six impossible things

I’m so tired. All my days got mixed up, and I was blithely making my way through Tuesday when I realised it was actually Wednesday and all the things I thought I had an extra 24 hours to accomplish, were in fact due in mere minutes. Sob. And this morning I woke up convinced it was Friday. Nothing is sadder than thinking it is Friday when it is not. Except maybe thinking it’s Saturday. Yes, that’s worse. Carry on.

Anyway I have moved out of my little playhouse and moved back in with Mr. T. Yay for me. Well, yay for him, because I am clearly a splendid person. Also, the empty lot next to my apartment is about to be built on… NO NO I GO NOW. So I have cleaned that house, emptied it and crammed all my stuff back into this tiny house. Also I bought more stuff. That’s what I do. At the moment we are sitting in the lounge, and my feet are tucked up under me on the couch because there is no room to put them anywhere else. I can only see the top half of the TV because of the boxes stacked in front of them. Mr. T needs to iron a shirt, but the ironing board was foolishly in the corner of the room when we started moving stuff, so now it’s quarantined behind several boxes, a cabinet, a duvet and two airing racks. And a dog, because somehow they have crammed themselves in here as well. And the saddest part? The lounge is the one room I was trying to keep relatively clear of stuff. You don’t want to see the bedroom (hint: two mattresses on one bed base make a REALLY tall bed; I feel like the Princess and the Pea (the princess, not the pea)) and you really, really don’t want to see the spare room. Rumour has it there is a window at the end. I don’t think I’ll see it from the inside again in my lifetime.

I am working out of my company’s other office for a month, which puts me right near the Skipping Girl sign. You know where that is, I’m sure? That’s right, CLOSE TO IKEA. Only I could write about having a house crammed to the rafters with crap, then with no irony whatsoever discuss the merits of working close to a mega furniture store. Honestly, I couldn’t even fit an extra candle in here with a crowbar.

… well. Maybe ONE candle.

Bye, little kitchen. How I envy your clear benches.

The Brown Dog didn’t win at the show. Not that he cares. He was a bit busy making new friends.

Also, breaking news: dogs do not like fairy floss.

OK, so I fixed the comments issue (well I hope so anyway). Half the problem was that my gmail address had suddenly decided that all comments from my blog were spam, so that’s why I wasn’t getting them. (Is there any way to stop gmail from identifying spam at all? I don’t get spam through this email (touch wood) and so I’d rather get every email, spam or not.) The other issue was that I couldn’t log onto my admin page to edit comments. No idea what the problem was there; I ended up reinstalling the comments files. All good now! I can email you all again! Yay for me! Not so good for you!

Now that I’m here, I don’t have a lot to say. I was at work until 6.45pm tonight, which is no way to spend a Friday night. But wait, it gets better: all I was doing was finishing all sorts of little things that I hadn’t had time to do during the week. Usually I’ll only stay late at work for some gigantor project or deadline, but I gritted my teeth for the last hour and forced myself through all this boring stuff. Expenses? Done! Asking for a quote for some completely unreasonable request that I know already will be too expensive, so the person wanting the quote will never order the product and my work will have been for nothing? Done! Filling in a survey about the conference last week? Done! Net result: I got my Inbox down to one screen. I actually stood up and raised my hands above my head in triumph. It was a big moment for me. You may commence pitying me… now.

To try to raise the craftiness levels around here: this is a bag I made months ago for my sister. It’s just a straight tote bag, made of green corduroy and lined with the same crocodile fabric as on the panel on the outside. Apologies for the crappy flash photo; it was probably 2am when I finished it, and I needed to wrap it immediately to send in the morning. That’s just how I roll.

I don’t know if you can see the crocodiles clearly, but this is The Best Fabric I Have Every Found At Spotlight, (Not That That’s Saying Much). But the crocodiles do have great expressions on their little reptilian faces, and I was compelled to buy them.

Aw. Little maneaters. Bless ‘em.

OK, right, see, there was this OTHER work junket, right, and it ate all of last week. I had to work long hours at the start of the week to compensate for being away at the end of the week, which sucks, frankly. Who signed up for this sort of punishment? Oh yes, it was me, and that’s what they pay me for. Damn. However, moving on, it was all good, and here I am back into a hopefully normal schedule. I don’t like to say that this will mean you’ll hear from me more, as I wouldn’t want to jinx anything; but who knows. And speaking of, with my belated update last week, I didn’t get any emails regarding any of the comments; which means I have somehow added MY OWN WEBSITE to my spam list and I will have to do something about that. Honestly, some days I don’t think I should be allowed to operate one of these things.

This weekend was pretty quiet, luckily, and much time was invested in recouping my sleep debt (see: junkets, two within three weeks, involving… well, lets just say that we had to do one of those life pie exercises, and in the version we did, one of the questions involved drinking less than 14 alcoholic units a fortnight, and let’s just say my table of eight people avoided each other’s eyes and marked that one down as a unilateral “no”) so a bit of weekend quietness was probably a good thing. Next weekend, however, I will be at the Melbourne Royal Show on Sunday, so if there are any lurkers who want to meet me (or, more likely, want to meet the Brown Dog or Mr. T) let me know and I’ll tell you the secret handshake.

You know when you sit on the floor and play on the laptop? And you are all alone? Then, somehow, mysteriously, you emit “Lonely Send Help” pheromones and help arrives? This happens to me all the time. I know I am not the only person who is Aggressively Loved in this manner. My laptop screen is in the lower right of the screen and I am taking the picture from above my own head. There is also a craft book under the cat, in the mistaken belief I am a person who may once again create something.

Also, this is me junketing. We get good junket locations, I will say that. (Actually this isn’t even a junket; this is pre-junket, because it’s in Victoria, but you get the idea.) You can’t see my bag but let me tell you it is a way cool embroidered bag with an owl on it. It’s awesome and you want it. Just believe me on this one.

And yes I am standing on a stump. Hey, I’ll take extra height however I can get it. If I could carry that stump around with me, I WOULD.

God almighty, the minute I said “posting roll” it’s like I up and died. I JINXED MYSELF. And nobody said my name, obviously. Anyway, this would have likely continued indefinitely, except my email died (AGAIN) and as I was resurrecting it and purging, I went through all my comments from this year and you are all great (*sob*) and I felt bad. So thanks for commenting. Going through them all in a big batch made me feel much more popular than I really am. And I’d like to thank the Academy, and my parents for having me.

And also “King Arthur” is on TV and it is making me twitch with its badness. (Mr. T: “It’s OK.” Me: “Oh my god it is SO NOT OK.”) They got me offside with the first explanatory screen, proclaiming “Historians agree…” which, as anyone who has studied history would know, NEVER HAPPENS. Historians never agree. No academics agree. Apart from the dog show world, I have never seen such rigid ideology and childish behaviour as I have from academics. (Hi, academics reading! I don’t mean you!) So, moving on. Arthurian Legend was one thing I studied in university (Nerdigiousness Degree of Difficulty: 4.9) and I’ll be FUCKED if I had to read Chretien de Troyes for nothing. (Sad realisation: I had to read Chretien de Troyes for nothing.)

What else? I went to a rugby league game today, a Melbourne Storm home game. Mr. T likes league and I like almost all live sport, and it was a gorgeous day, so we went along. The Storm won 40-0 (I think) and there was a streaker who ran the whole length of the field, dancing in front of the players as he went. He received a great deal of applause, before the lax security guards finally caught up with him and one leapt at him, tackling him spectacularly to the ground. It truly was the game with everything. Also, New Zealand played their opening Rugby World Cup game against Italy (and won, no surprises there) so it’s been a bit of a sports-filled day. I even performed some athletic endeavours of my own on Saturday — if you were part of the large crowd watching the bidding on a house auction in Armadale on Saturday morning, and an extremely red-faced girl ran through you with an extremely large and hairy Brown Dog, um, hi! Also, good luck! I didn’t really get to see the house but that is a really nice street and I’d like to live on it myself. Also, your neighbours would not normally be as red-faced as they may appear.

Again, I have no photos on this laptop. I’ll post some from my work junket last week when I remember to get them off the camera. (Oh yes, I was on a work junket from Sunday – Thursday last week; hence another reason for my slackness.) For now, please enjoy this LiveJournal icon I am posting here completely for my own, nerdy enjoyment.

It seems I am on some sort of posting roll. This doesn’t happen very often (like I have to tell you that…) so hang on to your hats. Nothing of substance has happened yet but did you really expect it to?

As part of Shopping Frenzy 07 I found out my new handbag is a copy of a Marc Jacobs one (similar to this one, but with better front pockets). And it’s not like mine was cheap – it’s leather and from a place I never thought would, um, borrow from others’ designs. I’m not sure how to feel about this — the Marc Jacobs one was $950 on sale at DJs, so obviously I’d never purchase it, and so Marc would never receive any money from me; I saw my bag before I saw the ‘original’, so I didn’t set out to buy a fake or lust after some sort of designer object; and I actually like the colour of mine much better (a sort of olive green) so I think it’s an improvement on the original. I’m conflicted. But there’s nothing I can do about it, and I really like the bag, so I’ll stuff it deep into my subconscious and keep it there. An approach recommended by leading medical professionals, I’m sure.

I’ve been drinking a glass of wine with dinner, which is not something I usually do. It’s a NZ sauvignon blanc, beloved by all as THE wine of the moment (and indeed of the decade so far); but I’m not a fan. I think it’s due to drinking this varietal since I was 15 or so, and frankly I am OVER it. Look at me, all the way over here ahead of the curve. It doesn’t happen very often, so I like to take note when it does. Other things I am over: tangelos (overrated); ticker advertising running at the bottom of TV programs (no surprise there); bubble dresses (unflattering); roadworks. Perhaps I’m not so different after all.

Cat’s current sleeping place: on my ski pants. Comfortable.

I’m running out of photos and the camera battery is flat. I’m the blonde one.

OK so the Black Dog’s innards have calmed down a bit. Thank god. Must have been all the leftover pork roast I snuck him. (That usage looks wrong, but is it? Isn’t ‘snuck’ the past tense of ‘sneak’? Or do I have to use ‘sneaked’? Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.)

I took the Black Dog for a walk when I got home from work, and it was STILL LIGHT. Enjoy your summer while you can, you Northern Hemispherians! Gravity has finally got a hold of that sucker and it’s on it’s way back down where it belongs. Not that I mind the cold (she says, basking like a lizard in front of the heater) but the dark, the CONSTANT DARK. Dark when I get up, dark when I get home. I need the light. I’m like an anti-vampire. Which is to say, a human. How prosaic. Anyway, after a turn about the street (in which the Black Dog fell heavily on his face only once, and I didn’t fall on my face at all) we went back home and I swapped dogs to the Brown Dog. I was just walking him, but as we were almost home, a random man came up to us at the traffic lights and raved about him and started patting him (this happens all the time) which, OK. We had to stand there for the lights to change anyway. Then I realised he had a friend, standing behind me which is why I hadn’t noticed him, and his friend was swaying gently on his feet while holding a can of booze and muttering to himself. O….kay then. By this time the other guy was giving Brown Dog a full back scratch and Brown Dog was going all melty, right at the time I suddenly wanted him to be all stern and stranger-hating. Anyway, the lights changed and I decided to run the dog home. For no reason, you understand. It was rapidly getting dark as I accelerated away and by the time I reached home (with no one around me) I was completely buggered. The Brown Dog was all perky and ready to go another few kilometres, AND he’d had a back scratch for good measure. I, on the other hand, had to lie down on the floor to make the stars in my vision go away.

Look SCARY, dammit.

I just forgot my password for my Blogger account and had to reset it. How bad is that. I did that thing where you sternly purge your computer of all cookies, passwords and history and it has completely fucked me. I have a memory like a sieve.

I have the dogs this week and the Black Dog is lying stretched out against me, closest to the heater. This would be a lot nicer if he would stop farting. I couldn’t identify the smell but luckily for me they come at regular intervals, like the trams. I am pleased to share with you that they smell like blue cheese. Whoever has been feeding my dog blue cheese must STOP RIGHT NOW because it is noxious. He likes any kind of cheese, it doesn’t have to be blue, believe me.

I am also watching Australian Idol, so my ears are subjected to similar indignities as my nose. Look, I can’t sing. I know this and yet I sing anyway, but — and this is the crucial part — never in front of an audience or a TV camera. I know my limits.

Other reasons I’ve been away: my mum & sister were here for Shopping Frenzy 07. My credit card is still hiding at the back of my wallet, whimpering brokenly. Richard Branson can now afford another plane, thanks to me. Or a space station, I forget what he’s into now.

OHMYGOD DOG STOP IT. I would whack him but it will only force it out faster.

Representative of both the flames at Crown @ Southbank and the dog’s digestive system.

Things I am doing instead of writing on my website:

• Reading Steven King (Wolves of the Calla) – book 4 of 7
• Realising that I am going to read a Harry Potter spoiler at some point
• Buying Harry Potter
• Reading Harry Potter
• Reading Harry Potter at work
• Working late (finishing Harry Potter)
• Back to Wolves of the Calla

• Trying to figure out if Facebook is worth the effort

• Skiing on Mount Buller
• Driving back from Mount Buller
• Turning around and driving back to Yea to pick up friends whose car broke down
• Hobbling around after skiing on agonisingly sore calves
• Trying to recruit people to go skiing again next weekend

• Eating
• Drinking
• Working
• Watching the rugby
• Walking the dog
• Brushing the dog
• Playing with the camera

This is a nest Mr. T found on the lawn under a tree. No birds, eggs or traces of any habitation remain. I doubt the cat got it down; maybe it just fell? It doesn’t look very stable.

Speaking of the cat, Mr. T had to go to Sydney for work so I stayed at the house to look after the dogs. The Black Dog is presently extremely high maintenance, requiring toilet sessions and patting and all manner of support the minute the lights go out. At one point he woke me up whining; he had wedged himself between the side of the bed and the wall, so I had to drag him out of there – except there’s a wardrobe along that wall, and he sort of got stuck and dragged the wardrobe sliding door open with his foot. He’s such a help. Anyway, I got up the next morning and organised the animals and went to work; when I got home the next night I heard the cat, so I opened the front door for him. He didn’t come. Whatever. Mr. T got home around 10pm and grunted about Sydney weather and went to bed, but then I heard him get up and open the front door: “I heard the cat…” he said. “I haven’t seen him all night, so he’s probably out there,” I said helpfully, not moving from my spot in front of the heater. He couldn’t see him so he closed the door and went back to bed. Whereupon he started calling for me to come into the bedroom… whereupon he opened the wardrobe door… whereupon the cat strolled out lazily, leaving behind the battered shoebox he had been using as a bed for the past 20 hours. Oops. He must have done that cat thing where they shoot like arrows into any partly opened door or cupboard, and due to my woeful eyesight and, you know, the fact it was DARK and the middle of the fucking night when I was dog wrangling, I hadn’t seen that; so I closed the wardrobe so the boogeyman wouldn’t get me and I went back to sleep. Since he routinely sleeps for 23 hours of the day he seemed quite pleased with his adventure.

To continue this theme, he has now taken to sleeping in the laundry. There’s an old bookcase in there for storing laundry detergent and rags and dog towels; I was pulling clothes out of the dryer when he sort of swam into focus and I realised the stack of dog towels on the middle shelf had EYES. So he sleeps in the bookcase now, on some dog towels. I don’t know where he will end up yet, but guesses include (a) the fireplace; (b) on top of the coffee maker; (c) in the third kitchen drawer, with the aluminium foil.