The Rainbow Connection

Even though I can’t sing, I sing. A lot. To everything. Mostly to inanimate objects, which can’t fight back and must submit to my awful siren call. And I do sing to the pets a lot. Surprisingly, they seem to like it. I don’t know why.

Random samples of warblings, in no particular order:

[while cleaning the house]

“Don’t cry for me, vacuum cleaner;

The truth is, I never liked you,

All full of dog hair, and then some cat hair,

I hate you vacuum,

I never liked you ….”

To the Black Dog – -

“Oh it looks like Spaniel

Must be the clouds in my eyes …. ”

[Note: the Black Dog does not in any way resemble a spaniel]

[while driving to work]

“Why are there so many

Cars full of retards

Who drive really slow in my lane,

Retards are morons

And only illusions

I hate you all, get the hell out …. ”

To the Cat – -

[to the tune of Jingle Bells]

“Puss puss puss, puss puss puss, Who’s a big fat puss …”

[This one is so mindless I won't even realise I've been singing it for seven minutes straight, until Mr. T strangles me and buries my body under the house]

To the Black Dog, in order to hype him into a tail wagging frenzy – -

“Badger badger badger badger badger badger badger badger ….”

To the Brown Dog, who has run up to see what is so exciting – -

“MUSHroom, MUSHroom”

[Note: This song goes well with a conga-style dance, even if you have to conga by yourself. Make sure to cut loose with dramatic poses at the 'mushroom' parts.]

To any available Dog – -

“When I was a little dog (loves me like a rock)

And the Devil would call my name (loves me like a rock)

I’d say ‘I think I … I think I’ll dig up the garden’ (loves me like a rock) …”

Bringing Home the Bacon

So Mr. T and I are wandering round the supermarket Sunday afternoon (feel free to pause in your reading to heap scorn upon my boring life) and we didn’t need very much. Specifically, we required dinner for the dogs and dinner for us. And some rice. And some chocolate. And some refills for the plug in thing that kills mosquitoes. Really, not very much at all. But we got a trolley instead of a basket anyway; reason being, we are unutterably lazy. Our trolley was uncontrollable with a wonky wheel and no cornering ability – so, just like normal then. Mr. T took control of the trolley and headed decisively to the meat section. Man buy meat! Feed canines! Good provider! And I wandered aimlessly to the vegetable section and gathered some salad stuff and some onions. We take our hunter-gatherer roles very seriously.

So really, this was all we came for. But it occurred to me that I would have to come back and shop again on, say, Wednesday or so. Why not take advantage of the free trolley-pushing labour and add some more items to the cart? Oooh! Ginger ale on special. Mmmm, red chicken curry spice paste. And so on. And then, about half-way through the supermarket, I realise all over again why it is that I go food shopping by myself. Once Mr. T is in control of the trolley, the objective is: “To Get to the Checkouts as Fast as Humanly Possible”. This doesn’t sound so bad, until you realise that his mission statement is in direct conflict with mine, which is: “To Buy Food and Bring it Home”. As an example, I’ll stop and check out the pasta section. I think … linguine. But as I turn to where the trolley should be, hand outstretched to drop in the packet of pasta … there is only empty space. Mr. T and the trolley are down at the end of the aisle, executing a dangerous turning manoeuvre around the Mother’s Day merchandise to go accelerating up the next aisle. Our joint shopping trips always end with me staggering in his wake, juggling a dozen items, because he and the trolley have been three aisles ahead of me for the entire trip. I think he’s using it as a way to keep our food bill down. Frugal AND a speed demon … is there any more alluring combination?

It’s Letterman!

Colour of Mr. T’s business shirt this morning – -
Lilac

Volume of Mr. T’s angry defence of “pale blue” shirt – -
Loud

Item I ran out of this morning – -
Lotion

Song accompanied by my lusty singing in the car on the way to work – -
Lola (L-O-L-A, Lola)

On the dining table – -
Lilies
Large pile of junk mail

What the dogs had for dinner – -
Liver
Lamb shanks

Muscle which developed an uncomfortable twinge after gym visit last night, developing into full-blown spasms – -
Left deltoid. Or trapezoid. I don’t know, but it hurts like all hell.

Thing I am supposed to be doing, but am not doing in order to do this instead – -
Laundry

Time when I will do the dinner dishes – -
Later

Verbal abuse at television this evening – -
“Lachey? Who pronounces that La-Shay? Isn’t that a Scottish name, so therefore Lock-ie, like Lachlan?”
“Look, will you SHUT UP. Jessica Simpson is hot. That’s all we need to know.”
“La-SHAY. Look at me! I’m faux-French! Pass me a SACHET of La-SHAY, s’il vous plait!”

He’s been doing it all day, ref!

Went to the football on Saturday night. I am tempted not to elaborate on the true nature of the game; since every nation calls it’s favourite ball game ‘football’, I could use this to my advantage to give this entry an air of cozy familiarity (or, as my favourite French girl at work said today, “a liking feeling”.) But as I live in the sporting monopoly that is Melbourne, EVERYONE knows the football is AFL, or Aussie rules, or just the footy. Anyway, I was offered football tickets at work on Friday for the Saturday game. I immediately became suspicious: “Who else is going?” (Code for: someone will be bringing clients, necessitating upright and sober behaviour.) No-one, I was assured; there were only four tickets and they were mine, all mine, to bestow on my minions as I pleased. Excellent. And it was not until the physical tickets were nestled in my hot little hand that I thought to ask the crucial question, the number-one issue that has no doubt occurred to everyone else but me … in a sports-mad office, where the footy tipping competition is more hotly anticipated than the financial results, why were these tickets going spare?

Because it was a crap game, that’s why. Two low-performing, low-rated teams, dueling it out for the honour of greatest level of incompetence in front of 30,000 people. (Geelong and Richmond, for the locals.) I reconsidered … for barely a second. I can hardly recognise a GOOD game of football when I see it. And two struggling and frustrated teams may very well explode into violence on the field, which is always compelling viewing. Also, consider the alcohol aspect. People, it’s win-win! Go Cats! (We barracked for Geelong because they were winning, and also there was a really annoying Richmond supporter/berater behind us. “You SUCK, Bowden! You’re a DUD! Get OFF the FIELD!” (Note: I cannot verify whether Bowden was indeed a dud, as I don’t know which player he was, or what position he played, or even if he was on the field at all. In fact, there may not even be a player called Bowden in the team.)) I don’t think I increased my knowledge of the game much, and I still don’t know the words to all the songs. But I DO know the tickets were free. And at the end of the day, isn’t the result that’s on the scoreboard all that really matters?

Pet Sounds

We use our dogs as pawns in our petty games. Doesn’t everyone?

“How are the dogs?”

“They hate you. They’ve formed a secret club to plot against you.”

“Planning my surprise birthday party, is what they’re doing. They haven’t told you because you’re not invited.”

- –

“Did you miss me while I was away?”

“I was going to, but I never got around to it.”

“Well, how about the dogs? Did they miss me?”

“They hung around in the hallway waiting for someone to come home.”

“Awww. They missed me.”

“Actually, I think they were waiting for Santa.”

“Fair enough. He totally got away from them last Christmas. This year, they’ll be ready for him.”

- –

“What’s for dinner?”

“See that big brown animal in the garden over there?”

“That one?”

“He’s about the right size to fit on a spit roast, don’t you think?”

“He looks a bit stringy. I think we should leave him for a few more months to get some meat on him.”

“Well, he’s free range. I guess we could fatten him for a while.”

“OK then. So what’s for dinner?”

“See that little tabby animal asleep on the barbecue table over there?”

- –

“Go out and see what YOUR dog has done.”

“I don’t have a dog. I have a cat. See my good cat? Look how good he is. So, what has your dog has done now?”

“YOUR dog. He’s your dog. And you’d better get YOUR spade to fill in YOUR giant hole in YOUR lawn.”

“MY cat would never do such a thing. He’s a good cat. If you trained YOUR dogs better, YOU wouldn’t be going outside right now to fill in holes.”

Undie 500

It was my birthday on Saturday. Added extra Easter Birthday goodness, which doesn’t come around too often. I had a good day, with presents and well-wishes and a little baby cake from Brunettis just for me. Even my presents from my fambily came in on time (very rare for my family; we don’t believe much in the post). My sister sent me a range of presents, including a three-pack of underwear. And I do recall sending her a three-pack of underwear for Christmas. It is becoming our leitmotif, albeit with a bit less leit than usually seen in the German. Well, it’s better than our previous leitmotifs, which include:

- the patented Dance of Joy

- who can dye their hair the oddest colour

- who gets the top bunk vs bottom bunk, and whether it is wrong for this debate to have continued into our twenties.

So this underwear is, of course, still on the coffee table in the lounge along with the rest of my presents, right where I unwrapped them days before. Mr. T and I were watching TV tonight, each with a pair of underwear on our heads. (The third pair had unsuccessfully been placed on a dog’s head, but didn’t really take.) They’re cute cotton undies, with snowflake designs and a little transfer on each pair. Mr. T was wearing a particularly fetching ice-skating monkey. As I gazed at it, I mused aloud, “When you start to look at that monkey, he’s got a real Edvard Munch thing going on. That is one unhappy primate.”

Mr. T replied reasonably, “Well, he’s a monkey. They’re not designed for ice skating. His legs are probably killing him.”

This struck me, oddly enough, as one of the funniest thing anyone had ever said. I sat on the couch, laughing uncontrollably, mopping the tears from my eyes using the undies on my head.

Watch Your Mouth

My language is atrocious. I swear more now than I ever did, including when I was a university student and trying to overcome the “dumb blonde” stereotype. (Yeah, because “foulmouthed blonde” is a groundbreaking approach to deconstructing gender stereotypes.) In fact, I swear so much now that I believe I could earn the respect of a merchant marine, were I to encounter one. (This is not a solicitation.) For those who only read me, rather than hear me, my swearing is right up there with my usage of parentheses, which (and I don’t believe this to be an exaggeration) is tragically overstated. Unfortunately, I write the way I speak, and I am forever going off on tangents unbeknownst to my audience and which turn out to be funny only to me. Also, I use words like “unbeknownst”. No wonder I keep up the swearing; it’s likely to be the only part of my conversation that sane people understand.

I blame my job for the language. I work in a male-dominated field; white-collar, but to hear what is screamed down phones and yelled across hallways, you’d think you were down some mine somewhere. I think I may be suffering from passive swearing as a result. It’s in the air around me all the time, tainting every conversation, and I have gradually absorbed the poison; now it’s got so bad I can barely string a sentence together without adding in a questionable word or two, you wall-eyed bastard. I plan to sue.

Admittedly I don’t tend to swear directly AT people. I direct almost all of my vituperative comments towards my arch-nemesis: The Laptop. I swear to God, that thing gives me the shits. I begged for a decent machine. BEGGED. Somehow, through the many layers of approval that these things need to go through, the non-ambiguous request “She Needs Something more Powerful than the Rest of Us Put Together” came back as “She Will Get the Standard Laptop, But We’ll Put XP on it to Make Her Feel Better”. Hence I swear at The Laptop almost constantly, as it is unable to handle the processing loads I place upon it. Like, perhaps, having Lotus Notes and Excel open at the same time.

At the start of our association, conversations between The Laptop and me went a little like this:

Me: La la la, deadline coming up, must just finish this bit here.

Laptop: Excel has encountered an error and must close. All your work may be lost. Would you like to send an error message to Microsoft?

Me: No! No! You piece of crap! Damn you! Why does this HAPPEN to me??!

Now that we’ve bonded and we share such a close relationship, it goes something like this:

Me: I have to finish this, and it’s really really important. Please don’t die. Please don’t die. If you die I will fucking KILL you myself you god-damned error-ridden piece of shit. What the … frozen screen …

Laptop: Excel has encountered an error and must close. All your work may be lost. Would you like to send an error message to Microsoft?

Me: You FUCKknuckle.

You could not see a cloud, because

  • Reading:
    “How To Eat”, Nigella Lawson. Food p0rn.
  • Listening:
    “The Virgin Suicides”, Air
  • Watching:
    The cat preparing an elaborate dog ambush. He’s going to scare the crap out of them. I can’t wait.
  • Eating:
    Pistachios. That totally counts as eating my greens.
  • Liking:
    Booking flights for holidays in May. Cannot. Come. Soon. Enough.
  • Pondering:
    Why does Adelaide bother having a half-hour time difference? Suck it up, Adelaide. You’re either with Perth or with us.