[Mr. T reading magazine] “Guess what Venus Williams’ middle names are.”
“I can do this! How many names?”
“OK: Venus … Diamond … Tragedy.”
“That’s … actually, that’s not bad.”
“What is it? What is it?”
“Venus Ebony Starr. With two ‘r’s.”
“I was that close. THAT CLOSE.”
“Now do Serena. One middle name.”
“Serena … Mikado.”
So the Good Food Show was insane and if you paid money and went, I really feel for you, pushing through hundreds of people for hours. Yes I ate lots of product (no time for a lunch break) and we sold through almost all of our stock with enough left for a very productive swapping session with other stands at the show. (Ah, you didn’t realise that, did you? That all the people who so nicely serve you and sell you things at these sorts of shows just want you to GET THE HELL OUT so they can contra swap their remaining stock with the other stands? Well now you do. And this is why there are very few ‘end of show deals’ for you.) But it is fun, and always interesting.
In other news, my Black Dog is doing much better – he wants to stand, and can push up on his front legs, but not yet bear all his weight on them. He gets his stitches out tomorrow, and is doing physio and may get to do swimming. And he wakes Mr. T every few hours needing to go to the toilet. It all feels very baby-like: the lack of sleep, driving him to endless activities, boring everyone with every tiresome detail … but on the plus side, he never cries. And he’s a dog, so he’s automatically cuter than a baby anyway.
Quick Thing 1
If you’re going to be wandering through the Good Food Show in Melbourne on Friday or Sunday, drop me an email. I’ll be working. I’m thinking we set up an elaborate password system so that we recognise each other. Then we can do some sort of handshake and I’ll give you food.*
(* Specifically to torture Anne who knows the food I work with and will kill people, actual real people, to get some.)
Quick Thing 2
Just ordered the best T-shirt ever from threadless: zombie donkey. Oh yeah, they have $10 T-shirts at the moment. Fly! Fly my pretties!
So, my Black Dog is home from his HORRIFICALLY EXPENSIVE operation, fusing two compressed vertebrae which were crushing his spine. He still can’t walk. I may take him back and ask for a refund. But wait! He now has to undergo physio until he can use his front legs again. I mean, I shouldn’t complain, since we were the ones who willingly shelled out thousands of dollars. Well, it was either that or put him down. Not much of a choice, no? So the Black Dog has had the equivalent of a trip to Europe shoved surgically into his body and here he is, whining and flailing and generally making a nuisance of himself. BE GRATEFUL, BLACK DOG. Or we will KILL YOU and make of your pelt a Bathmat of Great Luxuriousness.
Of course, this means that Mr. T is still carrying the Black Dog around, out to the toilet and whatnot. The Black Dog weights 41kg. We don’t believe in pursedogs, and this can come back to bite you in the arse sometimes. Such as when you have to carry your giant breed dog around the place because his Expensive Legs still don’t work. I can’t snatch 41kg off the floor, weight training or no, so Mr. T’s back is killing him, instigating conversations such as the following:
“Do we have any Neurofen?”
“NO NUROFEN. We have no money for Neurofen. Gaze upon your diamond encrusted dog to ease your suffering.”
And I wasn’t even able to help yesterday … alas, I was felled by food poisoning. Ah, the siren call of food poisoning. While bent double in the bathroom, I was cursing Mr. T for cooking pork for dinner the night before. However he was fine and dandy and fit as a fiddle. So, not the pork then. So he was busy carting the Black Dog hither and yon, while I was collapsed weakly in bed, croaking “… water …” in my feeble, food poisoned way. This would seem like a cunning ploy by me, if not for the fact that I was TOO SICK to go to the Split Enz concert on Sunday night. I curse you, food poisoning. I curse you straight to hell! Poisoned hell!
Oh yeah, to top it all off: it was a long weekend. Three days off for Queens Birthday. So I have spent today (Monday) recuperating from being poisoned (from what? chicken for lunch is all I am left with) and flipping a dog from side to side, much like roasting a chicken. This is NOT my idea of a long weekend. This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife.
However. My dog is lively and wants to get up – and will, as soon as his legs recuperate. I have bland and soothing leek & potato soup for dinner. It’s a four-day work week. And also on the work front, things are great and may, next week, get AWESOME. So yeah. Things are OK. Don’t mind me.
Skirt is good. Dog is good. Weather is cold. I believed the weather man (girl? person? disembodied voice on the radio?) when they said “fog then 15 degrees and fine”. So: skirt. And strappy shoes. What does this mean, when you are me? Weather = “fog then 8 degrees and more fog”. Melbourne: 4 seasons in one day, as long as all of them are winter.
I made the most tasteless dinner ever last night. I don’t know how you can bugger up roast chicken, but the gravy was tasteless and the vegetables were tasteless. Damn it. Chicken was good though.
Speaking of food, I got a new delivery in my ongoing Revolting Food swap. Have I mentioned this here? A friend and I buy each other revolting foods and (usually) send them to each other in the mail. It started with a Blueberry Freddo driving to Moe: one is just as bad as the other. They don’t make Blueberry Freddos anymore, but Moe still exists. I guess. Anyway. Last week I sent her a Spam Single, which is (as it sounds) a single serve slab of Spam in a foil pouch. I know. Awesome. But today I received a box containing a jar of Fluff, which is that scary marshmallow stuff that spells America to us jaded southern hemisphere types. Fluff! It’s like a giant marshmallow, shoved into a jar! And you’re supposed to put it on sandwiches!
So now I have diabetes. But I can cross “fluffernutter” off my list of things to eat.
I have hundreds of things to say. Good thing I have a blog.
I am making a skirt at the moment; I bought the wrong pattern size, so had to make a ghost pattern a size bigger than the largest size printed. So I cut the material (scary), sewed up the side seams, then stood in front of the heater to try it on for size. In the forty seconds I took to do this, the cat is now lying down on the jeans I took off. Wonderful. It’s freezing. Oh, and the skirt is at least two sizes too big.
I wore a pair of shoes I bought back in NZ to work on Friday: they are mushroom coloured mary janes with embroidered flowers on them. Because I know you’re interested. They also have crepe soles, and driving to work I went to change gears and my foot slipped straight off the clutch. Which meant I sat at the next set of traffic lights and contorted myself trying to take the shoes off and push them under the seat. Once at work, I busied myself hitting “refresh” on the ticketmaster website trying to get internet pre-sale tickets to Robbie Williams. At one point I had to get up and do some actual work (THE NERVE) and skidded back to my desk after I was done to continue with my refreshing. Only when I touched the mouse, I gave myself a wicked electric shock and restarted the computer. THAT’S CORRECT. My raw and unchanneled magnetism is no match for a computer. Either that, or the crepe soled shoes and the static electricity. But I think the magnetism. AND I didn’t get tickets. My coworker is devastated.
And of course, the thing I don’t want to talk about: there is something wrong with my Black Dog. He can’t use his front legs and can’t walk. Currently he is getting massage and acupuncture and spinal x-rays,and getting carried around (which he likes). He is 8 years old, which is old for his breed. But to me, he’s nowhere near old enough.