ataxophile

The Last Post

2010-12-31T22:58:00.000-08:00

Hello everybody.

This is the last post on Ataxophile.

The good news is I'm not moving far, and have a sparkling new blog with an almost sparkling new name. As the result of a stupid, stupid New Year's resolution I will now be blogging at The Hungry Ataxophile. I hope you can join me there.

It will be the greatest blog you have ever read. It has charming anecdotes, beautiful artwork, and possibly the occasional dog photo. And food. Lots about food. Go to the FAQ page to see what it's all about.

And happy New Year.

Ellen And The Day Spa

2010-12-19T17:17:00.001-08:00

As an early Christmas treat for Ellen we made her an appointment to have her hair done.

She was a little uncertain at first,

and she wasn't at all sure about having her ears washed,

but it didn't take her long to realise it was very nice having all that attention.

Even if a strange lady was doing things with a hose to her bottom.

And when it was all over, and she was nice and shiny, it was lots of fun to find things to roll in.

But the best fun of all was going to the dog park yesterday to show off her shiny new coat to her friends.

Doggy hydrobath: $35

Romp in a mud puddle with a ball two days later: priceless.

A Tasty Surprise

2010-12-09T16:33:00.000-08:00

I am a poor gardener, and a lazy and impatient one.

My compost, for example, is spread around the garden long before it has reached that crumbly, sweet-smelling stage. Before, in fact, it has really composted at all. Rather than compost, some might call it rubbish. Amongst my seedlings a keen eye can pick out whole apples, pumpkins, newspapers and even the odd not-terribly-compostible thing, like an onion bag or a wine bottle.

Anyway, a little while ago I had an urge to plant things. I'm not sure what came over me - perhaps I'd been watching Backyard Blitz, or perhaps the way the post-apocalyptic moonscape of our front yard was attracting foxes and carrion birds was starting to get to me. Whatever it was, I felt I wasn't going to feel fulfilled until I had spent hundreds of dollars and many hours planting a shrubbery.

Unsure where to begin on the Shrubbery Project, I thought I would build a mound. Plants like mounds, they are a fail safe conversation starter and they add enormous value to house prices.

So I emptied the compost bin on to the lawn, threw on some potting mix, chicken poo and lucerne that I found in the garage, and inserted some plants.

I was very proud of my Shrubbery and I loved it.

And my Shrubbery was nurtured by my love and by the mystery nutrients of the compost, and lo it did grow and grow and grow.

And grow.

And it became a big green monster that scared away all the foxes.

And it grew some things that I hadn't even asked it to grow, but I left them there out of a mixture of fear and curiosity.

But then the Fella beheld my Shrubbery, and he said that the mystery things were not Good Things, and that we should remove them because they were bullying our very expensive proper plants.

So we pulled up the biggest one, and guess what we found underneath.....

Thousands upon thousands of magnificent purple potatoes! Well, sixteen of them.

And I wasn't the only one licking my lips.

YouTube-torial

2010-12-04T18:25:00.000-08:00

The other night the Fella was saying to me that he'd never really spent any time on YouTube.

Had no interest.

Didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

Obviously, I couldn't let that pass. When considered along with other grumblings of the week ("Lady Gaga? Who? WHAT? Where are my slippers?????", or "WTF is a LOLcat???"), it became clear that the Fella was in desperate need of An Education.

We started out with the basics, and although the Fella tried to look nonchalant, I could see that he was starting to get excited. He was, in fact, chalant.

We spent a long time looking at the classics. Longer than we wanted.

But the Fella was able to press on through these frustrations long after I had tired of the lesson.

Usually I am indefatigable when it comes to plundering the treasures of the interwebs, but even I have my limits.

I don't think he noticed when I went to bed, and I couldn't tell you if he joined me that night.

Under The Knife

2010-11-15T19:08:00.000-08:00

Today I've been thinking about how I could improve my life through plastic surgery.

My favorite magazine tells me that I'm of that age where I should be concerned about fine lines, sunspots (and not just because they disrupt satellite communications), free radicals wreaking havoc on my antioxidants and the inexorable retreat of perkiness in all my moving parts. And in my parts that aren't supposed to move.

But they say plastic surgery is addictive, and that even after enduring great pain and expense the first time, there is a driving urge to get a second, a third, a fourth and many more procedures. It's like getting your first cat. And I'm starting to recognise my propensity to this kind of addiction. When I told astrocave that I was thinking of getting a kitten to keep Stuart company and help control his violent outbursts, he told me that when you have a problem with a cat, and your solution is to get a second cat, then you're officially a Crazy Cat Woman.

But I digress.

There are many ridiculous and frightening cosmetic procedures out there: injection of botulism into the face, bleaching of things that should never be bleached, butt lifts, brushing teeth, removal of ribs, and, well, the list goes on and on.

These operations do not actually increase anyone's quality of life, but with a little creative thinking enormous improvements could be made through the realisation of the full potential of cosmetic surgery. If I had enough money, these are the little nip tucks I would have done:

Have my right arm replaced with another left arm. I am left-handed and have very little use for a right arm.
Have my eyes put in chameleon-like sockets. This would make me a better parallel parker.
Make the legendary "dessert stomach" a reality.
Get some antlers. For intimidation and holding yarn.
Have my middle fingers extended by 10cm. To help with road-rage and eating peanut butter.
Have one of my knees reversed. To help me run in circles.
Get my underpants tattooed on.
Extra teeth.

I'd keep the fine lines though. It's important not to look as though you've had any work done.

Stuart's Song. Inspired by The Events Of The Past Twenty-Four Hours. With Apologies To Hunters & Collectors

2010-11-11T16:02:00.000-08:00

I will come for you at night time
I will bite you in your sleep
I will vomit in four places
So watch out where you put your feet
I will squeeze the rage out of you
I will make you scream and make you cry
And we will never forget it
I will make you call my name
And you'll shout it with clenched fists to the sky
And we are sure to do this again
So don your gloves and let's get started
And I will throw my breakfast around me
Yeah, I will throw my breakfast around me

I woke you up at night time
And I attacked you in your sleep
I licked my private places
And then I licked your head and scratched your feet
So if I disappear out of view
You'd better lift your feet up on your chair
And though you try to forget it
I will make you call my name
And you'll shout it with clenched fists to the sky...
And we are sure to do this again...
So grab your Savlon, grab your gauze
And I will throw my claws around you
Yeah, I will throw my claws around you
Oh...yeah...
Ohhh yeah...
I will throw my claws around you...
Yeah, I will throw my claws around you....

Now What?

2010-11-02T15:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my thesis was bound.

I will not look at it again before I submit it on Friday. I know that if I check over it now any spelling errors will be immediately obvious, even though during proof-reading they hid from view like the proverbial clown fish in the caesar salad.

So, in the words of Simon and Garfunkel, I've got nothing to do today but smile.

Or, less appropriately, as the Beatles said, I am the walrus. Goo goo goo joob.

Or perhaps The Bedroom Philosopher put it best: I just felt like ice-cream wrapped in biscuit crumbs.

However true those sentiments are, today is not a day of rest for me. For a start, yesterday I found an Easter egg behind the washing machine. Either we have an infestation of bunnies, or I have found Stuart's secret chocolate stash.

I'm heading into the laundry very soon with my reaching stick to find out which it is.

I'm Sorry Lissy, I'm Afraid I Can't Do That

2010-10-18T23:44:00.000-07:00

The most glorious thing about living in our age is technology. Where our ancestors worked themselves into the grave by the age of thirty-five harvesting corn, we can go to the Coles website and order corn. If we can't be bothered constructing a whole meal around it, we can order corn fritters instead. Hell, if we can't even be bothered chewing, we can order creamed corn.

The point is that computers can come to the rescue for just about any "Meh, let someone else do it" scenario. And they're very good at it. Even obsequious in their desire to please.

At least, they always have been.

Today, my computer gave up on me. In a most unwelcome realisation that nobody can make it do stuff it doesn't want to do, it decided it was all too hard, and it would rather sit back and make grindy whirry noises rather than be my slave any longer.

So it presented me with this message:

For the record, there were NOT too many spelling or grammatical errors. It was just sick of proof-reading for me.

And the obstinance didn't end there. When I accepted I would have to work things out for myself, it thwarted my every attempt.

Failed? You didn't even try.

I hate you, computer.

Happy As A Pig In The Proverbial

2010-10-18T00:21:00.000-07:00

Today Ellen and I went to the dog park for a bit of a treat.

Ellen found the only mud-puddle, and led all the other dogs into it. Even though they hadn't shown any interest before.

She had a very lovely time.

And took all that mud back into the car.

Ten Things I Would Do If I Had A Monkey

2010-10-14T23:56:00.000-07:00

I would call him Gerald. I would not get a female monkey. Female monkeys are too ambitious.
I would teach Gerald to drive and make him drive me to the supermarket on a Saturday morning, and if we couldn't find a park, he would wait in a no standing zone while I went in and got crisps and milk for me, and monkey food for him.
I would let Gerald have a Facebook page. Until he tired of it.
I would go into a cafe with him and the waiter would say, "You can't bring a monkey in here," and I would say "What monkey?" and the waiter would get confused, and he would say, "OK, what do you want?" and I would say "I'd like a latte, one of those caramel slices and a banana."
I would teach Gerald to speak when he wanted something, and he would teach me to screech when I wanted something.
I would make Gerald brush his teeth, but he could only use his own toothbrush, or the Fella's.
Sometimes I would dress Gerald up and put him in a pram and wheel him around, and when people came over to coo and stick their fingers in the pram, he would bite them before they could recoil in horror.
I would play Scrabble with Gerald and take advantage of his poor spelling. I would always keep score, so I would never let him win.
I would make Gerald walk Ellen.
I would teach Gerald to format a large bibliography and ensure references were consistent throughout the body of a large thesis.

Actually, it's mostly number 10 that I want a monkey for today.

A Very Quick Post On Account Of There Being Very Important Things I Should Be Doing Instead

2010-10-08T22:52:00.000-07:00

Today I am supposed to be writing a thesis. It's less than four weeks till I'm submitting it, and there are still many things to do.

Nonetheless, this morning I tore myself away from it to go to Fyshwick.

No, not for that.

They're not allowed to sell us fireworks anymore. (By that, I mean Canberrans - not just me and the Fella.)

I went to the pet shop. Honestly. And I bought one of those tennis ball throwing-stick thingies, and the Fella was most disdainful, and then I cried a bit and I reminded him that of all my school reports, the one that still stings me is the Grade One report where my teacher observed "Lissy cannot throw or catch balls." And then the Fella felt really bad and said he'd buy me a present, or bake me a lemon-based dessert. I can't remember which. Maybe it was both. Yes, now I think about it, it was both.

The point of the story is that today I realised there are lots of things I like about Canberra. As I was driving along on my merry way to Fyshwick, a car passed me that had a lacy blue bra fastened to its front grille. Of course it's possible that it was residual evidence of a hit and run, but I think it was intended to be a parody of that strange accessory, the car bra.

Canberrans appreciate the visual pun, and can chortle about it with their friends at the Farmers' Market.

Whereas, if you tried it in any other town people would think you were from Canberra.

Simply Not True

2010-09-30T01:52:00.000-07:00

As any number of women will tell you, there's nothing more fun than experiencing your Ladytimes.
And as Livebird will tell you, nothing makes the whole thing funner than reading the trivia that a certain brand of Ladyproducts puts on their adhesive strip covering. But like Livebird, I find that these gems are not always entirely accurate.

These fun facts range from the blatantly incorrect:"Mickey Mouse has four fingers on each hand"....

Image

.....to the unprovable and poorly worded: "The largest pumpkin ever grown recorded a weight of 482kg."

..... to the fruits of a wasted research grant: "The average person spends 2 weeks of their life waiting for a traffic light to change." Which light? GAAAAH!

Many, however, just seem to be lies that are easier to accept than argue with. Now, I'm no stranger to made up facts, but at least I try to make them sound plausible.

The statement that "The only animal that cannot jump is the elephant," for example, is a terrible falsehood.

Other animals that can't jump are:

slugs
corals
prawns (cooked)
earthworms
white men
hibernating bears

Do your research, people.

On The Naming Of Children

2010-09-17T18:17:00.000-07:00

Let me preface this post by saying I am NOT pregnant.

Sometimes when I've got nothing better to do I think about what I might name a baby.

A couple of years ago a friend of mine named his daughter Rowan, which I think is a beautiful name for a girl. But if Seinfeld has taught us nothing else, it's that friends don't steal other friends' baby names. Anyway, this friend of mine is a botanical type guy, and named the girl after the rowan bush, not Rowan Atkinson as I had initially thought.

I quite like the idea of naming a child after a plant. Not any plant, obviously - Carrotweed, Ficus, Spider Lily and Patterson's Curse are not good baby names. And naming Bindi Irwin after a noxious weed is not something the poor girl will be grateful for when she's out spreading the conservation message as an adult.

In fact, after I had looked into it, I realised Rowan is the only good plant name out there. Flowers provide plenty of pretty girl's names (Violet, Rose, Poppy, Dogwood), but options are limited if you want to go for the whole shrub. Some have poetic scientific names, but aren't so lovely if you know their common names:

Iresene = Chicken Gizzard

Nemantanthus = Clog Plant

Schefflera = Octopus Tree

Monstera = Swiss Cheese Plant

OK, maybe Monstera isn't all that pretty. But it's a pretty plant, which highlights the fact that not all that is beautiful in nature has a lovely name. Take birds, for example. With my plant options exhausted, I wondered if there was a pretty bird name I could use.

I suppose it reveals the inclination and limitations of my imagination that I could only come up with Tit, Boobie, Thrush, Goose, Peacock and Chook. And googling only added Warbler, Screaming Piha, Greater Yellowlegs, Lesser Yellowlegs, Oilbird and Giant Cowbird.

What do you think of Ellen for a girl and Stuart for a boy?

Oh, right.

A Post In Which The Title Gives Away The Entire Story, Or, "Ellen Steals My Banana."

2010-09-13T05:14:00.000-07:00

Oh, Stuart

2010-08-31T05:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I looked out the kitchen window to see a familiar black shape standing up on her hind legs and yanking at my last surviving broccoli plant.

Sigh.

I ran out with clappy hands and stompy ugg-boots and gruffness aplenty. Ellen ignored me, but I managed to push her away before she had completely destroyed the plant.

There were two florets left. Very small florets. Really small. The size of large grapes. Or very tiny watermelons. Or, like, if you had the skull of a monkey, but it was solid, and then you chiselled away most of it. They were that size.

So I decided I would eat my two florets in a stir-fry. I chopped up a selection of other vegetables, and then realised it was news time, so I put down my knife and went into the lounge to watch the headlines.

BANG. THUMP. SCUTTLE SCUTTLE SCUTTLE.

Crap.

I went back into the kitchen and there was a half-chewed broccoli floret on the floor, and cat hair on my chopping board. I picked up the last broccolus. One pathetic broccolus. I started to laugh hysterically, and then I was crying, and then I felt a little pop in my brain and I couldn't feel my left arm for a bit but I was strangely soothed.

$500 building a "dog-proof" garden. Three megalitres of water to sustain it. Nine hours lovingly picking grubs off the underside of leaves. One happy dog. One happy cat. One floret of broccoli.

Oh, Ellen

2010-08-29T04:39:00.000-07:00

Ellen has been a very good girl lately, which makes for poor blogging. But on the upside, my blood pressure has dropped, I no longer sit in the car with big eyes of fear and clenchy tummy of dread before venturing out to open the gate, and I've stopped grinding my teeth. I've even stopped looking at the RSPCA website to find a better dog.

Ellen has been so good, we've even started to go to the local oval for 'Yappy Hour' each day, where she runs around OFF LEAD, and has made lots of new friends. Some of them are big and slobbery, and some are small and annoying. Just like my friends!*

Such is my new found sense of inner peace that I'm able to start to delight again in the beauty around me. And one of the things I noticed this week is that our vegie garden has started to yield some very pretty, and some very tasty things.

The rocket has gone to flower, but that's OK. Nobody likes to actually eat it.

And a very cute little cauliflower was peeking out from behind its leaves.

It reminded me of that song:

Cauliflower, cauliflower,

Vegetable of Satan,

I hate yooooooouuuuu,

Vegetable of terror,

Vegetable of nastiness -

or are you a fruit?

Either way, you are dreadful.

Except with cheese sauce.

And broccoli! I noticed that we had grown a rather magnificent broccolus, and thought I might harvest some for my dinner.

Alas, when I went out with my knife, I found something had been nibbling at it.

But who had taken such delicate nibbles? Was it one of our possums? A hungry cockatoo? Or the guy who reads the electricity meter? It didn't really matter. What mattered was that it made me really angry. I was really angry and I also had a knife. And then I thought about all the other things that made me angry and my inner calm disappeared. But there was nothing to stab, so I used the knife to put my broccolus out of its misery.

And so I had a half-eaten broccolus in one hand, a knife in the other, and that twitch I get in my left eyelid when I'm losing control. And I was saying things like "nnnng," and "raahhrr." And grinding my teeth.

My fury lingered, but it wasn't long before the question of what to do with the molested brassica resolved itself with a pleading look and a waggy tail. What harm can it do? I thought, Ellen loves vegetables, and broccoli has to be better for her than the other things she eats. Like fence palings and small stones.

So Ellen got to crunch it up and enjoy its deliciousness.

Silly me.

Silly, silly me.

Of course, Ellen now has a taste for broccoli. So what did I find when I came home the following afternoon?

Ellen. Very pleased with herself. In a sea of green.

Ellen had pulled the plant up by its roots and chewed it into a million pieces. She had also tried the cauliflower, but as it was not as tasty, she simply chewed the top off the plant and spat the florets back into the garden.

This is where both plants used to stand proudly.

I have to go now. I need to spend some time on the RSPCA website.

* my OTHER friends, obviously. Not you.

The Only Blog Post Created Today That Doesn't Mention The Election.

2010-08-21T21:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we had a garage sale. As always, I was amazed by what people will buy, and how little they want to pay.

There was some rare treasure to be had. Like the novel that had been "Made into a disturbing erotic film starring Kris Kristofferson." Or the underpants emblazoned with the Guinness logo that a lady bought for her future daughter-in-law.

There were also what I like to call "non-premium" items. One of the things I sold was a stuffed dog I made for the Fella many years ago when I still had enthusiasm and motor skills. He wasn't a real dog, but he was really stuffed. We agreed to get rid of him because the Fella said he had a scary face. And he was right - the dog had maniac eyes, an overstuffed head and strange lips that were quite undoggy. He looked a little like Jeff McMullen, but much, much uglier.

This is probably the mental image you have, but please try a little harder. He looked nothing like this:

Original Image

A lady bought him for her grandson. She said the dog looked angry, like he wanted to bite her, and she hoped he didn't frighten the little boy. I was going to ask why she would give a youngster a toy like that, but I held my tongue. A sale's a sale, and I needed that two dollars. But for the rest of the day I kept thinking how much she must dislike that child.

Lessons From My Cat: #1

2010-08-15T23:57:00.000-07:00

These are the top ten things to do if you are angry:

Narrow your eyes to slits and try to make lasers come out of them.
Belt your favorite toy around the kitchen, and when it goes under the dishwasher yowl and yowl until your person gets it out with a broom. Repeat.
Wait until your person is carrying something hot. Grab her leg and sink your teeth in. You can precede this with one of your banshee yowls if you like, but the element of surprise is then ruined.
Pee on the dog's bed.
Vomit.
Cower and run away from your person when she has guests. This will make them think she beats you.
Wait until the dog's bed has been washed then pee on it again.
Make sure your bottom is hanging outside your litter tray.
Ignore the expensive cat grass your person has bought for you. Then, when she goes out, pull it out of its pot and trample dirt through the house. Then vomit.
Wait until your person is carrying something hot. Growl when she walks past. Enjoy her reaction.

Ranty Time

2010-08-10T03:18:00.000-07:00

Nothing annoys me more than the predictable comments people make when they're interviewed on the news. Well, a few things might technically annoy me more. Like Lady Gaga's 'Poker Face,' which I can't get out of my head even though I don't know the words, so it's just a constant loop of 'naaa naaaa nuh nuh daaa da.' And also it annoys me that I was thinking about the film 'Brewster's Millions' today, and I can't remember how it ended and whether he managed to spend a million dollars a day to satisfy the absurd terms of his inheritance, and now I'll have to watch it, and I don't have time. I. DON'T. HAVE. TIME. GAAAH. Also I'm feeling all fluey (as in 'coming down with an influenza-type illness,' not 'chimney-like'), and when I'm feeling fluey I tend to rant and eat too many biscuits. It also annoys me that I've run out of biscuits.

So anyway, when there's a genuine shocking event anywhere, the networks wheel out the same concerned mum with a toddler on her hip to tell us earnestly that it's such a quiet neighbourhood, and she never expected anything like that to happen here. Really? Where did you expect it to happen??? Just once I'd like to hear someone say, 'He was a terrible neighbour - really aggressive and weird. I'm not at all surprised by what happened.'

And why bother asking people how they feel about interest rate rises? Of course people don't like them. But they never ask the person who says 'No - the interest rate rise doesn't really put any pressure on my family. Although, if rates keep rising I may have to sell one of my investment properties.'

And it doesn't stop there: there isn't a famous man who died who wasn't a top bloke, there has never been a cute cat that was rescued from under a house that didn't use up one of its nine lives, and any sporting loss can be attributed to a persistent calf strain, rather than a lack of talent.

I have to go now. I think I have some cookie dough in the freezer.

naaa naaaa nuh nuh daaa da.....

Lessons From My Dog: #26

2010-08-05T00:03:00.001-07:00

The best places to poo are:

on the front lawn of the house where the accusing old lady parts the curtains and glares at your person
on top of ivy, long grass, prostrate grevilleas or anything else that ends up with the poo getting mooshed through the vegetation when it's picked up
in front of a group of schoolchildren
anywhere - if it's your second poo and your person has run out of bags

and my new favorite, premiered today:

on top of another dog's poo

Outfoxed

2010-08-01T05:06:00.001-07:00

I have a very fixed routine in the morning. Anywhere between 4:00am and 7:15am Stuart starts sniffing my nose, licking my hair and banging the curtain cord thingy against the wall. When he starts sniffing my nose a second time I get up. I go into the kitchen, where Ellen sleeps, and she greets me like she hasn't seen me for months. Then Ellen rolls over for a bit of a belly scratch, and as I loosen the detritus I tell myself I must remember to book her an appointment with the dog-wash guy. I let her out and wash my hands. Then everyone gets fed, I shower, scoff some breakfast and head for the door. When I've reached the door, I realise I haven't checked Stu's kitty litter tray, so I huff a little and go back to see what surprises he's left.

So all was going according to schedule one day last week. I poked my head in the laundry and saw the litter piled into a very neat little midden. Sigh. I put my handbag on the floor and picked up my trusty crap shovel.

But something wasn't right. The litter flowed freely through the holes. There was, quite bluntly, no poop to scoop. I shrugged, and put down the shovel. Then I turned, in time to see Stuart, tippy-toeing like a Warner Brothers villain, with a piece of banana cake in his mouth.

My banana cake.

Stolen from my handbag.

When he saw he'd been spotted he took off as quickly as a morbidly obese cat can when it's carrying half its own weight in cake. I eventually caught up with him under the dining table and reclaimed my cake.

Evil genius.

Unnatural Histories, Part Two: The Blobfish

2010-07-26T02:06:00.000-07:00

The blobfish (Psychrolutes marcidus) is the only fish never to be featured on an Australian postage stamp. It was scheduled to grace the two cent stamp in 1979, but the post office thought people would be squeamish about licking it, coming as it did on the back of the deadly and messy outbreak of Latvian flu.

Original image

The blobfish was named by a grade four class at Dana Street Primary School in Ballarat. Scientists were so impressed at the appositeness of the name that they called on the same children to name the black rat, the spectacled bear, the stinkbug and De Brazza's guenon.

Despite being bald, the blobfish blends in easily in most situations. Early in 2009 a blobfish replaced a regular panellist on Insiders for six weeks, and nobody noticed.

Original images here and here

The blobfish has a beautiful singing voice, but many people find it annoying. Fishermen will usually throw a blobfish back lest its song drive them crazy. This is not just one of those weird superstitions that fishermen cling to - in one village scientists documented eighty-four cases of psychosis amongst the fishermen and three cases of Tourette's Syndrome. These, however, may have just been fishermen screaming at the scientists to get off their boats.

Original image

It is claimed that blobfish, like people, can suffer from lactose intolerance. However, like most people, most blobfish are lying about it.

They should, however, be taken seriously if they claim to have Coeliac Disease. The blobfish population around Kangaroo Island was decimated in 1987 when a terrible accident saw thousands of hot cross buns end up in the ocean.

The local moray eels are still traumatised by the incident.

Original image

Like most deep-sea creatures that are never seen by humans, blobfish are notoriously private. When New Idea ambushed a blobfish with allegations he was Michael Jackson's love child, it made the blobfish very angry.

Original image

Blobfish have not been bothered by any women's magazines since.

Unnatural Histories, Part One: The Aye-Aye

2010-07-25T02:05:00.000-07:00

The aye-aye is my favorite animal this week, but I realised not many people know much about it. So here are the most important facts.

Original Image

Naturalists in the late eighteenth century were baffled by the aye-aye, and eventually classified it as a mollusc. Modern scientists recognise that this is incorrect, but cannot agree on another classification. It remains a mollusc on the basis of having two valves and a fishy odour.

Many people assume that the aye-aye was so-named because it has two lovely eyes, but they are stupid people. It was, in fact, named after little-known Professor John Gilbertson. Professor Gilbertson should rightly be famous as the man who invented yogurt, but he died of botulism before he patented his discovery. His research assistant, Nicolas Fruche, stole all the credit.

The aye-aye is native to France.

Original Image

There was a referendum in 1902 to decide if the aye-aye should be adopted as the national animal, but the strength of the chicken lobby meant it was defeated by the Gallic Rooster.

Aye-ayes are farmed extensively in France for their valuable milk. This is a rare and tasty liquor which was forbidden to women in the Middle Ages, but was available clandestinely in 'speake-easies' of the Marais. The value of the milk is proportionate to the difficulty of obtaining it: the aye-aye has no nipples, and the milk must be obtained by surprising the female with a sharp squeeze.

Original Image

It is necessary to do this quickly, as the aye-aye can inflict a nasty bite.

Aye-ayes try to avoid reproduction as their babies are covered in thick hair, which repulses the adults.

Original Image

The fact that aye-ayes can swim has made them a shipping hazard for hundred of years, and they are thought to have inspired the myth of the 'Monkey Whale' that supposedly haunts the English Channel. They are most dangerous when they swim in pods of a hundred or more and attack the hulls of wooden vessels with their blunt, but persistent, teeth. In the nineteenth century, a cry of "Aye-aye Captain" from the poop deck sent shudders through the crew and was often a portent of a watery and terrible death.

Images here and here

In the 1960s the newly-formed 'Helpful Animals Organisation' experimented with using aye-ayes as assistance animals, but they changed to the labrador after accidental deaths reached unacceptable numbers. Most fatalities are said to have occurred when the aye-aye was startled by a pigeon, but many suspect the real reason is more nefarious. An aye-aye was seen leading its handler into the path of a bus in Yass, even though witnesses swear there were no pigeons around.

Finally, if you decide to keep an aye-aye as a pet (and nobody ever has), do not put them in a container.

Original Image

They cannot get out.

The Devil's Library

2010-07-16T06:14:00.000-07:00

In preparation for a book sale tomorrow I have just finished sorting through our boxes of books that are superfluous to our needs. There are five hundred and eighty-nine books. Not counting old law texts, which are being recycled, and not counting the Gregory's 1983-84 Sydney street directory, which is going to my craft stash for future upcycling in a brilliant and creative way.

Many of the books we're selling were purchased second-hand, and have names written on the first page. Some of these inscriptions include heart-wrenching little notes to the person to whom the book was originally given, and were not meant to be read by anyone else. Others are just an inked name - people staking a claim to the book in the same way that a cat might rub its face glands on it.

Most of these names are unknown, but I was quite surprised to see the name written neatly inside a somewhat shabby copy of Lord of the Flies.

Beelzebub.

Why a fairly senior demon would have read, and then chosen to discard, this novel is a mystery. But then I read that Beelzebub means 'Lord of the Flies,' so perhaps he was just checking it out to see what people were saying. The way I google myself every now and then.

Doesn't really matter. What's important is that I'm gonna get me $2 for the book.

Crafty Bitch

2010-07-13T01:12:00.000-07:00

Don't you hate it when you're really into something obscure, and at first it's really daggy, but you can enjoy the ironic appeal, and then someone mentions it in Frankie magazine and it gives you an air of mystique and genuine coolness, and then someone else mentions it in Better Homes and Gardens, and suddenly everyone is doing it, and doing it poorly, and then Lincraft brings out a kit to make it possible for even people with no arms to do it, and then even more people are doing it, and what's more, some of the more creative ones work out that they can improve on their product by sticking swarovski crystals on it or making a tiny version in polymer clay that they can use to jazz up their husband's dongle?

Well, I have never known that self-satisfied rage. I have always latched onto trends as they make their descent into the remedial sandpit of popular crafts: I am only now turning my mind to learning how to knit, I got into steampunk long after everyone knew what it was, and only started buying my t-shirts from Threadless when I saw a friend's mother wearing one.

And I'm just as late to leave a dying craft. When the scrapbookers are fleeing to the safety of screenprinting tea-towels, I'll be left behind with the Large-toothed Medicated Ladies Who Never Blink while we decoupage the deckchairs with cut-up Christmas cards.

Lucky, then, that someone in this house has got a finger on the crafty pulse. Or a paw.

I can happily report that Ellen is the ONLY dog at school with a funky patchwork coat.

And she totally rocks it.

You just watch, people. Everyone will be wearing them next month.

Or were they all wearing them last year?

EDIT: Having re-read this, I've realised it might give the impression that I made this magnificent coat. I did not. I paid $10 for it. Which is far more sensible than spending a month cussing over fat quarters.

On Alcohol

2010-07-05T01:47:00.000-07:00

In solidarity with a friend who is doing Dry July, I thought I'd give the whole 'not drinking' thing a go. Not for a whole month, mind you - just long enough to convince myself that I could give it up completely if I wanted to. Which I don't. But I could.

So it's only been five days, but some of the things I'm supposed to have noticed in my new alcohol-free life are:

better quality sleep
weight loss
more money
more energy
greater mental clarity
the shakes

The things I have actually noticed are:

my house could do with a good spring clean. Especially the windows
there is no reason Hey Hey It's Saturday should make me teary
the new Doctor Who is not that cute after all
I don't do an uncanny impression of Alicia Keys
Nobbys nuts are tasty, but they are not a satisfying meal replacement
the shakes

I think five days is long enough to prove a point.

Guns, Bats And Bottoms

2010-07-03T03:53:00.000-07:00

One of the most interesting and challenging things about travelling to another country is learning local customs and laws. These can be easy to forget, but in New York there is no shortage of reminders, recommendations and warnings to keep you on the straight and narrow.

Some of these are a bit scary,

some of them warn you against doing something that had probably never occurred to you to do, until you saw the sign, then you started having mischievous thoughts but the Fella gave you That Look With The Pursed Lips and you had to get all indignant and say you were only joking,

and some of them are just plain daft.

This seat-back sign may not seem silly at first glance, but this is how far we were seated from any bat and ball action at Yankee Stadium:

Unless this is what they meant.

Being so far from the action at the game, we had to amuse ourselves with enormous pretzels and beer.

And before you ask, yes - the pretzel did make me nauseous. It made me feel even more queasy when I saw how many calories were in it.

Calorie listings are everywhere, presumably as part of efforts to reduce obesity. If you ask me, anyone who eats the souvenir cup deserves to be fat.

Of course, having the data doesn't mean you're going to not eat something. It just means you're going to feel bad for a moment, give a resigned little shrug and then tuck into it.

So we enjoyed enormous pizza

red velvet cupcakes

and donuts.

Although, in fairness, we earned those donuts.

In a moment of madness, the Fella decided that it would be super fun to do a couple of fun runs, and talked me into doing one of them with him.

Now, at home when you finish a run you're offered a paper cup of water with some dust and a bug in it, and, if you're lucky, an undersized banana and a showbag with a year-old copy of Runner's World magazine in it.

God bless America. At the finish line: a dozen donut choices, a range of bagels and coffee aplenty. Oh, and a pile of untouched bananas on the end of the table.

This particular fun run was to raise money for colon cancer research. One of the main risk factors for colon cancer is a low-fibre diet that is high in fat.

I chose the choc-iced donut with sprinkles, and I was going to go back for a jelly donut, but the Fella said we had to save room for breakfast.

The other fun run had a more interesting treat at the end:

And people were actually lining up for it. What nicer way to relax after an eight mile run?

But we didn't just go back to New York for their range of bottom-themed running events. There were also some things of great charm and beauty.

Like the little bookshop in Brooklyn that looked a lot like our own loungeroom,

squirrels!

and a hotel room with the most amazing view.

Ice Dinosaur People And The Only Living Bird In New York

2010-07-01T06:11:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday The Fella and I arrived home from New York. We landed with an announcement from our pilot that "Rebecca Gillard" was our new prime minister. This was surprising and confusing and made my brain hurt and then I got sleepy and then a bit peckish and then they gave us a cookie because we had to wait on the tarmac for ninety minutes but the cookie wasn't very good.

One thing that is good, however, is the American Museum of Natural History in New York (nice segue! Ed.).

This is the museum of "Night at the Museum" fame, but unlike the movie, it didn't have Ben Stiller. It did have lots of dinosaurs though.

Museums are celebrations of humanity's progress and achievements. They are repositories of objects that capture the millennia of knowledge and cultural diversity on which civilisation is built. They remind us of our greatness and our uniqueness in nature.

And what better way is there of saying "In your face, Nature," than taking two of every beast, stuffing them, and letting them gaze upon us with their cold glass eyes?

Or not, if you've run out of glass eyes by the time you get around to the birds.

There were many stuffed birds, but my favorite, for predictable reasons, was the Great Tit.

It was almost as funny as the beaver. heh.

But rest assured that not all animals in New York have been killed and stuffed, or skeletonised. This little fellow was hopping around Central Park. I have identified him as a "Thompson's brown-breasted bee-eating shrike dove." This bird is characterised by an abundant and unruly growth of thick yellow hairs around the beak.

Unfortunately you can't see it in this photo as he has a mouthful of grass.

Now, it's true what John Travolta said. Not everything, obviously - the man's a Scientologist. I meant when he said that thing about the "little differences." And you do notice those little things when you're travelling.

Take, for example, that ancient rule that dictates that any man-made body of water that has a tiled or concrete lining must have coins thrown into it.

Americans observe this law like everyone else, but also have their own laws. Other things at which they like to throw money include:

Space exploration
Vitamin Water, and
Anything that confuses them and to which they are unsure of how to otherwise respond.

Which is why this dinosaur footprint is full of pennies.

Despite their differences, like people everywhere, Americans like to touch stuff. Visitors to the museum have worn the paint off this model, which appears to be the theorised anus on the Yucatan Peninsula that wiped out the dinosaurs.

Besides dinosaurs and dead animals, the museum has an enviable cultural collection.

On the day I visited, it became clear that not everybody learned a lot from such displays. Picking up an ice-tray in the gift shop that made ice-cubes in Easter Island head shapes, a woman said "Ooooh, look! You can make ice dinosaur people!" I'm still confused by this.

Overall, the museum was fantastic. Even if some of the galleries were less than inspired

and even though I suspect they made up some names to cash in on the Sex and the City craze.

Da Prize

2010-06-09T18:04:00.000-07:00

Here are the earrings that have been presented to Bosca for winning the Million Paws contest.

I will post a photo of him wearing them if he ever gets his ears pierced. He's probably a bit too blokey to do that though. Must be the Jack Russell in him.

What I Suspect Stuart Does When I Go Out

2010-06-07T23:58:00.000-07:00

Well, Put Paint On My Bottom And Call Me A Mandrill!

2010-06-04T00:05:00.000-07:00

The unthinkable has happened.

No, I haven't changed the washer on the bathroom tap that's been dripping for a month, nor have I started eating the recommended five serves of vegetables and two serves of fruit a day.

It's even more unlikely than that: Ellen has passed Intermediate Obedience!

By a whisker, mind you. When we reached the last exercise, the instructor said "If you don't do really well in this one, you will fail." I think he was chosen for his confidence-building skills (he certainly wasn't chosen for his sartorial skills - he was wearing the faded fluorescent parka that is beloved of dog-type men and women everywhere, and he had those trousers that sit all wrong, so they look like the fly might be open, and while you're trying to work it out you realise he is looking at you while you're staring at his crotch with a furrowed brow).

Anyway, we performed what I would describe as "poorly" in the final exercise, which was a two-minute "down stay":

Mr Pants: OK, when you're ready, drop your dog and leave her.
Me: OK. Ellen? Drop.........drop.................. DROP.................. DROPPPPPPPP! (Ellen drops)
Mr Pants: Leave your dog.
Me: Staaaay (stepping gingerly away from Ellen. Ellen gets up and follows me. Sits on my foot and looks at the pocket that contains my bag o'cheese) ELLEN! DROP! (Ellen drops. Grins. I question her intention to stay down.)
Mr Pants: Leave your dog.
Me: Staaaay (Ellen shuffles back into a sit position. I give what I think is a look of death, but Ellen ignores me and noisily licks her ladybits)
(Three minutes more of dropping, getting up and walking over to me, pretending to scratch her ear so she could look at a passing dog, dropping again, us both staring at the instructor and hoping to solve the Mystery of the Pants, and finally another drop.)
Mr Pants: (looking harried and pulling his parka down over his groin) OK. That will do.

In spite of this dreadful performance we passed with a gruff congratulations and a promise that a certificate could be collected in two weeks. I can't help feeling we passed simply because we were the last pair, and he wanted to go home and eat shepherd's pie. Or maybe he was just freaked out by my crotch staring.

Oh well, a pass is a pass.

Fail, Part Two

2010-05-29T23:38:00.000-07:00

Today Ellen failed Intermediate Obedience.

I'd like to think it was because the rain was bucketing down

but I have to concede it might actually be because she is not very obedient.

The usual incentives didn't seem to be working

and on top of everything, she seemed to have completely lost her hearing

Fortunately, we have been given a chance to sit the test again next Thursday.

Cruel And Unusual

2010-05-27T20:57:00.000-07:00

The ABC website has just reported that a prisoner in Mobilong prison in South Australia has got himself into trouble for making this gun out of matchsticks, metal bits from around a pencil eraser, one rubber band and paint:

And how was the prisoner punished? Was he put into solitary confinement? Waterboarded? Made to work extra hours in the laundry, despite the ever-present risk of someone evil burning his crafty fingers in the ironing press? Had his sentence extended?

No. He has been "banned from any type of craft activity."

Harsh.

You're All Winners, But...

2010-05-21T19:21:00.000-07:00

As promised, yesterday at 5:00pm Ellen drew the winner of the Million Paws Earrings Competition.

When I was thinking about how a winner could be chosen fairly, I recalled a bible story that used to be a favorite in our family. Not sure if you know it - it's the Parable of Ruth and the Dangling Meatballs.

For those of you who didn't have a religious upbringing, the story goes like this:

Ruth was hard at work harvesting spelt when her father came to her and said her oxen were coveted by his neighbour, and while he didn't condone that sort of thing, he'd agreed to give the neighbour one of her oxen in return for his discretion on another matter.

"But Baba," said Ruth, "I love all my oxen equally, and is it not written that whomsoever shall separate a woman from her ox is but a marmoset in the eyes of the Lord?"

"Truly, the marmoset is loathed, daughter. But did not the Lord also say that it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a log to sit in your eye?"

"No, Baba. I don't think he said that."

"Nonetheless, you are fortunate indeed to have such fine oxen. Especially in light of the fact that the Canaanite Property Act of 45 BC forbids women to own any chattels. Or oxen. You must now honour me by choosing which of your oxen you shall surrender to my dear neighbour, Ahmed the Odd."

With a heavy heart, Ruth left the field to go and choose an ox. She tore her hair and wailed as she thought about which of her animals to give away - they were as children to her, being deliberately barren as she was. All were loved in equal measure: Nathan, Elias, Patrick, Bryce and Susan. Which could she lose?

Unable to make the choice herself, she decided to use the 'dangling meatball' method that the Philistines used to employ when selecting places to invade. Securing meatballs to reeds and hanging them from an olive tree, she wrote the name of one of her beloved oxen on each.

"The Lord will choose justly," she wept, as she released Sprinkles the dog to act as His agent in this most heinous of choices.

And lo, Sprinkles ate all but one of the meatballs, and thus was Elias chosen to pay for Ahmed's silence.

So this is the method I ultimately chose. The film is abridged, but for those of you who do not trust my integrity, the entire footage is available.

Thanks again to everyone who sponsored Ellen.

The Million Pauses Walk

2010-05-16T00:09:00.000-07:00

Ellen and I have completed the Million Paws Walk. We both feel an enormous sense of achievement, but while I'm pumped to enter more events, this was pretty much the only non food-related thing on Ellen's bucket list. She told me she's planning to take things easy for the next decade.

An early highlight was finding the wading pools set up around the area. Ellen was dripping wet within seconds of arrival.

Despite her initial reluctance, Ellen decided she could appreciate the kitsch value of the event bandana, and asked me to buy her one. She did not appreciate the monetary value of it, however, and it took some serious wrestling, with gnashing teeth, to get the thing tied around her neck. Only slight damage sustained by the bandana and my arms.

Some of the identified highlights were:

Sniffing this dog's bum

sniffing this dog's bum

and sniffing this dog's bum

and meeting Abby and Therese Rein

and jumping on Therese Rein with muddy paws

and getting a cookie when the walk was finished

and a dogaccino

and being ringside for the traditional ferret drowning contest.

All in all, a pretty fine day.

Doctor Ellen, Medicine Woman

2010-05-14T22:13:00.000-07:00

On Thursday I was surprised to read on Ellen's school report card that she is "excellent at healing." I'm glad she's good at something, and I will be sure to go to her next time I have an injury.

Ellen's big walk is tomorrow. We have tapered the training, carb-loaded to the max, and got some good miles in those legs of hers. I'm quietly confident that we're going to see a personal best.

Thank you to everyone who has already sponsored Ellen.

There's still time to sponsor her, and be in the draw for a very special pair of handmade earrings. It's a unique opportunity to secure some fine dog/squid or other animal jewellery. When I'm famous I'm not going to be giving them away like this, and how you will bemoan the fact you didn't leap at the chance. Yes, that's right, bemoan.

I will draw the winner at 5:00 next Friday, 21 May, so donations can be made here up to that time.

Wish us luck!

Ellen Tube

2010-05-08T18:44:00.000-07:00

I made my first film yesterday.

It is super-excellent, and I expect it to become one of those interwebs phenomena.

Amongst Ellen's fans.

Things Forgotten

2010-05-06T04:43:00.000-07:00

Ellen has a really endearing habit: when she wants to make friends with another dog, but her lead is too short for her to get to the other dog, she bounces up and down on her front legs and gives an excited little whine. Just like a child, when somebody with a bucket of chips walks past. Or was that just me?

Anyway, the habit is endearing UNLESS Ellen is supposed to be sitting quietly and listening, like the rest of her classmates. Ellen seems to have forgotten about sitting quietly. In fact, after tonight's class, I'm a bit worried about her memory. Other things she seems to have forgotten are:

Sit
Stay
Heel
Her name
Eye contact
Not breaking through a barrier that has been erected to keep dogs out of a boggy area and emerging with a muddy belly and chin and a big grin seven minutes after I have started to yell at her
Not jumping on people
Walking on a loose lead
Static right turns (to be honest, I'm a little hazy on them too)
Drop
LEEEEEEAAAVE IT
Taking treats like a lady and not like she's auditioning for the upcoming live-action film of Hungry, Hungry Hippos that has a cast of dogs dressed as hippos owing to the relative expensiveness of hippos and the notorious difficulty of working with their agents.

Unfortunately all of these things will be put to the test come "Comp Day" in three weeks.

The frustrating thing is, of course, that she hasn't forgotten any of it. She's like a driver who knows that when there's a reduced speed limit around roadworks, the lawful thing to do is to slow down. But if there's no policeman there, and also there are some other motorists ahead, the best thing to do is to drive as fast as she can to catch up to them, and tailgate them so they feel pressured to break the law, even though they were driving along at a safe and legal speed. But if there's a policeman there, and he's got a cheeseburger, she will drive slightly under the speed limit, and even turn on her day-running lights for extra safety. And then the policeman will give her the cheeseburger and then she can speed off and sniff another motorist's bum.

OK, so all analogies fall over at some point. But the point is that it is impossible to get Ellen to do what she is asked to do unless you can offer something more alluring than a dog's bum. The old "carrot and stick" treatment doesn't work - she literally eats both for breakfast. Rewarding only works if she does the right thing (which she doesn't), and scolding her firmly is met by a lolling tongue out the side of a muddy mouth and big brown eyes darting between me and the pocket the treats are kept in.

Who would've thunk she is officially Obedient?

A Chilling Vision Of My Future

2010-05-04T20:39:00.000-07:00

Without knowing how I got there, a couple of days ago I found myself standing in the cattery of the RSPCA. And there was a little black cat looking at me and making pathetic little mewing noises and rubbing the bars of the cage with his very soft coat, and he looked like he was trying to tell me he loved me, or at least would like me to feed him immediately and worm him every twelve weeks and forgive him for pulling loops out of my carpet, and forgive him for gashing my ankles when he is older because he'd been inappropriately taught by someone when he was young that it's fun and acceptable to rough-house with hands and feet even though somebody with more smarts told that person he or she should be teaching the cat to engage with toys, not fingers.

Fortunately, on this occasion I was able to snap out of my trance and escape cat-free. But I am not sure I will always be so strong, and I'm scared of where it might lead.

Embetterment

2010-05-01T20:29:00.000-07:00

For those of you who doubt Ellen has made any real progress, let me remind you of what she used to do when she got into the kitchen cupboard:

She is nowhere near as messy now she is more mature and officially Obedient.

Nowadays, when she gets into the cupboard she piles up all the chewed containers neatly on her bed.

Much better.

More Fun With Death

2010-04-28T01:10:00.000-07:00

These ones are for you, Nerd_on_Safari

Blush with death

Images from here and here

Flush with death

Images from here and here

This Is Statring To Be A Worry

2010-04-25T22:02:00.000-07:00

It is becoming clear that whoever is in charge of the local school's noticeboard might actually be dyslexic.

This makes it less fun to poke fun at the nonsensical notices that appear from time to time. Well, a little less fun. Maybe. It does, however, make me wonder who thought this was the best job for the person in question, and why these signs are left to sit defiantly next to the STAFF CARPARK. Yes, I'm talking to you, Mr. White Station-wagon.

Still, I appreciate how easy these little slip-ups can be, and how one letter can really change the meaning of what it was you were trying to say. For example, in attempting to type "brush with death," I accidentally wrote "bush with death." Which would look something like this:

Images from here and here

Which got me thinking about other ways to mangle the phrase. Perhaps a "brush with Heath?"

Images from here and here

Or a "crush with death?"

Images from here and here

The possibilities are endless.

Well, maybe not endless. Actually, that's all I could think of.

On The Naming Of Toilet Paper

2010-04-18T01:00:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite oddities in the English language is the existence of words with negative prefixes that have no positive counterpart. Frustratingly, if turned on their heads, many of these would make great words. Who wouldn't like to say they were gruntled, tressed, mayed or even combobulated? If we had the utmost respect for someone we could hold them in dain, or if something looked really appetizing, it could be gusting.

There aren't nearly enough examples of these wonderful new words in use, but when they are, they are not always used to the best effect. You might even say their use is tuitive.

Abnormal, for example, is the opposite of normal, n'est-ce pas? So, the opposite of absorbent would naturally be, well, Sorbent. Do I want a water-repelling toilet paper? No. I do not. But on examination, other toilet papers are equally poorly named. As astrocave once pointed out to me, he never uses "Safe" toilet paper. Is it because he doesn't like its homely brown colour or vaguely abrasive feel? No, he says he simply likes the more dangerous kind. And a more dangerous kind might well be Aldi's "Clarissa" - I for one feel quite uncomfortable with the idea of using one of the Two Fat Ladies in the smallest room. Likewise, their sensibly priced "Enviro Friend" makes me want to look for alternatives. Anything with "friend" in its name should not be subjected to the ultimate indignity that is the fate of all toilet paper. Which is why I also avoid "Scott."

Toilet paper nomenclature often abides by the principle that a scientific suffix supercharges the word it is added to. Hence "Kleenex" is super-clean, "Purex" is super-pure, "Softex" is super-soft, "Hygenex"is super-germ-free and "Quilton" is super-quilty. Which invites the uncomfortable analogy of using your bedding. It is in no way turbing.

And the supermarkets' home brands are no better: Coles' "Smart Buy" is pointing out the obvious - it is, after all, stupid not to buy toilet paper, and "Black and Gold" is a misnomer. I guess "Off-white" just wouldn't sell. And why anyone thought "Encore" would be a great name for something that you ideally want to use only once is also a mystery.

In fact, the whole thing is describably silly.

These Paws Were Made For Walking

2010-04-07T23:01:00.000-07:00

The other day Ellen and I were sitting out on the deck having a respective chin and tail wag about life and about when dinner might be ready.

"You know," Ellen said to me, "This is pretty sweet. The only thing that would make it better would be pork belly." She leaned back and tried to put her arms behind her head, but was thwarted by her inflexible canine shoulder joints.

I was surprised, but not entirely. This was the first sentence she had ever said, and I always thought that when she spoke, she would talk about pork, or processed pork products.

"Yes," I replied, "Pork is delicious. Really, really delicious. But do you know that there are lots of dogs out there that never taste pork?" Having instilled Obedience, I thought I'd have a go at Social Conscience.

She looked at me blankly.

"It's true, " I continued. "Do you remember when you were at the RSPCA, and there were lots of dogs there that had been treated very badly? We chose you because you were such a good* girl, but not all dogs find a loving home so quickly."

She reflected for a moment before speaking.

"This home would be more loving if there was a bit more pork on offer."

"I think you're missing the point. Don't you think there's something you could do to help them?"

She looked at me blankly.

"For example," I continued "you could participate in the Million Paws Walk and help raise money."

"There would be other dogs there?"

"Yes. If the RSPCA achieves its goal, there will be 999,996 other dogs. Or more, if there are any of those clever three-legged dogs there."

"Would you make me wear one of those twee bandanas?"

"Would you eat it?"

"Yes."

"Then no."

"OK then."

So we have signed Ellen up. She has already started carb-loading for the big day, and we will start exercising closer to the time. If you would like to support Ellen in her first ever event, we would be grateful for any donations. You can donate here.

And one lucky** donor will win a pair of handcrafted sterling silver earrings. I was thinking they'd be dog-themed, but you can chose ANY ANIMAL YOU WANT*** if you win, and I will make a striking pair of earrings just for you. If you're not into animals, I'll even consider something botanical.

*compared to the Pit-Bull/leopard cross in the next kennel.
**or unlucky, if you hate earrings
***any REAL animal. I don't do unicorns or spoodles.

Greeeeeenfingers...... She's The Girl, The Girl With The Greenish Touch

2010-04-02T00:39:00.000-07:00

We have been pretty happy in our house, but lately the Fella and I have got to thinking that we have far too much money, use far too little water, and don't spend enough time engaged in heavy lifting, bending over and swearing at cabbage moths. Any of these things is resolved easily enough on its own - indeed, I've become adept at swearing at a range of flying pests - but the simplest way of tackling them all was to build a vegie patch.

We chose this fine patch of land. It's where our bamboo used to be, and is now a graveyard for bones and clothes pegs.

With the site chosen, we had to think about how to thwart the garden's most formidable enemy:

Surveying the moonscape around us, it was clear that our tasty, tasty vegetables would have to be guarded against this menace by a very sturdy structure. Very sturdy indeed.

After many Very Precise Drawings in the margins of newspapers and on the little pad next to my phone, I worked out a most ingenious design, and toddled off to Queanbeyan (o, happy place!) to procure wood and screw thingies to hold the wood together. I think they are called screws.

When I returned, the Fella had the following questions:

Are you sure we need 64 screws?
Who pays $1 each for screws??????
This little project has so far cost us over $600. We will be paying for extra water, mulch and other mysterious things gardeners use on an ongoing basis. We would usually spend $175 a year on vegetables, $80 worth of which would end up back in the compost. Isn't this a rather expensive way of producing compost?
How do these screws work, anyway?
Couldn't we just use one screw on each plank?

After a day's digging, I was able to demonstrate the need for correct screwage as I started to construct the frame.

By this stage of a project I usually lose interest and go off to start knitting another scarf. And the Fella, who was suffering from a fit of domesticity, did not help my focus by making these delightful hot cross buns.

However, fortified by the bunny goodness, I fixed the remaining 58 screws, pulled my pants down a tad, and leaned on a crowbar to admire my work.

The longer posts are for securing wire to repel the beast, should she jump up and start grabbing things Balrog-style.

And here are the things we planted yesterday.

I guess we're going to have to start eating vegetables.

Dirty Photo

2010-04-01T23:17:00.000-07:00

Is there anything nicer than a freshly delivered load of compost soil?

My Dog Rocks....

2010-03-29T22:52:00.000-07:00

....as in the verb of greatness. I do not have rocks that belong to a dog, nor rocks that resemble a dog in a quirky and collectible way, nor do I mean my dog sits around swaying.

Nope, what I mean is that Ellen is back to being the greatest dog in the world on account of having buried her demons (along with her expensive chew toy) and PASSING BEGINNERS' OBEDIENCE!!!

She now has a certificate to prove that she is obedient. Note that the certificate also says that I am obedient. I intend to wave this certificate at the Fella every time Ellen or I eat one of his socks, decline to come when called, jump on him excitedly and muddy his suit, or decide we'll have a bit of a go at the aspidistra.

Ellen did beautifully in her exam, but not perfectly. Take for example the "Group Sit" exercise, where the dogs have to sit for 30 seconds.

Here is what all the dogs in the class were doing:

Click to embiggen. It will still be blurry, but it will be big and blurry.

And she was fine in the individual exercises....

....once she learned to face the right way.

This time she didn't even try to eat the traffic cone!

She was even an angel on the way home. I guess it's pretty tiring being well-behaved for a whole hour.

We start intermediate classes next week. I am not overly-confident.

Thievery

2010-03-16T23:31:00.000-07:00

A few minutes ago I was in the loungeroom when I spied through our lacy curtains The Child From Next Door, creeping, sneaking and generally insinuating herself into our front yard. Clutched to her shirred cotton bodice was a small plastic container.

Was it an ice-cream container? An old take-away container that had lost its lid? Perhaps a margarine tub? Or did it once hold I Can't Believe It's Not Butter? These questions are neither important, nor interesting. Just leave it alone and let me get on with the story, will you?

Looking furtively from side to side, with those narrowed eyes that the young have when they know they are alone and free to be evil, The Child slunk up to a fine shrubbery and began plucking blossoms from it to fill her container.

I observed this, horrified. Well, maybe not horrified. Probably just a bit surprised, to be honest. It's a nice shrubbery, but not so nice that I would expect it to inspire this premeditated crime.

Of course, as is my way, vague surprise gave way to indignation, spluttering rage and chest pains. I clenched all my clenchables and mulled over my options:

a: Do nothing.
b: Reinforce any image the family has of me as the "Crazy Woman Next Door Who Is Often Outside In Her Pyjamas Cussing At The Lemon Tree" by running outside with unbrushed hair, screaming at The Child and clawing back my blossoms, then throwing Stuart at her little fleeing floral back.
c: Plan to steal something of theirs.

For me, laziness is always the most attractive option, so I sit here with a partially de-blossomed shrubbery while The Child is off enjoying her booty.

Haikus That Capture The Low Points Of My Day Today

2010-03-10T00:58:00.000-08:00

It's cozy in bed.
But what is that shooting pain?
Fat cat sleeps on legs.

Lovely crusty loaf
makes superior toast but
all gone. Bran for me.

New Subway at school.
No! Horror! Vomit! Distaste!
Stinky, stinky stink.

Driving home with smile.
All calm, but anger rises
at cretin in Merc.

Ellen walks in sun
but stops for telltale action.
This will need two bags.

Glass of wine soothes soul.
A second would be tasty
Alas! All gone. Sad.

Ellen Get Your Gun

2010-03-03T22:13:00.000-08:00

It's generally easy to tell when Ellen has been digging. There are holes where no holes should be, there are more treasures added to Ellen's "Found Objects" pile, and sometimes, if you look very closely, you can see a hint of dirt on her face.

Usually, Ellen's recovered objects are fairly pedestrian (not actual pedestrians), but the other day I came home to find her with this between her front paws:

She was chewing on the barrel, so I don't think she knows a lot about gun safety, but the greater concern was what she was doing with a weapon in the first place. Labradors are not generally given to vengeance, murder, pistol-whipping, target shooting, vigilanteism, reckless discharge of weapons in a fit of celebration, bank robbing, shooting road signs, or any of the other main uses of firearms. I can only suppose she intended to take her strategy of barking at her enemies to the next level.

Ellen's enemies, some of which we have in common, are:

The mother possum
The father possum
The baby possum
Pigeons
Ants
The recycling truck
Bees
High winds
Frozen meat

The gun has been confiscated, so I guess we'll never know which one was the target.

And that's the end of that story.

Unless the gun falls into more evil hands.....

Muchos Adorablos, Es El Diablo!

2010-02-24T22:02:00.000-08:00

When I get home in the evenings Ellen is always waiting at the gate. Sometimes she has a fence paling in her mouth, sometimes a shrub, but she always has a big waggy tail and is very pleased to see me. And when I leave her in the morning, she sits by the gate and gives me those big brown puppy eyes (in fairness, they're the only ones she has), and looks as though she intends to sit there all day, pausing only to bark at ants (her newest and most endearing pastime) or to dig some test-pits in the lawn to see if any forgotten bones might be down there.

In short, I worry about her being lonely when I'm away, and I think she'd really like a friend to spend the day with.

So today I had a little look at the RSPCA website, and found the Very Cute Diablo:

Diablo looks like an extra from Fraggle Rock, but is actually a "Rough Collie Cross." I don't know if this means she's a rough collie who is rather angry, or a collie cross who is a bit of a bruiser, or if she was simply the result of forbidden love between a rough collie and an unnamed suitor. Considering this is what a rough collie looks like....

Image source

.... she must have been crossed with something quite unlike a collie. Possibly a bear or a Fraggle.

Anyway, I sent the photo to the Fella, and received an instant response that I was never allowed to choose pets for us again. Ever.

And when I'd finished stomping my feet and pouting, I thought maybe he is right. Looking into Diablo's biography a little more closely, I was able to apply the translation skills I learned through my experience of getting Ellen to see that maybe she wasn't the best choice for us. From her listing on the RSPCA site:

"Diablo likes to style her shaggy coat by running into the wind while chasing butterflies (SHOULD READ: Diablo has long hair that will pick up lots of crap and she will probably end up with grass seeds between her toes and a Very Expensive Infection). She is very playful and has a great sense of adventure, leaping all around the place without a care in the world (SHOULD READ: Diablo has ADHD. You will never be able to train this dog). Diablo is a social girl and is looking for a family who shares her enthusiasm for life (SHOULD READ: Diablo is suited to someone who doesn't mind being jumped all over, barked at when they are not paying enough attention, and who perhaps has a slightly diminished mental capacity)."

So perhaps she is not the right one for us, but I do think it would be nice to get a friend for Ellen. The Fella needs some convincing, and the friends I've raised it with face-to-face have told me bluntly that I'm a loony. So I need some more help for my campaign. Please feel free to leave messages of support that I can show to the Fella with a jabby "seeeeeeee that" finger.

Revenge Of The Green Pen?

2010-02-21T19:21:00.000-08:00

Last night Ellen and I visited the vet. She had been retching all afternoon, which is not unusual - it's always a pleasant surprise to find chewed up grass, bits of wood, small stones and newspaper in slimy piles on the floor. However, by evening she was coughing and vomiting, and by midnight it was clear something was wrong.

I got dressed and looked up the nearest after-hours vet clinic. It was in Fyshwick. For those of you who don't know Fyshwick, it is our own den of iniquity, a sordid haven for ladies of ill-repute and gentlemen who slip in the discreet side doors of shops. It is a defiant celebration of our base, animal urges.

Canberra-style.

Nestled alongside the purveyors of adult toys and brown-wrapped magazines are some of the best bookshops in Canberra, a terrific microbrewery and petshop, and those two holy sites of the weekend family pilgrimage: Bunnings, and The Good Guys.

Despite these beacons of good, the suburb clings to its reputation of being born from the insane dreams of Hieronymus Bosch. So I was nervous about what sort of veterinary practice would be operating there at midnight. The type, I imagined, where dogs go to have knife wounds stitched up, no questions asked. Where purebred cats procure speedy abortions, and where a hyped-up rabbit might find a sympathetic doctor to prescribe a little something to help him sleep.

I was relieved, if a little disappointed, to find a very well-lit and nicely appointed surgery. Ellen must have been disappointed too, because she immediately vomited at the front desk.

The vet who saw us was lovely, and very adept with a thermometer. She gave Ellen some pain relief and something for the nausea. Ellen was not dehydrated (a relief, considering a night there on the drip would have been $800), but had a fever and a tender tummy. Interestingly, she apparently also has malformed feet - a bit "clubby" was the exact word. The feet, however, were not the source of Ellen's immediate problem, and the two most likely culprits were kennel cough, or the green pen that she ate a couple of days ago. Or even a cough that developed in response to infection caused by a green pen.

The drugs gave Ellen a reasonably restful night, and this morning we went to our own vet, a bit brighter than last night. He's fairly confident that there's no blockage, and her fever has gone. Both excellent bits of news. We still don't know what the problem is, but we'll keep a close eye on her over the next couple of days, and return for x-rays tomorrow if she doesn't continue to improve. Fingers crossed that the antibiotics will clear up the cough soon.

We will be sure to make fun of her feet once she has fully recovered.

UPDATE 24/2: Ellen is doing very well. No blockage. Still has a smoker's cough, but is almost back to her old self. And she loves her cough medicine.

Lessons From My Dog: #465

2010-02-18T16:56:00.000-08:00

Never duck inside for a glass of water and leave your pen outside.

Mr Peebles And The Getting Of Wisdom

2010-02-16T01:37:00.000-08:00

Apparently Leonardo da Vinci said, "The smallest feline is a masterpiece."

According to The Guinness Book of Records , the smallest feline is Mr Peebles:

Image via here

Mr Peebles is two years old, weighs about 1kg, and is 15cm long. Mr Peebles will tolerate being shoved into a drinking glass for photos, and although it is not stated explicitly, he would probably list the following amongst his hobbies: napping, scratching at rugs, glaring and going to the toilet.

Mr Peebles is very cute, but I wouldn't say he is a masterpiece. And that makes me question the wisdom of some of those people whose quotes grace our desk calendars, and whose utterances are immortalised as captions in picture books of baby-animals-doing-cute-things-that-are-actually-analogous-to-human-behaviour-and-really-make-us-stop-and-think-about-what-we-could-learn-after-we've-gone-awwwwww.

But da Vinci isn't the only one to have spouted spurious cat wisdom. Take, for example, the following:

"In a cat's eye, all things belong to cats."

- English Proverb

I am quite happy with that. Why would I want the snotty eye bits and random hairs that float across the iris?

"I simply can't resist a cat, particularly a purring one. They are the cleanest, cunningest, and most intelligent things I know, outside of the girl you love, of course."

- Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field, Fisher

What clean, cunning and intelligent things are inside the girl you love????

"A cat pours his body on the floor like water."

- William Lyon Phelps

No, that's actually pee.

"I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat."

-Edgar Allan Poe

What is stopping you from writing that, Edgar Allan?

"Are we really sure the purring is coming from the kitty and not from our very own hearts?"

-Emme Woodhull-Bäche, translated

Presumably uttered just before Emme suffered a massive heart attack.

"Way down deep, we're all motivated by the same urges. Cats have the courage to live by them."

-Jim Davis

We all feel like killing from time to time. Doesn't mean it's noble.

I should, however, stop here, on the advice of Dan Greenberg:

"There is, incidentally, no way of talking about cats that enables one to come off as a sane person."

Quotes sourced from here and here

My Commitment To You, The Seven People Who Read This Blog

2010-02-11T03:07:00.000-08:00

Tonight Ellen and I returned to school. We have been placed in a very big class, and we are the only ones there for the second time.

Ellen already has a new best friend. He is a greyhound, and he is a week older than Ellen and a quarter of her size. Ellen could eat her new friend and still have room for the irksome Japanese Spitz that was bouncing around near us. Even though they have a cool name, I don't especially like Japanese Spitzes, because they are jumpy and dumb. Nothing at all like Ellen.

I pledge that we will pass this time. We will pass with a ribbon.

Now it's on the blog it must come to pass. There are no lies on the interwebs.

For Stuart, On The Occasion Of His Second Birthday. A Poem, Entitled "You're A Terrible Cat, But I'd Take You Over A Monkey Any Day."

2010-02-08T02:58:00.000-08:00

Stuart, you're a pussycat,

You don't come from Nantucket,

You are, however, really fat,

And won't fit in a bucket.

Stuart, you're a psycho cat,

You bite and claw and scream,

I'd love to wake, and find out that

The scars were just a dream.

Stuart, you're a pesky cat,

There's nothing you aint clawed,

You've left your hair on this and that,

And stained the ironing board.

Stuart, you're a thieving cat,

You pilfer things that shine,

And never seem to notice that,

I'm angry when they're mine.

Stuart, you're an odd-ball cat,

You must have crazy genes,

Your appetite's so loco that

You'll even eat broad beans.

Stuart, you're a greedy cat,

You gobble like a hog,

You'll even curl up on the mat,

With treats nicked from the dog.

Stuart, you're a handsome cat,

With splendid hairy feet,

And though you do some stinky scat,

You're really very sweet.

Ellen, On The Occasion Of Her First Birthday

2010-01-30T18:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we celebrated Ellen's first birthday.

It was a time for us all to reflect on how she has grown. Mostly physically. She is no longer the slim-waisted little hell-raiser we fell in love with at the RSPCA shelter - she's now filling out nicely, and is well on her way to becoming a more Meatloaf-style hell-raiser.

Over the past seven months she's made us laugh, she's made us cry, she's made us very, very angry, she's made us poorer, and she has, through her own Backyard Blitz projects, knocked thousands off the value of our house.

When we first met Ellen, she was not in the least bit interested in us. The handler at the RSPCA had a bum-bag full of chicken, and this was clearly worthy of Ellen's full attention.

She still doesn't always give us her full attention, especially if she's involved in one of her gardening projects, like trimming the rhododendron:

Or tidying up sticks that someone has carelessly left lying around:

Sometimes she doesn't like to take credit for all the work she does. Like the time she pruned the walnut tree, and feigned surprise that someone had put all the lower branches on her bed:

How could we not believe her when she told us it wasn't her?

Sometimes, though, she's caught in situations that are difficult to explain away. Like when she removes fence palings.....

..... so she can get a closer look at the neighbours:

Or when she thinks that nobody will notice if she chews up her red blankie under the cover of darkness:

Or when my socks mysteriously appear in her mouth:

She's not always naughty though, and she has three super-excellent features. Only three, but it's a start.

First, she has lovely food manners, and will not eat until invited:

And second, she has big fierce teeth that are great for eating bones, branches, fences and watering cans, but useless against burglars:

But best of all, she's got a beautiful smile, and always laughs at our jokes:

And in spite of her failures at school and therapy, and even though she lacks every single characteristic that makes the labrador a safe and reliable guide for the blind, she's still the world's best dog.

Inglorious Bustards And An Apatite For Rocks

2010-01-28T21:22:00.000-08:00

I have just spent a few days in Sydney. Whilst there, I did the following:

1: Tasted pistachio kulfi (Bad. Will not do that again.)
2: Learned to catch a bus. In the right direction (Good, but may have trouble replicating.)
3: Accidentally caught that bus to the end of the line because the stupid map said it looped around, but it didn't, and then I had to walk for twenty minutes to get to where I wanted to go (Bad.)
3: Went to The Rocks on Australia Day and watched bogans wrapped in Australian flags (Bad.)
4: Went to the Australian Museum (Totally awesome.)

I'm not sure why I love the museum so much, but there's something about an enormous room full of stuffed birds in glass cabinets that makes me feel all warm and nostalgic. It isn't that I grew up surrounded by dead birds, fixing me with their angry little glass eyes as I walked to the bathroom. In fact, you could count the dead animals in my childhood home on one hand. Nor does my pleasure stem from seeing a number of pigeons in their only tolerable state. In fact, apart from the pigeons, I do feel some discomfit about the whole thing.

However, I justify paying my admission to this grotesque zoo of death by telling myself the birds were collected a very long time ago, and most of them probably died of natural causes. This is not hard to believe when looking at some of the older ones, with their missing feathers, possible goitre and clear signs of beak mange.

And the fact is, it's very educational. I learned, for example, that the scientific name for the European Blackbird is turdus merula. Whoever came up with that must have liked blackbirds as much as I do pigeons. If I had my way, pigeons would be called avis horribilis, not columba livia.

When I'd learned everything there is to know about birds, I looked at the minerals. These were boring. Ethically sourced, perhaps, but essentially all variations on rock. However, I did like the apatite. I like to think this one was named by a very hungry mineralogist. In fact, hunger is probably responsible for many of nature's silliest scientific names:

Naturalist #1: Crap. I thought we'd finished, but we've still got this one. What do you reckon?
Naturalist #2: Jeremy, it's right on lunch - can't we leave it till later?
Naturalist #1: Sorry Trent, we have to classify all the bivalves after lunch.
Naturalist #2: Well, I don't care what the @#$% you call it. My risotto is going cold.
Naturalist #1: OK. It's a gorilla ....... let's call it gorilla gorilla.
Naturalist #2: Done. Let's go.

Ice-cream Blues

2010-01-21T03:40:00.000-08:00

Over the past few days an ice-cream van has been patrolling our suburb.

At first my skin would crawl at the sound of the clown-coming-to-stab-you-in-your-sleep tinkly music, but yesterday my love of frozen dairy treats gave me a burst of courage, and I decided I would go and gather two cones, dipped in chocolate with crushed nuts and a flake.

Alas. I was too late. As I hurried out the front door in my best inside clothes and with a fist full of scavenged change, the van drove past. Very slowly, and with the driver willfully ignoring my waving arms and plaintive cries.

I returned to the Fella crestfallen, and ice-creamless. The neighbours offered me some of their ice-cream as I passed them on my walk of shame, but I was too distraught to even look at their smug, sticky faces.

Did you run after him? The Fella asked.

No. I did not run. An overweight chick chasing an ice-cream van is never a good look. Never.

And besides, we had a freezer full of banana Paddle Pops.

Lissy, It's Your Birthday......

2010-01-17T19:34:00.000-08:00

There's an old Romanian saying about birthdays. It's not as elegant in English as it sounds when the Gypsies sing it to their children, but it goes something like this:

If you eat zucchini on your birthday, your arms will be strong and the skin on your feet will maintain its integrity, and your eyes will stay in your head, even if your cousin hits you very hard in the back of the head with a sapling. If you don't eat zucchini, you will fall in a tar-pit. Even if you live in an area where they are virtually unknown.

I'm not usually given to superstition: I have a black cat who is always crossing my path, I spill a whole lot of salt, and I'm not averse to putting my shoes on the table. In fact, you'll often see all three things going on at the same time in my house. Nonetheless, it is better not to tempt fate in certain situations, especially if you're as terrified of tar-pits as I am. So I enlisted the Fella to make these super-fabulous zucchini and mint fritters for lunch, and now I feel much safer. And full.

The only other superstition I indulge in is the uncanny wisdom of fortune cookies. While cleaning out my handbag this morning, I came across this fortune that I had saved from my last outing to the local Chinese:

This fortune is uncanny. Disregarding the fact that three other people on the table got the same fortune, I was sure it was written for me. I do enjoy giving gifts to myself, and yes, I have always felt I should be rewarded for that. I might just get myself a little something this afternoon.

I think the stain on the corner is lemon chicken.

Michael Parkinson In Conversation With Ellen

2010-01-13T00:15:00.000-08:00

MP: Over the years I have had the immense privilege of talking to men and women who have made an enormous contribution to society. Actors, musicians, politicians, spiritual leaders and great humanists have all sat beside me over the years to promote their latest projects. Without exception, or perhaps with the exception of Meg Ryan, it has been my very great honour to share with you the company of these great people.

Now, my next guest is perhaps not so well-known. Her political and diplomatic skills are not sophisticated, and her contributions to the arts have been, some would say most unkindly, lacklustre and derivative. She lacks the motor skills to excel at any sport but basic dog-paddling, and although she enjoys singing, this activity has resulted in threats from her neighbours, and has not attracted any record deals. A failure at school, she dropped out at a young age, and has not pursued any formal education since.

It is a pleasure and a privilege to invite Ellen to the couch.

[cheers and clapping]

Welcome, Ellen. Let me start by directly addressing that elephant in the room. It was with no small degree of nervousness that I accepted the request of your agent to have you on the show. Your reputation, as it were, precedes you. There was the famous couch-chewing incident on Oprah's show, the time you bit Normie Rowe on the Midday Show, and the now infamous time you co-hosted the Logies with Muhammad Ali, and offended him most egregiously by ...... how shall I put it ...... nuzzling his man-garden. Have you put your wild child days behind you?

Ellen: [grin. open mouth. big wet sneeze]

MP: Bless you. I shall take your silence as a yes, and I must say I am delighted you have put that youthful ...... Ellen, please ...... noooo, back in your own seat ...... noooo, that's my earpiece, careful with it......whoops, there goes the vase. All right, are we settled back in our own seat now?

[wipes face with handkerchief] That tongue in my ear takes me back to my interview with Alice Cooper. Only the tongue, on that occasion, was not attached to anything.

[pauses for polite laughter]

Now Ellen, you have attracted a somewhat unfair reputation of having dubious hygiene habits. I say unfair, as it it clear that right now you are engaging in some very thorough cleaning. Very thorough indeed ...... Perhaps when you are done we can proceed with the rest of this interview......

Ellen: snrrrrph, snrrrrrrrrmmph, snrmp, hrnnnnn, hrnnnnn, hrnnnnn

[sits up. grin]

MP: It is well known that your childhood was not easy. You were abandoned as a child, and lived in an orphanage until you were adopted by a childless family. At this point your fortunes turned around, didn't they? The family was very loving, and stuck with you through your difficult teenage years, in spite of some very reckless behaviour indeed. Do you feel the love and guidance you received from them made you who you are today, and what would you say is your greatest debt to them?

Ellen: pfffffffffft [grin]

MP: Dear God! What is that disgusting smell???? ...... I think I'm going to be sick ...... Perhaps this is a good time to say thank you and good night to our first guest.

[covers nose with sleeve]

After the break, Stephen Fry. Again.

Ellen: [grin]

Surgical Removal Of My Number Smarts

2010-01-04T03:51:00.000-08:00

Today I went to the dentist. It was my first visit for a few years, so I was a bit nervous about what she would find.

Turns out I have no decay, but she said two very unwelcome things to me:

"You are a grinder." (Translation: I am wearing my teeth down like a walrus. If I don't pay $650 for the special night-time mouthguard thingy she wants me to wear, I will have no teeth on the bottom in ten to fifteen years and will find it very difficult to bite off pieces of sticky-tape at Christmas time.)

Second, following a nasty, nasty cleaning: "The bleeding will stop in ten to fourteen days." If she'd mentioned this BEFORE the cleaning I could have saved us both some time.

And the final shock? I was billed $100 for "Removal of calculus." I am going back next week to have my quadratic equations extracted.

Avatars

2010-01-03T00:49:00.000-08:00

Olivia Newton-John has convinced us. Why would you exercise for free in the fresh air, when you could do it in front of the telly, and pay hundreds of dollars for the privilege?

So, we purchased a Wii. His name is Keith. These are our avatars: the Fella, me and Stuart.

There is no Ellen. Ellen is not interested in self-improvement.

The avatars are not quite as we designed them. The hair, glasses and general appearance are accurate, and we had chosen what we thought were fine and accurate physiques. The Wii had other ideas. After it weighed us, it swelled our tummies up to the comical proportions you see above. It also reduced my height significantly.

This was only the first of many indignities it would have us suffer on the first day.

Upon completing most exercises I was ranked "Couch Potato," and it kindly suggested that maybe balance exercises weren't "my cup of tea." And it told me my fitness age is 52. It even suggested Stuart lay off the afternoon snacks.

This is war. I will not take crap from a Nintendo.

2010: The Year In Preview

2009-12-30T22:24:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve is invariably the most disappointing celebration of all: less chocolatey than Easter, more expensive than Anzac Day, less fragrant than Diwali, and far less satisfying than Pancake Tuesday. With that in mind, the Fella and I have already celebrated it: we just returned from a lovely picnic in the Botanic Gardens with an old friend, and with this new friend, who was taking a very unhealthy interest in my roast chicken.

The picnic was very nice, but ended prematurely when I knocked a glass of champagne into the Fella's lap while I was doing an impersonation of a cat shaving a leg of ham. It's as hilarious as it sounds.

So with the frivolity behind us, there's nothing to do tonight but sit around wallowing in regrets, trepidation and cold chicken. I, for one, will have sucked the last of the bones clean long before midnight and tucked myself into bed.

That said, I'm not a complete misery, and do enjoy the glimmer of hope that comes with throwing the lit match over my shoulder at the close of one year, and striding out in the freshly-laundered jocks of the new year. And this particular new year holds a lot of promise. So, I thought, rather than indulging in what livebird claims is the lazy journalistic technique of reviewing the past year, I thought I would review for you all the things that are going to happen in 2010.

SPOILER ALERT - don't read on if you want it all to be a surprise.

JANUARY: I will start the year on a half-diet. It can only be a half-diet, because it is my birthday month, and also there are lots of rumballs left over from Christmas. For my birthday I will get a benchgrinder, the Sebastian Faulks novel I wanted, an electrical circuit etching kit (for arty purposes) and some cheeses.

FEBRUARY: I start my diet in earnest and finish it on February 3 when somebody leaves me near some unattended chilli salt squid. The Oscars happen and Avatar wins best special effects, disappointing all the Wild Things fans. Penelope Cruz wears something red and breasty (as in a dress, not a robin).

SMARCH: There is a ferry disaster in the Philippines, but nobody takes much notice as there are no Australians on board.

APRIL: Red Tulip will try and win over a new generation of Easter egg consumers with their Bindi Irwin egg. The resemblance is too off-putting and the campaign is a massive failure. The smashed up Bindis are donated to piggeries, and the Elegant Rabbit re-takes the crown as Best Easter Egg Ever.

MAY: Peter Costello comes back and takes the Liberal leadership. Julie Bishop remains deputy.

JUNE: The shortest day of the year is found to be three minutes longer than the day before it. Climate scientists are very, very concerned. Tim Flannery and Ian Plimer fight it out in a cage. Avocadoes are expensive and very poor quality this month.

JULY: Fairy Penguins surprise everyone by leaving Phillip Island. It is thought they have gone to the south coast of NSW.

AUGUST: Fairy Penguins move back to Phillip Island, and people wonder if they perhaps had never left in the first place and maybe they hadn't looked hard enough for them.

SEPTEMBER: Crocs (the shoes, not the crocodilians) are made illegal everywhere except the ACT. This results in a mass migration of bogans, and the climate scientists are all like, see, I told you so, and then someone explains it to them. Ian Plimer and Tim Flannery are still cage fighting.

OCTOBER: Tony Abbott is caught in a strip club and his popularity plummets. He claims this is not fair. The Booker Prize is announced this month. All the shortlisted books are from the hilarious "Classics meets folkloric pop-culture monsters" genre. The winner is "The Unbearable Lightness of Lesbian Vampire Killers," which just nudges out "The Merchant of Venice and Bigfoot."

NOVEMBER: The Arias happen. An Idol runner-up wins most categories, and the surprise overseas presenter will be Kevin Federline.

DECEMBER: Pluto is re-admitted into the solar system and astronomers acknowledge there was a terrible, terrible mistake. Also Christmas. For Christmas I get another kitten.

Happy New Year everyone.

Psychometrics, qu'est-ce que c'est?

2009-12-23T21:58:00.000-08:00

Recently, someone I know had to undergo psychometric testing.

It was not, as I had thought, a measure of the extent of her psychoses, but a three-hour ordeal where the depths of her brain were plumbed for evidence that she knew how to multiply fractions, spot the difference between between various polygons, and give black or white answers to decidedly grey moral conundrums (conundra?), many of which were culturally inappropriate as well as just plain dumb.

I'm not sure what these tests reveal, but they are apparently designed by Very Clever People who can glean Very Important Facts from the results.

Anyway, I thought, how hard can it be? So here I present

Lissy's Psychometric Test For Finding Out The General Smarts And Personalities Of Her Readers.

You have 72 minutes to complete the test. Do not try to second-guess what answers I am looking for.

1: What is the difference between a Pink Lady apple and a lychee?

a/ There's a difference? All fruits look the same to me and are equally valued within my world view

b/ What the @#$% is a lychee?

c/ A Pink Lady is delicious and a lychee is like an eyeball

d/ None of the above

2: When you look at this image, do you see a vase, or do you see two people facing each other?

3: Scenario: Your family is very hungry and there is no bread in the house. They are not poor - they simply forgot to buy it when they were at the Farmers' Market. Is it OK to steal bread to feed them?

a/ Yes, but only if it's white bread
b/ No. You should steal meat. Your family should be protected against carbohydrates
c/ No. Why should it always fall on you to get them out of a tight spot?
d/ None of the above

4: What is the next number in this sequence: 1, 2, 6, 76, 14, 2, 2, 64, 0.46.....

a/ 2
b/ 8
c/ pi
d/ I don't know

5: Which of these lines is longer?

5: What would you say is the worst thing about you?

a/ I am a murderer

b/ Sometimes I deliberately leave only two sheets of toilet paper on the roll

c/ I am Julie Bishop

d/ I am too conscientious and I feel sometimes this places too much pressure on my colleagues to live up to my standards

e/ I steal teaspoons from aeroplanes

f/ I misuse apostrophes

g/ All of the above

6: Scenario: You are in a malfunctioning lift with Kevin McCloud, Penny Wong and Plucka Duck. Before the four of your plummet to your deaths do you...

a/ Jump on top of Plucka in a vain attempt to have a soft, feathery landing

b/ Touch Kevin McCloud's bottom

c/ Touch Kevin McCloud's arm

d/ Scoff down the rest of your kebab so you won't have wasted $7.95 on it

e/ Compliment Penny Wong on her fine suits and nice hair

Send me your answers and I will analyse the results in six to eight weeks.

Battle Of Half-Wits

2009-12-19T03:42:00.000-08:00

Everybody knows that in a land battle, crocodile will beat shark every time.

Some other battles with equally predictable outcomes include:

Hand-grenade vs. Sweetcorn
Chuck Norris vs. Gamera
Julie Bishop vs. Chuck Norris
Lissy vs. A wheel of cheese
Ebola vs. Coeliac Disease, and
Glad Wrap vs Glad Wrap cutter

However, not all unfair matches result in the predictable outcome. Take, for example, the battle of "Pretty much fully grown (if slightly emotionally underdeveloped) labrador with gleaming, gnashy teeth vs. Pathetic half-grown shih-tzu that trembles, has limited bladder control, and has been shaved to look like a git."

I am most ashamed to report that upon seeing this most feeble of dogs rushing at her like a bleached, incontinent and alopecic baby Ewok, Ellen immediately dropped to the ground and presented the Genitals of Subservience.

Oh Ellen. I am a bit concerned about what she'd do in the face of a real threat.

Festive Underwear

2009-12-14T00:08:00.000-08:00

I was listening to the radio the other day, and there was a discussion with some guy who wrote a book about excellent words in other languages that we just don't have in English. For example, the Japanese apparently have a word used by the Samurai that means "To test out a new sword on a passer-by."

Maybe that's not a word that most of us will ever need, but how often have we struggled to come up with an apposite term for something that can only otherwise be described with a string of words?

Often. Too often.

What if, instead of describing "the grimace evoked by little crumbs of burnt toast that one's life partner invariably leaves in the butter, " one could simply say you were "discrumbled"?

Or, the random possum/horse/cat/aardvark droppings that your dog eats while out on walkies? They'd be "faesties."

Then there's the one that bothers us at all Christmas parties: how do you describe the fancy brassiere you wear when you're expecting to get very drunk, take your top off and dance on a table? Well, as usual, the local primary school has come up with just the word:

It disturbs me a little that the WHOLE school would be wearing one, but they're pretty progressive around here.

In case you're wondering, I think this is what a "Celebra" looks like:

(image via here )

Alongside some "Celejocks."

Happy Tree Friends

2009-12-06T23:36:00.000-08:00

Every Christmas my grandfather used to tell the story of how the angel ended up on top of the Christmas Tree. Every Christmas. And it was not a short story. But here is the gist of the story, abridged to suit the attention span of the texting generation. And with some details changed. And possibly with some bits confused with the very conversation I had with the Fella yesterday.

God was sitting down trying not to be really angry at Descartes for his sub-standard proof of God's existence, and an angel came and asked him if they could have a Xmas tree.

Angel: God?
God: Yes, Gary.
Angel: Me and the other guys were wondering if we could have a Christmas tree.
God: No. You can't have a @#$%! tree.
Angel: Pleeease can we have a tree? You won't have to do anything. I promise.
God: How much are they?
Angel: The RSPCA is selling them for $45.
God: @#$% off!
Angel: Pleeeeeeease?
God: No. Leave me alone, you imaginary mediaeval nuisance.
Angel: Pleeeeeeeeeease?
God: NOOOO. @#$% off Gary. You know where you can shove your tree.

And the angel did, and that's how the tradition began.

This year, after a few years of grunchiness (which is being a grinch who is always thinking about lunch), I decided I would like a tree. And the Fella eventually agreed, although he knew it would fall to him to clean up the fallen needles.

And here is is. A fine tree, n'est-ce pas?

Having never had a Christmas tree as grown-ups, we were somewhat short of decorations. Hence the Snoopy strangled with ribbon in place of an angel.

And the reason there are no decorations on the bottom half?

Stuart eats most of the needles he pulls off, but the Fella vacuumed up the rest of them today.

Bless.

Cheese, Culture And Damned Pigeons

2009-11-24T02:59:00.000-08:00

Paris. The city of lights. The crucible of cheese. The pint-glass of pastries. The grotto of macaroons. The bastion of engorged liver. It goes by many names, not all of them pleasant.

But it was a very nice place indeed to spend a mild European week. I present, without further ado, select highlights. As the French would say, "Sacre bleu! Ou est mon poisson?"

So, getting the cultural stuff out of the way first. This is the bottom of the Venus de Milo. She has a splendid behind, and it's perplexing that more attention is not paid to it. Less mysterious is the apparently intriguing question of what position her arms originally held. It's clear to me that they were something like this:

But people love their mysteries when it comes to great art. The Mona Lisa, for example: is that smile reflecting happiness, a malaise of her soul, or hinting at a secret that the viewer will never share? None of the above. Having now seen it, it's clear she's very politely trying not to burp. Gassy.

After our visit to the Louvre, I called home to see how the Fella's mum was getting along with the children. All was fine, but she said she'd been woken up at 2am by a rustling noise. She turned on the light to find Stuart running around with a Turkish Delight in his mouth. Where does a cat get a Turkish Delight at 2am? That, my friends, is a real mystery.

Before we leave the subject of bottoms, this is Rodin's Thinker. He should be thinking about putting some trousers on.

This is a photo of me trying, without success, to feed some pain au chocolat (translation: "chocolate pain") to the sparrows. Sometimes life gives you lemons and sometimes you just get covered in pigeons. Well, pigeonade would be a most unrefreshing drink, but I did have my revenge by eating a pigeon pie (bstilla) for dinner that night. It was a bit dry, but I gorged on sweet sweet revenge and satisfaction.

After many footsore days walking around museums it can be hard to maintain focus and remain interested in the abundance of treasure. But there are ways of making it a bit more interesting. Take, for example, this statue in the Cluny Museum. It's a fine statue, but not all that engrossing if that's the 200th one you've seen that day. However, if you position yourself on a slightly different angle, there can be hilarity aplenty, and this will sustain you through the next part of the museum:

ROFL!!!!!! And if you come across a statue that is not so obliging with the position of its hands, you can fake it with the magic of photography:

There were other interesting things at Versailles besides this statue, but no time for them here.

Pre-dinner snacks. I'm not saying Nobbys nuts and a schooner of Boags at the club aren't good, but this really was very nice.

This is from the best falafel shop in Paris, in the Jewish Quarter.

Fella: Hold your falafel down lower.

Me: Grnnnnph. Can't talk. Eating.

Fella: I want to take a photo for your blog.

Me: Oh. OK then. Make it quick.

Fella: Grrr. You've eaten all the nice bits already.

Me: Whoops.

Use your imagination to work out how delicious it looked 20 seconds earlier.

Screen shot of the telly in our apartment, taken by the Fella. You can take the Fella out of Canberra....

The Eiffel Tower. So-named because it is a tower. We arrived close to dusk so we could watch the lights come on. Then we missed the moment the lights came on because we were both looking at some ducks.

And here is the tower in all its glory from a boat on the Seine. Isn't it iconic? A little too iconic, Alanis Morissette might think.

The Scent Of A Sausage (Or How To Stop A Labrador Who Is In The Midst Of Executing A Cunning Plan)

2009-11-05T04:39:00.000-08:00

Tonight the Fella and I were sitting on the couch eating dinner when there was a knock on the door.

It was our neighbour, dropping by to inform us Ellen had escaped. Again. And how had she done this? Using her new favourite trick of pulling off fence palings and squeezing through the gap.

But she hadn't got very far. Our neighbour was cooking sausages, and found Ellen on her front step, looking through the door.

Ellen is going to be dog-sat by the Fella's mum while we are in Paris.

Please let her be good.

Happy Monday

2009-11-02T04:27:00.000-08:00

There are three things that are making me very happy tonight:

For dinner we had stir-fry with peanutty sauce, which is my absolute favorite. And it was made with coconut cream, not that insipid stuff that looks like the water a paintbrush has been rinsed in.
We are in the midst of a lovely thunderstorm. Huge flashes that light up the suburb very eerily, and low grumbles that get right inside my ribs.
On Monday I am going to Paris with the Fella.

The first was planned. The others are just two of those lovely surprises life sometimes deals out.

Things That Go "Huh?" In The Night

2009-10-30T15:29:00.000-07:00

Last night we had a lot of trouble sleeping. Perhaps it was because the room was airless and pongy, sealed as it was against a marauding cat with sharp teeth and evil intent. Or maybe it was the moon. I'm not sure what percentage of the human body is water, but I'd had a great big glass just before bed. Maybe that was the real problem.

Anyway, as is customary at 4:00am, I lay there panicking about very small issues, and the Fella asked me if I wanted to play the Hat Game. The Hat Game involves naming hats in turn until someone repeats a hat, can't think of another hat, or in the case of the Fella this morning, names something that is simply not a hat.*

With my victory secured, I was able to go back to thinking about some of the big issues. This morning's quandaries, musings and great puzzles are as follows:

People in country Australia have some mighty strange ways. Especially in regard to food. For example, as soon as you're out of an Ikea catchment area, pickled onions become "bum hummers", eggs are delightful "bum nuts", and good old chilli sauce becomes "rectum wrecker." This last one seen in country SA, written in a hilarious intestinal font (sans serif).
By any measure Canberrra is a gentle and civilised place. Yet there is obviously someone aggressive and frightening behind our road safety campaigns. Warning signs on the side of the road range from point blank threats: "Drivers DIE on ACT roads, " or "Drink, drive, DIE in a ditch," to the vaguely menacing: "Drive and text, UB NXT." I guess he couldn't figure out how to include a large red reference to death in that one.
Why do squirrels bury nuts? Clearly, and contrary to popular belief, they must hate them.

Before any of these issues was satisfactorily explored it was breakfast time.

*"The Batter"

Some Assemlly Required

2009-10-27T01:06:00.000-07:00

The local primary school continues to impress.

Naked Adventures In Another Timezone

2009-10-19T00:11:00.000-07:00

I have just returned from Adelaide where I was staying in a house with Children. A two year old and a four year old, to be precise.

Almost immediately after I arrived, The Mother bundled the four year old into the car and said to me "Do you mind keeping an eye on Balthazar?* I'll only be gone half an hour, and he should still be asleep when I get back." Shouldn't be too hard, I thought. "Sure. I'd be delighted."

The car had barely pulled out of the drive when a noise in the loungeroom distracted me from snooping in the kitchen cupboards. I replaced a tin of old receipts, removed the hat I was trying on, and went to investigate.

Balthazar had awoken. He was standing on the window sill in all his glory, greeting passers-by in the City of Churches with his nakedness, like a miniature Axle Whitehead. No sign of clothing or nappy, and no sign of promised sleepiness. He grinned a grin of innocent evil as only a two year old can.

Remembering I had seen some nappies in one of the bedrooms, I ran and got one. Next challenge. I figured the cartoon character went at the front, so I aligned it and sat the naked Child on it for installation. He had to help me, but we got it on in the end. It seemed a little tight, but it wasn't falling off, and modesty had been restored to the house. I felt rather pleased with myself.

When The Mother came home, she said she was amazed I managed to get it on. Hrumph, I thought, us Childless Persons aren't all useless. No, she said, I meant this is a newborn nappy - it's two sizes too small for him. Hmmm. That would explain the bluish legs and the muffin top on what was a fairly slim toddler.

Still, nothing - absolutely nothing - was going to escape from that nappy, and that, after all, was the most important outcome. Mission accomplished. I smugly ate cheese while The Mother changed him into a larger nappy.

*not his real name.

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

2009-10-12T23:48:00.000-07:00

People in our suburb really, really like the 12th of October.

Inside A Dog

2009-10-11T20:23:00.000-07:00

Some time ago I was walking Ellen, and she was engaging in her usual crocodile antics, rolling in deceased animal matter and being a general pain in the bum. This was all witnessed by a Young Person, who observed, "It's the full moon. Dogs are 70% water you know."

Well, I didn't know that, and I thanked him for his observation and wished him on his emo way. What he didn't know is that Ellen is exactly the same during a new moon, a full moon, a waxing, waning, gibbous, blue or bad moon.

But his statistic makes sense - I've always imagined dogs to contain more water than dates (20%), but less than lychees (82%). So this led me to do some research into what the remaining 30% might comprise.

And here are the results, in an easy-to-follow, but not necessarily to scale or spatially accurate, graphical format. Which is how all science should be presented. Click on it to embiggen the sciency goodness.

Celebrity Impersonations #1

2009-10-07T20:45:00.000-07:00

Matt Preston

Steve Fielding

A Short But Long Overdue Rant About Bothersome People Who Are Not My Age

2009-10-05T21:42:00.000-07:00

Questions that have been making me very, very cross this week:

Why do Young People dress according to the date, and not the weather? Just because it's Spring, doesn't mean short shorts are appropriate clothing on an 11 degree day. Why does this make me angry? It just does. It's not just because nobody makes short shorts in my size.
Why don't Old People pick up their dogs' leavings? I see lots of sweet old ladies out walking their wiry, ancient, cranky terriers, and yet I'm the only person who is ever parading around the suburb clutching a Bag O'Turds. And those terriers can really poop.

George Clooney, Molten Glass And A Dog

2009-10-01T21:01:00.000-07:00

So the other night I had a dream about George Clooney. It wasn't one of the good ones (you know - those dreams where he takes you shopping and then you stop to rest for coffee and cake and there's only one slice of lemon tart left, but he lets you have it because he's a great guy, and you eat the tart but you're still hungry, so he gives you some of his sticky date pudding and then you go home together to watch Northern Exposure and plan the evening meal. Sigh.). No, in this dream we were in an apartment on the 100th floor and we were setting off explosions outside. I don't think we were trying to hurt anyone, we were just making really big explosions that shot flames right into the sky. Obviously the police were interested in finding us, so we were being pretty careful not to get caught. Anyways, the phone rang, and it was the police, and they asked George if Danny Ocean was there. George said that he wasn't, and was very pleased with himself, but I pointed out that the police obviously knew we were there because they had linked Danny to the apartment, so we should move. It took a lot of trips in the elevator to move the entire contents of the apartment out.

So what's the moral of this tale? There's none really. I'm just pissed off that I get a George Clooney dream and I spend it moving furniture.

Apart from sleeping, here are some of the things that I have done this week:

1: Enamelling

This is an enamelled box that I made in a workshop I've been attending for the past week. Had a super-excellent time and have started campaigning for my own kiln. Have promised Fella that if I get one, a) I will become rich selling enamelled treasures and shall have everlasting fame and many new friends who will be very beautiful but insincere in their affections, b) I can warm his slippers for him on frosty nights, and c) I will stop nagging him about needing a kiln.

2: Photoshopping

ROFL!!!!!

3: Chasing Ellen as she destroyed various things.

This is the receipt for Ellen's doggy school. Oh the irony.

Like a black fly in your chardonnay.

Fail

2009-09-24T23:41:00.000-07:00

In recent history there have been many great failures:

Bert Newton's hair
Mark Latham's pancreas
Utegate
The ending of "The Birds"
The shape of the original Hubble telescope lens, and
The decision by Coles to stop importing my favorite satay sauce.

We can now add Ellen to this list.

The exam started last night with a simple exercise: walking on a loose lead from one traffic cone to another, then turning around and coming back.

Ellen picked up the cone in her mouth, then pulled like a really pully thing towards the puppies beyond the second cone. I was told later that "her attention wasn't really on you."

The other exercises weren't much better, but she kicked arse at sitting.

She was the only dog to leave without a certificate, and she also got told she was overweight again.

We'll show them next term, Ellen.

Imminent Fail

2009-09-23T22:34:00.000-07:00

Ellen comes from a reasonably intelligent family. Now, I'm not very good with numbers, and I have trouble filling out forms without getting so nervous about making mistakes that I'll stuff them up two lines from the end and have to ask for a new one, but overall, I don't think I'm a thicky. And the Fella is very intelligent (he has grammatical super-powers, and has even mastered rudimentary maths, but is not so good at changing washers. Especially the one in the laundry that has been dripping for weeks and driving everyone crazy). So, I reckon between the two of us we should be able to raise a reasonably bright child.

I know Ellen is adopted, but I would have hoped that some of our values, and calmness, might have rubbed off on her. She has certainly been given every educational advantage, and if Sam Neill is right, the amount of steak she has been eating should have made for a Very Big Brain.

Despite all this, we are going to fail our Beginners Obedience Exam tonight.

Last week, in our final class, our (new) instructor concluded by saying, "Now, from what I've seen you'll all do fine in the test next week." Pause, then in our direction, "I'll talk to you after the class." My heart sank. Ellen continued rolling around on her back as part of her ongoing experiment on how wide she can open her jaws.

After class, the teacher told me that it was "very unlikely" that we would pass, and also my dog was overweight. Way to make me feel better, lady. What other gems would she come up with to crush my fragile heart? "Not every vet will tell you your dog needs to lose weight. They think you don't want to hear it. When you go to the doctor, you don't want him pointing out you are overweight, do you?" So I am also fat. Sigh.

The two of us will waddle off to our exam tonight. Ellen won't mind failing. She'll get to meet a whole new bunch of beginners next term.

Weasel-face probably won't want to talk to her any more though.

Crafty Like A Fox

2009-09-18T23:31:00.000-07:00

Given I don't own any flouncy shirts, and we're almost out of rum, what better way to celebrate Talk Like A Pirate Day than with a trip to Spotlight, I thought. This is no small excursion - it involves driving interstate (yes, yes, only to Queanbeyan, but I want to impress my Adelaide readers), finding a parking space in a small carpark that is shared with Supercheap Auto (second only to Bunnings for attracting blokes on a sunny weekend), and then waiting for twenty minutes in a queue of talkative older ladies who are buying fat quarters* and 10cm of this polarfleece and 50cm of that twill, and 4m of each of these poplins.......

Anyhow, before I got to the queue I found myself in the scrapbooking aisle. I know I have been a little disparaging of scrapbooking at times, but I'm big enough to admit that they have some quite practical little tools, and I needed something to cut circles more neatly than I can do, and with less cussing. As the Fella was not with me, I was enjoying touching all the tools and pressing buttons without being asked why I needed to touch everything, and also could we go home, surely we've been here for four hours, and where are the crochet hooks I'd rather dig my eyes out than look at any more Martha Stewart crap?

As I was poking things, a lost-looking woman with an armful of fat quarters approached me and said, "Hello, you look crafty." I narrowed my eyes and engaged my wary face. Did she mean I looked like someone who could make a wonderful planter using only a glove with the fingers cut off, two egg-cartons and some PVA? Or did she mean I looked as though I might take her wallet if she dropped her guard? In fairness, both are reasonable assessments of me, but I would never choose to do the former. "I'm looking for ribbons," she continued.

"Arrrgh, there are ribbons, to be sure," I replied, in a confused blending of Talk Like A Pirate Day and Talk Like A Leprechaun Day.** "Ribbons aplenty, over yonder."

Actually, I didn't say all that, but I wish I had. I just directed her to the ribbons.

And I found my circle-cutter, and my Big Interstate Adventure ended happily.

*for you non-crafting types, a fat quarter is like a regular quarter. But fat.

**which doesn't exist, but should.

Historical Conundrums

2009-09-13T17:04:00.001-07:00

These are the questions that have been keeping me awake this week:

1: Did anyone hate technology before the heyday of Ned Ludd? If so, what were these people called?

2: If you lived before before 500 AD and wanted to get medieval on someone's ass, how would you do it?

3: Were antiquated thoughts and actions called antediluvian before the Great Flood? And why is "antediluvian" so pejorative? After all, one of the greatest antediluvian ideas was Noah's* brainwave about building an ark.

4: I have a friend who has a Very Important Job, and her email footer warns that the contents of her emails are subject to the jurisdiction of section 70 of the Crimes Act 1914. Does the Crimes Act of 1914 really have provision to protect emails? Were lawyers puzzled by the clause until the invention of the internet some decades later gave it some clarity? And are our dinner arrangements really worth that level of protection?

*although he doesn't claim all the credit for the idea.

Calm

2009-09-10T15:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes people think I am exaggerating Ellen's behaviour. No, they say, shaking their heads and smiling, she couldn't possibly be THAT naughty.

Our report card last night said that we needed to work on "Calming."

This rather grainy video was shot with my phone last night. All the other dogs were sitting very nicely at the feet of their owners. Some were watching the instructor talking, some just looking up at their people with adoration. Others were lying down quietly, waiting for their next instruction.

This is what Ellen was doing.

We have one more class, and then the exam.

Sign Of The Tmies

2009-09-08T21:43:00.000-07:00

If the Fella and I end up staying in Canberra, and if we end up having a non-furry child, we will not be sending that child to the local primary school.

To add to the genius, the sign has been there for well over a week.

The Fella reckons someone has changed it, but the case has three padlocks on it.

Hello Dolly

2009-09-06T21:35:00.000-07:00

Having had a pretty good week that saw Ellen do all her tricks quickly and correctly at home (in exchange for liverwurst), I was keen to get to school on Thursday to show off how far we'd come.

Of course, kids don't tend to behave so nicely when they're around their friends.

Me: Sit!

Ellen: [LEAP! LEAP! BARKBARKBARK! LEAP! Stand with lolling tongue, wagging at Weasel-face]

Me: SIT!

Ellen: [LEAP! GRAB SLEEVE! LUNGE FOR POCKET CONTAINING STEAK PIECES! Roll around with ladybits immodestly in air and whites of eyes displayed, maniacally daring me to get close to big gnashing teeth.]

Me: SIT!! (with piece of steak held aloft.)

Ellen: [Sit. Very quietly.]

That is pretty much the pattern for all tricks: "sit," "stay," "drop," "drop that other dog," "leave that duck poo." However, last week our teacher offered me the first words of encouragement I've had.

"Don't worry," he said, "Every lab of this age is exactly the same. Give her 18 months and she'll be a doll."

Hmmm, I thought. She's already a doll. It just happens to be this one:

Image via here

Simple Pleasures

2009-09-01T19:45:00.000-07:00

Spring is just delightful in what remains of our garden. The daphne is a gorgeous afro of pink blooms, the first tiny green buds are springing from the gnarly bonsai trunks, and gang-gangs are sitting in the honeysuckle plucking at blossoms and croaking their creaky song.

Yesterday I watched Ellen in adorable puppy mode, gamboling after a butterfly in the late afternoon sun. Then she caught the butterfly and ate it, which made me a little bit sad.

Oh, for non-Canberrans, this is a gang-gang. They are the world's most hilarious birds.*

image via here

*with the possible exception of those ones with the pointy beaks that pick sheep's noses.

The Promise Of Fruit and Poo

2009-09-01T02:05:00.000-07:00

Ellen tries very hard to destroy most things in our garden, but there are some things she can't reach.

These are our beautiful apricot blossoms.

I was enjoying the fragile beauty of these, but then the Fella pointed out that each of these will turn into an apricot, which the cockatoos will pluck off the tree and let fall to the ground, where Ellen will eat it, and it will have unfortunate results.

Really. Unfortunate. Results.

Progress Report

2009-09-01T01:42:00.000-07:00

Our new addition is finally earning her keep. Last night I spilled some peas on the kitchen floor. Ellen ate them all up. We have had her two months, and that is the first useful thing she has done.

Unfortunately she is less helpful in the garden.

On Sunday, the Fella and I decided to remove our temporary brick wall and repair the fence that Ellen had escaped through a number of weeks ago. Of course Ellen wanted to help us, and was doing very useful things like picking up the hammer and taking it away, or just hanging around in order to poop where we wanted to stand.

Well, I thought. Here's an excellent opportunity to practise some of those things we've been doing at school. In particular, the "wait" command. This is where we tie our dogs to a fence (actually, we only tie their leads. It would take a lot of string, and patience, to tie Ellen securely to a fence), and then we say "WAIT" as we go off and pretend to buy goat's cheese at the market. The dog sits quietly, and we return and reward them with a kebab.

In theory.

Ellen was duly tethered to a deck railing and told to wait. She was nice and quiet, so we moved around the corner to continue fencing.

No noise for five minutes, so the Fella went around to check on her. She was standing where we'd left her, but had done this to her lead:

Sigh. She was very pleased to be back with us and sharing her building skills.

Lost In Translation

2009-08-27T21:14:00.000-07:00

As expected, Ellen's report card last night was not glowing. This time it said "Needs to work on walking and control." I am not surprised. Ellen neither walks, nor has any control.

However, I do think we are both making progress. There are some commands Ellen will respond to now (albeit with the promise of sausage), and I think I am learning to understand the teacher a bit better. Like Confucius, his wisdom is sometimes cleverly veiled in seemingly simple phrases. For example, Confucius said "Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life." What he really meant by this was, "If you love marine biology, pursue it, but you will never find a job. Aim low, Grasshopper."

But I digress. These are some of the things our teacher said last night, along with translations of what he actually meant:

Words Spoken With Forked Tongue	The Real Message
This course is all about you forming a better working relationship with your dog. It's not about who learns to drop the quickest, and whether you graduate to the next class.	You. With the labrador. You are going to fail.
In the short time you've been doing this I've seen you all make real progress..........	.....except you. With the labrador.
Now see what those two [pointing to Weasel-face and Ellen] are doing? That's "socialising."	You. With the labrador. Keep your @#$% dog away from the others while I'm talking.
He's a little nervous [pointing to The Hound of the Baskervilles].	Don't go near that dog if you value your face.
You'll notice a great improvement if you practise this at home.	You. With the labrador. I know that rather than spend the necessary time training, you sit around watching Hitchcock movies together and reinforcing each other's bad habits.
Now this exercise is a little tricky.	I know you haven't mastered the basics yet. I'm doing this because I hate you.
Be careful with treating your dog. If they think they'll get a treat every time they do something, they'll stop obeying you.	You. Labrador girl. Don't think I haven't noticed your dog pretends she doesn't know you unless you have a sausage between your eyes.
Now, I want you to run to the fence, turn and run back.	This is not really necessary. I'm doing this because I hate you.
Adolescence in labradors can last up until they're two years old.	Your dog is a lost cause. Have you considered getting a standard poodle instead?

Helpful Household Hint #1: How To Get Your Fella To Do The Dishes

2009-08-25T16:25:00.000-07:00

Scene: Fella is sitting on couch watching cricket. Dishes, including a pan from an egg-poaching experiment gone horribly wrong, are sitting on kitchen sink. Cricket is scheduled to finish some time close to dawn.

Step One: Start singing Mr Mistoffeles, sotto voce.

Fella will smile politely at your child-like exuberance.

Step Two: Leave a pause long enough for your Fella to relax and start watching cricket again. Start singing Don't cry for me Argentina. Inject some passion. Stand up for the chorus.

Fella will smile again, but this time with a hint of murderousness.

Step Three: Shift the tempo with Mein Herr from Cabaret. You probably don't know all the words to this one, but it's OK to substitute all the missing words with "Mein Herr."

Fella stops smiling and turns up the volume.

Step Four: Treat him to The sun will come out tomorrow in your best Little Orphan Annie holler. Make sure you emphasise "Tooo-morrrrahhhhhh" in a way that will get the cat's attention from the other end of the house.

Fella will turn off the TV and go into the kitchen.

Step Five: Turn the TV back on and watch something interesting.