Made. It.

Greetings from the future, my North American Nommers!  I sit here in the state library of New South Wales, typing this on an absurdly tiny keyboard a day ahead of you because I made it.  

That's right, I'm in Australia.  

Sadly, there are no flying cars or sharks with laser beams in the future.  Or at least, not that I've seen.  It's possible Oz is holding out on me.  A lot of things are possible, because I'm not entirely sure I'm just comatose in a farmhouse in Kansas and I'm dreaming this whole thing.

After all, this is what I looked like when I first got here:

Never let it be said I'm not willing to show the ugly truth

JET LAG.

So I took off from Los Angeles on Tuesday afternoon and landed in Sydney on Thursday morning.  There was a lot of salty plane food and movies (7, yes I watched 7 movies) in between.

There's been a lot of walking since.  I've hit the Royal Botanical Gardens, Chinatown, Hyde Park, the Opera House, Circular Quay, Manly Beach, and now the Library.  

And there are pictures, oh yes, there are pictures.  I just don't know how to access them, since I'm using my iPhone as a camera and blogging from my Kindle.  Allegedly, there's an app to solve my technical woes.  ALLEGEDLY.  But there may not be a lot of pics while the Noms Away HQ is mobile.  (The above pic was taken with my kindle, which is a bit clunky for quick snaps and touristy things.)

Some observations thus far:

-Finding a grocery store this morning made me feel like a genius and nearly weep with joy.  Food is expensive and being able to make my own is key to staying in my budget, but the first few days I was just too out of it to really deal with hunting one down.  Today, I just randomly passed one and now I'm seeing them everywhere.  ALL THE FOODS WILL BE MINE, BWAHAHAHA!

-I paid AU$18 to see a movie last night because I didn't know what else to do.  That's like $20 US for a regular movie.  No one is allowed to complain about the price of movies in America to me ever again.  Also, how am I not completely movie'd out at this point?

-One of the things I dislike about traveling alone is there is no one who witnesses my acts of bravery.  I mean, I wore a bikini in public and went into the ocean, don't I get a congressional medal of honor?

-Naps are wonderful.  I mean, I knew that, but c'mon.  Naps.  For everyone.

-I miss my cats.  (Obligatory)

So that's all thus far.  More to come, most definitely.

Of Cats and Catherines

Denizens of the internet, I have a confession to make.

(sweaty palms, looks around nervously)

I -

(deep breath)

I am a cat lady.

Okay, okay!  That is a shock to approximately NO ONE.  Despite my cat-centric ways, I hope and think I'm not a crazy annoying cat lady. It used to be, I'd only respond to direct queries about them, or bring them up in conversation only if the story I was telling was part of a larger context - the cats were never the point of the story, they were usually incidental.  Once, a cat destaining friend remarked "I like your cats because I don't know their names, since you never talk about them."

Used to be.  

Lately, I can't seem to shut up about my furry bastards.  

Because I am leaving them.  And this is making me FEEL ALL OF THE GUILT.

I know, I know - odds are they will be fine.  It's just that, in eleven (yes, 11!) years, I've never been away from them for this long.  I live far away from my family; for a long time, it's been me and my cats united against the gaping maw of uncertainty that is daily life.   They greet me when I get home, snuggle me when I'm lonely, lay on me when I'm sick.  What, your doctor didn't tell you about the healing powers of 24 pounds of cat compressing your soft tissue when you're ill?

Fortunately, the awesome person subletting my room is a cat person and she's going to take care of them.  So they'll be at home, around all the familiar stuff - just without me.

But still.

That face!  Those paws!

Oh hello, do you need a cuddle?

It won't be me who will be looking out for them.  And that is killing me.

I know, I know - animals deal with stuff differently than people.  They live in the present tense.  After a few days of me being gone, they'll adapt and keep napping in the sun.

But what about me?

Who will sleep at the back of my knees?

Croissant of Cat

Who will make sure my pillow smells like cat ass?

Who is going to keep the boxes from floating away???

Gah.

How does something I've been anticipating so much make me feel like the shittiest person ever, at the same time?

The definition of a happy cat.

Judging you.  And your abilities.

Bonus!  Who's selfies am I going to photobomb?

Dignified until the human came along.

Stupid human.

So yeah.  I love my cats.  I am going to miss my cats a borderline unhealthy amount.  I just needed to get that off my chest.

A Pirate's Life

As a kid, I thought traveling around the country solving mysteries out of a van was a viable career option. I mean, COME ON - new places to explore, new people to meet, helping the world out by ridding it of criminals?  It's basically the best job ever.  And no one to supervise you?  Ice cream for breakfast!  As a third grader, I was secure in the knowledge that I was actually going to get to do this, screw the kids who wanted to be president.

Sadly, the Scooby Gang did not accept my application and Jessica Fletcher is currently enjoying retirement.

I had back up plans, but it's harder to stowaway on a ship than you might think.

So I worked a lot of different jobs, hoping that one would stick and I would magically have a "career", which is apparently something adult people are supposed to have.  Some were awesome, some were awful, most were forgettable and did not inspire me to jump out of bed in the morning. 

I fell into cooking.  I was working an office job that I hated, contemplating suicide, and stress baking at home.  A friend pointed out I could do that professionally.  I laughed it off and continued circling the drain.   

When you do something you hate five out of seven days a week, you are not a pleasant person to be around.  Shocking, I know.  I was getting meaner and angrier as the days passed, but I couldn't figure out what to do.  And then I got pulled aside by the owner of the place, telling me to be nicer and I knew I couldn't.  So I gave notice.  It was entirely instinctual and reflexive; as much as I hated that job, I hadn't actually contemplated quitting.

To this day, that was the scariest and most liberating thing I've done.  The blind panic of 'wtf am I thinking - BILLS - cat kibble ain't cheap' cut with the euphoria of knowing the number of days I would ever have to walk through those doors was dwindling.

I thought about what my friend had said and ended up at the Giant Corporate Cooking School.  I'm not advocating for or against culinary school, much ink has been spilled over whether it's an awesome career advancement, or a giant waste of time and money.  For me it was a means to an end: it got me in the kitchen.

And I fucking love it.  

Because being a professional cook is sort of like being a pirate - from the tedium of the daily tasks (I have to make pizza dough again?!?) to the plundering of dinner services.  There's a lot of aggression, knives, and people who's personality traits and deficiencies could power the research for the DSM-6.  

Those are my people.  People who use fuck as a noun, verb, and adjective.  People who's appetites for everything - food, drink, drugs, experiences - is limitless.  People who should probably not be allowed things like knives and drugs.  

It's such a weirdly tight community.  You hate and love in equal measure, often at the same time, but in ten minutes you'll forget why, so it's okay.  

My last night in the kitchen was Sunday.  

I'm going to miss my pirates.  

My Netflix, Myself

A long time ago, in a galaxy far away - 

Or really about a decade ago, in a city where the president lives, I was living in a neighborhood that was "up and coming".  My particular pad was a basement apartment of a townhouse that was built in 1909.  It was the first time I lived completely on my own and I loved it.  There was a church on one end of the block and a guy who stood at the other end all hours of the day and night.  He always called out "Hey Snowflake!" and waved when I walked by.  The apartment itself was spacious for the price, but never got above 65 degrees (awesome in the summer, I huddled with my cats for warmth in the winter), and was prone to flooding.  It rains a lot in DC.  I just stopped putting things on the lowest shelf of my bookcases and kept my shoes at the top of my closet.    

It was equally glorious and awful.  Freedom!  No heat!  

The thing about up and coming neighborhoods is that they lack certain amenities, like grocery stores - but who needs food when your in your early twenties living in a city with excellent public transportation and working a job that netted you access to any concert?  I don't remember ever grocery shopping in those days, but I do remember lamenting the fact that there was no blockbuster around to rent movies from.  I was poor, so cable was out of the question.  As a fledgeling culture vulture with no money, my only cache was to be absolutely of the moment about everything and have an opinion - the snarkier and more off the cuff, the better.  You've been there, we all have.  How was I supposed to converse about the madness of Alejandro Jodorowsky films if I couldn't see them?

And then I found out about Netflix.  Of course it's old news now, but imagine at the time how revolutionary it was - DVDs by mail?  Inconceivable!  I signed up and never looked back.  (I still have no idea what Fando y Lis is about, but the image of people dancing among rubble while a gentleman plays a burning piano is seared into my brainpan.)

Time continues the relentless forward march; somewhere along the way it seemed unnecessary to try to keep up with pop culture.  And I still don't have cable.  In spite of this, I do seem to know an extraordinary amount about Klan Kardashian.  

Anyway, I just cancelled my subscription.  10 years.  It's actually something I've been meaning to do for about 6 months because as someone who doesn't own a television, I watch a ton of TV.  I'm pretty sure I will be able to fill the void in my life with something equally inane.  And $8 is coffee and a muffin down under.  That's not a euphemism, you dirty minded bastards.  

And now if you'll please excuse me while I fall down the rabbit hole of nostalgia, reminiscing the fevered days of my misspent youth.