Rejoice podophiles!

That word in the title means "foot fetishists," and I am shouting-out to them because today's post has a distinct podiatric flavor. I have not one but two (!!) pieces of foot news. The first and arguably less exciting is my new shoes. They were $8 from K-mart.

They are sweet.

Item 2 is not for the faint of heart. Or the short of attention span. Last night, after an incident in which I feared the loss of my life first at the hands of Alex driving on the Sydney roads and secondly at Housemate Anne's wrath after she discovered he had driven her van, I was at Cole's doing some grocery shopping. As I perused the selection of muesli bars (vom. I miss Fiber Plus! Maura??) I somehow injured my foot. I actually stepped on it with my other foot, I think. I wasn't really even thinking about it, and it didn't hurt, but then I looked down to investigate and blood was dripping off my right foot, all over the base of my flip-flop and into the aisle. At first I was just like WTF? How is this cut so deep? And then, to the surprise of no one who remembers the Blood Draw Incident of 2009 or other similar moments of shame, I started to get light-headed and sat down to try to get my head on straight. My vision kept getting blurry and my hearing and fading out, and...... then I came to on the floor, hearing "assistance needed on aisle six" over the PA. Awesome. Some manager named Arthur came over and was very attentive and worried. I kind of felt bad for him because he was making such a fuss over me, but then I realized the excitement, as well as the opportunity to whip out the first-aid kit, probably made his night. In the end, he had me "write a statement" and give my name and address. He probably heard my American accent and assumed I was going to sue. (I was surprised I didn't even score free groceries out of the deal, I'll admit.) ANYWAY. My foot hurts. Here is a picture of my gash:


Some further insights and anecdotes:
1. Ozzies call goosebumps "chicken skin."
2. In an event which has been foreshadowed since my mom (Hi Mom! If you're reading) stopped me on my way to school in second grade because my hair looked like "a rat's nest," I was told off at work for my hair not being neat enough. Shocker, right? I now apply hairspray in such proportions that my hair has the texture of a football helmet during my shift. Oh well. It could act as a shield in the event of projectiles.
3. Sunday = day off. This week, I went with Ranger Alex, Housemate Anne, British Steve, and Maybe-Midget Natalie to this beach called Mallabar and did a bush-walk. My first! It was purty. Here are some pics: