Well I have none of the photos we discussed recently; that’s just the sort of continuity expertise I’ve got going on over here. Look, there’s no point in being jealous. Also, speaking of continuity, I have finished the Aldi breakfast cereal mentioned over there —> in the sidebar. By the end of the packet I had remembered why I don’t like cereal; the flake things scratched the roof of my mouth, and there’s never the right ratio of nice bits to not-nice bits, and when I left the bowl of milk dregs sitting on my desk at work all day (something I did, sadly, extremely often) the milk practically solidified into a revolting remnant-filled pannacotta. What is IN cereal? I probably don’t want to know. So now I’m back to not liking cereal, apart from porridge, which doesn’t count.
Actually I’m feeling a little bit sick at the moment, not due to cereal I’m sure, but possibly due to cleaning all the old paint splatters off my ensuite bathroom window this afternoon. Not splattered from ME; they were there when we bought the house. And now, some 18 months in, I’ve decided to do something about it since they shit me every time I see them, which is twice a day minimum, which is a lot of built up irritation right there. Anyway, turns out the paint spatters are NOT on the outside as I thought; they are on the inside. So I spent a frustrating half hour with a bottle of turps and a safety pin, alternately rubbing hundreds of tiny paint spatters then scratching at them with the pin. And apparently being trapped in a tiny bathroom with a bottle of turps will give you a headache. Hey, it’s not like I could open the window; because a) I was scratching at it with a pin, and b) it’s locked and we can’t find its key. Anyway, the window now looks MAHvellous, or at least at marvelous as a brown aluminium-framed window can look. There’s no photos of that either; think of a window. There, isn’t that nice?
Anyway, what I do have a photo of, and I had forgotten all about it, is this:
I know! A herd of bunnies! With little love-heart pockets on their bums! I made these several months ago as part of the toy collection for the Victorian bushfire appeals. Livebird did the same, but she remembered to post photos at a decent interval; please note she made multiple toys, with actual arms and legs and EYES, with carefully chosen fabric combinations. Whereas my inspiration was pretty much: OMG BUNNIES!!!1!11!!
I know, right? I’m going to just post here like I didn’t just disappear for ages. And really I’m only here to say I’m going away for a week. WHAT SORT OF A BLOG IS THIS I DEMAND A REFUND. Clearly not all parties are living up to their ends of the bargain here, if you know what I mean. And I think you do. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, I’m going away for a week, overseas for work. To a WAR ZONE. OK, maybe not the actual war zone itself, but definitely a country on the No Travel list. It’ll be fine, of course. The worst of it is my arm really hurts from the vaccinations. My doctor was positively gleeful stabbing those things in. “Work’s paying for this, you say? Get inoculated for this as well! And this too! Just in case!” The things I am protected from do not include swine flu, bird flu or any other sort of flu; so of course I shall be seated adjacent to the most coughing, hacking person on the plane. Oh, and to keep the coughers at bay I bought a fake travel engagement ring from ebay. It was listed as a “child’s ring”. Oh yes. Apparently my ring finger is similar to that of “a child 3-4 years old”. Now, that CAN’T be right. I am short, true, but my fingers are not particularly small. I would say they are positively stubby, in fact. And yet I am wearing a fake gold ring with a fake emerald in it like some sort of fake 4 year old. Oh well. At least if I lose it down the drain I can throw a tantrum.
Brown Dog Update: He’s fine. He wants you to know that he’s hungry and would like some ice cream.
Wedding Update: Tried on dresses. Eh. Not feeling it. Mr T ordered a titanium wedding ring and isn’t overly impressed, so will return it. Date is set; venue is booked; photographer is booked. Please note my mum did the entire last bit, while all I did was to trip over multiple bridal petticoats and nearly garotte myself with the lace overlay.
Oh, and Photo Update: Don’t you love it when what you’re cooking turns out just like the picture?
Mr T’s brunch masterpiece (some sort of fluffy apple pancake) (I typed pantcake first) (not as tasty)
The original, from delicious magazine. OK admittedly they have a nicer cast iron frypan than me, and a much more stylish kitchen, but COME ON. Close.
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.
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.
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.
Thanks for your comments; everyone is doing OK. The Brown Dog is sleeping a lot more, but I don’t know whether that’s because the Black Dog used to keep him awake (hardly likely) or because the weather has been scorchingly hot. The cat has also been sleeping more, but that is because Mr. T bought a tray of mangoes and put the box in the lounge. So if you need some sleeping in a box done, I can get someone right on it. Very reasonable rates. Can supply his own box.
Also, can I recommend Aldi for all your gingerbread train-kit-in-a-box needs? Or, as the Germans would say, your zug needs. (I can’t remember the german word for gingerbread; it was long and had the funny beta-double-s-letter-thing). This is now almost all eaten; sad, considering how long it took me to laboriously ice together in the scorching heat of a 41 degree New Years Eve.
Also, I am back at work. Woe. There is an extreme lack of zug at my workplace. I should get on that.