I had to cross Alexander Parade at 9am there was a noticeable lack of traffic on the road. It's practically holidays already. And I'm not the only one who's ready to admit it, my unconscious is too.

Last week I woke up from a vivid dream that was basically a sci-fi/thriller in which Ben Affleck was breaking through barriers of space and time in an attempt to find Santa Claus to prevent some kind of evil. Every year Affleck starts this mission but each day always ends with memory loss so he's frantically trying to discover whether he's found Santa while also looking for Santa until he realises... HE IS SANTA. It was basically Memento meets Fifty First Dates meets The Santa Clause. Though I want to make it clear it was not cute or a kids movie. It was more of a dark, gun toting, thriller Santa chase.  Merry fucken' Christmas.

Though in some ways I would like to spend some time figuring out what this dream all means and what I could learn about myself I'm too disappointed in my subconscious to give it the respect of my time. It is just so terribly disappointing that my brain has been doing all this hard work thinking about Casey Affleck a lot recently and my unconscious goes and dreams about Ben. It harks back to that time I dreamt about Donny Wahlberg instead of Marky Mark. I guess if I wanted I could look into why it keeps sending me the hunks' brothers, but I'm just assuming that in its sleeping state my brain is too lazy to conjure up the right guy. Right? Right! Nothing more to interpret here folks. Welcome to December.

Something stinks (PM)

Oh wow. Perfume ads really stink, don't they?! There's one on TV at the moment where Gisele Bundchen drives around crying and laughing or some shit. I don't know. I know that I kind of enjoy it 'cause Baz Lurhmann directed it but I also know it feels like a poor man's Gatsby.

Why are perfume ads always trying to tell a story about some rebel woman? The day I believe Julia Roberts is an inspiration is the day I cut off my hands. Which is to say that will never happen because I am very attached to my hands. They're so useful. And the day I believe I need to free myself from the diamond shackles of my life is the day I cut off my dick.

For me the pick of this morning's viewings was the Invictus ad. Hahaha. That made me laugh and laugh. The way that guy walks around and then turns the rugby players to stone and blows them up by the flick of the hands. Hahahs. What a fucking idiot. But if that wasn't enough he walks into a change room full of nearly nude beautiful women who lose there sheet fabric covering once he walks in. Hahahaa. Seriously, WTF Paco Rabanne. 

Sadly for me I misread the last paragraph as "Hemsworth is in this ad" rather than "a Hemsowth" and just spent the whole last ad thinking "THIS IS THE WRONG HEMSWORTH!"  Not even the wolf could salvage it for me. But I could tell through my disappointment that it was another stupid fucking ad. And what about the shape of that stupid Diesel male perfume bottle. Get a real bottle Diesel.

Needless to say, I don't wear perfume and thanks to these idiot advertisers I probably never will.

I will look at this picture of Christmas Thor though to help me get over the disappointment of this morning.

Disappointments (AM)

Life is full of disappointments (see the Marky Mark remake of Planet of the Apes and also Snow White and the Huntsman - but only after watching the awesome trailers for each). It's expectation that does it. Without expectation there would be no disappointments, only appointments. Wait...what?

By far the greatest disappointments are food-related ones. Oh sure there are professional disappointments, like when you apply for a job, are given the impression you will get it only to be told they decided to hire from within despite their better judgement. There are romantic disappointments, like the decade of my life from the ages of 13-23. But really does anything compare to food disappointment? No matter how you look at it, it's the worst.

Say you cook something, you spend time thinking about how it will taste, preparing your taste buds, preparing the food, and then when it doesn't work out...UGH! It's the worst.

But for me the very, very worst is bad takeaway. This is worse even than the disappointment of a bad restaurant meal, because at least if you go to a restaurant you've been out, probably socialising, you are in it for the experience. If you get takeaway you have basically decided to spend a bunch of money for a meal of minimal nutrition and maximum calories. And the pay-off is that you don't have to cook and you get to eat some kind of delicious food. Maybe gross delicious, maybe delicious delicious, but whatever it is you want to enjoy it, otherwise you are basically eating an expensive, nutritionless, tasteless meal. Oh, its the worst. Moreover a person can't get takeaway all the time and if you've had a shit takeaway meal, that's it. You still have to cook and eat your own food again night after night after night after night until you feel like enough time has passed that you can get takeaway again. And then all you can do is pray your next takeaway meal is going to be more satisfying than the last. But how can you know? This week I was disappointed by a place that usually satisfies but the meal was a total dud. Is nothing sacred?! And to make things worse I watched most of The Green Hornet last night. And right now, I'm hungry! This week is not working out as well as I'd have liked. 

Discontinued (AM)

                                          

Last night I stood in front of the yogurt fridge at Piedemontes for ages, searching in vain for one of my favourite dessert treats: King Island Dairy vanilla yogurt. There is more yogurt that you can poke a stick at in the supermarkets these days, too much if you ask me, but I haven't seen the King Island stuff in yonks. Piedemontes is the last place I remember seeing it, but there was no sign of it last night, no goddamned sign at all. It made me worry. 

When I got home, I turned to the internet to see if it could tell me what's what. It had answers alright, but they sure as hell weren't the answer I wanted. 

It's been discontinued. Apparently because it wasn't meeting its sales targets. Apparently my once-a-month purchase of a single tub wasn't enough to keep it going. 

I get that they're trying to run a business and all, but geez guys, what about those of us who loved it? What are we supposed to do now? I don't want to find a new yogurt. I liked that one. It practically tasted like cream. 

It got me thinking about other times that food I love has disappeared from the shelves and instantly my thoughts turned to the old Milo Bar. 

The old Milo Bar was pretty much my favourite chocolate bar. In case you don't remember, it was two pieces of densely packed milo powder covered in milk chocolate. When you bit in to it, a little puff of milo powder would be released and it was goddamned delicious. 

One day, it just disappeared and was replaced with something like an energy bar. Ugh. It makes me so mad. 

And I'm not alone. 

There's a facebook page called Bring back the old Milo Bar and it has 2206 followers. That's a lot of disappointed people. 

Look, I know that nothing gold can stay. But why can't it? Why can't these specific gold things stay? It's not too much to ask. 

The five stages of grief (PM)

Yeah. Tender is my heart for screwing up my life.

I just wish I had never let myself dream this goddamned stupid dream. I thought seeing blur was something that would never happen to me and I was getting on with life just fine. Sure, there were moments when it hurt, but life hurts, am I right? I was getting on with it.
Then this impossible thing happened. They were coming. And we were going to see them. And Strawberry and Chickpea would be there and it would be just like the 1990s. We were going to laugh and cry and fall in love all over again.
And now now it has unhappened. And I have to go back to the way it was before. I have to undream the dream. And that's really goddamned hard to do. Especially when No Distance Left to Run is playing.

Maybe they've become really puffy as they've aged, and seeing them would have been depressing.

Let's check!

Fuck you blur. I love you blur.

The five stages of grief (AM)

 
Yesterday I was doing some house painting. You know the kind of work, something that requires some attention but does leave a lot of your brain free to think about things. It can be quite enjoyable. I had my iPod on shuffle, it's better, I think, than just listening to an album when you are doing this kind of work cause it gives you more direction for your brain journey. Like, I wondered about why I find the song by Biggie, 'Big booty hos' quite offensive, while NWA's 'She swallowed it' barely offends me at all. I guess it depends what you grow up with, right? I thought about how seeing Prince live was not life changing, but in many ways it was kind of life defining. I thought about how I can't believe I'm going to get to see Blur at the Big Day Out. About how it was such a long-time dream. About how I would do anything to be up the front see Damon right there. About how it was too good to be true.

And then, maybe an hour later I got this message from K.

I knew instantly what it meant. I hadn't known anything and when I saw the message I knew Blur had cancelled the BDO shows. Of course I googled it right away and it was just one of those times when being right sucks the most.

And then, well then I spent the rest of the day on the Kubler-Ross journey.

First, denial. I could not fucking believe it. Even though I knew as soon as I saw K's text that it was happening, I could not fucking believe it.

Then anger. Fuck you BDO organisers for "shifting goalposts and [creating] challenging conditions" and fuck you Blur for cancelling. Fuck you all. (I love you Blur. I love you.)

I pretty much skipped bargaining because I'm not an idiot and I know I can't do anything to change things. 

Then depression.

Finally, acceptance. A depressed kind of acceptance. I guess it's possible that I'm not over the depression. I guess grief wasn't processed in a day.

I know how you feel, Damon. I know how you feel

Don't know what you got 'til it's gone (AM)

When I first met my ex-hairdresser it was like... magic. It was just luck. Or was it kismet. I called up this salon that was owned by a friend of a friend. He'd cut my hair years earlier and I always liked his cuts but when I decided to try out his new salon I decided to leave it to fate. I remember calling, requesting a time and being told, "Sure, you can see Tom."

Tom.

We talked about my wants, my needs, he looked at me and knew what to do. I felt so safe in his hands. And then he washed my hair. And gave me the head massage. I know a lot of people that have seen Tom and back then they all commented on the head massage. That massage was a game changer. Once I've had one that came close. Once. But Tom's massages back then, they were something else. That was it. And the cut. The cut was just so...good. And it looked salon-great for days, weeks almost. I didn't even know it could be like that. He did my colour once too. It was great. Dark brown with these caramel chunks. I mean it sounds foul, but it looked awesome. And that day it was like he blow-dried my hair longer. What?!

For the first few years it was like this, great, dynamic cuts that would make me feel like a million bucks. Oh, sure, he was a real self-absorbed talker, but I didn't mind. Often I even enjoyed it.

But nothing  gold can stay, right? He seemed to get tired of the work, of life. My haircuts were never bad but they just stopped exciting me. He stopped listening to me. Things were stale. I moved on.

On to what? A new hairdresser every cut. A desperate search trying to find the one that makes me feel something. Anything. Oh sure, there was Tim. I thought he may be the one, but on reflection I think I was just desperate and the proximity to Tom's name made it seem some how poetic. Ultimately though Tim and I weren't meant to be.

I've had a bunch of cuts from a bunch of different people and they've all been been pretty good. But none of them have satisfied me the way Tom did. And then on Friday I got a cut that I just kind of hate. And now there is nothing but despair. Not over the hair. I feel philosophical about that. It'll grow out, it'll be fine. I despair of every finding a hairdresser. I thought I'd just meet someone, that I could find a hairdresser like that again. I was a fool. Just a fool to believe...

Bear with us (PM)

Yeah, over here at MSC HQ things are pretty rough. Though you need to understand, dear readers, that context makes the feelings that K and I are feeling slightly different. But it's fair to say things are rough all over. I totally understand why K wants to lie around moaning like an Italian Billy Crystal, but me, I'm in a position where I feel like I can stoically walk around just feeling like that knife block that looks like a guy full of knifes.

Or like this. Another way to describe it is like Ewan's face right here.

But bear with us guys, time makes major metaphorical stab wounds heal.

Bear with us (AM)

Look readers, I can't lie to you. It's been a rough couple of days for the Misses Soft Crab. This is largely due to a close shave with something that pretty much goes to the core of what this blog is about but I'm pretty sure neither of us a ready to talk about yet .  One day, readers, one day. When we learn how to feel again.

In the meantime, I'm afraid I'm struggling to find inspiration. Frankly, I'm struggling with respiration. I just want to lie around and make the moaning sound that Harry makes in that scene in When Harry Met Sally when he makes the moaning sound.

Remember? Here, let me show you. This version is dubbed in Italian but it doesn't matter because the moaning sound is the same in Italian. And it's the only version I could find on the internet.
But it's pretty funny, so you should watch it.

Just a Tuesday post (AM)

Last night, I was feeling a little off-colour so decided I would treat myself to a night in front of the television. I guess I don't really watch a lot of television these days, because I was expecting to have a wonderful time but I really did not.

Firstly, let me say, what happened to us in Hobart that we thought The Voice was a tolerable show? I remember us having a whale of a time watching The Voice in Hobart. After five minutes of watching it last night I wanted to cry.

Next, let me say that last night it kind of dawned on me that Tony Abbott is going to be the next Prime Minister and I do not feel good about that. Not at all. But Miss Soft Crab is not a political blog so that's all I have to say about it.

Actually, that's all I have to say about anything. Watching TV was so terrible, I feel like the MSC inspiration has been bled out of me.  So I am just going to admit defeat and leave you to get on with your days. But first I am going to show you this poster I saw on the street once and discovered a photo of when I started scrolling through pictures on my phone last night because I was so bored.

I find it so sweet that Winks "answers to the name of Winks".

The Miss Soft Crab Brownlow wrap up

After the success of the 2011 Brownlow Blue Carpet Wrap Up, Miss Soft Crab could not wait to get ringside for the 2012 extravaganza on Monday night.
Would the lazy susan be back?
Would Jimmy Bartel's girlfriend finally realise what a good wicket she is on and smile for once?
Would Twigley look ridiculous? (we didn't really wonder about this)

As usual, Miss Soft Crab answers all your questions through the text messages we exchanged  during the broadcast. J's special comments in grey, mine in green.

I don't know what a Fango is, but the Tango is a dance. 

The Cooneys are lovely, but underboob really should be neither seen nor heard.

You can't really see it here, but it's there. 

As for Lady Jobe...

Zzzzzzzzzzzz.
I love you a little bit, Jobe.

More of Twigley later...
At this point, Trent and Lady Cotchin arrived, wearing something that looked inspired by a chaise lounge.

Am I right?

Baby is beautiful, he's right.

Sometimes our text messages don't make a lot of sense. Someone says something about one guy, then the other one responds with a comment about some other guy. It's a mess. But it always ends up with us wondering where Jimmy is. Anyway, here are Nick and Lady Nat:

And Toma and Ladyhawke:

Back to the broadcast...

Because they didn't show him ALL NIGHT, here is a picture of Jimmy for you, readers.

Now that's a face that has Brownlow written all over it. What? I don't know. But where the hell was Jimmy?

J said it best:

Seriously producers, what the eff. And seriously Twigley, what the eff.

Someone put a party pie in that woman's mouth, seriously.
That's basically all the red carpet had to offer and frankly, it was very disappointing. The count itself didn't really improve things. No Jimmy. Barely any Dees players got votes. No Jimmy.

J was smart and started watching the Emmys.

J meant 'love'. She can't help but love Gary.
Meanwhile, the lacklustre broadcast was made worse by the fact that they kept cutting to what looked like a fluro-lit RSL in Sydney where all the swans were. It was weird.

Does anyone know if Goodesy has a girlfriend? Because obviously the only thing standing between us is some other woman. Otherwise it would be on like Donkey Kong.

Meanwhile, J was watching the Emmys.

Aaron Paul plays Jesse Pinkman on Breaking Bad. We love Jesse Pinkman. He won an Emmy!
And Jobe Watson won the Brownlow.
For some reason, J started referring to Jobe Watson as my boyfriend. Sure, why not.

#hot

So that was it really. In summary, a very boring Brownlow with hardly any hunks and boring dresses. Just like the 2012 season.

At this point, I'm turned the tele off and probably started looking at pictures of Jimmy on the internet or something.
Then, I got this message from J:

I hope you made it out, Mate.

You're not doing it right, brain! (AM)

Hey! Guys! How was everyone's weekend? Mine was pretty good thanks.

When I woke up on Sunday morning I was really excited about a post I was going to write for you. It was early and I was just waking up and remembering how earlier in the weekend I'd been taking notes in my Miss Soft Crab notebook and been really excited about this thing that had happened. For you guys. But you know, it was early so I had to think about the weekend to figure out what it was. And then it came to me.

The night before I had been sitting in a room, this really non-descript room and a friend was sitting next to me and a bunch of guys walked in and I realised one of them was Donnie Wahlberg! I know! Marky Mark's brother! I love Marky Mark! And I said to my friend, "Gee Donnie Wahlberg looks really sad." And then the guy in front of me turned around and it was Danny from New Kids on the Block! And it turned out that the non-descript room I was in was about to be the venue for a NKOTB show and we were just sitting right there by the stage! Anyway, Danny from NKOTB said, "Yeah, Donnie's just been two-timed on." Then he laughed like it was really funny and told me that Donnie was hanging out with one of the dancers but he was still really sad. And THAT is when I took out my special notebook, because I could not fucking believe what was going on and that I would have such a good post for you guys today. All this inside gossip on New Kids on the Block that Danny NKOTB seemed to be throwing around so freely! Sure, who gives a shit about those guys, right? Not me, but what a great story!

I guess you see where this is going. When I remembered all these details on Sunday morning it eventually dawned on me that my great experience had been a dream and I'd have fuck all for you guys today.

The weird thing is that when I was young and NKOTB were big I didn't even like them. I NEVER EVEN LIKED THEM! When I saw they were touring here earlier this year with the Backstreet Boys, the only thoughts I had about it were "Ha! NKOTBSB!" and "Weren't those bands hot, like, 10 years apart? Surely there is no cross-over fan base." That is all you guys. Those are the only thoughts I had. And then I had a dream about them. Perhaps I shouldn't be putting this out there like that. Perhaps it says more about my subconscious than I should be admitting.

The only explanation I can think of is that Marky Mark is never too far from my subconscious, but being a subconscious and all, it's tricky about how it works so it sent me Donnie Wahlberg instead. Also, I ate a fair bit of cheese on Saturday.

Thanks for nothing, subconscious.