My aunt is rearing an Antechinus – AKA marsupial mouse. He’s a little over two weeks old and sweeter than a candy-coated kitten. Since we’re not sure if he’s male or female, his name is Piper. Actually, for his own sake we’re hoping he’s a girl.
Apologies for the poor quality antiquated camera phone photos, but I think I’d need a very professional set-up with rapid shutter speed to do him justice. He skitters around like Speedy Gonzales after sampling a new shipment of Columbian Marching Powder.
After a feed. His tummy is so hairless and transparent you can see it’s full of formula.
Antechinuses (Antechini ?) are best known for their mating marathons, as a result of which males only live for 11 1/2 months. In September, they stage a frenetic fortnight-long orgy, mating with as many females as possible. Because of the stress, aggression and endurance involved, all males die. Consequently, all Antechinus females are single mums, rearing 7-10 offspring in a sort of open pouch, dragging their bubs along the ground for 5-8 weeks.
I think human society could learn a lot from the Antechinus. Footballers, for example, enjoying Mad Monday, would be much easier to take if you knew they’d all cark it by the end of the week. And who wouldn’t enjoy the Gold Coast Indy, if you knew only the ladies would make it past the finishing line?
Gack! I’m feeling exhausted just thinking about it. I better go and take a nap.
Bah! This is why there has never been an Antechinus on the moon. As far as I know.
Human males are infinitely superior to these maniacally mate-obsessed mini-marsupials. We can think about lots of things other than mating, like boobies and round dimpled bottoms and long, er, voyages of discovery to far-off lands. We (and by that I mean I) are more well-rounded male-half-of-the-species-persons and represent a well-paced, lasting pleasure.
I mean, imagine having only one fortnight in your whole life to eat chocolate or read good books. Or eat bacon or cuddle cats. Dreadful prospect.
Hehehe.
Greybeard – for well-paced, lasting pleasure.
But the Antechinus, beserker of the reproductive world, gets to experience the thrill of the mating battle, when in the frenzy of lust, it’s mano-… sorry mouso-e-mouso and only the strong mate.
You’re right, Catty, it’s exhausting even thinking about it. Is there room on the couch?
Yes. Yes there is. Oh, and look! Some delightfully thoughtful person (i.e, me) has left a red velvet birthday cake right here on the coffee table. Help yourself.
Not too sure that only the strong mate. Antechinus may be like deer, with males that exhibit the Sneaky F**ker Strategy (vale Professor John Maynard Smith). Basically, while the big guys with the enormous racks (of antlers) are head-butting the crap out of each other, smaller & smarter males sneak in and have their way with the does. Doh! Apparently the DNA of the next generation is more mixed than you’d think. Perhaps evolution will produce cunning little Antechinus males that live to breed another year?
A friend had some kind of small marsupial in her house which communicated by stamping its feet. Loudly. Apparently they would run around the picture rails sounding like a herd of elephants. Except for the lack of either trumpeting or enormous piles of woody droppings naturally.
Unlike children, who sound like a herd of elephants – WITH trumpeting and woody droppings. And the added excitement of cunningly placed lego bricks/roller skates positioned in the place you are most likely to step without looking.
Thanks, Greybeard. Now I’m exhausted again. Back to the couch. Move over, Morgana.
I would be intested to know how Auntie canme to be foster mother to such an interesting little creature, male or female.
They live in the bush, Stafford, and her daughter-in-law found it – on her veranda, I believe. She – the DIL – said she wanted it back when it didn’t need night feeds any more… just like a real daughter would!
The bubs live, pretty much permanently attached to one of mum’s nipples, in a sort of open pouch which means they get dragged along the ground for 5-6 weeks. He probably hit a lumpy bit of veranda and dropped off, poor little Piper. His eyes were shut and he was less furry when Aunt received him.
They’re not uncommon inside furniture and the like in rural areas. In fact, the poor little things can be mistaken for ordinary rodents and unjustly exterminated.
GB and Catty, you forgot that children can destroy whole villages in a manner of minutes, are usually repelled by chilli and can be distinguished by the size of their ears. Although wrinkly greyness is usually only achieved in advanced old age.
Oh, yeah. Chilli. Unless you’ve made yourself a midnight snack of nachos, in which case ALL of them will get out of bed and demand that you share. Followed by ALL of them crawling into your bed two hours later, whining that they’re having cheese-induced nightmares. Followed by repeated kicking, elbowing and farting until dawn. Followed by getting up at sunrise and screaming over which early morning cartoons to watch, until you drag yourself out of bed to make them breakfast.
I never make late-night nachos for just this reason. The Boss, however, doesn’t seem to care. He loves nachos, and has no qualms about abandoning me to the kidlets while he gets a good night’s sleep on the couch. No complaints from me. For while the kidlets can drop some classy farts, they don’t hold a candle to their father – because open flames are extremely dangerous when he lets one rip.
Hehehe.
Catty, you should write a little pamphlet about the joys of family life and see if they’d pay you to distribute it via Family Planning clinics.
I predict a huge increase in the demand for Implanon and a several-hundred-fold rise in requests for surgical sterilization.
We could hire ourselves out to high schools, Madam, to give abstinence pep-talks at sex education classes. You know, like when they bring recovering junkies into social studies classes to talk about the horrors of drugs.
Should we start compiling videos? Even if we don’t get the schools gig, we can always send them in to Australia’s Funniest Home Videos. And while we’re at it, I think I have a sex tape the show can use.
It wouldn’t work, teenagers know everything and are convinced their seniors are so hopeless and demented that it can’t be that hard to do a much better job than we do. Remember thinking that? I do. I think it’s hard-wired into the human race, else we’d have gotten wise and contracepted ourselves into extinction thousands of years ago.
Meh. I have spent a large chunk of the last two days
1. Cooking & being a responsible housewife (bleh) and
2. Waiting for Aunt Irma, whose evil presence has cast a pall over Casa Quokka this last day or so, prompting insatiable chocolate, bacon & donut cravings and a conviction that The End is Nigh – which feeling was further fueled by
3. Cruising Indooroopilly Shoppingtown with Uncle Blokesy, supposedly to help him find new shirts and trousers to get him through his busy working year.
I found the whole process rather grisly due to the ever present Zombie Menace that the place wields and also because he wanted Olive Green pants and I had to explain that this is a winter colour and it’s not out this season and all of the shops are going to have pants in the same beige and navy dye lots as all the other shops.
He didn’t believe me so I left him to it and slunk off to enjoy myself in the bookstores, and the body shop, and Darrell Lea – where I think I finally encountered one of those walnut logs you adore so, Catty – are they enormous things that come in a box, with talk of chocolate & fudge or such? Looked impressive but as I’d just left the jeans shop somewhat disconsolate because the pants I’d planned to buy were rather tighter around the waist than they were before Xmas (pineapple sorbet and macadamia nuts are to blame) so it didn’t seem like a good time to further engorge the Blubber Eel.
Besides, apparently Darrell Lea at Carindale is about to get hoofed out of it’s lovely spacious shop & into a kiosk a fifth of the size in the mall space, so the word is from the sales staff that there will be lots of lovely bargain to be had between now and the end of january. And the girl who manages that shop always has massive great platters of things to sample, so I’ll hit her up for a taste next time I’m out there. So if you lot have any great favorites, let me know & I’ll keep an eye out for bargains.
Meh.
I’m off to the pool to do laps and fend off the idea that the Zombie Apocalypse is nigh. At least we know where HQ will be, but I’m damned if I can figure out the best way to take out the entire building without the Undead escaping in all directions. Multiple air strikes, perhaps, and lure them in beforehand with a ‘Free Cupcakes’ Banner flying from Ipswich to Karana Downs.
Hmmm…. an interesting dilemma. In Without Warning, the undesirables were herded into a building by a tightening ring of armed defense personnel, then air pilot Havock (really!) dropped a big lump of explodey goodness onto the building.
Somehow, though, I don’t think you need armed defense personnel to herd zombies into Indooroopilly Shoppingtown. Just a few flashing lights and some big red SALE! signs should keep the horde distracted long enough to drop something lethal on the building.
Another option is to have a crack team of shirtless firefighters stand at all the entrances and exits, and fill the entire building with fire retardant foam. Not that the foam will do much to hurt the zombies, but shirtless firefighters are so much fun to watch.
Excuse me. I’m going to take a cold shower now.
Mmm… free cupcakes and shirtless firefighters.
Speaking of chocolate, bacon and donuts I saw people… and I use the term loosely, for reasons which will become obvious… wrap a cheeseburger in strips if cooked bacon, coat it in potato batter and then deep-fry it.
I’m pretty sure that menu item is listed in the Revelations of St John the Divine.
I have to brave the Zombie Hordes at some stage in the next three weeks to buy Magic Man new school shoes. When I say “school shoes”, obviously I mean grown men’s size eight shoes which he will be wearing to school.
* SIgh *
Perhaps I might bribe myself to go with a trip to Chocolateria San Churro:
http://www.sanchurro.com/
Oooh, we have one of those near my place. But I don’t need San Churros right now. I still have a block of Macadamia Crunch to nom. And as the Boss has disappeared for the evening, I’m going to bed right now to devour the entire packet, while thinking kind thoughts of the Marvelous Madam Morgana, who knows just how to spoil a girl on her birthday. You truly are wonderful, Madam.
Today the Boss finished work mid morning, so he nagged us all into the car and drove us to Traralgon to check out real estate. He’s fond of the place, and it is very nice, but my overall impression was “What? No McDonalds? But we haven’t had breakfast yet!” The Boss didn’t stop for munchies until we were on our way home, so the takeaway barely touched the sides. When we got back, late afternoon, the kidlets nearly fell on the bowls of cocoa pops they’d left on the bench. (Yes, milkless. I’m not THAT bad!) Of course, then they didn’t want the lovingly reheated leftovers I prepared for their dinner. (O.k, so maybe I AM that bad.)
Tomorrow I’m going shopping for toothpaste.
Toothpaste, hey? Beats school shoes. At least you don’t have to try it on someone who’s wriggling and then do that “run around the shop” bit that turns out like Roller Derby.
We’re having one of Elf Boy’s little friends over to play. As the holidays up here draw to a close, so my pigeons come home to roost. The legions of people I promised to catch up with must be assuaged.
You know how I hate people.
Maybe I can turn the play-date into a shoe shopping trip?
No – regrettably, I’m insufficiently evil.
I reckon mums would pay you to take their kids on shoe shopping expeditions. My sister almost certainly would. It seems her youngest boy takes after me.
The latest incident involved my sister baking a cake for our mother’s birthday yesterday. She rang mother last night to let her know they were bringing it over. While his mum was on the phone, my dear little nephew plunged his hand into the cake, and started nomming a huge fistful. Half the cake was mangled. This is apparently normal behaviour for him. I love that boy.
Hehehe.
If he plunged his marauding fist in dead-centre, your sister could have just said it was the new fashion from the US, a donut cake.
Or stuck the top half of a Barbie doll in it, perhaps?
Why is it all our conversations turn back to dismembered barbie dolls at some point or other?
When is this shoe shopping trip to the big smoke, MM? Did you say something about the 11th & sushi?
Regrettably, the car is now incapacitated and we won’t be able to make it down – see Catty’s blog for the door-wrenching details.
However, once I’ve successfully navigated the Dead Sea of the Insurance Assessor and the Jagged Reefs of Claim Adjustment I will re-chart our course for Brisvegas.
As Marvin the Paranoid Android used to say, ‘My life is a box of wormgears.”
Sigh.
Bugger.
I suppose the punishment ‘You’re grounded’ is less than effective when it applies to all the innocent parties in the household, too.
Having no door will dramatically reduce your need for air conditioning. See? Every cloud does have a silver lining. And think of the fun Magic Man will have, threatening to kick his brother out of the car when you get onto the highway.
What’s a wormgear? Marvin could have told me, what with his brain being the size of a planet, but he doesn’t answer my emails. Maybe he’s busy taking the prisoners up to the bridge.
Dad’s favorite form of retribution was Christian Youth Camp.
For a stunt like this I’d go that step further and send him to one in Alabama.
http://www.neyati.org/
Poor Christians. First, they fed them to lions, now you want to send them Elf Boy?
I want to know how the hell they “give young people the unique experiences (sic) of fasting from the world”?
Lock them in a sensory deprivation chamber for a month? Send them to the moon?
Perhaps that’s it. Apollo wasn’t a trip to conquer, it was more of a world fast.
Simple.
No electricity.
Or plumbing. Nothing instils a love of Jehova like digging your own latrine pit. Apparently.
Back a while (prolly when Catty was a cheerleader) they used to dump me on Fraser Is in the middle of winter with a large bunch of 15-16 year olds. For a week, with no power, plumbing or toilets. So I know what digging your own latrine does for kids and yes, various blasphemies were uttered but there wasn’t much love. There was something like it, but that came later in the evening – “GET BACK TO YOUR OWN TENTS OR I’LL KILL YOU ALL!” I’m happy to say that, over several years of this, there were NO pregnancies. I’d come back with shingles, exhaustion, PTSD and the like but hiking all day & policing the tents all night will do that. Oddly enough those ‘kids’ seem to appreciate it when I run into them now.
Shingles?!
Congratulations on your pregnancy-free camp record, Greybeard. A friend of mine from Writer’s Group tells similar tales of a bus trip to the Interior taken with Yr 11 students. None of hers got knocked up, either.
Speaking of latrines, Magic Man actually PREFERRED to dig his own when we were up at the farm, owing to his mortal fear of spiders in the dunny. I keep telling him not to worry about spiders, it’s other people he should be scared of, but I can’t budge his phobia.
I’ve been known to break out in hives after spotting a spider crawling up my extremities, so I understand how EB feels.
On a more cheerful note, you won’t need to fork out any cash for Christian Youth Camp when EB gets into mischief – just buy MM a tarantula as a pet.
GB, you shouldn’t be surprised. It’s jolly hard to maintain the romance when a bearded old man with shingles is screaming at you.
Oi! I was a bearded young man then. Fraser is No Island for Old Men. But it wasn’t all screaming. A quiet “put him down, you don’t know where he’s been.” also broke up cuddling couples. And their friends. I had a pet huntsman (huntslady?) once called Fuzzy. I used to hand-feed her moths (with tweezers) to show the kiddies how fast she could pounce. Good times.
Huntsperson, GB.
Which reminds me of one of my father’s more annoying traits… he insists on referring to those lean, vicious brown and tan German guard dogs as doberpeople, on the grounds of political correctness.
The balance of this is that you get to refer to him as Humdog, until such time as he stops.
Hehehe.
I would, but he’s offered to pay the excess on the mangled car door. So I shall be referring to him as “Daddy Dearest” for the foreseeable future.
And so you should.
Um, would he consider adopting a sweet little Catty?
No?
*sigh*
I was probably pushing it with the ‘sweet’. Also with the ‘little’.
Fair enough. Just don’t send him any gift-wrapped wire hangers by way of thanks.
Actually, it’s his birthday on the 13th.
Any ideas?
Hmm . . . Friday the 13th? You could send him Elf Boy? A Pirelli calendar? A slab of his favourite tipple (or barrel or magnum)? A get-off-my-lawn slingshot? (I have one)? Should be careful, mine’s on the 12th. Hope my daughters haven’t found this blog.
Bake him a cake. A big, pink, heart-shaped cake with “Happy Birthday, Daddy Dearest” written across the top. DON’T let your boys taste test it by the fistful.
Then get him a tape measure. Pull it out to it’s full length, and write on it in black marker pen. “I love you thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis much!”
Too mushy?
Then how about one of these:
http://www.thefancy.com/things/280558613/I%27m-Fine-T-Shirt
One of these:
http://www.jokeroo.com/user-content/pictures/sign-ad/2010/12/278761-beware-of-dog.html
Can you get one with a scrub turkey on it instead of a dog?
Hehehe.
Greybeard, did you know that your birthday is sandwiched between Magic Man’s and My Father’s? I’m not sufficiently au fait with astrology to know what this portends, but it can’t be good. However, in case we don’t converse on Thursday, have a spectacular time. 21 again?
Lurve the tee-shirt but I must. get. the. sign. I’m sure they could make it in black German shephard, preferably twitching while snarling. The dog on the sign they used looks too darn happy.
IRL, though, I’m leaning towards an assortment of ginger chocolates. He loves the damn things, and the factory is just down the road.
Ginger chocolates! (drools on keybxli%d)
I’ll get some extra for you, GB – to say thank you for my lovely crackle and spark free printer cable.
Forgive me for not being more excited at finding the perfect sign, and that marvelous T-shirt suggestion of Catty’s (does the back have an exit wound for the bullet hole?) but I’m just too pissed off at being deprived of the perfect storm at the end to this stinker of a day. A sentiment which I’m sure we SEQ folk all share.
I blame Aunt Irma. That bitch is here to ruin our lives, and now she starts on the weather. Evil. Just Evil, I say. Send this foul heat back to Melbourne where it belongs and give me back my lovely 26C days like we’ve had for the last few weeks.
Well, I’m off to disappear into the Air Con, and feel grateful that I’m not in Mumbai.
Not sure how well I’ll cope with the rest of Kevin McLeod’s slumming it adventures on the ABC tonight, but will feel ripped off somehow if he spends two weeks in that shit hole and escapes without contracting dysentery.
Not out of any sense of malice towards Kevin, just out of a sense that it’s the natural order of things – i.e. Lie down in rat urine, wake up with plague.
If I don’t see him retching out of a window or dropping his dacks in the potter’s square, I’ll count it as proof that he’s sold his soul to the devil. Well, that or paid off the camera-man in unmarked euros.
Ewwww! You won’t catch me watching a doco maker voiding his bowels copiously in public. Instead, I’m going to bed with a nice book. I’m at the bit where a crazed Mormon has arranged for a car to run down and kill a Mexican who beat the proverbial out of him. Good, wholesome reading, with limited bowel voiding – although an inmate in a South American prison did pee his pants with fear when an assassin broke in and violently killed all the prison guards. But that was only mentioned in passing.
Yes, I too watched the horizon in vain for the massed dark clouds that never came.
And got sunburnt on my right arm driving the car to the panel beaters for a quote yesterday, since air con’s not very effective when one of your doors won’t seal.
How did Kevin McCloud’s dysentery go, Q? I watched a Doctor Who re-run… that Billie Piper looks like a pixie wearing dentures she stole from a giant with an overbite… and then slithered off to bed where I tossed and turned and dreamed of Tasmania.
Catty, sounds like an awesome book. What’s it called?
Angels of Vengeance. You may have heard of the author.
Hehehe.
You may remember him from some books, such as “Felafel” and “Wasted”.
I’ll have to hunt down a copy.
I wonder what kind of weapon is best suited to this hunt?
Perhaps the Zombie apocalypse slingshot.
Who’s having birthdays? I’m all confused.
Irma’s fault.
All I can remember is someone saying something about chocolate coated ginger. And coming up with the idea that really, I’d prefer soft centres from Darrell Lea. Why aren’t they open at 10.30pm on a week night, given that it’s too hot to exit the house between the hours of 5am and 8pm?
Today is Magic Man’s birthday.
He loves the microscope I gave him, and has so far taken blood samples from two of us and is now deeply absorbed in the intricacies of a grasshopper’s compound eyes.
Elf Boy has accepted the inevitable, too
“It’s okay,” he said with a resigned expression, “I will be the laboratory mouse.”
“Mouse”? Please tell him from me that I consider him no less than a deadly giant mutant laboratory RAT.
Happy birthday, Magic Man! I hope you’ve demanded an ice cream cake.
Cool present, Madam. We have a hand-held microscope, and the kidlets love to examine their various scratches and bruises with it. Ick.
Quokka, I have always been extremely annoyed by Darrell Lea’s lack of home delivery. It’s probably Aunt Irma’s fault. Even if it’s not, I’m blaming her anyway. She deserves it – you should see what she’s done to my face this visit. Actually, no you shouldn’t. It’s not pleasant.
He must be Rattus Norwegicus then, GB… because of the blond hair and blue eyes.
Catty, maybe we should pitch a home delivery service to Darrell Lea. We could call ourselves “Darrell To Your Door” or maybe “Walnut Logs on Wheels”… no, “HomeLea”!
Or Dazza Deliveries, a free batch of acne with every package delivered.
Happy birthday to all those experiencing them & commiserations to those who were giving birth to them at such a hellish time of year. May there be icecream cake and snow cones all round. And a chorus of ‘let it snow, let it snow let it snow.’ Which might fool us into thinking it’s not really as hot as it actually is, with no sign of any mercy from the weather gods in the shape of big red blips on the BOM radar. God I long to see those blips appear. Although it probably would freak the hell out of everyone between here and Toowoomba who’s homes sit less than 8m above sea level.
Gah.
The temperature on my porch reached an obscene 38.8C today. Dog only knows how the postie manages to stay upright on his bike in this hellish climate, I was sorely tempted to go out there & spray him with the hose to ease his suffering.
Speaking of which, how the hell are we meant to keep the kids off our lawns with the garden hose in weather like this?
We’re not. That’s why we have flame throwers.
Sadly, I can’t use my flame-thrower. I just got an email from the SES about how we’ve got an exceptionally high fire danger here at present.
Luckily, though, the email said nothing about waterbombs filled with biological warfare agents.
Biological warfare agents, hey? That’s probably the most apt description I’ve ever heard for my mother’s gravy.
“Would you like some gravy, Catty dear?”
“Sorry, Mum – no can do. It’s outlawed under the Geneva Convention.”
Meanwhile, a man was caught smuggling abalone in his underpants near you, Catty:
http://www.news.com.au/breaking-news/smuggler-hid-illegal-abalone-in-underpants/story-e6frfku0-1226242712466
All I can think is that other people’s underpants are seeing much more action than mine.
You’d probably get more action if you ever actually wore underpants, Madam Commando.
Sigh. This reminds me that the elastic in my knickers is giving out and will require a trip to the shopping mall. Which I’m hoping to put off until everyone’s children are safely locked up in state care between the hours of 8.30am and 3pm, once again. Not much noise around here but lots of teenagers roaming around making me deeply grateful I am not the mother of a teenage girl. (Dog help you, Catty)
Maybe if I just consume more chocolate and focaccia then that’ll prevent my knickers from slithering off towards the floor and freedom.
I feel like I’ve got some sort of weird heat hangover from the last two days of extreme summer. Which is ridiculous given that I’ve been hiding out in my air conditioned pink padded cell.
Madam – I am deeply envious of your proximity to the surf. As much as I love my little undercover plunge pool – and am grateful that yesterday it was 9C cooler up there than it was in my kitchen – God it would be nice to wake up and be at the beach. Greenmount, for preference, or else Scarborough in Perth – which has the added advantage of being 5 hours flight away from the humidity here.
When is GB’s birthday?
I thought it was yesterday but I see the rest of you think it’s today.
Aunt Irma is screwing with my memory in a big way today, so I’m guessing you lot are the ones who’ve got it right.
happy birthday, Herr Rattmeister. I hope it’s a good one.
Seconded! Happy Birthday Greybeard, and many more. Many more birthdays, that is, not many more Greybeards.
Thank yez all. Today is Der Tag but me flood reminiscing on Twitter got me some kindly thoughts a couple of days early. I’ll take all I can get since kindly wishes don’t flow in my direction too often. By some freakish miscalculation on my part, I seem to have gained the affection of my loud and bossy little great-niece in Melbourne. She told D#2 that I was a nice or possibly ‘sweet’ man – very different to what she said when we were there.
As for the possibility of more Greybeards Catty, too late! My son has several friends who he discovered quite by accident follow me on twitter. They were suspicious because apparently we ‘sound’ alike (ie bearded sarky know-all nerds with history/science/IT backgrounds, collectors & users of sharp instruments, who make bad jokes). He has abused me over this several times. What kind of son doesn’t like to think he takes after dad? Sigh.
The better 7/8 and I spent yesterday in A/C comfort, watching Game of Shadows in Gold Class, with nachos & wine & feet up. Early present & dinner tonight to follow.
While I found wearing a kilt comfortable, there’s nothing like the security of trousers when your jock-elastic turns into a loose piece of string. Awkward as it may be to have them trying to turn upside down, at least they won’t actually drop around your ankles in public. Rarely a good look and one I wish to avoid. Though I remember a girl at uni who handled it well. She look at them, lifted one foot out and gracefully raised them on the toe of the other. Then she kicked out mightily and they flew a good 5 m into a garden bed. She smiled, straightened her miniskirt and sashayed away. Real class. Wonder if she tells her grandkids that story?
She probably has an evil spouse that tells it for her.
When we went to Perth a few years ago to meet my entire extended family of cousins that Dad had somehow neglected to tell us existed, on day 2 of knowing my 78yro cousin, he began to wax lyrical about what his lovely wife was wearing when he met her at the cinema, when she was only 16 & he was 18. He could still describe it her frock. Very sweet.
So he piped up and said to the Bloke, ‘So what was Quokka wearing when you met her?’
The Bloke, looking totally perplexed ‘Eh? Dunno. Not much, probably, back in those days.’
SOAB.
I could have cheerfully throttled him.
Awww. Give him time and he’ll probably make up some crazy tale like your cousin’s. Meanwhile for real romance we have: http://img718.imageshack.us/img718/646/sayitwithbaconlarge.jpg
Mmm… romantic bacon.
Whichever poor, deluded kiddy called you a “sweet” man, Greybeard, was probably alluding to how you’d taste, basted in a honey marinade.
You and me both, Quokka – but as Catty so kindly pointed out, it’s my bras that’re sagging. See you in the lingerie department at 9 a.m. on Monday the 23rd.
In the meantime, though, maybe these will help preserve your modesty:
http://candhphotography.deviantart.com/art/Rainbow-Suspenders-134315157
Why have we gone italicised?
Let me see if this works…
Voila!
I blame GB.
http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/lifestyle/celebrity/fly-named-after-beyonce-because-of-bum-20120113-1py3i.html
Somebody needs to explain to me why I should continue reading the newspaper. I’m just not feeling edjumacated by the experience, somehow.
No, Q, you’re quite right.
You should turn your attention to news.com.au, for reportage of this calibre:
http://www.news.com.au/entertainment/celebrity/gallery-e6frfmqi-1111120736498?site=NewsComAuScrollo
Ugh. Not before breakfast, please!
BTW, can I request that whoever’s in charge of the font here shift it from italics to gothica? All the italics has me thinking I’m lost in a Nick Earls novel. Its really rather disconcerting.
I’ve got no idea why we’ve stepped into an Earls novel… but since the mystery italics appeared halfway through one of Greybeard’s comments, it’s obviously his fault.
I’ll email WordPress admin to try and get it fixed, it’s beyond me.
Meanwhile, how good is this grey, cold, drizzly weather? Thank the Godess the heat wave is over!
I’m here to help. Being, as it were, the font of all wisdom.
*Groan*. Bad, bad pun, Greybeard.
(mutter mumble grumble I wish I’d said that mutter mumble).
If only Dame Margot Fonteyn was still alive… I’m sure she’d be able to help.
Or perhaps Little Lord Fontleroy.
I wouldn’t let GB fontle your keyboard. You don’t know where he’s been.
Still waiting for news from WordPress.
I feel like we’re all someone’s dream… either that, or a flashback.
If we’re a flashback, I’d better put on some house music. “Boom Boom Boom”, anyone?
Meh. I’ve still got ‘bom bom’ in my head thanks to watching Red Dog on DVD with the bloke on Saturday night. I saw it at the movies and once was probably enough, but I knew he’d enjoy it, and a friend was given 2 copies of it for Xmas, so …yeah. 70′s miner music earworm has ensued.
I’ve started reading ‘the girl with the dragon tattoo’. 130 pages of dry nordic reading just to set the scene. Somebody please tell me it gets better.
Apparently what I now have to look forward to is the protagonist going off to spend a year with the old man’s revolting family, most of whom fit the criteria for ‘sociopath’.
I’ve got the same feeling I used to get at contemplating family Xmas.
Tempted to chuck it in and go read some Pippi Longstocking instead.
Should I give it up & just watch the movie? At least that’s over in 90 minutes and I can walk out if it gets to me.
I can’t give you a crit of “Girl” because I can not stand Scandi Lit.
It’s always so gloomy and depressing, sometimes just scanning the cover blurbs makes me want to slit my wrists. Even the author’s names seem morbid and bleak. Much modern Scottish fiction is similar. I blame day length, rainfall patterns and economic hardship.
However, I’m all over the movie. See it twice. It has Daniel Craig in it!
Yeah. I read one by Arnaldur Indridason or maybe two. Well written, almost beautifully, but so damned depressing. Has anyone watched Wallender? Either the Swedish or Kenneth Branagh versions. Great stuff but the protagonist is in a constant spiral of bad relationships, drink, depression & disease. Cheery!
Testing 1, 2, 7
My literary forays have been somewhat limited – my reading this week consisted solely of the back of a rice bubbles packet yesterday. It upset me dreadfully. The blatant attempt at brainwashing screams “CONSPIRACY!”. You will be able to read all about it at the Corner, just as soon as I’ve worked out:
1 – who is doing it
2 – why they are doing it
3 – where my Zoloft has gone.
I think the swedes have nicked your zoloft, Catty, fark knows they need it.
I came to the line in the book where he wanted to send the journo off to spend a year with his psycho family & I did the eye roll thing and thought ‘This entire book is going to read like the highlights of every family Xmas I’ve ever known. bleh. run away, run away!’
Might take your word for it and just see the movie, MM.
I have a fairly low tolerance for characters that are so badly flawed and in need of therapy and meds that they need an intervention way more than they need an audience.
Indeed.
A certain degree of flawed hardship makes things interesting, of course, but too much and it reads more like a case history than literature.
Or perhaps I’m just getting Too Old – soon I’ll be calling back copies of Women’s Weekly “my books” and crocheting holders out of used shopping bags to keep them in.
Oh, nooooooooo! My MIL gave me a 1990 copy of the Women’s Weekly a couple of months ago, and I read it from cover to cover, marvelling at how interesting it was compared to these newfangled Women’s Weeklies.
You know what this means? It means… I’m… I’m ooooooooold! *sob*
(In case you’re wondering, no I haven’t found my Zoloft.)
Poor Catty. I could send you some of mine? I have heaps of Zoloft. And being old isn’t so bad. It’s bloody worse than you can possibly imagine!
Luckily I’ve started my second childhood (not that maturity and I were ever really close) so now it’s the downhill ride of my life – wheeeee (the ‘h’ is still there you’ll notice)
If Zoloft was any good it would be addictive, Catty.
What you need are some nice benzodiazepines… alternatively, if you’re a bit flat, amphetamines.
If you can’t afford speed, though, I’ve noticed that a boxful of Wacky Bitz has indistinguishable clinical effects on MM and EB. Get the pink and purple ones.
Although the yellow & orange ones probably have tartrazine which is good for setting off ADHD. You are welcome to the cat’s medication, Catty, other than that the best I can offer you is a nip of ginseng and some rosehip tea. And the vague offer of moral support in the flesh, as we are contemplating another trip to Melbourne – being as the last one got thwarted by the cat and his cancerous toe episode. the Bloke has some freebies on offer with his frequent flyer deals so we’re looking at coming down for a few days towards the end of February.
Well, we went to see the Dragon Tattoo movie last night & it was very beautiful. Nasty violent. I’d skimmed the book so I could figure out some of the complexity of it but then of course they decided to change bits, which was a bugger.
It was a lovely rainy night to be out at the cinema watching a movie loaded with snow. I still think that the violence in it was overdone, probably because the audiences are getting so hardened to nastiness that writers feel the need to make things more and more harrowing. A bit odd, that the writer went to all that trouble to assemble such a nasty cast of characters and then didn’t really bother to showcase how they interact. And I found it a bit unbelievable that the Bad Man in the story wasn’t oozing badness into other parts of his life.
I guess from my exposure to the nasties in this world, I know that they can’t maintain their facade of normality all the time and with everyone. There’s invariably slip ups. The big thing that trips them up is their grandiosity and their sense of entitlement.
I think I prefer the Lynda La Plantes – must say, she does seem to know her psychopaths and borderlines and narcissists awfully well. Then again, I guess that’s just part of the scenery in all her years of theatre and TV.
Still – fabulous movie, and really well cast.
MM, have they SMSd you a flood warning yet? According to the ABC radio, SEQ is in for up to 150mm of rain in the next 24 hours.
Oh, and Myers were having some sort of half price men’s shoe sale. Just in case you’ve been putting that trip off.
Right. Rain = book, couch, tea, cat.
Are Wacky Bitz those little sickly purple lumps in a small cardboard box? I remember getting something like that in one of last year’s showbags. Blech! Even the kidlets gagged on the horrid things. So I may have to pass, Madam, and continue with my current diet of Cadbury, Pepsi and Kettle Chips.
The couch sounds wonderful, Quokka, but we’re expecting 35ºC with hot winds here. Fan forced oven weather is too hot for a lap full of cat. So I’m taking the kidlets shopping for school shoes. Mmmmm….. shopping centre air conditioning….
We have already acquired MM’s new school shoes, but thanks for the heads up, Q. He is now wearing a men’s size 10.
“What size do they go up to?” I enquired of the Shoe Lady
“This style is available in a size 15.” she replied
“What do I put him in after that?” I asked, “Clown shoes?”
That’s them, Catty.
Speaking of chocolate and chips, I’m saw chocolate-covered potato chips somewhere. Have you ever tried that? It had a certain near-fatal appeal.
Mens size 10! What are you feeding him? I only take a 9 – 9 1/2.
I hate it when their feet get too big for tissue boxes strapped with gaffer tape.
I have considered protein and calcium restriction, GB, but I’m afraid he’d still be enormous, but all droopy and fragile. I’ve decided that if he looks like topping 6′ 5″, I’ll sign him up for hormone treatments. I saw a 6′ 7″ teenager the other day, and he was frankly terrifying.
Funny you should say that, Catty – one of my options was to just Nikko pen his feet on Mondays, and send him off like that. Perhaps tie a shoelace around his middle toe, as well?
Now, has anyone got a sure-fire Monopoly strategy? These wretched children keep bankrupting me!
Yes. Cheat.
It’s hard to cheat, when they’re smarter than you… have you got any sure-fire cheating strategies?
P.S: Look, those WordPress geniuses fixed our fonts! We look much more serious in normal, don’t we?
Serious? Us?!!
I wasn’t serious when I wrote that.
Serious – that’s the dog star, right?
I thought that was Lassie?
I think he was Harry Potter’s Godfather – Serious Black.
No, that was Sirius Black – Serious Black was Harry’s Gothfather.
Sigh. Maybe we should be printed in italics.
Hehehe… Gothfather.
You’ve still got it, GB.
like I said, we should shift the font to gothica and stick with what works.
When do the institutions take their children back? And who do I have to lobby to get all future summer holidays cancelled, in favor of sending the little treasures off to military school, or rehab, or christian youth camp. Anywhere but here would do.
My lot go back on the 2nd of February. I’m not looking forward to it.
My darling weasels go back on the 23rd.
And I have finally – huzzah! – covered and labelled all the books and stationery.
Is that what you’re not looking forward to, Catty… or is it (gulp) the lunchboxes?
Nooooooooo! Don’t say the ‘L’ word!
It’s not too late – I’ve got plenty of felt. Warm up the laminater!
The phrase ‘let them eat felt’ is making me crave red velvet cake. Still haven’t tried that one and I’m sure the real thing is worth eating.
Well, as you may have gathered from my lengthy absences, I’ve finally gotten into the Stieg Larson books. Was relieved to find reviews that shared my opinion that the first one was overly sensationalistic and had some serious plot holes. I’m enjoying the second one very much & am really coming to like Salander’s character & her way of dispensing arbitrary justice to those who richly deserve it. She’s really coming into her own. Not sure how Larson is going to tidy up all the loose ends in the third novel, he’s certainly creating some carnage – but that’s next week’s project. I’m still only 2/3 of the way through The Girl Who Played With Fire.
it’s the bloke’s birthday next week so I’m tempted to hunt around JB and see if they’ve got the DVD set of the trilogy (swedish version). Not sure if that will satisfy his snow cravings or just set me up for some whinging about this shocking climate we live in where we have sun and surf and tropical flora to enjoy all year round rather than the ice and darkness that they enjoy in Lappland.
Crazy man.
Speaking of crazy, the cats all went back to the vet for the second round of their summer hair cuts, yesterday. The cat that’s on anti-psychotics spent the night running up and down the halls yowling like the damned, and today none of them are talking to me.
But they’re so soft and velvetty and rabbitlike that it’s worth a few days of pissed-offedness.
And next week there will be blessed silence in the streets again once the schools open up and ensnare all the children. Hallelujah to that, it will be safe to roam the shopping centres again. Darrell Lea, here I come.
Hmm, maybe I should give old Steig anther chance.
The children brawled in Lifeline yesterday, it’s beyond time for them to return to school.
Did I tell you all, friends of ours with 2 boys about the same age as MM and EB have decided to go touring around Australia for a year while home-schooling?
I can’t help but consider this scheme thoroughly ill-conceived. Trapped together in a caravan with no respite from one another, my two would kill one another before we got as far as Sydney.
Although the thought of home schooling makes my skin crawl, I like the sound of a year’s travel around Australia. My darling boys are also about the same age as yours, Madam, and I reckon they’d last at least a fortnight without bloodshed. (my daughter, however, is an entirely different story…..)
Well, you could argue for insanity but I say she has an agenda and it’s a cunning plan to return childless.
One will clearly kill the other and the winner will end up in an institution for the underage criminally insane.
Leaving their mother free to travel the world on the royalties she’ll earn from selling her story to the Women’s Weekly, ACA, and one of those publishers who earn squillions from publishing ill-written stories by the mothers of delinquent children.
She’s a genius.
Hehehe… or she could try the old “a dingo has stolen my babies!” trick.
Here’s EB’s latest joke:
Why aren’t leopards very good at hiding?
Because they’re always spotted.
A common misconception which is easily allayed by ditching The Lion King and substituting Cat People.
I don’t like that video. If we have to sit through six minutes of arty music, the least they could do is let us see the cat eat the girl.
I’ve never seen a cat eat a girl.
But I can show you a very disturbing picture of a panda eating an antelope:
http://www.news.com.au/world/camera-spies-wild-panda-eating-meat/story-e6frfkyi-1226233680309
I’ll have to take their word for it that the panda was eating an antelope. I thought it looked more like a panda eating a Christmas tree.
No wonder they’re nearly extinct. So many plastic Xmas trees . . .
Just been watching the Gods & Monsters doco series with Tony Robinson. Part 2 deals with faeries so I thought of Catty. You’ll be pleased to know he’s telling everyone how they were hated, feared and considered utterly evil. And that they stole children & replaced them with wicked faerie changelings. The pendulum is swinging.
Actually there’s one of ours I’m not sure about. When she was about 3, she spent the whole day talking in a squeaky high-pitched voice. When we asked her why she said the squirrels had stolen her voice and now she had a squirrel voice. Mad as a cut snake.
Wow! Pity she’s too old for Elf Boy, GB – they sound like soulmates.
Back to school, back to school!
If I didn’t have two lunch-boxes to pack, today would be perfect.
I hear you, Greybeard. Greek people used to scare their little ones into behaving by telling them that faeries do malicious things to horrible boys and girls as they sleep.
Based on that bit of trivia, I’m thinking that lunch boxes were invented by faeries.
Slept in this morning thanks to a series of very late nights sitting up reading the Millennium trilogy. Woken at 8.15am by a series of bloodcurdling shrieks and wails, which I take it to mean that the State is once more in possession of the small folk in our street.
It was music to my ears.
Hallelujah.
Morgana, I think the Larson trilogy is definitely worth reading, the second one especially. Have enjoyed the third one almost as much as the second but Larson is lapsing back into predictability and sensationalism when creativity fails him. Which isn’t really bothering me as I’ve come to like the main protagonist so much. She has a seriously bad attitude and a good many people who richly deserve it get the shit kicked out of them. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.
Have bought the DVD set (swedish) for the Bloke’s birthday, for which he will be festering in FNQ.
They’re predicting rain for most of the week here, I’ll bet you’re glad that it’s happening when the kids are back at school.
Catty, we’re rethinking our Melbourne jaunt as I’m not enthused about a driving/touristy adventure and want nothing more than to sit at the beach for a week. And thanks to a day trip to the coast on Saturday, I think I’ve got the bloke persuaded that it’s a good idea. Still keen to do a 3 day jaunt in Melbourne but might put it off for a while. We have to use up his points and free hotel offers by June, though, so I’d say you’ll see us between now and then.
So, MM.
Enjoying the absence of brawling, yet?
Well, I didn’t exactly have a quiet day, but there was a marked absence of brawling.
Got my car back from the panel beaters… hurrah! Now I just have to work on the flashbacks and stress response every time I go to reverse out of a garage.
I’ll put the Larson books on reservation at the library, Q. I’d like to read the first one before I see the
Daniel Craigmovie.Kids. They never grow up. Hairy Greybeardson called around for a coffee & chat this morning and noticed I had a python in the loo. So he’s borrowed it to edumacate his friends in Toowong on the harmlessness and non-sliminess of reptiles. I remember him at kindy taking a snake around the room, head in one hand, tail in the other and draped around his neck. He gave a quite sweet and accurate talk to the delight of his class. Teacher, not so much. Best show & tell ever.
I like snakes. If they’re cooked right.
Yeah well we all know what they taste like but actually the flesh is white and has much the same texture as chicken. Only without the drumsticks. Obviously I’m only guessing but I suspect dinosaur would also taste like chicken and imagine a T rex thigh fillet. Mm-hm.
You’re eating at the wrong restaurant. The snakes I eat all taste like glucose and tartrazine plus a long series of numbers you see listed on the food allergy websites.
I am still waiting for this legendary Big Wet to arrive. The rain fizzled out over Casa Quokka today and it looks like the north coast got the bulk of it. MM, Just curious to know if your text Disaster Alert service is faster than Twitter, which has been predicting disaster and telling us to load the ark for hours of clear skies, now.
http://www.bom.gov.au/cgi-bin/wrap_fwo.pl?IDQ20780.html
I wonder what dragon would taste like? You’d have to flame-grill it, I reckon.
Q, I recieved a text yesterday, midafternoon, alerting me of the risk of flash-flooding and an email saying much the same thing at about 5:30 pm.
Funnily enough, though, it stopped raining last night and although its very grey this morning, no precipitation as yet.
I slept like the dead last night – well, after about 11.30. But was woken a few times to hear quite heavy rain. The BOM chart says we had quite a bit and looks like more on the way. God, I hope so. No disrespect to those on lower ground but I do love a good drenching. Going back over the dragon tattoo books because I want to see how he’s constructed his characters.
Obsessive, but I need to know.
Once for pleasure, once for analysis. I really should’ve finished that arts degree when I was a lass.
All this talk of snakes and dragons! Now I have a Trogdor earworm:
I’ll see your Trogdor and raise you The Trogs:
I prefer this:
Hehehe.
What a fabulous set – I’d love my lounge room to look just like that.
And for reasons unknown, since I’ve come back from yoga class – blogger doesn’t want to show me the clips that you two are discussing.
Sigh.
Cats are flipping out about the big wet. I think they’re panicking that come tomorrow morning, we’ll have 8 more furry felines closeted away in the dungeon, same as last year.
Its just a king tide and a bit of Sog, surely?
Or did I miss something while I was attempting to dislocate my hips and snarling ‘Om’ earlier today?
Snarling ‘Om”?
It must be that new variant of sweaty yoga I’ve been hearing about – surly yoga.
I don’t think there’s anything meterologically untoward happening, Quokka. Although I’m told there were big solar flares on Monday, will that unsettle cats? I don’t think even floral embroidered flares would upset mine… they’re pretty mellow.
I have a pathological fear of flares. Don’t ask me why.
They’re usually infested with hippies. With nits. It’s completely understandable.
You guys should be at twitter. The scribe started a hashtag of #unaustraliaday and I’ve been busy making helpful suggestions. The most recent being a promise that if my neighbours start up their karaoke machine on Thursday and sing Khe San I’m going to respond by broadcasting Rolf Harris’s version of ‘I touch myself’ – at top volume across the valley.
My favorite suggestion thus far has been the genius who said he intends to celebrate by sending Tony Abbott back to 1788 in a time machine so that he can turn back the boats.
I don’t think there’ll be time for a smallpox vaccination before he departs.
Shucks.
I’ve just typed a long political rant, then deleted it. Then I typed a second one, and deleted that one too.
Here’s the summary:
Let it be known that I think Gillard should be forced to live on the dole in Blacktown for a year before being allowed to make any further political decisions.
What the hell. Let’s make it compulsory for all federal MP’s.
If you must. I quite liked the suggestion to relocate parliament to Nauru and remove all the air conditioners before they arrive.
Can I come here and vent my seething rage please Madam? Just had my brother-in-law & partner around for dinner. He’s nearly 20 years older and although always conservative, when my sister was alive she dragged him somewhat into the 20th C, if not the 21st. Since she died he’s found a new partner who is ultraconservative and he’s loving it. The politics we can avoid fairly easily though she sometimes shakes her Menzies icon at me (no, seriously. It’s on her keyring). But there’s always something else. Feminists, Greens, greenies, scientists, anyone who accepts the evidence for AGW, women priests (they’re Anglicans) – all are evil, wrong and the servants of Satan. Tonight it was gays or anyone LGBT for that matter. Being gay is totally a choice. There were NO gays when he was a boy! Maybe they were scared? NO! There were none. Zip, didn’t exist.
Needless to say, the evening did not go well. Why not just say screw you and forget them? Because I like his kids & grandkids and am sometimes more of a grandfather to them than he is. Families matter. He’s pretty snide about some behind their backs for basically snobbish reasons but I can’t exactly tell them that. Bugger! Why do some people have to freeze their whole world-view at some point in their lives and refuse to accept anything from then on? I’m 61 and I can still change my opinions & views. I LOVE learning new things.
I have a theory (and a pretty silly one as you can imagine) that when you get to know one of these people a bit you can estimate fairly closely when they froze. These are some of the “new technologies” I’ve seen rejected &/or hated.
TV
VCRs
DVDs
Automatic gearboxes on cars
Car radios
Philips head screwdrivers
Calculators
Deodorant
the Pill
Phones
Mobile Phones
Smart phones
Computers
Internet
It isn’t consistent in that a given individual may reject something from the 60′s and accept an idea from the 70′s but if you build up enough of them I reckon you can say “he stopped in the mid 1980s & he’s just been slowly dying since then”. Which is probably horseshit. Thank you (if you’ve persevered this far). I feel better now.
Greybeard, if you’re not ALWAYS free to vent anything, seething or otherwise, I don’t know what we’re all doing here.
Okay, it’s arguable that the Internet is largely good for wasting time and tentacle prOn… or perhaps wasting time WITH tentacle prOn… but what on earth can these people possibly have against Philips head screwdivers?
They sound like Amish people, only less hip, progressive and fun.
I’m glad you’re you, GB. And please stay in touch with those poor kiddies, so they don’t grow up thinking that all middle-aged people are a complete waste of oxygen and try to bring back “Logan’s Run”.
Catty – good idea. Also, give her of couple of fatherless kids to raise on Family Tax Benefit, and as soon as the youngest hits prep make her life a misery until she finds some sort of work – preferably menial – that she can shoe-horn the kids around.
Quokka, my suggestion for UnAustralian Day is that anyone with a Southern Cross tattoo should have their BBQs and beer fridges confiscated and be forced to host an Asian or Middle Eastern family for an ethnic banquet – entirely sober.
Sending a bogan to an ethnic banquet is a waste of good food.
Okay then – just make the bogans do the washing up.
Haven’t migrants got enough hardship to deal with without that?
The scribe has just announced that tomorrow’s blog is about drop bears.
I said that I hope he explained that when you shave a drop bear, you get a bogan. Which enables them to get passports, and which explains the behaviour of Strayan backpackers the world over.
He said he had no idea.
At least he has time to correct the article before it goes to press.
That explains a lot of things, actually.
UDLs, designer thongs, the popularity of TV programmes like Ice Road Truckers, at least two of my exes…
Yes. I just hope that the urban dictionary and wikipedia take note and correct the errors in their web pages.
That or perhaps Qantas should show a film on the topic on all international flights so that the world develops an awareness of the dangers of bogans, and stops blaming the failures in our education system and our parenting skills.
Damn straight they shouldn’t blame my parenting skills. I don’t have any.
You must be doing something right, Catty. They’re all still alive, and as happy as weasels.
How are the back-to-school preparations going?
I hope you’ve got a checklist.
* Vodka
* chocolate biscuits
* Supply of novels
* Timothy Dalton DVDs
* T-shirt that says ‘Do not disturb between 9am -3pm’ (its important to wear this at drop off time every day of the first week so that the new teachers get the message)
* Message on the answerphone that says ‘Unless they’re concussed or need stitches, Don’t Bug Me.’
Have I missed anything?
You’re right, Q – I have to get tougher with sick bay.
I think my filter question will be, “Is there blood or bone on display?”
If not, I’ll see you when the home bell rings. If I get called about purple spots again, there’ll be hell to pay.
To understand your sick bay nurse, you have to think like a sick bay nurse. Purple spots can mean:
*Meningitis
*Heatstroke
*Alien bodysnatcher
*Actually doing something for the child
That said, I often find myself wondering what on earth our nurse was thinking. We’ve had countless calls for head lice and boredom, but none for any of the ailments that involve blood or pain. I sometimes suspect the woman is also possessed by an alien bodysnatcher.
http://ehealthforum.com/health/topic48519.html#b
I googled the purple spot thing and lo, someone says their paediatrician says that seeing coloured spots can be a precursor to a migraine and the solution is to remove all processed foods from the child’s diet.
Genius.
Perhaps you should install a wall safe where you can hide the junk food after you’ve cleaned it out of the pantry.
A week or so of deprivation should cure Elf Boy of his woes.
*Cackles & wanders off to mix the cauldron*
We had a similar cure for the Teen’s ills. When she tried to get out of stuff by pretending to be sick, we gave her a dose of castor oil. Mwa ha ha ha ha!
Boredom?
They called you to collect the children because they were bored?
Elf Boy announced last night that he is becoming a Macaronitarian – he only plans to eat macaroni and cheese from now on. That’s not processed, because I make it from scratch – so his purple spots should clear right up. On the downside, though, that much cheese will stopper him up as sure as if he sprinkled Redimix on his Weetbix.
Heh. Macaronitarian. You could just slip a little Metamucil in his Mac & cheese or go the castor oil route? Castor oil was one of the lesser abominations of my parents’ generation. Kerosene & sugar was apparently great for a cough, though I was spared.
Kerosene and sugar?!
How, pray tell, was that good for a cough, GB – because it killed you stone dead before you could cough again?
Not a clue.
What I do have is this fabulous school lunch idea c/ Capn Bong & the UK news.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2093393/The-Smartie-sandwich-Shocking-filling-packed-lunch-sparks-new-healthy-eating-drive.html
Just think, if every mother across the country could be persuaded to follow her example the government would be so outraged that they’d step in, ban school lunches, and feed your children boiled cabbages and tripe for lunch every day.
If I were you, I’d be threatening your children with the dark spectre of this arrangement every time you find the contents of their lunch boxes untouched, or thrown away.
All this school lunch talk is givin’ me flashbacks man! Oh the banana-in-the-yellow-plastic-raincoat-over-Xmas. The mould, the, the runny bits. The smell. I can STILL SMELL IT. Aaaaauurgh . . . . . .
Yes, it has a very distinctive smell, doesn’t it, Greybeard? I still recall that long-ago incident with a brand new $125.00 textbook and an indeterminate number of once-were-banananas coupling in the bottom of the Teen’s school bag…. *shudder*
If only I had known about the smarty sandwiches. Smarty sandwiches! Guess what the kidlets are getting on their first day back? And there’s nothing the school can do about it, as there is no cafeteria. Snh snh snh snh snh!
I think I need cake.
Followed by…let’s see.
Yep.
More cake.
That is all, I have nothing else to contribute, my mind holds nothing more today than a vast empty longing for cake, coupled with a strong disinclination to get off the couch and get it.
And a mild inclination to smack up the next telemarketer that dares to bother me.
Aunt Irma is in the squirrel cage.
Repeat, Aunt Irma is in the squirrel cage.
All units, Take Cover.
Mmmmm…. cake….
This morning, I saw a silly man (on television) bake a bananana slab cake with maple syrup icing. If I wasn’t sitting here stuffing chocolate coated biscuits into my face, I’d make one of those cakes right now. Maybe when I’ve finished the biscuits? Nah, can’t be fagged. I’ll probably just open a second packet of biscuits. (Don’t judge me! It’s Aunt Irma’s fault.) Any room on that couch, Quokka? I plan on slothing for at least the next hour.
Funny that. Fifi came home from work yesterday with 3/4 of a banana cake from her staff morning tea, just for me. I should probably make a cuppa & have a chunk. Mowed the wet grass yesterday and there were lines and piles of cut grass everywhere. But do I have to rake it? No I do not. Good ol’ Colin, the lazy gardener’s friend came along right behind me and scraped it all up on his mound. He even takes it from around the front of the house. If you look in the background behind my coffee, you’ll see the fresh grass part way through the job. http://yfrog.com/h4p0arkj
Woe unto you who scorn the noble turkey!
I hesitate to ask, Greybeard, but what on earth was that brown gloop in the glass? Or don’t I want to know?
Mmm… Smartie sandwich cake.
Apologies for my untoward absence, Invisible Friends, but once again I have fallen victim to Business College and am undertaking a Cert IV. So I spent all yesterday in air-conditioned comfort, being drained of my will to live.
Today, I completed one section – ONE section – of the homework in a mere 7 hours.
* uncontrollable sobbing *
What have I done? Why didn’t someone stop me?
Damn. I should have bought you those glasses I saw today, with wide awake eyeballs painted on them.
Hehehe.
Unfortunately, that would only work if I could pair them with robot gloves, that would keep doing stuff on the computer while I snoozed.
You didn’t see any of them, did you?
I actually have seen some robot arms lately, but I’m not sure how good they’d be for typing. Grandma (of the broken hip) has just been given a couple of mechanical claws on sticks so she can pick up things off the ground without bending. Combined with the special chair the rehab people have given her, she looks rather like a Dalek – but I’ve been told to cease screaming “Exterminate! Exterminate!” whenever I visit.
Well, perhaps that’s because ‘exterminate’ is invariably paired with the concept of ‘Must kill the doctor’ – something we’ve all thought at some time or other in a public hospital but which doesn’t work well with waiting lists. Poor grandma. How’s she doing?
MM – Cert IV? How very ghastly.
How TF did Big Brother manage to impose this on you, and when will it end? And is it going to FK with our plans to gather in February to see the Ivanovich flick?
Cert IV is a misnomer. If Morgana could take her cert intravenously, there would be no need for all that fracking homework.
Grandma’s not doing as well as we’d like, but not for the reason we expected. She had surgery before Christmas, to remove two cancers from her face. The surgeon was not able to remove all of one tumor, because it would have involved cutting off gran’s nose. He gave her some chemo cream, and strict instructions on how to apply it. He warned her that if she did not use the cream, the cancer would quickly grow back and eat her nose off. Of course, neither the hospital or rehab centre bothered with it, so now gran has a two inch black cancer eating into her nose. It’s reached her eye, too. But at least they kicked her out of rehab early – not because she was ready, but because they needed her bed – so now the inlaws are caring for her at their place, and the cream is finally being applied. It’s probably too late, though. Understandably, gran is a little depressed lately. But she is happy to be out of hospital, because it means that she can finally have sherry for breakfast again. And whiskey for lunch. And wine for dinner….
Q, nothing will stop me from coming to see the Evanovich flick. Well, nothing Cert IV related, anyway.
Sounds like mixed news about Grandma, Catty. She must be mighty relieved to be out of hospital, but the face cancer sucks. Still, even though the application has been delayed, hopefully the cream will kick in. She sounds like a fighter – fingers crossed.
I don’t think sherry’s the go for breakfast, though – she should try vodka and orange – or if she’s got bladder problems, maybe a Cosmopolitan, for the cranberry.
No bladder problems for Gran, but there are for everyone else. She has a special frame set up over the inlaws’ loo, so anyone who wants the loo has to move the scaffolding out of the way first. As they have a very narrow WC, it can take a bit of time and effort – especially if, like me, your legs are crossed while trying to get the bloody thing out of the way. My boys don’t mind so much, as they have taken to nipping outside to pee on the fence when we’re visiting. They told their sister to do the same, but unsurprisingly, she was a little reluctant.
Children are funny, aren’t they?
Mine love nothing better than going outside to pee. I used to encourage them to do it on the lemon tree… which subsequently died.
Hmm… I wonder if there’s a cause-effect thingy going on here…
On the topic of pissing in the wind, I read a Nick Earls blog yesterday talking about the Worst Book Tour Ever (if I had to do them they’d ALL compete for that award) and he was saying that thanks to the advent of the e-book there are now writers around who can sell millions of books on Amazon without ever having to go through the pain and suffering involved in meeting their audience.
Sounds fabulous.
I remember listening to some agent talk about this at some bookish event, years ago, and she said that no agent would be willing to publish you if you weren’t willing to publicize your book. Which promptly inspired me to quit writing. FK that for a joke.
Dare I think that there’s hope that those days are passing us by?
Earls was of the opinion – and I agree – that generally its much better for the book and the general public not to expose the author to such close scrutiny by the public. If E-books are what it takes to make it so, then All Hail my new master, the Kindle.
Not that I plan to get one.
I heard on the radio how there’ve been studies done showing that if you suffer from insomnia, reading on a kindle tends to make it worse. its the effect of the light, presumably on the hypothalmic-pituitary feedback system, the workings of which I’ve already consigned to dead memory cells, but it made sense at the time.
If I’m forced to choose between sleep and saving the forests, then Sorry mother nature, but Trees Will continue to die.
Speaking of death and things that invoke the longing for it’s sweet release, how many days a week are you stuck with Cert IV?
The Kindle has one great advantage – no more book shelves. If it keeps you awake at night, though, I’m not as keen as I was. I’ll check the literature.
Cert IV claims me on Monday, but the homework seems to be marathon-length and exceptionally tedious. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself, surely flagellating myself morning and night would do instead?
You have children, Madam. You are already suffering enough for a dozen flagellations.
Here’s an example of how children can stuff you around. A couple of weeks ago, I bought school shoes for the kidlets. I made sure there was extra room in the toes so they could grow a bit. The kidlets complained that the shoes were too big, but I insisted. Then this morning, when they put their new shoes on for the first day of school, the two oldest kidlets complained that their shoes were too tight.
I may have to kill myself.
you can’t do that, Catty, then MM would be stuck with the burden of keeping me sane all by herself.
meanwhile, is it just me or is there some weird rule of thumb over at CBG that says that if a boy is having a bad day they can take it out on one of the womenfolk and then plead ‘Aw, I was having a bad day, kicking a girl in the guts seemed like a good idea.’
Why is it when they’re having a bad day they don’t think to kick Orin in the guts?
FKN male bullying.
I’d only just started lurking back there, but I might have to go back to avoiding it.
Blech.
No, it isn’t just you Aunty Q. I’m sorry for Mick & I know how it feels to lose your parents but you’re quite right. JB’s title included ‘Telstrarse’ or something and others bagged the company (can’t be bothered going back to see) but it was Catty who copped the sprays. Although he did at least call bullshit on my argument – which I still maintain – and I’m kind of male when I last looked. It looked pretty bleeding obvious actually – no one had a good word for T, but hey, single out the woman for abuse. At least Lobes hasn’t been around lately, though Orin can be, er, dogmatic.
It’s funny too but I’m pretty sure that in those months when everyone seemed to be dying, I took great care to be kind to them & everyone else. No wobblies chucked at work or home afaik. I guess it affects different people differently, not that I can’t be a cranky bugger!
I’m coming to realise that foot-binding is the only answer, Catty. If we say it’s for religious reasons, I reckon we’ll get away with it. Should also dramatically reduce the incidence of running around like mad things, owing to the excruciating pain.
You, GB – cranky? Surely not.
LIfe’s too short to cop abuse from those dropkicks, Q. I still haven’t forgiven them for the blatant misogyny of… what, is it two years ago now?
For superior grudge endurance – “Fun In a Box”
Got to agree with that, Madam. It is much nicer here in the Box. You’re doing a sterling job of keeping the riff-raff away. And where else would I get such useful advice as foot binding to prevent having to fork out on new school shoes? Which reminds me – do I use cotton bandages, or elastene?
Thanks for backing me up at CBG, everyone. It was tempting to write something spiteful back at Mick, but after hearing his news, I’m glad I didn’t. You’re right, Greybeard, it does affect people differently. You managed to be kind to everyone, but I didn’t. After Nan died in July, some sock puppet or other at CBG was being an arse (with extra frostings of arse), and I vaguely recall giving them a schelacking before wandering back here to hang out with the humans. Can’t remember which sock puppet, though, and can’t bring myself to care.
Quokka, I’d like to propose a solution for the bully boys. Force them to drink one litre of soy milk (minimum) every single day for three months. All those phytoestrogens will give them a refreshing change of perspective – and will also do wonders for their man boobs.
Mmm… phytoestrogens.
Something with little or no give, Catty – tear a feed bag into strips, perhaps, or repurpose any unwanted curtains… the nice stiff ones with thermal backing would be ideal.
I’ve got a rotten stinking summer cold and I feel as miserable as a giraffe. Also, my nose is so blocked I can’t taste my coffee – I hate that!
Whinge, whinge, grizzle grizzle.
Oh, no! Poor Madam. Whinge away, you have every right to grizzle about a crappy thing like that. Summer colds are horrible – it’s too bloody hot for chicken soup and vicks vapour rub.
The Boss swears by icy poles for summer colds. You may need to send one of your minions… uh, I mean, children… out to buy you a box of Frosty Fruits. Or three, if the Boss’s prolific consumption is any indication. He went through an entire box of those Life Saver icy poles yesterday, but I think the 33ºC heat and his hangover had a lot to do with that.
Get well soon, Madam. I’m sending you healing thoughts – but no icy poles. We’ve run out. Probably just as well, they don’t seem to do too well in the post.
Summer colds suck the big one.
Hope you are collecting cooties in a vial and preparing to let loose this plague upon your Cert IV teacher, the better to punish him/her for dumping so much homework on you.
Catty I’d go with duct tape for the foot binding. It has the added advantage of being useful to silence any pesky requests for ice-cream and hayrides when you return to the Mall to replace the school shoes.
FWIW, I don’t think it’s bad behaviour to kick a troll in the nuts when provoked, regardless of whether or not you’re having a bad day. If ignoring them isn’t working and they’re intent on targeting you, a good schellacking is the only thing that works to get them to back off.
Crankiness is part of the human experience. We all have bad days.
Taking it out on a soft target, when a dozen other people are doing the same thing, is just bullying, plain and simple.
FWIW, my assessment of apologies is thus:
1. Apology + remorse/understanding that you’ve hurt your target & commitment to behave better in future = Acceptable. Tick.
2. Apology + justification for the behaviour = apology negated by the excuse. i.e. person apologizing clearly feels behaviour is justified & will repeat offend.
3. Apology + justification + ‘poor bugger me’ + efforts to divert sympathy from the target onto the bully = Manipulative ****. Back away ASAP.
Possibly I’m being hard & unforgiving, but given that I come from 3 generations of battered women & I’ve somehow managed to avoid that fate, find a good spouse, and build a good life for myself, I think I’ll stick with calling it Good Instincts based on a lifetime of observation of how revolting men operate – and I’m calling it BS over at CBG. I think I’ll take a break – I just find it too disheartening when some bully decides to lash out one of the womenfolk and the guys all respond by holding his hand and saying ‘You poor bastard.’
My father got squished dead by a stolen car when I was 15 and I managed to get through the days and years that passed without bullying anyone. If a grown man of three times that age cannot do the same then I would think it’s time to get help, and grow TF up.
Grr.
Kudos to the guys over there that don’t fall for the BS, and who call it when they see it, but Jeebus, some days I wonder WTF is going on that there’s just such a strong tendency over there for the guys to slip into that behaviour and that the others don’t even see it.
God help the women that live with some of these guys. Their lives must be hell.
Mmm… icy poles.
Thanks for the healing thoughts, Catty. I feel better already. Although that may have something to do with the handful of aspirin I swallowed for lunch.
Don’t worry, Q – since I have no choice but to attend tomorrow… you can’t make up a missed class… I’ll be breathing plenty of vile germs into the air-conditioning system. That’ll teach them for trying to educate me!
The problem at CBG might be related to pack mentality. Behaviour that they may not get away with individually can be supported and perpetuated by the group. As with Vikings, or outlaw bikie gangs.
True, but I’m happy to blame iggerance and queensland made beeyar.
Madam, remember to moan a lot. Don’t make the mistake of suffering in silence. Hey, can you vomit on cue? Or, better yet, on the teacher?
The Boss said the same thing as you did, Quokka, and thinks I’m a wuss for not giving Mick some of his own back. He also says he’d be very very surprised if Mick really did have a dead father, as everyone these days is using a dead relative as an excuse for rudeness, ineptitude, tardiness, harassment, dishonesty, you name it. I have to admit, we’ve been cornholed by 4 different eBay sellers in the last three months, and ALL of them have used a dead relative as an excuse for not sending our purchased item and then refusing to give our money back. Also, the Boss has had several incidents at work lately where people have tried to excuse their bad behaviour with the whole “My MIL died, I just buried Uncle Fred, my cat was eaten by a python” thing. He’s taken to responding with “Piss off, mate”.
Meanwhile, it’s getting late down here in daylight savings land, so I’d better go find my roll of duct tape for the kidlets’ feet. They have school tomorrow.
You called it, Catty, and so did others. I think that’s all you can do when someone is trying to start a fight. Giving them a fight just gives them what they want, and then it divides the whole community – look at any conversation that Lobes has started trouble in for proof of that.
And at least he backed down, and there are some people there with enough smarts to see right through it.
You have a point with the Lame Excuse.
Can we turn this into a business opportunity, somehow?
I mean, surely, with our combined creativity and experience of total A$$hats, we must be able to produce some sort of literature outlining much more creative reasons for being a bastard?
I can understand why being recently bereaved may make you a bit slack in dispatching things… but how the hell does that justify also keeping people’s money? “Poor old dead Dad was always a rip-off merchant – he would have wanted it this way.”
I’m pretty sure we floated the idea of an excuse agency before. I’m still keen. Here’s one to get us started:
“I’m very sorry I haven’t completed those financial reports. My neighbour has been experimenting with bringing extinct species back to life through gene splicing – and a thylacine ate my flash drive.”
How about, “I’m sorry I didn’t send you a birthday card. My alien abductors forgot to remove the anal probe, and it was just too painful to walk to the post office”.
But it was!
Ouch.
I’m not going to be sitting down for a quite a while after reading that one.
I have been doing little else. I’ve been working my way through the Stefanie Plum series again & am up to 5. gosh it’s nice not to have to waste time studying (apologies to those being tormented by the edjamacational system – MM)
The Bloke spent the weekend on the couch opposite me giggling over the book I gave him for his BD – Steve Hely’s ‘How I became a famous novelist’. Someone on staff in the bookshop told me it was hilarious, which it must be, as the bloke hasn’t put it down. Looking forward to reading that next.
Two more weeks till the Morelli-Plum adventure hits the big screens, MM. have you got your babysitter booked for a lunch and movie date?
Sounds delightful – enjoy! Why should be all suffer?
I will have to consult my babysitter and get back to you, Q – but given cricket, etc. I’m thinking if I burn down the Bruce as soon as cricket has finished one Saturday, we should be able to make something like a 3 p.m. session.
Sound feasible?
Excuse me now while I go and waste my few remaining brain cells on Occupational Health and Safety. I think I feel a bad back coming on….
Heh heh. If the course is making you feel litigious as well, then you’re learning fast.
Sounds like a good plan to me. I’ll email you.
Ah, modern times. When I were a lad, ‘work’ meant looking busy when the manager walked by. Nowadays, ‘work’ means looking busy safely when the OH&S officer walks by.
Mostly, “work” to me has “home” stuck in front of it and equals a big headache for me on Thursday afternoon when the offspring scramble to finish everything they haven’t done all week to hand it in on Friday.
Hey, what day is it today? Strangely, I feel a sharp pain behind my left eye…
When I feel a sharp pain behind my left eye, it usually means Aunt Irma is nomming my brain. Which probably means Aunt Irma is a zombie. A transvestite faerie zombie. And a bitch. (mustn’t forget bitch).
Work at the moment is prefaced by ‘house’ – which means I’m avoiding it, hiding on the couch with another Stefanie Plum novel.
Meh.
I’m thinking of running away and living some place where there’s snow all year round. Whaddya reckon…do you think Swedish backpackers are as annoying in their homeland as they are in ours?
I tell you what I do think… there’d be a markedly decreased incidence in pay-TV salesmen and their ilk knocking at your front door if they had to battle through 8 foot of snow to get there.
I’m in!
Snowed in, for your first preference, I’m guessing?
Delicious, cold, cold, snow.
As long as I can have some sort of gas-powered central heating – I’m not a great wood-chopper.
Maybe I could hook a line up to Catty’s husband?
You might want to reconsider that idea, Madam, or you could freeze to death. The Boss is like me – when something needs doing, procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate! Sure, the job gets done eventually, but they don’t call us the Mañanas for nothing.
Meanwhile, Melbourne’s weather is being as capricious as ever. If it wasn’t for these hot flushes, I’d be freezing.
Oh, I didn’t think he’d chop wood for me, Catty – I thought I could harvest gas from him.
If we could bottle that man’s farts, the Army would probably buy the lot for chemical warfare purposes.
He might be outlawed under the Geneva Convention, in that case.
Have you ever wanted to visit The Hague?
No, no, no, Madam, it’s spelled “Haigh”, and I’ve already visited it several times with Mayhem. They have the BEST chocolate.
The truly fabulous thing about Haigh’s was that there were two other chocolate shops in the same arcade.
Yeah, I love it. I keep looking for houses on acreage for sale within walking distance of the arcade, but strangely there don’t seem to be any.
I’d settle for a bunk in the Hopetown Tea House. How high were those ceilings? They looked like they’d fit a triple decker bunk in one corner and you’d only need to evict two teensy little tables.
It would be much more profitable for them to have our crew in there in permanent residence. Even if it was only a 10 day long Aunt Irma Special.
Hmm…come to think of it, that could clear out the nervous among their clientele…
Bunk beds make me nervous. How about an Aunt Irma delivery service, direct to couch, instead?
So long as they deliver the entire contents of the shop window. I’d be a satisfied woman, staring at that for the duration of Aunt Irma’s visit.
You have marvellous self control, Quokka. If they dumped that lot in front of me, it wouldn’t last 24 hours, let alone the entire duration of Aunt Irma’s visit.
Heh heh. Good point. Still, what can I say – when it comes to desserts, I like to look.
Mmm… chocolate-to-couch delivery.
I thought I’d be writing this from an orthopaedic ward, I did something terrible to my back at the markets. There was a lot more heavy lifting than usual, hauling trailers and BBQs and things around, because the boss was in a cricket final so his wife was doing the cooking yesterday.
I was okay coming home, but then about 4-5 hours later I got an excruciating pain between my shoulder blades, radiating down both arms. Swallowed aspirin by the handful, some Mersyndol left over from Aunt Irma, but nothing would shift it.
Luckily, when I woke up this morning it’s not nearly so bad.
What do you reckon, Q – muscle strain?
And they say hard work never killed anyone. Huh.
They lied. Hard work has killed lots of people. Look at me.
Oh, sorry, I must have been thinking of that old adage, “aardvark never killed anyone”.
Nasty.
Hard to tell without poking it but if its feeling better then odds are it’s in the tissue rather than the bones.
Have you got a heat pad you can put on it?
BTW folks, my MAC seems to have acquired a pron stalker so I hope its not contagious. Beeso very kindly tried to help me fix it but it’s beyond even his skill. Am off to the Mac Shop at Chermside later this week for expert help.
Sigh.
Every time I try to google search, pron sites come up.
My Mac had a bad Google Pron infection a while back, but it appears to have cleared up now. I fixed it with my usual technique – hitting the computer and swearing.
Unfortunate, Q.
Sounds like a computer STD – hopefully it will respond to some e-penicillin.
Having spent the day in college, I’ve now got a headache to match my backache. It’s nice to have a co-ordinated set, with Valentine’s Day coming up and all.
Someone needs a massage. I prescribe scented oils & hot packs.
Forget all that, Greybeard. Morganarama needs her Plumber.
Nonsense. What she needs is a serial killer.
That’d take care of the homework/big brother interference, at any rate.
Hope you feel better soon MM. If it’s any consolation Damien & his missus have both hurt their backs too, so it’s going around.
The bloke is away in FNQ on construction related business once again. His boss asked him timidly last week how much trouble there’d be if he was away on Valentine’s Day.
At which point the Bloke collapsed with laughter and said ‘You haven’t met my wife.’
My great fear is that if/when I make it to the grim fiery landscape of the Underworld, Valentine’s Day and Groundhog Day are one and the same thing.
Hehehe… Groundhog Valentine’s.
A festive day celebrated by eating chocolate in the snow, and running around frightened of your own shadow.
More like a festive six weeks of eating chocolate while jumping at shadows… no, wait, that’s Lent.
Speaking of which, I found Easter eggs in the supermarket the other day but was most annoyed to see that they only had the crappy NRL colours eggs. When I went looking for the good ones (Red Tulip) there were none in the store.
I didn’t buy them because I’m operating on the assumption that NRL eggs are probably every bit as distasteful to me as NRL players. Well, that and I might wake up the next day with chlamydia.
Chlamydia is such a pretty word (IMHO) it’s a pity it’s an STD. Sounds like some doe-eyed Greek lass with masses of dark curls. But I still don’t want to wake up the next day with chlamydia. Of either kind.
Lyn got an odd call last night. An old friend is having someone to dinner on Friday who is apparently fiercely opinionated & pedantic. So she asked if Lyn could come too and bring me. As . . . ? Meh. I get lamb roast and the friend is a great cook so how bad can it be?
I’d say you’ve been invited as comic relief, GB.
Done! (Digs out book of Groucho Marx quotes & fake cigar)
Can someone please explain to me where Easter and Rugby League intersect?
Why the hell do people need Easter eggs in their team’s colours?
They should be satisfied with red spotted ones, filled with silky, delicious caramel and smothered in rich Red Tulip chocolate…. mmmm…
Sorry, what were we talking about?
I used to make chocolate crackle filled eggs for the kids. Also banded dark-milk-white ones. All solid of course – none of this “hollow egg” commercial nonsense. And yes, I am fat.
Easter eggs are on my “can’t be fagged” list this year, so I’ll probably just send everyone these:
http://www.getprice.com.au/Flat-Pack-Easter-Egg-Bar-Gpnc_372–62858037.htm
(Some assembly required).
Very nice, Catty.
They’d just slip right into an envelope, too, wouldn’t they?
Greybeard, my mind refuses to form a picture of you making chocolate crackle. There’s something intrinsically wrong, there.
I can, but it would probably snap and pop first.
Suddenly, I’m craving Cocoa Pops.
And copha? Maybe I should revive the egg making. Nothing says Happy Northern Hemisphere Spring Fertility Festival like a chocolate egg so solid you could stun a rabbit with it. Or getting drunk & dancing naked around a fire – that works too.
I like to call it “Man nailed to a stick” day.
But you know me.
Yeah, getting sloshed and dancing is a favourite around these parts. But when I let it all hang out, I prefer not to let it get too close to an open fire.
Solid chocolate noms, however, are always welcome.
I found Red Tulip Rabbits when I was at Woollies yesterday. Curiously I didn’t find cous cous, which was on the shopping list – and Rabbits were not.
I also found malteser eggs, the little baby ones.
Didn’t we have this conversation last year?
I swear I’m getting deja vu.
Then again, that could be because chocolate forms the basis of much of our conversation here.
I didn’t see any chocolate flat pack easter eggs, Catty, but I’ll keep an eye out for those… just for a giggle. Probably wouldn’t buy one. Easter may be Man on a Stick day for MM but for me it is Red Tulip Rabbit Day. We always eat far too many of them but as Nat pointed out, when else in the year do you see Red Tulip chocolate?
You make a good point, Q.
What on earth do Red Tulip do with themselves for the rest of the time?
I think they should establish a presence at other times of the year, too. Australia Day chocolates, May Day chocolates, Winter Solstice chocolates…
They can wrap them all in red-spotted foil as far as I’m concerned, too. I’m only in it for the noms.
That would attach marketing levy on whatever hallmark holiday they’re promoting. I’d rather see Shopping Day chocolates in the aisles, every day I’m there.
We could start an e-petition, for year-round Red Tulip.
Or just stockpile, I suppose.
I’d go for the stockpile. It’ll be handy when the Chocopalypse comes and there is NO MORE CHOCOLATE.
I was told 30 years ago that Red Tulip made Pink Lady chocolates for export, but Cadbury acquired Red Tulip in the 80′s, so I guess I was told wrong. Even if it had been true it wouldn’t have mattered. All Easter eggs taste completely different from their manufacturer’s year-round bars.
Oh, and Greybeard? Wash your mouth out.
I think he should come back and try saying that when Aunt Irma is around. She’d show him.
Meh.
Well, I am taking my pron-ridden IMAC off to the tech wizards at Apple today. Oh happy joy joy. Beeso’s assessment of the problem was that I should junk everything and start again. If you don’t hear from me in the next 24 hours, better email me your blog site addresses again as I may well be starting from Scratch.
Plus side – I’m pretty sure there’s a Darrell Lea near the Apple shop so I will be stocking up on peanut brittle to get myself through the readjustment period.
Wish me luck!
Good luck, Q!
A pron-infested computer is bad, but at least it’s not the Chocopalypse.
Happy brittling, and I hope it’s better than you think. The computer, I mean. I’m sure the brittle will be just as good as you expect.
The problem is, Catty, I never see Pink lady chocolates anywhere, either. Which brings us back to stockpiling. A climate-controlled chamber would be ideal, perhaps underground… Do you think we could trust Mayhem’s Mum and the rats? Nuh, don’t suppose we could.
Well, I think Greybea… I mean, ‘Mayhem’s Mum’, only eats ratatouille (or was it lemonade scones?), and the rats themselves are apparently busy eating all the cables to NT’s computers, so the chocolate might actually be safe for a while… so long as we don’t tell Fifi it’s there.
Good luck with the computer, Quokka. I still say hitting it and swearing would have been cheaper and more satisfying, but at least you get peanut brittle. Mmmm….
Looks like Q’s computer is still on the operating table.
Or else she’s lolling on the couch in a delirious brittle coma.
Lets hope it’s the latter.
That sounds scary. Without Quokka to keep them in line, those cats will run amok. I can hear them now… “First Casa Quokka, then the WORLD! MEOWHAHAHAHAHAAAA!”
You’re both right.
I couldn’t bear to reboot the GD thing until this morning – at least this way I got to enjoy my weekend. Or that was the theory.
In reality the Bloke played golf most of yesterday and I crawled around on my hands and knees in the shower recess, scrubbing the mould between the glass tiles with extra strength Bathroom Plus Bam.
I’m still seeing purple dots & am having slightly more sympathy for Elf Boy’s plight.
Plus side, while the bloke was wandering the lengths of some shark infested water trap, I got in some quality couch time.
I’m onto Stephanie Plum no. 17 and I think I’ve gained 2kilos just from reading what she and Lula eat.
For some reason I can’t get either of your blogs to appear in my bookmark bar. Bizarre.
The Bloke is in FNQ for three days and I’m reminding myself that if he was here he’d be absolutely no use anyway. Well, he might take me out to lunch or to dinner to take my mind of it and it always lifts my spirits to see him punching the keyboard and muttering obscenities at the MAC so thats what I’m missing, I guess.
Now that I’ve plugged the MAC back in my POS mobile phone has decided to play up.
Murphy’s law of technology – fix one appliance, and another will go out in sympathy.
It better live a while longer, no way can I face another trip to the Shopocalypse this early in the week.
Glad you survived, Quokka. Do you reckon you could pop around and do my shower while you’re at it? I can’t be fagged doing it today, thanks to an unpleasant altercation with the stupid vacuum cleaner.
My bookmarks are playing up, too. We tagged several properties we’re interested in (plus a few in Tasmania that I haven’t talked the Boss out of yet), but they’ve all disappeared. Maybe it’s a sign that we’re not meant to move to Tassie? Or maybe it’s a sign that we ARE meant to toss the bloody Mac onto the footpath. It’s tempting, but every time I resolve to trash to bloody thing, I use the in-laws’ Windows 7 PC, and remember why I have a Mac in the first place. Stupid Windows.
Meanwhile, I hope you’re all set for Pancake Tuesday tomorrow. I’ve bought the most marvellous dark chocolate sauce for my pancakes. It’s going to be delicious. If there’s any left. (I’ve already had quite a few swigs directly out of the bottle.)
Oh dear – I just heard thunder outside. I’d better switch off the Mac. Catch you all later.
Tasmania?
Oh, please do move to Tasmania. And I shall come to visit you for all of summer – pencil me in.
I hope you enjoy 17, Q. I was given 18 for Christmas and I have to say, although I still love Evanovich, they’re getting a bit sameish. I’m looking forward to the next in the Deadly Sins, though, she’s got more scope for new territory there, I think.
It was Marketing at The College of The Brain Dead, today. Just kill me now.
I have plenty of maple syrup, but too much homework to have time to make pancakes. Can I just pour syrup on toast, or administer it by the spoonful? It wouldn’t really be in the Shrove Tuesday spirit, I suppose.
Poor MM. At least you were out of the heat yesterday, it was truly gruesome.
As for Janet – I think they’ve been the same since 4 or 5 but I so enjoy the way she speaks (well, writes, really) that I keep reading them anyway. I’m off to the bookstore soon to claim 18 and a special order that’s come in, and I’m looking forward to having the full collection again, as they’ve been pilfered by friends/family/random book thieves. They’re standard summer reading, for me.
It’s pancake day? Nooo!
Catty don’t disown me, but I bought organic sourdough rye when I was in the grocery store last night – and that was breakfast. it was a compromise as I couldn’t find the German black rye that I was after.
Aside from which, last winter’s bout of the 5 day V&D epidemic began after a final meal of buckwheat pancakes, yoghurt & maple syrup. I used to love pancakes but I’m still not ready to face down that particular item on the menu. Unfortunately once I’ve vomited it, my body seems to permanently mark the last consumed meal as a toxic substance.
I’m still pissed off that meal happened to be pancakes and couldn’t have been, say, Brussels Sprouts.
Happy pancake day to those of you who are keen to celebrate it – if I sneak in a Portuguese custard tart, does it count?
Mmm.. Portugese custard tart.
I was too busy with my Mouldering Homework to make pancakes this morning, so I’ll make some for dinner dessert.
As long as we get a storm.
If not, I won’t even be making the butter chicken I had planned for main course, and I’ll be dialling a pizza. If I can make it to the phone.
Amen to that. The cats have been trawling the house freaked out by the eery steam that was rising over the city this morning, thanks to the 32ml of rain we had between 2-4am. I can see the apocalypse on the radar and I’m looking forward to a good drenching.
I made a Thai red chicken curry (with the obligatory extra veg) in the slow cooker on the weekend, and it was fan-smurfing-tabulous. And being that there’s 4litres of it, it’s neatly packaged into the freezer in meal sized portions. I’d like to attempt it with butter chicken but I suspect it wouldn’t freeze well.
Butter chicken sounds fab but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to eat anything to follow it on a day as filthy hot as today.
Well, maybe pineapple sorbet, but I’m always ready to eat that.
Mmm… pineapple sorbet.
I can hear some impressive rolls of thunder but at present it’s still annoyingly sunny.
Bring it on!
If you can freeze Thai curry I’m sure you can freeze butter chicken. Catty, what do you reckon?
Who cares about pancakes. I’m ruined & by my own son. He dropped in with his housemate to borrow a cutlass & some ant poison. She was lovely – tall & very hip with a bowler hat, skinny jeans & lots of rings & piercings but above all, a sweet smile. So she went off and told some friends that I was “the cutest man she’d ever met, like a little Santa Claus.” And those friends repeated it on Twitter. Oh the laughter & the taunting & the mocking. Sure, I may have claimed to look like Gandalf on ‘roids but it’s not as though I thought I’d get sprung? My own son. Vengeance will be mine – I will repay!
(I do however care about Portuguese custard tarts.)
I don’t see why you’re worried. As with any credibility problem, simpley refer to Nbob for character assassination…er…referral.
BTW, you know the Oxford Street bakery does Portuguese Custard tarts some sort of fresh blueberry glaze on top? Haven’t tried them yet as I’m a purist but they do look good and deadly.
I adore glazed blueberries on French custard tarts, so the Portuguese ones are probably pretty wonderful too.
The butter chicken will freeze, but needs to be thawed slowly. Put it in the fridge the day before to defrost, and it’s fine.
Meanwhile, we had the most wonderful bananana pancakes for our dinner. I forced myself to leave a drizzle of the dark chocolate sauce, and it was even better on the pancakes than it was straight out of the bottle. Delightful! It should sustain me through the next 40 no-pancake days.
Greybeard, I’m not surprised you don’t want pancakes. You’d be more into fruitcake, and mince tarts, and shortbread, and all those other Christmassy foods wouldn’t you?
I expect cruelty & wickedness from my own flesh & blood, but . . . et tu Cattus?
I knew Catty would know.
GB, it could be much worse – at least she said you were cute.
BTW, what on earth were they planning to do with a cutlass and ant poison? A little curare smeared on the blade would be much more effective.
Thanks Catty. I will give it a go.
It didn’t even occur to me to feel perplexed about the cutlass and the ant poison. Thanks to the assembly of mad inmates in the buildings around Casa Quokka, I’ve learned it’s best not to question it.
Although the Bloke did shake his head when he realized that prior to using the electronic hedge trimmers, the guy next door loads up his poison pack and squirts toxic death on the 2mH x 10m W hedge. And then he follows up with the electronic hedge trimmers & inhales all the spider poison.
As the Bloke says, it must make sense in his mind.
We just prefer not to know how…
We are all best off not knowing. I learned that after asking about the milk bottles and the tuning fork.
Gosh, I’d forgotten the milk bottle and tuning fork. Weirdest. Sex. Toy. Ever. As long as you get the frequency right.
The frequency! Of course! That’s what I did wrong.
As far as frequency goes, I gather twice a week is average.
Doesn’t seem like very often, does it?
Ouch. That Hertz.
Hehehe.
Let’s get physics-al.
“He couldn’t look at her lissajous figure without thinking about simple harmonic motion.”
(Sorry. At Uni we were remarkably like the Big Bang Theory boys)
And she had an amazing Gauss.
OK. I’ve been out to lunch and the movies and I’m sitting here wondering how the Smurf you went from ant poison and spider bait and hedge trimmers to sexual innuendo.
Then again, this is what happens when I turn my back for five minutes.
You’re a sick bunch of puppies, you know.
Remind me never to leave any of you alone with my weeding wand.
I sincerely hope you obtained that weeding wand by annihilating the weed faerie with vicious malice.
Weeding wand?
I can’t think of anything to do with that – not even weeding. I’ve got a “born free” approach to weeds.
Weeds are the Boss’s problem. He handles all the outdoor stuff like mowing, and pool maintenance. The only thing he makes me do is prune the roses. (I think he might be scared of them.) I handle the inside stuff, like rearranging furniture to hide grott on the carpet, removing lightbulbs from bathrooms so nobody can see how disgusting the toilet is, delegating washing up to kidlets, and thinking up excuses for all the cobwebs.
Ah!
Removing lightbulbs from the bathroom.
Excuse me, I’ve just thought of something I should do – BRB.
She’s electrocuting the toilet seat, isn’t she?
No, that would only literally bite me in the bum.
I am thinking about electrifying the floor around the toilet, though, so any errant piddlers get a nasty shock.
Nah, Mythbusters disproved that one. Pity.