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 My Illustration Friday entry for 'heroes'. When I left home I was still in school. All I wanted was to get into university at the end of it all, so finishing school and getting good marks was my 1st hurdle. My heroes are the couple who took me in. They let me live with them in their home in the hills until I was brave enough to go out and find somewhere of my own. Among other things they taught me how to laugh at life and that it was there to be lived. When I moved out of their place, they gave me a hug and an envelope. Inside was every dollar of rent I had ever paid them, needless to say this helped enormously with the 2nd hurdle of going to university. It still surprises me how utterly incredible, generous and selfless people can be. It's inspiring, and to this day I can't imagine anyone else filling my hero status as much as they do.
Have you seen the cover of the new White Stripes CD? Is Meg White not the fairest creature of them all? I wonder if Mark Ryden has started painting her yet, if not, he should. Infact he should do their next CD cover. 
Next time the new Black Eyed Peas song comes on the radio or tv, try singing along "oh no no no nooo, don't funk with my heart", except do it in the voice of Rosie Perez. I was in fits of giggles doing it thismorning. I swear they've used Rosie's voice to sample that line.
When you've known someone for a very long time you expect that you know pretty much all there is to know about them. Luckily though, every now and then a tid-bit emerges that you never would have guessed. "On my high school muck-up day, I went dressed as Jimmy Hendrix," Mr You told me, "I even custom made a Nuno Bettencourt guitar replica, with the signature upside-down head stock." There you go, never would have guessed that… (although he did dress up as Frank Zappa for some other school event, so he had clearly been working his way through all of his guitar gods). With that in mind you'll understand the buzz that surrounded the other night when we went to see Nuno Bettencourt live for the first time, (especially because both Frank and Jimmy are already off playing the squealing guitars of heaven). He's been one of Mr You's all time favourite guitar legends for years, and now he has a new band. I'll admit I was a tad apprehensive and not sure what to expect since my only knowledge of Nuno is that he was in the somewhat dubious late 80's - early 90's hair band, Extreme. However, on the flip side he is married to Suze DeMarchi; one of the most gorgeous Aussie rock chicks of all time. That, and I trust Mr Yous' taste in music. He assured me it'd be good, and even if I didn't enjoy it I was at least in for a really good perve. The place was packed, packed with guitar boffins galore! There were old guitar boffins, young guitar boffins, and all the boffins in between. My favourites were 3 guys sporting tight jeans, black leather jackets, and big long wavy moused rock hair (complete with a side part so their hair fell loosely across one eye and down one side of their face). Is there a way of telling if these folk are unfortunately stuck in a by-gone era, if they are die hard "hair band of the early 90's" fans who refuse to give up the glory, or those ultra cool retro-chic revivalists? (Much like the crowd at a recent Wolfmother gig). In any case this all important quandary kept me occupied until the band came on. I'm glad to say they pretty much rocked. Nuno lived up to all reports of being totally sexy, plus the added hotness of the "being on stage" phenomenon just enhanced it all. What is it about being on stage that makes people so damn sexy? (Mind you, this same phenomenon didn't extend to the "Tom Baker as Dr Who" keyboardist, wearing the graphically too tight white pants, and long silky scarf). The gig must have lived up to all the boffins' expectations too, as there were impressed nods, twitching fingers, and necks craning to see the guitar finger work left right and centre. Often there's grave danger in seeing one of your absolute favourite bands due to the high risk of disappointment and devastation if they don't meet your expectations. However, you know a gig is really great when all you want to do is listen to every album they've ever made again and again and again. (P.J. Harvey left me like this for months). Mr You has been utterly beaming all week and has barely stopped playing his guitar. I'm glad to report it's a real one, not a particle board replica with signature upside-down string head stock thing.
... on the face of the Earth would call a movie "The sisterhood of the travelling pants"?!!! For the love of Pete, I understand I'm probably not in the right demographic, but just who are they marketing this to? "Laugh. Cry. Share the pants." Pfft. No thanks.
 My Illustration Friday entry for 'Black and White'. Last year I decided I wanted to learn how to ice skate. I booked myself into classes, got all rugged up, and off I went. However, before I got there I had a similar experience to that of the lead up of having your wisdom teeth taken out. Anyone who has been through this will know that the week leading up to having your teeth removed brings people from all over, (some you barely even know) out of the woodwork, to kindly share with you every wisdom teeth horror story known to man. "So and so's sister was green and blue with bruises from her cheeks to her collar bone." "They didn't x-ray my friends' brothers' jaw before hand, and didn't realise the root of the tooth was hook shaped." "The woman I work withs sister was left with half her face parralised." "They had so much trouble taking the bloke from the pubs' wisdom tooth out that they accidentally broke his jaw. He was off work for 6 weeks!" SERIOUSLY! As if it's not terrifying enough?! Anyway, when telling people I'd signed up for ice skating, it was the same thing, all sorts of injuries, but mostly it was fingers being sliced off by someone else skating over your hand after you've fallen. From the sounds of it there were lots and lots of fingerless ice skaters out there. I promptly took myself to the shop and purchased a pair of gloves which screamed "ALERT - Fingers in here!" the very loudest. They are black and white striped, and must have worked a treat, as I proudly type this with all of my fingers in tact. p.s. Just a quick illustration this week, as I've been busy redesigning the site.
Ta Daaaa!! Do you like the new look? Mr You and I have been busy tinkering with blogger style sheets to create this spiffy new look. I'm pretty excited to have changed out of those big dots. We're still tinkering, attempting to reduce the white space above the header, and other stuff. But so far it's fresh and it's new and I'm most pleased.
In Sydney the back door of the bus is opened by the driver pushing a button, or pulling a lever or something equally technical. If they forget to open the backdoor and you need to get out, it is common practice to hollar down the aisle over everyone's heads "BACK DOOR DRIVER!!". It may seem uncouth, but it's just what you do... in Sydney that is. This, it seems is not the case however, in the refined city of Adelaide. You can imagine the fright on the other passengers faces as my dear old friend Lacey-T (a newby to the city) yelled out down the aisle. It seems there you are suppose to push the doors open yourself, with little fuss. Consider yourself warned! Actually it reminds me of my first time in Europe. I'd arrived only an hour before from the other side of the world, after a 28hr flight; alone, jetlagged, and not able to speak a word of Greek (except Yasu). I was bundled into the lift of the hotel by the eager conceirge, giving me a gentle shove to squeeze me in the confined space. The lift stopped at my floor, but the doors didn't open, I pushed a couple of buttons but nothing happened. Eventually the lift went back down to the foyer but the doors didn't open there either, and the lift went back up again. This kept happening until I'd been up and down about 3 times. By then there was a queue forming in the foyer, I could hear frenzied button pushing and mutterings in various languages on the other side of the doors. I was starting to panic (the lift was only just big enough for me and my back-pack to squeeze in: so maybe 2 slim europeans). I began pushing buttons, walls and doors, and "pop" - at last they opened! Much like Lacey-T, I had no idea you had to push the doors open yourself, but at least now I know I'll be prepared for the buses in Adelaide.  Lacey-T is a very dear old friend of mine. She is the first of our group of friends from school who has become pregnant. She has been growing into that lovey elegant seahorse shape faster and faster with every day. Sadly for us, she and Pat (her husband) have just recently packed up and moved to the quieter city of Adelaide, to prepare their lives for raising their new family. So if you're in Adelaide and come across a pregant woman hollaring down the bus, be kind, she's new.
 My Illustration Friday entry for 'Summer'. Since we've only just come into Winter at this corner of the globe, it's been pretty tricky getting into a Summer headspace this week. Wrapping myself up in a fluffy scarf each morning, and trying to imagine being bathed in warm sunshine and wearing a Bonds singlet. As much as I love jackets and scarves, I much prefer Summer. Acutaly I love Summer!
I love the smell of frangipanni flowers at the beginning of Summer on a warm night. I love sticking teeny-tiny star jasmin flowers in my hair, so I get a spontaneous whiff of them every now and then throughout the day. Summer is long days, bare feet, wet hair, my white cotton skirt, afternoon breezes, mangoes, big salads, icy cold beer, squeeling cicadas and traces of sand in the toes of your shoes. Last year I cheated Winter; packed a backpack and went to Summer in Europe.
My illustration this week is of a great terrace we found while climbing the steep hilly streets of Lisbon in Portugal. We found it one hot afternoon on our way to the Alfama district, and rested in the shade of the glorious boganvillia. The terrace seemed specifically placed for the sole purpose of giving folk like us a retreat from the sun, and rest from the steep hills. A little pond with a fish fountain, a thick patch of shade, a long bench with an array of blue hand painted tiles (one of my favourite things about Portugal), and a view across the water below.
I feel warmed just thinking about it.
When I was 5, I remember my mum explaining to me that I'd be getting a baby brother or sister. She asked me which I'd prefer, to which I replied "Can I have a big sister please?" I got the sister, and it didn't take too long for her to actually live up to my request and become bigger than me (despite the 5 year age gap). Anyway, she's taller than me, and has good clothes (different shoe size- humph!), and I think she's great! Today is her Birthday. I won't be seeing her though as she's traveling around the country - yes, the whole way around this giant land. (she's taking a couple of years to do it though). She's currently in a town on the north coast of Western Australia, let's hope she's enjoying the warmth, sun and sea. Happy Birthday Sister Sparkle!
Ever had a bad case of shoppers heartbreak? This week I've been in great shopper pain. I've been clicking madly on the 'buy now' button of this unbelievably cute dolly dress, at the fabulous Frecklewonder. I love Frecklewonder, but I've discovered that they don't sell to people outside of America. I don't even know anybody in America who's house I could get it shipped to. sniff sniff...
Day 1, uni orientation day: when we met I thought he came across as a bit of a snob. He thought I had stupid hair. Doesn’t much sound like the start of something great, huh? Day 2, 1st day of uni: he was impressed that I remembered his name, and I got to see him smile for the first time. After that: we ended up in the same classes together and became great friends. One weekend 18 months later: we made the dangerous leap from great friends, to “special friends”. 9 years on: Holy Mary Mother of God! Did you say 9 years?!!! Yep, count them. (she says with a full heart and a proud grin). Anyway, 9 years on and the story is still building. Happy day to you, Mr.
"At last, rain is on the way!" the weatherman exclaimed on the news yesterday. This is a big deal these days, as Australia has officially been in drought for the past 3 or 4 years. Not just parts either, but the majority of the country. Obviously it's been a very big deal for the farmers from the beginning, but now the cities are finally starting to take it very seriously too, with severe water restrictions increasing as the dams are at less than 40% capacity. Gardens are dying, houses are cracking, and cars are filthy. I glance up at the TV to see the weatherman excitedly gesturing to a faint smear of white cloud way off the south west coast, somewhere over the Antarctic (Indian) Ocean. I guess his job has become a little dull these days with endless reports of "dry and sunny". His arms swooshing across the screen as if to waft the cloud in our direction. Then I hear him resort to the statement that is becoming so common among the weather folk... "This may bring the slight change of a possible shower."
 My Illustration Friday entry for 'digital'. Many folk seem to settle in one of two camps: 'cat people', or 'dog people'. However, in our house a more pressing battle is that of analogue v's digital. Mr You has a sentimental attachment to an old digital radio alarm clock from his glory teen years. Over the years he had polished up the plastic face with some substance that accidentally caused it to fog, and he had even painted it the colour of a Buddhist monks orange robe. He had loyally perched this clock beside him in many a bedroom... until we moved in together. You see I'm one of the analogue people. One of those who appreciates the simple elegance of being able to tell the time without numbers, by way of a quick glance at 2 (or in some cases 1) hands. None of this phrenetic reading a list of numbers in the order in which they appear business. I'm one of the remaining few who delight in saying "why yes, it's twenty to three". Now you may think I'm being cruel for denying the sentimental orange digital clock's right to live on the bedside table, but it's the angry red numbers, they scream out in the night. 2:37am. 2:38am. 2:39am and don't you forget it. All night long. We've tried alternatives, including a very cool digital clock with a blue face and subtle grey numbers, I picked up from one of those fancy designer gadget stores. But the angry red digital clock is back, and brighter than ever. 2:40am! And don't you forget it!
 My Illustration Friday entry for 'envy'. Is there a difference between envy and jealousy? I think when you feel jealous it isn't necessarily a good feeling, whereas with envy you can feel happy for the other person while simultaneously coveting their cool stuff. Henna recently told me she is envious of the amazingly shiny polished wooden floorboards in our new home. They are enviable!
At the tender age of 9, a wild Scottish woman (a friend of my parents'), convinced me without a hint of a doubt that my name was Alice Flossy Pumpernickel.
"No" I retorted adamantly, "that's not my name. I'm Sarah". But with a twinkle in her eye, she trickily convinced me that everyone is born with a "real" name (much like a Cabbage Patch Kid), and that mine was Alice Flossy Pumpernickel. She told me my parents had changed it when I was born to one that was more socially acceptable. She even said my sister was called Dorothy something (I can't remember).
She had me so convinced that I angrily confronted my parents, demanding they fess-up. The Easter Bunny the Tooth Fairy and now THIS! They looked at me with absolute confusion, I assumed they were denying it, which added more fuel to the flame.
It took me some years to realise the wild scotts woman was pulling my wee leg. However, Alice Flossy Pumpernickel somehow stuck in the private depths of my mind, and here she has surfaced to share with you many of her gullible realisations.
There's something about dogs wearing jackets that i always thought was a bit strange. But tonight I saw the coolest dog wearing a red knitted jumper with stripey red and white sleaves.
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