Friday, October 30, 2009

Things That Go "Huh?" In The Night

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:
  1. 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).
  2. 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.
  3. 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"

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Some Assemlly Required

The local primary school continues to impress.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Naked Adventures In Another Timezone

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.

Monday, October 12, 2009

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

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

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Inside A Dog

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.

Monday, October 5, 2009

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

Questions that have been making me very, very cross this week:
  1. 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.
  2. 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.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

George Clooney, Molten Glass And A Dog

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


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.

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