late night thursday

I went to Spotlight. I could not find anything I wanted. So I wandered into the crafty bits and pieces section….

I feel your pain, anonymous bored child. I feel your pain.

tea break time

[I wrote this at work, hence the tea break.]

It is a sad fact that I cannot type my own name correctly. It is also a sad fact that I am currently driving Mr Toad in a little car aimlessly around my keyboard whilst drinking tea, but that’s not why I can’t type. What happens is, my right typing hand is faster than both my brain and my left typing hand, and when I type my name I tumble over the letters. As proof, if I type my name 10 times: jacquleine jacquleine jacquleine Jacqueline jacquleine jacquleine Jacqueline jacqlueine Jacqueline jacquliene. That is remarkably consistent, and the autoword thing has capitalised the spellings I got right, which is 3 out of 10. Poor. Anyway, I have set up an auto-text shortcut in my work email which automatically types my signoff sentence. If I type rrr it changes to “Regards Jacqueline” and ttt becomes “Thanks Jacqueline”. Every time I do this I get a warm inner glow at outsmarting myself. Ah, the pain which comes with having a first name with 10 letters, one of which is a Q. I imagine people with names like Marguerite (my mother’s bridesmaid’s name, which in hindsight I was lucky to avoid) or Augustine would understand… your fingers are all over the keyboard as if trying to play whack-a-mole.

See, this is why I don’t tend to do this at work. Strange things come out of my head. Drive on, nothing to see here.

taggart

Oooh, Kate tagged me for a meme and I haven’t done it. Bad. OK.

six things you didn’t know about me

(the six ties in quite nicely with the blog, don’t you think? Very thoughtful of these meme people.)

1. I pace around when I think. I always have done, according to my parents, who used to find me doing laps of the coffee table while daydreaming. I transferred this to the trampoline when we got one, but I have been sans trampoline for lo these many years. Now I often find myself pacing up and down the hallway, sometimes breaking into a skip-step if I’m thinking of something really interesting.

2. I don’t have underarm hair. Well, I have like four or five hairs under each arm. Weird, I know. Useful, however, as it means I don’t get that big stubbly patch (or indeed, have to shave at all). I think it’s my super-power.

3. I hate the phone. Hate it. When I came back from the USA I forgot about my mobile phone and went three days without it. Completely forgot that such a thing existed. Only the fact that I was sent a work-related text cued me in to the absence. In a related point, I am the world’s slowest texter and much prefer Bluetoothing my phone to the laptop so I can type a full sentence, with correct pronunciation and capitalization, on an actual keyboard. I know this is lame and that nobody cares but me… but I still can’t do it.

4. I have a blank diary that I’m using as a five-year diary, because I think these five years will be full of change and it will be fun to look back and see what I was doing two, three, years ago. Except I can’t make myself change. What? It’s so comfortable here!

5. I hate handguns. Shotguns, hunting guns – fine. Just handguns freak me out. They seem so menacing and singular of purpose: to hurt people.

6. I will often buy books and DVDs and not read them/watch them, because I’m happy just owning them. Actually, scratch the books. I read all my books. But I must have a dozen movies I’ve never watched. Note to self: watch The Big Lebowski. You are the only person in the world who hasn’t seen it.

NO ONE HAS EVER FELT THIS WAY.

I think I have weaned myself from the Twilight thing, thanks in no small part to My thoughts on Twilight, let me show you them. I LOLed. I think it’s passed now. You can all be grateful; I know I am. Mr. T will no doubt give heartfelt thanks that he no longer has to discuss vampires with me.

My other internet timesuck that I forgot all about once The bOoks appeared: Surf The Channel. As you can tell by the link, I myself was watching my way through Weeds (a series which always seemed to be on at odd times or be taken off without notice). But you may watch whatever takes your fancy. It’s FINE. Really. I don’t mind. I DON’T.

(As an aside (which is basically this entire website, really) I have decided to leave my capitalization error up there because it reminds me of The Librarian.)

So how was your weekend? We braved Ikea this weekend (I know, what the fuck possesses me sometimes) to buy something to fit in the computer/sewing room and hold all my junk. We did this (note I am glossing over the Experience that is Ikea on any given weekend) and slid the flat pack (Part 1 of 2) into the back of the Hilux. I said, “Do I need to hold that?” as Mr. T let it go to get Part 2 of 2, and Part 1 fell over onto the internal wheel arch. And BENT. Oh god Ikea is only made of fibreboard oh god my brand new ELFSTRUNG or whatever is snapped in half before it is even out of the box. I hyperventilated all the way home, and had formulated elaborate plans on how I was going to disguise a large piece of furniture with a big break across its top. Once we opened it at home, I found to my intense relief that it had bent at some internal point where there was a gap, and nothing was damaged. But I could just see it, you know? This is exactly the sort of thing that happens to me: spending several hundred dollars on some piece of furniture that is basically made out of wet bracken and Nordic dog hair, and snapping it like a pencil before it’s even in my house. If it is going to happen, I WILL HAPPEN TO IT. Then Mr. T had to spend 1 hour 22 minutes putting it together (I timed him) with kittens trying to get into every nook and cranny. In the end I shut them in one of the cupboards. They were confused by the glass door. Maybe I won’t tell the Save a Dog people that part.

We also went to the Vic Market and bought protein: prawns, meat, and a snapper. My only criteria for seafood at the moment is that it has to be Australian, which means we eat hardly any at all because the supermarkets are full of Vietnamese fish and Chinese prawns. Anyway, Mr. T chopped the snapper’s head off and smoked it. It was delicious. This meant the Brown Dog got the fish head, and about five minutes after he ran outside with it (you don’t think I’d let him eat a fish head INSIDE, do you?) he was back at the back door howling with impatience to get back in. As I went to open the door I was yelling at him, “Where’s your head? You can’t have finished that head already? That’s the only head there is, don’t be expecting another head when you get back in here.” I then realised that I might have hit my Top 5 Surreal Conversations with Myself this week without even breaking a sweat.

PS. SHE SMELLS DELICIOUS. LIKE BACON. (I feel uncomfortable using quotes without attribution; you don’t need to go here, it is just catharsis for me.)

I am the Grey Cat, and I am very difficult to take photos of.