lights camera …

Well, now I have an entry for every weekday in November. I’d like to thank my prodigious talent for talking about nothing, my parents for having me, oh my god here comes Russell Crowe with the phone, thank you and goodnight! (Unless you saw the Australian Film Awards coverage, that will make little sense to you; but I imagine that you aren’t reading this for sense anyway. Or sensibility.)

It has been a well-lit night for us: I put up the Christmas fairy lights across the front porch of the house (ooo, twinkly) and Mr. T got his gigantor spotlights for the front of the truck. These lights? GIGANTOR. I know that’s not a word but these damn lights are so big they just push words around and form new ones. Huge, I tell you. We are going to blind every wombat in the country. He tested one in the lounge just before and it was like we were signalling for Batman.


I sorted out our huge pile of coins in the weekend – you know, the jar or bowl or set of scales (shut up) where you throw your spare change as you come in the door. I even have the little official plastic bags from the bank (as otherwise they charge you $10 to count your money, when counting money is surely their job. In fact, their CALLING.) Anyway, the state of Victoria is suffering a coin shortage. It is entirely our fault. We had over $100 in silver coins, not to mention the $1 and $2 shrapnel. Yes, this is ridiculous. I agree. When charity collectors come to the door, they are greeted with feverish enthusiasm and great handfuls of coins are thrust at them. Unfortunately this doesn’t happen very often. The dogs, you know. Charity collectors are their natural enemies. They also make short work of small children selling raffle tickets or chocolates. However we don’t see much of this: our suburb, although once working class, is now too expensive for children and no one can afford the upkeep on Mackenzie and Emily as well as the renovated brick Victorian. Oh well. Their loss is the poker kitty bank account’s gain.

Things I Need to Buy:

– magazines
– more Lindt mini chocolate things, for Christmas stockings – I seem to be all out
– Christmas presents for everyone except my sister
– flea stuff for dogs
– special expensive tartar control biscuits for cat
– some less spoiled animals, maybe like a fish
– Christmas tree
– mustard pickles

Things I Have to Stop Buying:

– magazines
– Lindt mini chocolate things (ostensibly for ‘Christmas stockings’, if by ‘stockings’ I mean ‘my digestive system’)
– flimsy dog toys
– snow peas, which go limp and khaki-green, causing me to throw them out and buy
– more snow peas
– black T-shirts
– vintage scales from eBay
– cherries, which are STILL out of season and therefore tasteless
– PlayDoh

parallel bars

I’m watching the World Gymnastics Championships on TV at the moment; they’re being held in Melbourne, hence the TV coverage. This really makes no sense, since you’d think that everyone who wanted to see them would actually go to the event itself. Anyway. I missed out on tickets for the gymnastics at the Commonwealth Games (in fact we missed out on tickets for almost EVERYTHING we asked for; dumbass ballot system) so I’m ogling the male gymnasts now instead. My, but those tiny shorts are TINY. Ahem. Considering my severe heightitudinal difficulties, you would think I would have done gymnastics as a child. But NO. My parents did not show their love for me by pressing me into sports at an early age. Damn them. I could have been rich! RICH! … wait, gymnasts earn no money at all. Scratch that. I could have been muscly! MUSCLY!

best sister evah

So I just bought my sister’s Christmas present. It’s a painting, created by putting a turtle on a canvas and letting him walk/slide around in all the paint. I am chortling to myself all over again as I type this. I am the best sister EVAH. Kudos will be mine. YOU CAN’T TOUCH THIS. (da da-da da …)

Admittedly, it makes a bit more sense when you realise my sister had a turtle for about 10 years. He’s now at a nice turtle sanctuary in a huge pond on a farm, lest you think we ate him or something. He was a little shit, that turtle. He never liked being inside his tank; and it was a really big tank, with a nice rock for basking and everything. My sister cleaned that fucking tank religiously, too. Ungrateful turtle brat. He liked to be out and roaming around the house. Unfortunately my parents’ Persian rug-type thing on the lounge floor was in shades of green and cream, and guess what colours a turtle is? So, over the years, many people (my dad mostly) would stand on the turtle, who would whip his head back inside his shell and hiss, like it wasn’t his OWN FAULT he got stood on, and my sister would wail and run to the turtle, and my dad would wretchedly protest his innocence and insist the turtle had chameleon-like powers. Which he did. He would also go behind the TV and crap. Horrible reptile. Maybe we SHOULD have eaten him.

I’m also snacktactular!

There’s an ad on TV for lipgloss at the moment and it tickles my fancy every time. I have a thing for portmanteaus, especially when the word created is nonsensical. So whenever I see this ad, I turn to Mr. T and say, “Guess what!”
[Mr. T raises one eyebrow at me tiredly; he knows what’s coming, which now makes me think this ad must be on more often than I thought]
Me: “I’M shinylicious!”
Mr. T: “Suuuure you are.”
Me: “It’s craptacular!”
Mr. T: “It certainly is.”

And I’ve JUST seen an ad that tops it … for one of those fibre supplement powders you dissolve in water.
Mr. T: “I know. I saw it.”
Mr. T: “Oh my God.”

just another manic

It’s Monday and I have just wasted several hours watching the Australian Idol final. Which is odd, considering I didn’t watch any of the other episodes. I don’t really like reality shows – there was an ad during the show for “new Big Brother auditions!!!1!!” which made me feel all cold inside. Also, while watching the soothing yet mind-sapping Australian Idol, I unpicked about nine embroidered daisies from a linen teatowel – ironic (don’t you think) when you consider I want to embroider the teatowel myself. And yes I should have been watching Grey’s Anatomy instead, but I was pilfering that (I’m hoping this word catches on – if you can rip CDs, why can’t you pilfer TV onto DVRs?) and sort of forgot about it. And now my hand is all cramped from holding tiny embroidery scissors, and it’s my MOUSE HAND. This bodes ill for my internet addiction.

25% more frustrating

I went shopping for Christmas presents. I am organised! I am thoughtful! I have a deathly fear of shopping malls in the last two weeks of December! I looked and shopped and shopped and looked … and I bought a pair of shoes and three items of clothing … for me. Then I got home and found my “25% OFF!!!!” voucher delivered in the mail that day. For the clothes. I had just bought.

Santa hates me.

eye spy

I went back to the eye specialist to find out what I can do about my eyes: Solution: very expensive operation. Don’t you hate that? No yellow dye this time; but they did have to check right inside my eyes. They put in these drops that opened up my pupils to anime size. I looked like a frightened forest creature. A very light sensitive forest creature. I got photos this time. The things I do for you people!

No, I still haven’t learned how to take a decent self portrait via mirror shot. But you can tell by the look on my face that I’m taking it very seriously.

Here’s my eye in closeup. And that’s a good hour after the drops went in. I look like a pokemon.