extra creamy

For work nibblies last Wednesday, I had to buy a whole lot of yummy things like camembert, crackers, chocolate, fruit, you name it. My expenses are due to be paid this week, and I could NOT find the receipt for about $60 worth of food. Which means I would be out of pocket by that amount unless I could find the receipt to claim it back.

Today I made a concerted effort to find the damned receipt. I FINALLY found it, under the passenger seat of my car.

You know what else I found?

A camembert.

iPoddery

So, Alison did this iPod meme and then lacroix; so, hell, I’m a great big follower. Let’s whack the iPod on shuffle and answer questions, much like a magic 8 ball; and in the process, expose the shocking array of music I have on this thing!

How does the world see you?
Englishman in New York (Sting)
Really? You LIE, iPod! I feel disillusioned already.

Will I have a happy life?
Gleaming Auction (Snow Patrol)
(Sample lyrics: Broken glass aside; My feelings stay the same; Covered head to toe; In blood and fear and spite)
Hurtful, iPod. Just hurtful. I only scratched you ONCE (well, once BADLY).

What do my friends really think of me?
The Things We Do For Love (10CC)
Actually, I’ll accept this one, iPod. For a couple of friends only, but. Also, DO NOT JUDGE ME, INTERNET. I downloaded most of the songs from this list, God help me.

Do people secretly lust after me?
Mere Pass (Basement Jaxx)
Heh. I’ll take it.

How can I make myself happy?
Don’t Speak (No Doubt)
HAHAHAHAH! This is the funniest meme I’ve ever done. Well, apart from the whole blood and fear thing up there.

What should I do with my life?
Song for Guy (Elton John)
But I CAN’T SING, iPod. You of all people (people?) know this all too well.

Will I ever have children?
Derelict (Beck)
I … will they be homeless children? Will I sell them for drugs?

What is some good advice for me?
Gotta Know Remix (Supergroove)
Yes, I DO gotta know. Tell me. TELL ME!

How will I be remembered?
Canary in a Coalmine (The Police)
(Sample lyrics: First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect; Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect)
I LOVE THIS SONG. This means university to me. However I don’t think this is how I will be remembered. Unless I will be remembered as I was in university? (Now I am just doing that thing where you try to make your horoscope fit your day.)

What is my signature song?
El Manana (Gorillaz)
(Sample lyrics: Maybe in time; You’ll want to be mine)
Um … no. Well, maybe at the moment, but only in the most tenuous way. (Horoscope effect again.)

What do I think my current theme song is?
Rock DJ (Robbie Williams)
I need some underwear featuring a tiger, STAT. And some roller skates.

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
Overture / And All That Jazz (Chicago soundtrack)
Everyone sees me as a murdering flapper? …OK then.

What song will play at my funeral?
Devil’s Party (INXS)
HAHAHAHAHAH! Oooh. Maybe God saw my chicken funeral.

What type of men/women do I like?
Intergalactic (Beastie Boys)
This song contains my favourite Beastie Boys line ever: “I’ll stir fry you in my wok”. If you like this line, then you are the type of men/women I like.

What is my day going to be like?
Sexy (Black Eyed Peas)
Yowza! I’d better get a move on with those tiger undies, then.

comment-ary

I was thinking about my bloated, out-of-control Bloglines, and the fact that I never comment. I am not a commenter. But today … TODAY … I am commenting, come hell or high water. (I think I am pretty safe from the hell since it’s Good Friday, but you never know.) So if you are on my Bloglines,and have posted something today so you show up, and you have comments enabled, and I don’t have to register or whatever …. I will comment. And say something boring, no doubt. But I said it! It’s my own personal delurking day.

Hi!

the sky is falling

I have been sitting here refreshing Bloglines, irrationally angry with you non-updating people in the world, when it struck me that I should update myself. Then there will be something in Bloglines for me to read!

So, what did you do at work today? I enacted a funeral involving Easter chickens, the finale of an elaborate scheme involving a kidnapped chicken, a ransom demand and a little chicken leg delivered in the internal mail. (Remember when I said I gave a chicken to each of my co-workers? One was kidnapped.) The ransom was never paid and rather than drag the whole joke over Easter, we waited until the relevant co-worker was called into a meeting and staged the little funeral on his desk. Moral: pay ransoms when requested, especially when your co-workers are kind of sadistic and enjoy playing barbed practical jokes.

Now I think of it, that’s an appropriate Easter theme. If the little chicken corpse has disappeared when we return to work, I will be VERY impressed.

minutes before a thrown stressball cleaned out the whole lot


desk, originally uploaded by six impossible things.

I’m posting this from Flickr. Apologies if it goes awry (likely). But this is my desk at work (the computer monitor part, anyways). There are notes in Flickr if you are hanging OUT to see what I have going on there. Which, I mean, you know you are. There’s a monkey there for gods sake!

the lost post

Note: I found this post in my email inbox, where I’d sent it to myself but forgotten to post. Behold! Unearthed from the mists of long-ago March!

I think this winter will be the Winter of Saving Money, which lies ahead of my like some bleak, arctic … winter. Yeah. Not so much with the metaphors today. But! Don’t forget that it’s still summer, and so the money is still slipping through my fingers like water! So far I have spent my Christmas bonus about 18 times, as well as saving it so that I also bathed in the righteous glow of saving.

Anyway, as well as various fripperies I can’t even remember, I wandered into a shoe shop last week. Sale! Camper sale! With all the shoes in my size! It’s like some horrible, wonderful dream. Because half-price Campers are still, well, full-price other shoes. Sigh. What to do? Try them on, obviously. For some reason they had their winter boots on sale too. Why? I don’t know. Maybe they were last season’s which didn’t sell? Cannot say. So I tried on a pair of brown slouchy suede boots. Not really my thing, but … lean closer so I can whisper … I am boot-challenged. I am calfally enhanced. Oh, screw the whispering. GIGANTOR CALF MUSCLES, PEOPLE. Believe me, I am mindful of the fact that after my earlier too-short pyjama entry, I will seem like some short-bodied, calftastic freak. And that’s an impression I’m happy to give. This is the internet! If I can’t distort the perception of my body image here, what else is left? Anyway, giant calf muscles. I blame tennis. And my mum, for the genetics. And whoever else I can think of at the time.

Anyway, as a result, I cannot fit knee-high boots. Impossible. Cannot zip them up. And hence I was looking at the slouchy boots, which did fit, but which ended right at the widest point of my calf, cutting off the lower part of my leg which narrows into ankle and giving the pleasing effect of my entire leg being as thick as a tree stump. Sigh. “Oh, wait!” said the salesgirl. “If you want suede boots, we have a few more pairs!” Yeah, like it will help me. She brings out … knee high black suede boots with ribbon trim. COVET. “Can’t fit them,” I say resignedly. She eyes me up. “Yes you can.” No, I can’t, honestly. I won’t be able to zip them up.” “Oh, these are suede. They will stretch. I bet I can zip them up on you, we can get boots on anyone.”

And so followed one of the most Monty Python-esque moments of my life. Think of the Ministry of Silly Walks, but while sitting down, with not one but TWO salesgirls trying to zip up a knee-high boot on a leg they are contorting into many different and completely random positions. Oh, and picture it happening in the mall marketed as the Fashion Capital. (Hi, fashionistas! Sorry for bringing down the tone of your Capital!) Panting and exhausted, they stopped with about 10cm to go (yes that’s a long way). “We PROMISE you they’ll stretch.” “Yeah, they’ll definitely stretch.” “Definitely.”

I believed them. I WANTED to believe them. I sort of didn’t, but I really wanted it to be true. So I bought the boots. Probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. In fact, NOT one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.

So when Mr. T got home that night, I was flailing around on the lounge floor in stark contrast to the graceful Winter Olympians on the TV beside me. I was able to get them up to the point the salesgirls had, but no higher. I detailed my dilemma. Mr. T took it as a personal challenge. And without further ado, grabbed a leg, squished the boot around it and started zipping. Unfortunately for my leg, there was also a vigorous pummeling motion with the thumbs, quite in the manner of a sausage being extruded into a casing. Charming, no? Don’t forget to add in the sounds of my yelping: “Ow ow ow OW OW! I AM NOT AN ANIMAL! OWWWW!” As usual, he ignored me and within 10 seconds had the entire boot zipped up. I stared at it in awe. “I can’t feel my foot.” “I saw it go in, it’s definitely there.” “I think I’m having an embolism in there.” “Circulation is for sissies.” “I’m very impressed.” “Don’t be, I still have to do that other leg.” “Ow ow OWWW!”

So yes. I have knee high boots. Only problem is, I can never take them off again.