Meet Philis Philmore

For the last few days I have been sick with a cold that I caught from Joan. It has sucked. Any attempt to be creative drained from me much like nasal mucus that has left me, but you probably didn’t want to know that.

So those waiting for Chapter 41 of my story I apologise for the wait. It is now ready to read here. In fact I am so inspired by a burst of creativity I dreamt all of Chapter 42, possibly 43. The book is now officially over 80,000 words.

So in honour of the new chapter, today I will turn over my blog to Philis Philmore for a Philis like entry.

Dear people of the universe,

This is my first weight loss entry. You probably won’t be able to finish reading it because it’s too fat to read. And by the time I am finished I hope to have lost a 500 kilos. But Ashleigh says if I lost 500 kilos I’d die. More about my nerdy friend later.

As some of you may or may not know, I am Philis Apricot Georgina Philmore. One thing that gets me made besides being called fat is how people commonly misspell my name because I am fat. People either spell it Phyllis, Phillis or Phylis, but it’s spelt PHILIS! It makes me so made I go up another dress size.

Ashleigh my NERD nerdy retarded weird girl friend says that my name means green leaves. So I asked her if the green leaves she mentioned were fat. She said no as always. Then tells me to never mind, but you can’t never your own mind, especially me because I am fat. She must think my brain is drowned in my fat.

And because of my fatness I am going on a diet which consists of not eating anything for a whole hour, which will be hard because I like food and it’s not because I’m fat. That’s just a stereotype, but the type of stereo I am not sure.

Today consisted of me and my duty as coffee girl at Bamboozle Times, but the Editor Nigel Bottington doesn’t like my coffee and often threatens to fire me because I am fat. Then the Acting Assistant Editor Norma Normington keeps saying I should die. I say: That’s terrible.

Ashleigh and I have formulated a plan to poison Nigel with the coffee, but the problem is he doesn’t drink it all the time. One time a reporter Paul McNewberrys drank the coffee meant for Nigel by mistake and he began to have grandiose ideas of grander, such as story ideas, Nigel quickly shot him down saying he was uncool.

The only reporter not to be affected our coffee schemes is Sarah Evans because she drinks herbal tea. Ashleigh told me it was because she thinks coffee causes cancer. I called her a liar because if I served something that was cancer causing I wouldn’t be serving it in the first place. Ashleigh said that it was just Sarah’s NERD writer pretty girl speculation.

Here’s our conversations as follows:

Philis: Hiiiiiiii Ashleigh
Ashleigh: Hi Philis
Philis: Sarah doesn’t like the coffee I make is it because I’m fat?
Ashleigh: No Philis she drinks herbal tea.
Philis: Only Greek people drink herbal tea.
Ashleigh: Maybe she is Greek
Philis: She doesn’t look Greek.
Ashleigh: Actually she told me not to tell you this but she doesn’t drink coffee because she thinks it causes cancer. She thought you might be offended by this.
Philis: Ashleigh I wouldn’t make stuff that is cancer causing because people would get sick and die.
Ashleigh: Clearly, but it hasn’t been scientifically proven that coffee actually causes cancer.
Philis: You haven’t been scientifically proven.
Ashleigh: Neither have you! She also said she doesn’t drink coffee because it matches her skin.
Philis: What! That’s stupid. I eat ice cream and it matches my skin.
Ashleigh: That’s not ice cream Philis that peach sorbet.

Thank you for not reading.

Philis

For more Philis adventures read here!

The invaded become the invaders.

Today Kate told me that next year, if I am still in Australia I will be upgraded from Portuguese to Malaysian.

Besides the ongoing news of my many changing forced ethnicities and identities, being a Canadian international student studying in Australia and my ongoing book ambitions….

I moved to another unit. I took awhile but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Luckily Carol was there to help in sprit, as she offered her assistance through astral projection on msn. Maybe that’s why the suitcases didn’t seem so heavy.

Joan even offered to help, but because I have this desire to do things my way and my way only. She left after moving one suitcase. I wonder if it was to get away from the wrath that is the angry nerd Mel-issa or if indeed she actually was tired. I apologize for my behaviour by the way. I am now physically and mentally tired. Tomorrow I suppose I’ll spend time unpacking the stuff I packed over.

And for once I feel like the invader, not the invaded upon. It’s the new flatmate scenario in reverse.

To invade according to the dictionary means:

1. To enter forcefully as an enemy: go in with hostile intent.
2.To enter like an enemy
3. To enter as if to take possession.
4. To enter and affect injuriously or destructively, as a disease.
5. To intrude upon
6. To encroach or infringe upon
7. To permeate
8. To penetrate; spread into or over.
9. To make and invasion.

Perhaps it’s the fifth one I am feel most associated with at the moment. No my new flatmate doesn’t hate me. She is nice, a psychology student at uni, named Tarryn. I feel like the invader because it’s the awkward first meeting type deal and because it doesn’t feel like my home yet.

And for some reason Joan is sadder about me switching units than I am. Perhaps it’s the illusive change that has popped out of nowhere, now prevalent in the switching of my living space. Maybe it’s because there is so many memories good and bad attached to my old unit. But, less she forget many more good and bad memories can also be made in my new home, once I have adjusted and I don’t feel like I am invading someone else’s home. And maybe just maybe it’ll feel like my room again once I put up my hoards of pictures.

And now my next point of this blog entry. I am a pack rat. Its amazes me the amount of things I accumulated being in that unit almost a year. Some of it makes no sense.

Anyways about the pack rat thing, my mom is a pack rat so I am sure I learnt some of her habits from here. Today I watched Dr. Phil. (Yes I watch Dr. Phil. )Today’s episode was about extreme hoarding or pack rats. He said that often amassing material possessions is a way to control the feelings inside, that in order to control the internal someone may control the external as a coping mechanism. For example grieving the loss of a loved one or perhaps as a way to feel better about ones self because they control the inanimate objects around them rather than dealing with their true feelings. For some reason I think that describes me and I don’t know why either. And today as I moved my belongings, I thought are material possessions really a big deal? It’s going to mean nothing once I die. Is there a reason why I feel the need to save things?

I also realized today that I am emotionally attached to my book. I’ll write more about this conundrum later. I’d be happy if you feel inclined to read it. Chapter 41 is currently under development.

P.S. Brown Dog is white not brown and belongs to Mrs. Bruce Willis Man. Not Lauren Such and Such. That is all.

I made it to a whole entire year!

Today is I’ve been in Australia for a year. AN ENTIRE YEAR! So much has happened.

This means I am Portuguese?

This is according to my good friends Chris and Kate who say I have graduated from Mexican. (I still have no idea where they got this one from) and now I am from Portugal, saying I still have to earn my right to be Canadian. In five years if I am still in Australia if pray tell I become an expatriate and no longer a Canuck. I will be considered an Australian. Go me!

Sometimes I go through phases where I am homesick and I don’t necessarily miss anything in particular. It’s during moments of homesick I reflect on things I miss.

Such as poutine, a fast food staple and much loved Canadian dish that is only found in Canada. And to the contrary it is not “American” as some people may have mentioned in the past.

And here is why. Poutine is a French Canadian dish invented in Warwick Quebec in 1957 consisting of French fries topped with fresh cheese curds and covered with hot gravy. Poutine with melted cheese, shredded cheese, or cheese slices is not regarded as "genuine" poutine.

For more interesting facts on this delicious dish….read here.

And here

Also here

And I also miss root beer a soft drink or as I call it pop. It is a dark beverage that comes in both alcoholic and non alcoholic forms. The soft drink version is generaly made from root beer extract or other flavored syrups along with carbonated water. Root beer is similar in taste to sarsaparilla, but can vary in taste between brands because a different variety of ingredients can be used. My favourite brands are Barq’s and A&W.

A common nickname I miss is Canuck… It is slang term meaning a Canadian. Some feel it’s an affectionate nickname and patriotic. And for some reason some think the term is only acceptable when said by a Canadian as it can be misinterpreted to be an ethnic slur particularly by Americans… Why is this? I have no idea. Since being in Australia I’ve been called a Canuck once. Don’t worry I don’t find it offensive if called one, unless you say I am from Soviet Canuckistan…then I will seriously punch you in the face.

Oh yes and I ummm….miss my family and ummmm….friends….

Oh yes! Please read my story! It’s a tad anticlimactic but it is being worked out. Oh and I apologize to Amy for being all nit picky about the lovely review she gave my story. I am sorry. I ARE DINKLE HEAD!

P.S. Good news Brown Dog are has been found. He are didn’t want to be finded and Lachlan are wants Lauren to give him BACK! The end!

Pictures are reminders of change.

Introducing!

Ah the beauty of a photograph... and photoshop. I love pictures. So much I think I am obsessed with them.

I had 330 pictures on my wall.

Had…

I now have an enormous heavy blob of blue tack.

Why has this happened?

It wasn’t because I was sick of the pictures.

It’s because….

I found out yesterday that I am moving to a new unit. So the first natural step for me was to take all of my pictures off of my walls. 174 of them were photographs. My bedroom walls were littered with 46 postcards, 17 posters, 14 cards, and 74 miscellaneous pictures I found in magazines and other places. My room used to be a mosaic, an art form. Now it is a baron sad looking room.

It doesn’t feel like my room anymore. Perhaps because my room her in Australia was a defining picture of who I am; a nerd obsessed with pictures. Maybe I was being proud and pompous, showing of my photogenic skills by the display of the photographs of my friends and animals.

Or the other theory is I like to collect stuff and I had no space for it any place else so seeing as they were pictures, the wall seemed a good place at a time.

This mostly likely was all about change.

Change is inevitable. Some love it and welcome it, some hate it and fear it, and some disregard it realising it’s a part of life.

I am somewhere in between. Change, for me is a love hate relationship. Its not something you can control all the time. It happens when you want it too and sometimes when you least expect it.

A friend told me she hates change and when she is old and decrepit she’ll hide in her old house with things that are a hundred years old and yell at change telling it to go away. The only problem with this is change it won’t go away and it will constantly happen.

The biggest change in my life besides going to Australia was something much bigger at the time. My mom moved away to a different province and I stayed behind to study for my last year of college. This to me was huge I had never been on my own before and the thought of it was scary. This is much bigger than a bunch of pictures.


To me pictures are the sole reminders of change. You look back on them years from now and realise how different things were or how much has changed since then.

And now here she is again.




Mrs. Lachlan's Mum is a key character in my story. There for you should read it.

P.S. Brown Dog is still missing.

What does Hev-Lady stand for...Thats easy...It stands for:

My goodness this last week has been interesting.

I went from feeling like I am stuck in a rut, questioning my future and feeling as if I was having nothing but bad luck.

The only highlight of the week was seeing the music video Fat by Weird Al. I swear it could be Philis’s theme song. I also wrote Chapter 38, the biggest chapter yet of my story. I even figured out an ending and a plot twist, even the ending, but that is to come later. I have officially written over 75,000 words now. But the best thing to happen all week is when I found out..

*Drum roll*

I am staying in Australia after all.

The questioning type dilemma that plagued me for two months is finally over.

Today I developed a new obsession. I really want to see Alfred Hitchcock’s movies, specifically, Strangers on a Train, Rear Window and North by Northwest. And it was all because of a documentary about Hitchcock on the ABC this afternoon. Something said on the documentary really stuck with me. They said when Hitchcock could no longer ‘act out his fantasies’ (making films) he essentially died. And then I thought what if I could no longer writer. What would happen to me? I have always been under the impression that some people have only one thing that defines them, something they truly love, but if its taken from them a big part of them dies. I think I am one of them.

On a bad note my mom was in the hospital last week. Unfortunately she is back there again.

Perhaps I should dedicate this entry to Hev-Lady, a.k.a. my mom. Its true she’s from Neptune, just like me, expect she’s not a droid from the planets inner core. Just kidding she’s from Canada and according to a wise observer Amy; she’s the coolest Canadian Mum ever. That comment was greatly appreciated.

My Mom! Back in Lethbridge before I came to Australia. Yes I took this picture!

Hev-Lady stands for:

Heroine that is
Elegant
Veracious
Loving
Altruistic
Dazzling in
Youth

How would I describe Hev? Or more appropriately Heather because that's her real name.

She isn’t quite conventional. I learnt adult stuff that should have waited till I was old enough to hear it.

When I was eight years old, in order to get over my fear of the dark or scary movies. She made me watch Nightmare on Elm Street: Freddy’s Dead the Final Nightmare. She told me to laugh at it in order to not be afraid. Sadly it didn’t work completely. I wasn’t afraid of Freddy Kruger I could even watch the movie all by myself when I was 12, but I was still afraid of the dark. It was around this time I developed and irrational fear of toilets as well, due to watching Look Who's Talking Too, but that's another story.

Sometimes she makes me mad. When I was 17 she developed what I think is an unhealthy addiction to the computer. She would sit on it for hours playing games and talking to faceless, speechless people, called online friends. Its one of these reason I detest online games and when invited to play I often decline. There were times I wanted to rip the computer cord out of the wall and trash her entire computer.

She has a wacky dry sense of humour, which I inherited. What kind of mom would openly discuss the size of superman’s you know what on a boring road trip, saying he there is a reason spandex would be a problem, compare bails of hay in a farmers field to giant’s poo, laugh loudly during Godzilla and once while watching King Kong she remarked how the giant worms looked like giant penis’s.

She always helped me out, whether it was advice or some other odd problem. When I was 14 I decided my hair was ugly. I cut it, messing it up royally. Luckily mom was on the way, the only problem she was a bit drunk. Surprisingly she fixed my hair. It wasn’t uneven.

My mom doesn’t take crap from people who are prejudice towards my brother and is always trying to find a way to better a situation what ever it may be.

Hev has a hidden sadness. I see it in her eyes. I often wonder what it is. Things have happened through out the years I think could contribute to it, but there are others that happened before I was born or I was too young to remember.

I am thankful for my mom. She’s my hero. Not many moms could do what she has done and many don’t understand what it is really like for a single mom or growing up in a single parent family. I respect her for that. I turned out alright. She did a good job. Sure we had our differences but it all worked out.

P.S. Mrs. Bruce Willis Man is looking for Brown Dog if you seen him please click here. Oh sorry thats just a link to my story please read it. READ IT! READ IT! READ IT!

My imagination boths helps me and frightens me.

Greetings from Finbarpurpleton!

And his brothers...

I stayed up till 3 a.m. this morning. Why up so late? It’s safe to say that over the last couple of months I have been quite the night owl, partly from undying fear of financial proportions, confounding decisions and partly because night owl-like behaviour is somewhat hereditary. My dear mom is one as well. I dislike it because it means sleeping in furthering the process of staying up to ghostly un-humanlike hours…sometimes till 4 am sometime even till 6 a.m.

Staying up late is a somewhat lonely experience. Because the world is asleep or at least the part of the world you reside in is splendid slumber. One is often left only to their thoughts, resulting in constant turning in bed and near insanity because for some reason memories from the past, both good and bad decide to come popping into the mind.

But I digress it is also calming because I rather enjoy being in my own mind if it means creative bliss, for instance writing my story, which scarily enough is almost at 70, 000 words. READ MY STORY!

Anyways…my experience with night time has changed since coming to Australia. What is now insomnia was at one time paranoia. I used to be afraid of the dark. Make that terrified. I slept with a nightlight.

The precarious quiet used to terrify when I was younger. I somehow let my imagination which is supposed to help, run amuck and it usually did so at night.

My earliest fears of the dark are when I was seven. There was the boogedy man and his trusty boogedy dog. In order to make these fearsome imaginations, most of them resulting from nightmares, I amalgamated them into my on going list of imaginary friends. I had hundreds. Yes hundreds!

When I was eight that defence went away, because my mom’s nosey, apparently well meaning friends wanted me to dispose of my imaginary friends because they thought there was something abnormal about it. My mom agreed. So one day while traveling over a bridge in Ashcroft I dumped them over. Most of them drowned. I’d imagine my old imaginary friends coming back wanting an explanation for my meanness. I made friends with the survivors and more friends as well and when my mom found out they came back I had to flush them down the toilet.

Most of my fears came from nightmares when I was nine. It usually involved a man with razor blades for legs, hooks for arms and metal teeth and when he came for me he mad a scary sound. I also remember a guy who was trying to make me believe in reincarnation and a cannibal as cannibalism used to scare me.

When I was 14 being a Star Trek nerd in training I often watched Star Trek Next Generation or Star Trek Voyager with my mom. These shows were alright except for the fictional antagonist the Borg. They scared the crap out of me. I would often imagine them coming into my room intending on assimilating me. But I would point out Captain Picard and they’d leave me alone.

When I was 17 years old my imagination would run wild. I would often imagine Alien from the movie abruptly smashing in my bedroom door, lifting helpless me out of bed, tossing me in the air and consuming me in on gulp, then just for humours sake picking his beastly alien like teeth with my glasses. I also had a fear of sponteanously combusting and alien autopsies while I slept. These fears usually came after reading such stories on the net.

I some how developed an imaginative combative approach, that I used since I was little to beat the fear out of nightmares. When I was 17 I imagined Alien wearing a cowboy hat, while Wild Will my imaginary rottweiler and his team red and purple monkeys beat him with baseball bats. Unfortunately sometimes they would beat me instead and Alien would point and laugh, forgetting his Melissa eating type mission. The imagination combat never work, the fact I imagined Alien in my room was frightening enough. Not to mention stupid.

When I was 20 living on my own. I thought perhaps my fear of darknes had disapeared, but then I was stupid and imagined Alien popping up every once in awhile as always. Sometimes he would give up because my house was so pathetic and small Alien decided to terrorise some other over imaginative nerd.

How odd it is science fiction something that I find rather entertaining also used to frighten me.

Then miraculously the first night in Australia no fear at all, it hasn’t come back since. Perhaps the brave journey of the Pacific helped or maybe I began to grow up.

P.S. Wild Will says Captain Bottle Pop are the greatest!