these pretzels are making me thirsty

I didn’t want to make dinner tonight, so I bargained my way out of it by saying I would take the dog for a run. I shouldn’t have done that really. It is fucking cold outside. However! I didn’t have to make dinner! And due to the aforementioned cleaning rule, I don’t have to clean the kitchen either! Sometimes life just gives you lemonade.

Oh, apart from the whole “run with the dog in the cold” thing, which is more a lemon than lemonade. If you’re interested (and you’re not) I’m doing the Couch to 5K thing, which in theory takes you from a sedentary couch-loving life (it doesn’t mention the internet but I’m sure it’s implied) to a sporty 5 kilometre running machine in nine weeks. Some American fellow has made free podcasts of each week of the program on iTunes, which are set to really uninspiring techno background music, but they tell you when to run and when to stop. I like the stopping. The dog likes the stopping too, as he gets to sniff and wee and turn in circles and stuff. Unfortunately he doesn’t pull me along during the running bits, useless animal that he is. He trots along without a care in the world, while I labour along beside him taking great heaving breaths and shuffling along like a zombie. (I do this in the dark, for added zombie effect. Also see above: it is fucking cold and WINTER, which means it’s always dark.) However I’m up to Week Four (don’t ask me how many weeks it took me to get to week four; I don’t want you to feel embarrassed for me) and that has multiple five-minute runs and I RAN THEM. ALL. I am a FITNESS GOD. I don’t know what that makes my exponentially fitter dog; the Creator? Thor? Maybe I am just one of the minor gods. That sounds about right. I’ll need to practise my smiting before I can work my way up the god pantheon.

Not a god. Not a superhero, either, despite appearances.

weekly wrapup

In Which: I meet a person off the internet and do not get killed (or even maimed); and also I poison my dog with ham.

OK see I didn’t MEAN to poison the dog with ham. It was Mr. T’s birthday on Sunday and so I made ham and cheese and tomato croissants for brunch. All good, except the sliced ham was a bit old. Two weeks, from memory. Maybe three. However it had been living in the Cold Bin part of the fridge, and actually had a huge chunk of ice on top of it. So I was pretty confident that the ham would be OK. Not confident enough to put it on my OWN croissants, though. I’m not stupid. Just mean. So Mr. T’s croissants were merrily ham-filled and I dumped a great handful of the packet of ham into the dog’s bowl. All was well. Mr. T has a stomach created of iron and antifreeze and an elaborate system of gears, so he suffered no ill effects at all. But the dog, my Brown Dog, who is always cheery and happy and interested, within a few hours was lying listlessly on the rug and wouldn’t even lift his head. I felt bad.

“I poisoned the dog. With ham,” I told Mr. T.
“You have not; you couldn’t have. He digs up bones which have been buried in the back garden for weeks, which are filthy and have gone all green and slimy, and he’s fine,” Mr. T pointed out reasonably.
“But he’s not fine now! He’s saaaaad!” I whined.

Mr. T dismissed my concerns, and thought something else was making the dog listless and unhappy. He remained uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of Sunday, all through Monday and Tuesday morning. When I got home from work on Tuesday night he bounded out the front door with his tail wagging and tongue lolling – he was BACK! I found no mysterious piles of vomit or other bodily functions, so I can only assume his immune system massed forces and overcame the ham by sheer force of will.

Or otherwise he ate the vomit.

Also, I met up with Kate for brunch. (Yes! MASTER of the segue!) Before you become worried for her, rest assured I did not PROVIDE the brunch. I would not poison Kate with ham. Well, I would, probably, but not on purpose. No, we ate at a neutral meeting place where neither of us could either poison the other or, I don’t know, steal each other’s identities or something. (Or DID WE? I must say I, I mean Kate, has great hair. Also everything Jac, I mean I, may have said about Adelaide in the past is completely untrue. No gypsies whatsoever. Or sinkholes. None.)

Anyway, Kate was in Melbourne for a few days at a travelling clown convention. (What? She hasn’t updated her blog yet, so it’s not like she can contradict me.) Between learning how to fit fifty people into a Fiat Bambina, and roping giraffes, we met up to eat brunch and, for someone, I’m not saying who, to spill their food down their top (DAMN YOU, SLIPPERY BUTTON MUSHROOM, YOU FUCKER). And who knew? People from the internet are interesting and fun to spend time with and have excellent conversational skills! Well, not me, obviously. I am awkward and you can’t take me anywhere. Unfortunately I just TURN UP.

the power of greyskull

So OK I was cleaning up the kitchen last night, after I wrote that post actually. I hate that; when I forget that it was me who cooked dinner and therefore I have to clean up the kitchen. (Do you have that rule? Because we cook almost equally, it works out better not to have to clean up another person’s mess. It also means you can’t get shitty with the person who left the mashed potatoes lurking in the pot to harden to a solid mass; because that person was YOU.) Anyway, I wandered into the kitchen, went “oh bugger” because there was crap everywhere, and noticed a sort of delicious chickeny smell. Why would that be? Oh, because I made risotto, using chicken stock, and the now-empty saucepan I used to heat the stock up in was still sitting on the gas hob. On low. For over four hours. Ah. So that pot is now filled with baking soda and water, in the hope that the Magic of Baking Soda will remove the charred remnants of chicken stock burned deep into the saucepan. I rely quite heavily on the Magic of Baking Soda. Also the Power of White Vinegar.

Actually, speaking of, I have a related laundry story. I know, it’s all domestic and shit over here! But a couple of weeks ago I was pulling washing out of the washing machine, and as I pulled a shirt out, there was An Odour. Not a pleasant one. I stood there blankly for a minute, trying to figure out what it was and where it was coming from. You know what it was? It was FISH. A definite, strong, fishy smell. I started pulling items of clothing from the washing machine and smelling them, much like a bloodhound on CSI. And a few items later, the smell increasing in potency with each piece I pulled out, it was determined that the smell was concentrated in… a pair of Mr. T’s work trousers. Why? How? What… what? I couldn’t even focus; the smell of fish was everywhere, my vision had narrowed to one blurry point and I was finding it hard to breathe.

When Mr. T got home, I confronted him with his Piscine Pants of Doom, hollering, “SMELL! SMELL THEM!” (Actually, now that I think about it, he didn’t even blink at being forced to smell his own clothing. I should think up more bizarre things for him to do.) Being the great judge of flavours that he is, he couldn’t even pick up that it was fish. Then he flat-out denied that it could be fish. How could it be fish? It’s fish! With pants! Pants and fish don’t mix! Then I showed him this odd yellow crunchy plastic stuff in the pocket… oh. Oh yeah. Now he remembers. He remembers putting the trousers on in the morning. He remembers not having time to take his fish oil capsule. He remembers PUTTING IT IN HIS POCKET as he left for work. And he doesn’t remember ever eating it.

A fish oil capsule. I have no words.

Those pants are fucked, basically. They’ve been washed four times, and hung up in the rain/wind/hail/sleet for weeks at a time on the clothesline. Every time they dry, the smell of fish returns. Not even the Magic of Baking Soda and the Power of White Vinegar COMBINED has worked. Any suggestions? Bueller? Bueller?

OK now I have detailed my domestic shortcomings… a picture! This is from my trip back to New Zealand in Easter, which was mid-March. What can I say, I don’t clear off my memory cards that often. Again, suck it, dead hard drive! You’re not the boss of me!

This is Mr. T’s sister with one of his nephews. They’re identical twins, so if they’re not both in the photo, neither of us can tell which twin it is. We think this might be the Fat Twin (whose name starts with F) but it is just as likely to be the Little Twin (whose name starts with L). Hard to say, and I don’t think you guys can help me here.

I posted this because I made the bib he’s wearing. In fact I made approximately 30 bibs for these babies, as apparently most bibs are quite small and the huge size of this one was a hit. It does have a gorgeous fabric on the front, but he’s wearing it towelling-side out, due to his unfortunate habit of being sick on it. Babies. No respect for craft.

returnage

Hi! It’s me again. And my laptop woes are over . O-V-E-ahhhhh. Because, of course, I have a new one. The other laptop ended up breaking on me three times. THA-ree. Turns out third time is the charm… or, not the charm; rather, third time is the point where I throw a fit and whine and order a new laptop from Dell. It’s green. It’s extremely green. I’ll post photos when I’m ever home during daylight hours to take any. It has Windows Vista on it, which went well right up until the point where I restarted it and the whole thing hung with just the mouse cursor visible on a black screen. Um, perhaps I shouldn’t have buggered around with the C drive quite so much? The System Restore point took me back to JUST before I installed all the programs I wanted, which means I keep thinking I have something installed only to discover I had System Restored back before it happened. Like time travel, but more aggravating. (Did everyone else know that Firefox has an FTP program as an add-on? I am wildly excited by this. I love you Firefox!) Regardless, Vista is pretty, especially if I overlook the fact it is consuming 53% of my RAM just by sitting there and batting its eyelids.

So the hard drive from the Snapped Laptop is apparently irretrievable. My geeks started talking about kernels or platters or something, which made me think of corn on the cob and I stopped listening. Suffice it to say that if I want those months of photos back, I have to pay someone large amounts of money to go into its guts, and really my photos aren’t that good. Also I’m lazy about getting photos off the memory cards, so I have most of my gaps covered. I am still pissed off about losing the “before” house photos though. It looked so much worse than now! Honest!


Shake-shake-shake, shake-shake-shake, shake your booty (shake your booty)
See? I still have these photos from the long weekend in June. Suck it, dead hard drive!

We remain on our busy renovation schedule, currently deeply involved in the “ignore it and just step over it until you stop noticing it” phase. The electrician has removed the extraneous wall light that I claimed was the reason I wasn’t finishing painting the lounge. The new taps and toilet seat are sitting on the floor of the bathroom. The one thing we did get done was installing the heated towel rail, because damp towels when you’re getting out of the shower sucks. Powerful sucks, even.


This is not my dog. This dog completely ignored my dog, waiting only for us to throw sticks or rocks into the water for her to chase. My dog in turn completely ignored this dog and indeed all the sticks and rocks, in favour of swimming aimlessly in circles.

My sister came to Melbourne for a week and bought the whole place out. Sorry, for anyone else who lives here or wants to visit here and had the idea you might like to do some shopping. The whole place is squashed into a suitcase and back in New Zealand. We also went to Wicked, which is the new musical here based on the Wizard of Oz. I really liked it, and even Mr. T didn’t actively hate it. (I made him go). It officially opened in the weekend, yet I saw it two weeks ago, because for some reason those two weeks of performances Didn’t Count. Also I didn’t know that many Australian Idols were in it (Millsy! Anthony Callea! Rob Guest! …wait, something is not right) but I did wonder what all the frantic clapping was. I just thought they had lots of friends in the audience.


Throwing rocks for the dogs. Sometimes AT the dogs; not on purpose, but due to 4-year-old coordination skills. Which are around about the level of mine. I tried to skim stones and just about gave myself a hernia, so don’t look to me for your stone throwing techniques.

All this typing and my hands aren’t clutched into claws! There is something to be said for laptop screen hinges. And that something is: They are useful. Don’t break them.

look! alive!

Dear Internet,

Laptop troubles continue. In fact, they abound. I will spare you the details, including the bit where I blame my dog … which is truly where I scrape the bottom of the barrel, yet WHO ELSE COULD IT BE? If it wasn’t dogs, it was ghosts. Or dog ghosts. I have an open mind on this issue.

Anyway, it’s quite hard to type with the screen of your laptop flapping in the wind (Internet: hey, weren’t you going to get that fixed? Me: Um, yes, Mr. T DID fix it, multiple times, and it made him very very angry while doing so, and then it broke again within the week) (that wasn’t the dog’s fault though, that one was me) so hence the lack of posts. And the lack of comments, unless you count ones that go “haaaaaaaaa” as that only uses two letters. Any more than that cuts deeply iknto my wrists oh god this is; akilling me. OK I have adjusted my position; only now I can’t see what I’m writing. Really, the internet is not supposed to be this hard.

Anyway, I have a meme from Shan to do, and then there will be a photo. Oh yes, I lost several months worth of photos. Nothing too important, except the ones of the house as it was originally. Now no one will believe the glory that was the shag carpet. Sigh.

Meme!

Rules: You must answer the questions using only one word. Then tag four others.

1. Where is your cell phone? Bag
2. Your significant other? Sport
3. Your hair? Dirty
4. Your mother? Sleeping
5. Your father? Also
6. Your favourite thing? Humour
7. Your dream last night? Realistic
8. Your favourite drink? Milkshake
9. Your dream/goal? Travel
10. The room you’re in? Lounge
11. Your hobby? Reading
12. Your fear? Blindness
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Content
14. What you’re not? Tall
15. Muffins? Nah
16. One of your wish list items? Kitten
17. Where you grew up? New Zealand
18. The last thing you did? Ironed
19. What are you wearing? Pyjamas
20. Favourite gadget? Laptop
21. Your pets? Indulged
22. Your computer? Crippled
23. Your mood? Tranquil
24. Missing someone? Distantly
25. Your car? Driveway
26. Something you’re not wearing? Underwear
27. Favourite store? Stationery
28. Like someone? Many
29. Your favourite colour? Green
30. When is the last time you laughed? Today
31. Last time you cried? Yesterday

I am not tagging anyone, as I don’t feel I participate in the internet enough to do so. Feel free to steal, if you’d like it. I laughed till I cried yesterday, I’ve forgotten what about (I cry from laughter easily). And yes, Mr. T is playing sport at 10.30pm at night… it is an indoor AFL game. Usually they play at about 7.30pm so I’m not sure what’s gone wrong. They suck, badly, but only lost by 78 points last week! That’s an improvement!

In other news, it’s my parents’ 35th wedding anniversary today. Impressive, no?

In other other news, here is one of the only photos I have from June. Tragically, it is not one of any importance. Behold the front page of my local paper (and also my beloved carpet underneath it):

I personally thought the criteria for this award would be less about animal cruelty, and more about blowjobs. Live and learn.