Arrrrrrr Bugger.

Pirate [pahy-ruht]. 

 I'd scoured the hire shop for things resembling "David Bowie in Labyrinth.  You know, the Goblin King?  Mullet, tights, codpiece? No?"   
(As an aside, am deeply, deeply troubled by the lack of knowledge that employees in costume hire shops possess of 80's fantasy children's movies starring puppets and music icons.  It's not like it's a broad genre) 

But The Tall Guy couldn't come play dress up with us.  (Organising a wake for his brother instead, humph, it's amazing the lengths that man will go to in order to avoid wearing a wig and eyeshadow.)  
((All jokes regarding the tragedy have been pre-approved by The Tall Guy. He's the one who found it funny, after all, when the ashes went missing at the wake.  Said it was pretty typical behaviour for his brother to go AWOL at any party, why not his own last bash.)) 

And so the Pugs and I went it alone, hopeful that someone would recognise my stripy baby, puffy white shirt, long dark hair, and appropriate pieces of jewelry to be traded with Hoggle and the Wiseman for assistance, (Oh, did I not mention I was a Labyrinth geek?) and holler "Hey!  You're that chick from that movie!  With the baby!"

Reader/Spambots, they did not. 

I got a few confused looks, and "Are you a pirate?" when I pointedly asked friends what they thought my costume was.

Not a Pirate. [not a pahy-ruht].  I'm holding a fricken peach, dudes, what else do you want from me?

No photos exist of me that day, but rest assured I looked VERY SIMILAR to this.  Maybe a bit less dazed.  And apparently, a bit more  buccaneerish.   If I was Long John Silver, I'm not sure if they thought Pugsley was a very small pajama-wearing Jim Hawkins, or a really really crap attempt at a parrot.  


I think most people just thought I was trying to bring the puffy shirt back.  

On the plus side, the Pugs later attended our mum's group party as the world's most ADORABLE black widow spider, and I got to eat cake and sausages without anyone asking me if I was Blackbeard.

Call me Pequod.

 Me: regularly scheduled moan about having nothing to wear, so much baby weight to lose, resemblance to bovine animal etc etc
The Tall Guy: trying to make me feel better "You're doing great!  Remember how big you were right before you had Pugsley?"
Me: "Yeah, I was a whale..."
The Tall Guy: "You weren't a whale...."
Me: momentary "awwwwww how sweeeeet" moment before he continues
The Tall Guy: "....you were a whaling ship.  Whales would see you and freak out.  The 'Sea Shepherd' was throwing rancid butter on your decks."

Whaling ship? I fail to see the resemblance.

Oh no, wait....there it is. 

Boo

Halloween is not exactly a done thing in these parts.
Oh sure, the odd shop has a few random pumpkins littering their window display.   And the corner store suddenly puts a massive markup on bags of fun sized candy bars for the few people (like me) who think "Holy crap, must have chocolate on hand for the evil army of the undead/children up past their bedtime and hyped up on sugar that shall descend upon me!"
 

But round here, that evil army generally gets sent to bed at an appropriate time to foster their emotional and physical development, after eating their politically correct dinner of ethically farmed chicken nuggets and organic hydroponic mung beans.  And so the bumper sized pack of Mini!! Fun Sized!!  SnickerMarsWay Bars!!!  mysteriously vanishes over the next week or two, and months later wrappers are found stuffed behind the couch cushions, or inside the abridged Oxford English Dictionary.   Ahem.  Dang cats.
But now I have a Pugsley.  And as the Pugsley's own personal Mamarazzi,  it appears to be my duty to "Create Memories".  So while she may be too young for the chocolate, the terrorising of the neighbours, or the hacking of the pumpkins  - oh my, can she be dressed up.
And I have the perfect outfit for all three of us.

It allows her to be comfortable, cute, and for me to not have to do any sewing.

It allows me to be comfortable, (fairly) cute, and not to have to do any sewing.

 

It requires the Tall Guy to wear tights, a wig, makeup, and a codpiece.

I am so making this happen.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

The Tall Guy just got some bad news. He got the diabeetus.
It's come as a bit of a surprise, because in addition to being The Tall Guy, he is also The Thin Guy, The Fit And Active Guy, and The Hates Sweet Things Guy. As you can imagine, he is a mite irked.


"I can't eat condensed milk", he said mournfully, as we leafed through the multitude of "So, Your Pancreas Don't Work Too Good" literature provided by his kindly healthcare provider.
"And I can't have beer. Or Coke. Or Tim Tams. I never even tried those Rum and Raisin Tim Tams!"
"Uhhh.....Tall Guy? You never had that stuff anyway! You don't even like beer!"
"But now I'm not allowed it You try not being allowed to eat things!!!"
Yesss.....that would be called "Pregnancy", dear. 


In some ways it would almost be easier if he was overweight, and we did eat a twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun kind of diet. It would mean that there would be some easy changes he could make to do what everyone agrees is the golden shining miracle for type 2 diabetes - lose weight.
As it is, I'm not sure there would be much left of him if he did lose weight. So we're going to concentrate on building up muscle, a low GI/GL diet, and on him not catching me when I sneak a Jet Plane from the hidden secret stash.

Home truths

So it seems the Tall Guy has another new baby. And, well, so do I. Princess Pugsley Snufflepig is now nearly 6 months old, and is (as all parents are wont to declare), truly wonderful.
But.
Sleep has become a legend, whispered of in hushed voices around the coffee table at the weekly mother's group meeting.
Breastfeeding made me want to go back to the nice hospital where all the lovely people kept offering me drugs in labour, and tell them I'd changed my mind about this whole "natural" thing, and after all doesn't morphine come from poppies, and they're pretty natural aren't they? And what's a little drug diversion between friends?
But we persevered, and everything healed and its a lovely bonding experience and hopefully Pugsley's first words won't be the fuckfuckfuckouchfuckfuck she heard chanted through the first nights of her life.
My beautiful, colourful, and structured pre-baby clothes lie abandoned in an attic, and I schlump around draped in various items which can only be described as "black" and "stretchy". Black may be flattering for the figure (and lord knows my figure could do with a little flattering), but it does not hide the byproduct of one of Pugsley's more productive pastimes - reflux. You know those ads? For, I don't know, coffee or microwaves or the Ford Yaris or something? The ones where the new dad goes into the office all yawny and wearing the Daddy Badge - the teensy tiny splodge of baby puke on the shoulder? Yes? My question - did his wife give birth to a baby bird?? If those ads showed the Tall Guy, there would be white splodges down his back to his shoes, and a squelchy noise as he walked. This probably would not sell coffee, or microwaves, or even the Ford Yaris. It might sell Durex condoms instead


But, then again -
This baby is rolling and reaching and stretching and grabbing and yodelling and tasting and splashing and seeing the world with intense concentration and I am having to stop and say - wow, lemons really are pretty damn amazing, whether its your first taste or your five hundredth. A trip to the zoo made me look at ostriches and giraffes as the wonders of long stretchy necks that they really are. Wind and trees and even rain is really really cool stuff.
So this cynic had a baby. I think the baby broke the cynic.

You got to know when to Holden.

The Tall Guy has a new baby.
Well, an old baby.
An old baby with bench seats, lots of shiny shiny chrome, and a V8 engine that sounds like the hounds of hell have been unleashed, and would very much like their Meaty Bites now please. Oh, and fluffy dice. Can't forget the fluffy dice.
Its older than I am, and when people ask him what it is, he rattles off an incomprehensible babble of Holden blah blah Kingswood blah blah refurbished Colby blah blah VX78 blah air filtration blah blah. (When people ask me what it is, I say its red. And it turns like an oil tanker. But mainly red.)
I've noticed that when he drives it, he get approving head nods and wink and guns from manly looking blokey blokes driving other noisy oil tankers. We've even had the odd 'Nice ride, mate' when we pull up at lights. (I think, I'm still learning lip reading).
I'm bewildered why I don't get this reaction in my Rav? I've taken to giving people driving Corollas the wink and the gun, and they've shot away as fast as their 1.8 litre engines will let them. And I got slapped when I said 'Nice ride Mate' to a woman getting into her Starlet at the shopping centre....
Moral - Holden drivers more friendly than Toyota drivers.

The Magic Fruit

I decided my mission for the week was to learn to cook beans. (As in dried pulses and legumes, rather than green, string, or broad variety, cos a) how hard is boiling water and creating steam really and b) the Tall Guy don't like em).
Why the sudden need to cook beans? It strikes me as one of those pioneery women things to do. I'm all about the budget conscious, living like my Nana, hippy chic lifestyle, dontcha know. Plus, I'm trying to avoid doing any work on my thesis.
Buzzing with that odd combination of virtue and guilt I get when I try to avoid doing something Really Important by doing something Really Healthy, I took myself to the library to research. This is of course after I Googled 'How to Cook Beans', and saw a dozen odd entries all reporting that I should soak them, then cook them. Or cook them, then soak them. Soak overnight. Soak in hot water. Soak in cold water. Add some random seaweed. Discard the water. Save the water for geraniums. Use the water in porridge. Wash my hair in the water, then soak the beans. I was confuzzled. Plus, I like books. So library ho.



Apparently either no-one has ever written the book "The Real Facts on Cooking Beans for Confuzzled People", or there are a stack load of Pioneery Budgeteering Nana Hippy Chic confuzzled maidens out there who had become bean curious before me, for I found no such book.


What I did find was the Star Trek Cookbook. And the Desperate Housewives Cookbook. And the Friends Cookbook. (Actually, that one I'm kinda intrigued by, I want to know if it features the Shepherd's Pie Trifle that Rachel made, cos I have some people I'd like to serve that one up to. )
I'm not sure why it strikes me as so random that people would want to eat things they have seen others eating on TV, because really, that's the advertising world in a nutshell.


Other things at the library that possibly only I would find amusing? The fact that the sexual health section lies right next to the public health section, so that in the 'Oversized Books' shelf, 'The Joy of Gay Sex' lies right next to 'Not Just One Little Prick' (a tome on mass immunisation). Tee hee.

Minty Fresh

Grow mint, they said. It's the easiest pot plant in the world, they said. You can put it in tea and yoghurt and vietnamese rice paper rolls and juleps, they said. NO-ONE can kill mint, they said.

They lied.

We are not even going to discuss the basil.

Annoying thing of the week....

'Built-in bra'.
What I hear -
"Hey! Look! I'm a cute little strappy top, but don't worry! I come with underwiring and hooks and eyelets and space age stretchy stuff, and I'm going to lift and separate, without extra straps showing at your shoulders!"
The reality -
"Hahaa! I fooled you! I'm actually a weird ass flap of fabric with a band of thick elastic wrapping around your rib cage. I'm going to sit so low and tight that I end up transecting your liver, while you enjoy how attractive a mono-boob can be! I'll create random indentations along your torso! You're going to spend all day adjusting me as I slip up and down, and everyone will see the straps of the real bra you're going to have to wear, so you gotta coordinate too! And, just for kicks, I'm going to get stuck when you try to take me off, so you have to hop around with your shirt pulled over your head in the gym changing room!"


Or is that just me?

Memo to self -

- Coffee tastes better if you add water to your cup after the kettle has boiled, not before.
- Once you have achieved the crucial boiling process, the kettle then goes back onto the hob. It is not instead placed in the fridge, and certainly does not go on top of a packet of pre-sliced honey smoked deli ham.
- I thought you weren't eating non-freerange ham anyway, what's that doing in there?
- Twilight is really a fairly crappy book, and did not merit you staying up until 4.30am to finish it. Now you have a cup of cold gritty coffee, and a singed packet of battery farmed ham. Get more sleep.

Bite Me, Doc.

I like to think I have a reasonable cage-side manner. I talk in a soothing voice. I handle my patients gently, distract them with yummy treats and belly rubs, and use lots and lots of happy drugs.
But then, you see, I am a vet. And, besides the fact that I genuinely like animals, and like being able to talk to them and give them belly rubs, my patients Bite.
If I stomped into the room, slammed the door behind them, chucked them onto a cold table, poked the sore bit and plunged a needle into it, I would get Bitten. And I would deserve it too.
I think more of us need to bite doctors, to teach them some manners. (Although I'll pass on the belly rub).

Fim Noir

I think there is only one video store clerk in the world.
Every time I walk in the door, I glance nervously at the counter, hoping that this time there will be someone different there. A pimply faced school-kid. A mumsy type in a flowery dress. A skin-head with a face full of metal and tattoos. I got lucky last time, and came in to find a sleepy Rasta on duty - I squeaked for joy, and instantly grabbed handfuls of rom-coms and feel good flicks. But my luck was shortlived, and this time, its him. Lounging behind the counter, watching 'Dr Strangelove', grungily sexy in his op shop castaways and battered fedora. Damn it!
I grudgingly pick out 'Last Year at Marienbad' and 'Dogville'. I waver for a moment over 'Once': I really want to see it, but despite it initially being shown at a film festival, it was later released in mainstream cinema, so no, it goes back on the shelf. My relaxing night in has just turned into another enlightening evening of the intricacies of Danish cinematography. I wish I could get what I really need to numb my mind and soothe my weary soul, but I can’t face the look of scorn that would appear if I offered up 'Love Actually'.
I hand over my selection, knowing that this time I’m safe.
"There’s a $16 late charge on your account for 'The Jane Austen Book Club', 'PS, I Love You', and '27 Dresses'. Do you want to pay that now?"

Bad Apple

I hate weight watchers. I was raised on the idea that if you were hungry, you should eat a piece of fruit to tide you over to the next meal. (I was also raised on the clean your plate, bread is evil, and god doesn't like fat kids idea, but that's a whole nuther story). But in weight watchers, fruit carries points. Yoghurt carries even more. And god forbid you even look sideways at a piece of whole-grain bread, lest it smite thee.
I accept the idea of accountability. I relish the idea of balance and moderation. But I can't get over the concept of evil fruit.

Drink Me

Alice - possibly the best discovery of my year. Maybe just of the week. At least, the find of the night. Next time I shall dress in peacoat and opera gloves, with my best string of plastic beads. I'm not normally one for novelelty drinks, but coudn't resist the china pots of tea. Drinking lemon and honey from a bone china cup makes one feel qite innocent (and must be good for my cold, I thought, especially since the added shots of Jaegermeister normally taste like cough syrup to me anyway).
I fell in love with the next pot, a dumpy brown-glazed lump sticky labelled 'Mama Bear', like something out of my Brownie days. The mint tea and vanilla vodka it was filled with were slightly less reminiscent of childhood... Best of all, the old Tenniel illustrations on the walls gave me an idea for tonight's Mad Hatters tea party costume.

Cereal Killer

I suspect keeping my cats as indoor moggies may have blunted some of their predatory nature. Or possibly given them an abnormal sense of what constitutes 'Prey'.
I've started letting them outdoors, and someone brought me back their first kill the other day.
A piece of toast.
I like to think that they stalked it for hours, slinking belly low over the ground until the fatal pounce, killing it with a ferocious shake of the head. A spurt of crumbs showered the birds who had been dining on it, as they looked on, disbelieving. And moggy, mrowling the happy killer mrowl, dragged the carcass back home to show off to me.
I must teach them to hunt me chocolate...

Opinions vs Rectums

Jesus apparently died that I may -
...eat a lot of chocolate in the shape of a pagan rabbit.
...hide brightly dyed eggs around my house, so that in three weeks time, the still hidden beasties will force me to evacuate, and move to Nairobi.
...not be able to partake of a glass of wine UNLESS I have the foresight to have bought it yesterday, or be wanting fries with that. Or unless he resurrects himself near my tap and performs a miracle.
...still have to go to work, despite the fact the rest of the country is on holiday, and look after the animals of the aforementioned holidaying population. All of whom appear to have eaten chocolate/rabbits/decaying eggs, and are displaying their gastrointestinal displeasure. Explosively.
...be woken up at irregular intervals during my one sleep-in of the week by the sonorous clanging of the church bell ten metres from my bed.

Inked

Since my 30th birthday present from the boy was meant to be a tattoo, I've been trying to assemble my scrambled brain cells together long enough to decide finally on a what and a where. This is something I have long been pondering (since getting my first at the age of 21, they seem to be rather like Pringles), and you would think it shouldn't prove too daunting a task. I've narrowed it down to the idea of a few lines of text, written in a stylised typefont, probably on my lower back.
And now, the words.
Something meaningful to me now that's not going to make me feel like a complete and utter pretentious wanker when I am 82.
Something that won't make me look like an illiterate knob when someone else catches a glimpse of it.
Something that really represents the inner Nine, now and forever.

Or I could just pick random lines from whatever books I'm reading? Page 65, line five, first three sentences -->

'Oh. But he's dead'
'You can still be cool when you're dead. In fact, its much easier, because you aren't getting old and fat and losing your hair'
You know, that one actually has a certain something to it?

'As long as cardiac output and renal prefusion improve with therapy, renal function is usually maintained. Poor glomerular filtration is more likely to result in overdiuresis, excess vasodilation, or severe mocardial dysfunction. Reducing the diuretic dosage may restore renal function.'
Useful for when I sit MACVS exams, but I suspect I'll need a hell of a lot more tatts if thats the way I'm planning on getting through.

'A crowd flowed over London Bridge,so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, and each man fixed his eyes before his feet.'

Bollocks to this. Maybe I'll just get a snark instead....

Endo Metra

Three hours of laparoscopic examination this week revealed a constellation of renegade cells within me. Not renegade in a cancerous sense, more in a wayward schoolchild way. I look on my surgeon as a truant officer, really. Some of these rebellious endometrial cells had apparently decided they didn't appreciate the confines of my womb, and had instead decided to explore more exotic territory, loafing around on organs that I currently have far greater use for. Some had even gone so far as to create a beautifully termed chocolate cyst on my ovary, and I suspect Cadbury's will never look the same to me again.
Sore and tired, the two weeks off work which were earmarked for catching up with Masters coursework, are rapidly being consumed by sleep, and surfing youtube for amateur transplant humour.
That'll do, pig.

Wax on, Wax off

So no-one actually told me that a Brazilian was one of those things I had to do before I was thirty. Maybe its not. Maybe everyone just assumed I had already been there, done that. Maybe my friends just prefer not to think about my nether regions (a status quo I am happy to preserve).
But for whatever reason, I veered into "Snip n'Strip" today, and am a Brazilian virgin no more.
Step One - Say the words. Sneak it in there in between another request, if you need to. “I’d like an eyebrow shaping, please, a brazilian, and my upper lip”. See now, these people are professionals, they aren’t going to bat an eyelid. Plenty of women have a little facial hair.
Step Two - Resist the urge to turn and run. You can do this. Everyone up to and probably including Margaret Thatcher has had this done, and realistically, you do need more painful experiences in your personal compendium of Ouch, just so you can compare things with other people. (For example…Brazilian - worse than a tattoo, better than a three year old screaming in the seat next to you on a non-stop from Jakarta to Dehli).
Step Three- Get over the fact that the aesthetician/beautician/sadist is a size 3 and is about to see your inner thighs in all their glory. She’s obviously into pain, she’ll only get more of a kick out of the fact that you are embarrassed.
Step Four - Disrobe. Stare blankly at the moist towelette that she has handed you with the instructions to ’Wipe’, with a vague gesture to the portion of your body between your chin and your knees, realising it was not intended to cover such a large surface area. Oh. Right. Wipe. Gotcha.
Step Five - Discover that the foot of the table faces the door, which opens into a full waiting room, which in turn leads to a crowded shopping mall. Realise this before the Wax Wielding Warrior Princess returns. Wrap yourself tightly in the provided sheet to resemble an Egyptian mummy.
Step Six - Drift into a vague trance, musing on the fact that the Egyptians were one of the first civilisations to wax many parts of the body…wondering what that stuff is in that pot over there….finding out that indeed it is sticky, and doesn’t seem to want to come off your hand….removing any stray hairs from the inside of your left elbow, your right hand, and the sheet in the process.
Step Seven - Attempt not to have a heart attack when Mistress Pain flings the door open. Remember, adrenaline is your friend.
Step Eight - OK, there is no getting around it. This is not going to be dignified. Nothing that involves another person snapping on a pair of blue latex gloves and putting your ankle on their shoulder is intended to be dignified. Close your eyes and think of your happy place.
Step Nine - That buzzing you hear/feel is her using a pair of clippers to remove excess hair. Please come back down from the ceiling.
Step Ten - Yes, that is hot. That is very, very, very hot. That is hot in a place where hot really doesn’t belong. Try to remember that if you attempt to run now, your legs will be glued together with wax, and you will fall into the waiting room (crowded, remember?) like a lassoed calf. A lassoed calf with no pants on. I don’t advise it.
Step Eleven - Happy place, happy place, happy place, happy plAAAWOOOOO HOLY MOTHER OF DEAR FUCK!!!!!!!!!
Step Twelve - Grit your teeth, try to smile, and squeeze out the words “That wasn’t too bad” to Madam Snatch n’Grab when she asks how you are doing. Show no weakness.
Step Thirteen - Repeat steps 10-12 as needed for the duration
Step Fourteen - Try not to look completely bewildered when she asks you to roll over and “spread em” . She is not about to search you for smuggled contraband. You wish.
Step Fifteen - Repeat step eleven, this time with feeling.
Step Sixteen - Thank the nice lady. (she can hear you mumbling under your breath, and for all you know she does speak German. I’m sure her mother is lovely, really.)
Step Seventeen - Pay. No soap, no moisturiser, no nookie. Got it. Smile, you made it, its over, you did good kid.
Step Eighteen - Walk to the door, with the slow realisation that any tiny bits of wax that are left are going to randomly rip any stray hairs/skin you may have left out for the next twenty four hours.
Step Nineteen - Repeat in 4-6 weeks.

Looping the Loop

The Boy was given an aerobatic flight for his birthday, and when we woke up to sun and blue skies yesterday, we hassled Ray, the pilot, mercilessly until he agreed to meet us at the airport. I pictured myself spending the afternoon lounging on the deck outside the airport café, watching Boy as he was put through the paces, glass of wine in hand, ready for resuscitation if he stumbled out of the plane weak kneed and white with fear.
Instead I found myself signing up to do a flight as well. And then the fear really began. Butterflies the size of parakeets flooded my stomach, and I felt my hands beginning to shake, as Will, our safety instructor, detailed what was about to happen. What had I got myself into? Waiting for the others to go first nearly killed me, but inevitably, there was no avoiding it. I too had to stand on the scales, and have my weight read out to the room.
With the worst over, I practically ran to the plane, squirming my way into the front seat of the Pitts Special, and donning authentic flight helmet and aviators. I whooped enthusiastically into the intercom as we took off and did a few preparatory banks and turns, pushing my lungs somewhere into the region of my knees.
And then…then the first flip upside down. When it suddenly dawned on me that, due to the confined nature of my seat, and the fact that most of the buckles were between my legs, the actual securing of the harness had been left up to me. Yes, someone had told me which bits clicked where and what to pull to tighten, and there had even been several good yanks on various sections to make sure they were on. But I was upside down. With that harness (and a flimsy bit of plastic canopy) between me and the deep blue sea.
At that point, I abruptly abandoned the ‘weeeeeeee!’ and instead gripped onto the harness for dear life. With something of a muffled ’meeuuuuuphh!’ noise . Until another thought struck (and yes, we were still upside down) what if there was some kind of quick release system and I accidentally pulled it? The ‘meeuuuuuuph!’ increased slightly in pitch and volume, as we flipped right side up again. But then…then the looping and rolling and plunging headfirst at the waves began, and with the security of centrifugal forces pushing comfortingly against me, I giggled and cackled like a kid on a sugar high.
I think Ray thought this might have indicated hysteria, rather than glee, but each time he asked if I was ok, and up for more, I gave the 'ok' signal with both hands (wrenching them away from the harness, to which they still appeared to be glued), and we zoomed into another 6G plummet.
Fear factor? Pure blood fizzing exhileration aplenty. A few seconds of absolute terror until I realised that I had, in fact, managed to put the harness on correctly.
Fun factor? Sky high.