Well Mr. T’s parents have hit the road (or rather, the plane) (the plane! the plane!) and we are back to the nuclear family, just us two and the canines. And the feline. Oh God I’m still cringing, we ran out of cat fud last week and I had to inform the President. His presidential majesty was pissed off, and lo he was mightily displeased also. But in a fortunate twist we, his disciples, discovered a secret hoard of Dine and the Ruler of the Free World was spared the indignity of no dinner. (Hee, I typed “secret horde” which has developed into a full action epic in my head: Onward, tiny canned foot soldiers! Surge forth mightily from your concealed cupboard to do my bidding!)
So tonight Mr. T’s boss dropped by, to give us a quick house inspection and ask whether I was ironing Mr. T’s shirts correctly. No, NO, it’s all untrue; Mr. T’s boss is a lovely guy (and since I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he walked around all day absently rubbing his chin because the tag from his T-shirt was irritating it, he clearly has no interest in Mr. T’s shirts) (which by the way, not that you care, are ironed SHITKICKINGLY well, by me of course, ever since the day Mr. T cunningly ironed a tram line into the sleeve of one of his shirts and thus ever since has claimed complete ineptitude in the fast-paced competitive world of ironing) (I think I’ve had too much sugar today. You think so? I think so. I do.) And. Yes. Mr. T’s boss. Spent his weekend up on his farm, which IS NOT a hobby farm and death will be upon you if you dare infer such a thing, and anyway they butchered themselves a beast, a cow to be all precise and shit, and guess who dines upon the proceeds? The dogs. Yes indeed, several bags of extremely large, extremely raw bones were hand-delivered tonight as promised; and at this very moment there are two completely absorbed dogs gnawing steadily upon the carcass. Such a shame that another animal has to die to make them this happy. Oh but who am I kidding, because in our portable fridge (which by the way has 3cm of beer frozen to the bottom, mmmm yeasty!), in our fridge I say, is A GREAT DEAL OF DEAD ANIMAL, including fillet steak and T-bones and schnitzel and god knows what, all stacked up in huge piles of brazenly crimson flesh! A wealth of bonteous protein! I am the embodiment of the Atkins diet! I am CAVEPERSON! Urg. Regressing. Power of speech lost. Steak. Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.
It is Mr. T’s birthday tomorrow, and I haven’t wrapped his present. The present and the wrapping paper are in the bedroom, where he is currently asleep, dreaming boring dreams. (Backstory: he sleeptalks sometimes. I woke up about 6 months ago to find him fast asleep yet propped up on one arm, leaning right over my face. To my bleary, “Snrk? Wha?” he brightly enquired, “So, do you think we’re saving enough water?”)
His 30th was a heap of fun, including nudie runs and drawing on drunken people with permanent markers. (The nudie run was sadly neither me nor Mr. T. We have more
class self-preservation skills than that.) Home by a very dignified 3am – - maybe this means we’re growing up? God, I hope not.
So I’ve finally become sick of the mighty morphing colour rangers on this page. Yes it took me a while, but my apathy is great and my skillz with CSS are miniscule. I apologise for my sins & transgressions and promise to eat some sort of wafer to make up for it.
No actual news, apart from being flat out like a lizard drinking. (Yes this is an actual Australian saying.) (Yes, I’ve heard someone say it WITHOUT irony.) Mr. T’s 30th is this Saturday, which ALSO happens to be the day his parents fly in from New Zealand to stay for a week, which ALSO happens to be the weekend I am spending in a hotel in the city with a bunch of girls. Did I mention my project management skills? No? There’s a reason for that.
Black Dog update – it’s ugly. That dog wears pants till he heals. And maybe after that, ’cause he looks so jaunty.
So my Black Dog is allergic to fleas. This is why we bomb both Dogs and the Cat with fleastuff, which is a pain as then they smell all chemical-y. They don’t like it much either. But unfortunately, a flea or similar has found a home on the Black Dog. First we knew of it was when I went to pat him and found a bald patch on his leg, about the size of a Mint Slice. (God, I’m hungry.) He had worried it badly; so we made a vet appointment for the next day. And then we put some boxers on him. Because
we like to humiliate him no, well yes, but this was to stop him further nibbling on the wound in the night.
Come this morning, I get up and find the Black Dog is NAKED. He has shed his boxers in the night and has chewed diligently on his haunch until it resembles a goddamned war zone. I freely admit I was embarrassed to take him to the vet. Who, as usual, was very lovely and expressed sympathy and gave Black Dog an injection to stop him itching and some soothing oatmeal lotion. Then smacked me with an $85 bill. These animals are really putting a damper on my financial ability to buy
hard drugs computer peripherals. (Yes I HAVE discovered the strike command. I will be sick of it soon, I promise.) So I took the Black Dog and his lotion home, fixed Mr. T with a creepy stare and told him, “It puts the lotion on the dog”.
Nobody appreciates me, really.
- I never insult people to their faces. To their faces, I hope you note. I politely and cheerfully point out their shortcomings without actually calling them rat-bastards, as could certainly be argued in court. Instead, I roll my eyes with my co-worker (a delightfully cynical sort) for a good five minutes after they have slunk away. (Slinked? Slunken? My parsing skills have deserted me. Parsed me by. You may kill me now.)
- I am completely overusing the phrase, “delightfully stable”. I can’t get ENOUGH of that one. Anything, everything is delightfully stable.
“What did you think of Love Actually?”
“Oh. Um, it was delightfully stable.”
“Yeah, I really liked … what?”
- Think I can outlast Mr. T in the Battle of the Socks on the Floor. He will leave socks (or substitute any/all of the following: jacket, book, mail, ATM receipts, dog leads, hammer, camping chair, electrical cables, you name it) on the floor. Sometimes in the middle of the room. I step over it. And over it. And so does he, and so do the dogs, and the cat takes a mighty jump and clears the Giant Pile of Detritus which has built up over the course of, say, an hour or so. I think, “Mr. T will pick it up. He left it there, after all.” Note to self: Mr. T WILL NEVER PICK IT UP. EVER. Not even if it remains on the floor so long as to evolve a mouth and lungs and a tiny trachea and begs him, in a tremulous piping treble, to remove it from the Floor of Filth to which it is now permanently stuck. The only reason we do not have a house full of these talking piles of crap (hey, sounds like work!) is that I pick them up. Or, alternatively, point them out to Mr. T: “Look. Socks. From when we went skiing three weeks ago.” He stares at the offending item as if he has not stepped over it four times a day for three weeks. Then he gazes at me pityingly and ostentatiously picks up the socks. (Tiny cheers can be heard.) Must NOT let this bother me. (Alternative plan: hit Mr. T over the head with the camping chair and stuff him in the dog kennel.)
- Ignore the Black Dog when he licks the bottom of the empty water bowl. Then looks at me. Then licks the bowl again. Note that there is a 12 litre bowl of fresh, delicious water not ONE METRE away from the smaller waterbowl. One is inside, one is outside. The Black Dog is fussy for Inside Water. The Black Dog is walking a dangerous, dehydratable line.
>> Pearl the First
My head is all sweaty. I was wearing a bald wig most of the morning. (One of those things that look like swimming caps, to make it seem, to the unobservant or very small children, that you have no hair.) It was part of a long-running joke in my office, regarding a guy who shaves his head because HE WANTS TO. Not because he is going bald. Because he WANTS to. Mmmmmm. When he came in this morning, there must have been a dozen of us wearing bald wigs, diligently working away. When he got to his own desk, he found a giant curly afro wig. The gods are cruel.
>> Pearl the Second
My Brown Dog is making unhappy hooting sounds. Mr. T is not home yet and the Brown Dog really really wants to see him. The Brown Dog is a giant sap. (The Black Dog wants to see him too, but he is asleep jammed up against the front door. Smarter than the average bear.)
>> Pearl the Third
Earlier today, in a lunchtime location – -
Shine: Do you like my beanie?
Jac: [notices black nondescript beanie] I do.
Shine: It was $80.
Jac: Holy crap.
Shine: I know. Don’t tell anyone.
Jac: Honestly? No one would believe me.
Shine: That’s the beauty of it!
“A Short History of Nearly Everything”, Bill Bryson.
“Chicago”, the soundtrack. Apart from the Richard Gere tracks. I hate that guy.
DVDs from Fetch Me Movies. Free trial for a month! Thank you sir, may I have another?
Shropshire blue cheese.
Taunting Mr. T, who will be 30 this month. “Look at your hair! Shiny, shiny silver in the light…” If I’m throttled, you all know who to blame.
This guy who has come forward saying he shot the dingo which took Azaria Chamberlain. I hope your 15 minutes of fame taste very, very bitter.