Dear Diary:: It's About Breaking Bad. It's Super Good.

Dear Diary,

I have a confession to make. 

Despite being totally behind the eight ball on this, I am totally smitten, obsessed, head over heels for Breaking Bad. 

It's super good. 

I watch it almost every night, because I am trying to catch up on six seasons. Yes diary. I am that far behind. It's almost embarrassing. It's almost retro. Yo. 

But I am out and proud. I love it. So. Damn. Much. 

In fact, I think I am turning into Walt White. Except for the illegal stuff. Ok. Except for all of it. 

And I've got a mad keen crush on Jesse Pinkman. Except for the illegal bits. 

The fact that I love the show so much may be ok to deal with. You can accept me for this obsession, because millions around the world are equally as enamoured by it too. 

However tonight, when my husband said: 'I need a break from Breaking Bad' he might as well have ripped out my heart, stomped on it, and then rubbed it on the dirty kitchen floor.

I've got a Breaking Bad crush, and how very dare he get in the way of it. 

Now I'm *allegedly* lined up to watch a Benigni film tonight. Can you imagine my despair?

No. Probably not. 

What to do dear diary? My husband wants me to break up with Walt and Jesse - I'm now in a love square. Me. Walt. Jesse. Matt. = Awkward.

Think of me tonight, when I am torn from my friends. It's going to be tough, but I'll just sweat it out. Bitch.

Love, 
Lexi 

Life As We Mo' It. (AKA My Life As Napoleon Dynamite)

I've been stalling sharing this story. 

For over a month.

Why? Because I have felt so humiliated, it's only just recently I decided to "come out" - and what a freaking relief that was. 

A couple of months ago I went to see my beautician. It was a balmy, summery day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing - all was well in the world. I was heading for two hours of pampering, and I couldn't wait.

That was until I lay down on the bed and my beautician announced that she was going to bleach my moustache.

WhaaaaaaAAAaaaAAAAAAaaaat??!

%&#($_(_@#@#^&&

I lay there, in a state of shock, half frozen on the table, half naked (actually more than half naked) under the towel - and I'd just been told I had a moustache.

Let's rewind a bit right this minute. My sisters and I have talked about this extensively, I've talked about it with friends - and united we stand when we've all said "If I start to grow a mo' - you need to tell me." We all nodded our heads furiously, agreeing with an emphatic "Yes, of course."

And there I was, in a white room, under a white towel, on a white bed - with a dirty dark mo'. Say it ain't so.

AND NO ONE HAD TOLD ME! What the funk, "friends"?

I was there for a facial which is like a biannual thing that happens, and before I could get comfortable I'd been side-swiped, so of course for the next two hours - that is all I could think of.

Once it was over (and after 20 minutes of having my eyes closed, I start to get antsy - multiple this by 120 due to the facial hair factor and I wanted OUT), I looked in the mirror and said the obligatory "Wow, it looks so much better" with visions of this in my mind. 

Now I was sporting a blonde moustache. Where once I thought my mo' was just that faint hair that covers everyone's face, I was now a bonafide Napoleon Dynamite doppelganger. In fact, I don't even think Napoleon Dynamite has a moustache - so now I was not even Napoleon Dynamite, but his little known older brother.

Nevertheless, I paid, scurried out - and convinced myself that no one would notice except for me - you know that thing that if you don't talk about it - no one will notice. Yes. That old chestnut.

Next stop was to see my sister - and of course I couldn't contain my humiliation. I burst out with my hairy upper lip story - and she denied ever seeing any mo' action. And then I went to an appointment, purely focussed on my blonde mo'.

Fast forward now, to a month down the track, and I talk to my sister - who finally admits that - 
a) she had never noticed I had a mo' and would definitely tell me if she had
b) the bleaching episode made any traces of a mo' stand out more - and that it had done nothing to hide the hair but highlight it.

It's here that I say, Marilyn Monroe used to apply hormone cream to her face to aid in the growth of facial hair to diffuse the light when she was photographed - which is how she always got that gorgeous glow, that luminescence in all her shots. 

I, on the other hand, have foundation that contains luminising particles. No need to grow a yeti beard. 

So now, here I am, with the bleach faded (thank goodness, I now don't have a glow in the dark mo') wondering what to do. Bleach? Wax? Do I really have a mo'? Am I Frida? Do tell. Do you have a mo'? 

And PS - when you see me next, please do not study my top lip. Please. Have mercy on me. 

Confessions: Guilty Fantasy

I have a guilty confession. It's not that I am mad for cheese. I do like cheese, but I wouldn't go to the end of the Earth to eat cheese. I am more of a sweet tooth. I sneak chocolate. I do not sneak cheese.

But this brings me to a guilty fantasy. I've been thinking about it for a while now, my fantasy. Though I think if it were to come to fruition, it really wouldn't be quite as good as I think it might be.

You see, I love love love toasted cheese sandwiches. Who doesn't? But the fact is, I think I like the cheese that escapes the sandwich more than the sandwich itself. You know when it sizzles on the hotplate and that taste - my goodness - that taste. I've been deliberately loading my sandwiches with too much cheese just to ensure I get to enjoy that melty cheese.

Which brings me to my fantasy. I have been thinking about just putting cheese on the hot plate and cooking it. I've never actually done it, but man oh man, I daydream about how good that melty, slightly burnt cheese would taste. There now. I've said it.

Speaking of cheese. Have I ever told you how much I love crank calls?

The Kitchen Sink

kitchen sink

Originally uploaded by tashalutek

Does anyone else have quibbles with their housemate over who should do the dishes?

I thought there was an unspoken rule - if you cook dinner, the other person washes. Apparently my husband doesn't know this.

Or another rule. Perhaps if one person has done the washing up five nights in a row, perhaps it's your turn...?

Anyone else have this problem?

Unfortunately our kitchen sink doesn't look like this. Unfortunately it's currently stacked with dishes. Unfortunately that's what's called a Mexican stand off.

Confessions

A while ago there was a song released, or rather, unleashed onto the world. I loved it. It's not my usual tune, I must admit. Therefore, I had to keep it a secret. I didn't tell Matt for a long time. Run out of milk? I'd volunteer to drive to the shops. Need some toothpaste? I'm in the car, radio on, turned up to ten. Just for the chance to hear this song. I'd rock out in the carpark by myself. Oh yeah baby!

Finally this week I admitted to Matt that this song had me wrapped around its little finger.

Thankfully I've found a version that's perhaps a little easier on Matt's ears. And in fact, I am even more in love with this song because Kina Grannis is a real little hottie.

Check her out.

A Bad Habit

I must confess to having a bad habit. I'm going to use my blog as my confessional.

I go to haby shops and buy embroidery floss - but always wind up buying the same ones. Even when I seek to buy something new to add to my ever-growing palette, I always wind up with the same darn colours.

Take today for example. I went to buy a neutral shade, I have a huge array of pinks, purples, a growing selection of blues and greens, a small number of yellows, so I needed some neutrals to add to the mix.

Instead I came home with eight new skeins. And when I went to add them to my collection, I realised I already had four of the same (still waiting to be used). What happened to variation? As for that notorious neutral. Well I bought one. One piddly neutral.

I need an intervention.

Happily though, I am drawing inspiration from some images I recently saw of India. It's a colourful country I'd love to visit one day. Imagine all those marigolds, all those battered brightly painted walls. Imagine all those saris. Hmmm.

So here's an update of where my pillowcase is up to. I must say, I have a thing for pillowcases - another confession. I love vintage pillowcases. And I love embroidering pillowcases. Would Freud tell me this speaks of my current lack of sleep? Or am I trying to 'pretty up' my sleep to have more fanciful dreams? Who knows, who cares, I just love them!