What a piece of work is a pig!
How noble in reason…
how infinite in faculty…
In form and moving how express and admirable!
In action, how like an angel!
In apprehension, how like a god!
The beauty of the world…
the paragon of animals…
…but you don’t even want to know about the foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
That’s it. I am through. Enough shilly-shallying, enough meandering around the point and repeating the same formula ad nauseum. When Lana finally got around to telling Clark they needed a break, I told Helpdesk Man the same thing. A break from Smallville, that is, not Helpdesk Man; I like Helpdesk Man. But I don’t like Smallville. Mid-season 5, all the vaguely interesting elements have been rehashed to screaming point. Lex doesn’t like his father; we get it. He’s slowly turning evil; duh. Lana has doe eyes and Clark looks shifty and then angsts in private about his irritatingly holey rationale for not telling her his secret; yawn. I was thinking of inventing a drinking game based on the following buzzwords:
Only trouble is, your liver would give out before the first ad break. I’m not saying the show doesn’t have some good concepts - Lex and Clark initially being friends, f’rinstance - but the writers seem determined to knock said concepts into our head repeatedly with a sledgehammer, and it is beginning to damage my calm. Plus, when the hairline on the forehead of the leading lady starts making you want to kill, you know it’s time to take a break from the show. So Helpdesk Man and I are returning to the X-Files for the time being.
I measured the small child’s waist discreetly at Bible study today, and only need to add the elastic and sew up one side to her frilly skirt. Feel v efficient. I have also gone through scads of old Suite articles to tweak keywords, add photos and perform other revenue-increasing bits of magic. Plus, this morning I got to send a fiery cease and desist letter to Associated Content, one of whose writers - a scabrous and misbegotten wench - has been ripping off my articles as well as those of a number of other Suities. It was fun. :p
One finds the oddest things on Wiki Commons. I was searching for public domain photos in order to update a bunch of old Suite articles when I came across this:
The title is “Hashish Compared to Popcorn”. I’m frankly nonplussed as to the message, though. “Say No to Drugs, Popcorn’s Bigger”? “Drugs Are For Squares”? “The Bogon Food Pyramid”? “Two Ways to Improve the Viewing Experience of Armageddon“? Rather delightfully, the copyright holder explains the image by declaring “I took this image at one time in my life” - a tactful phrase that creates a certain distance, albeit nostalgic, from the hashish-and-popcorn-snapping amateur of the past, doubtless for legal reasons. One also gets the impression that “shortly prior to my homeless period” was left out of the descriptor.
Did you know Dean Cain, aka Superman in Lois and Clark, is one-quarter Japanese? I had no idea. I found it out while perusing the IMDb user comments for said show… apparently his Of Colourness caused considerable outrage during the show’s run, as did the fact that he was, apparently, five foot nine - another factoid that had escaped me for four seasons, but hey, Lois didn’t notice he was Superman and she was an investigative reporter, so I’m not beating myself up over it. Anyway, I was somewhat surprised to learn of the vitriol surrounding him - my favourite quote, buried on page nine of the Comments, was “Hang up the Superman tight’s Dean, and go pick your nose!” Makes me proud to have a degree in Screen and Media. Anyway, how can you not love Dean Cain? He did this:
Which, aside from promoting pure evil, is all kinds of awesome.
In searching for that, I also came across one of the Internet’s more disturbing phenomena (in a quiet, reflection-of-the-society-in-which-we-live kind of way, not in a making-fluffy-dice-out-of-underprivileged-kids way): the Celebrity Wishful Romance Fanvid. For the uninitiated, this is where fans of a show decide that the lead actors have such amazing chemistry that they must be together in real life, despite the fact that one or both is married. So they edit together sappy clips of Teri and Dean, during and between takes, to a schmaltzy love song and garner dozens of comments about how Dean looks sooooo much better hanging off Teri’s arm than Teri’s actual husband, and how it’s Not Too Late. I once saw a similar video with Torvill and Dean (the other Dean, obviously, not Superman, although now I think about it the tights wouldn’t look out of place on an ice-rink); and another with Sarah Michelle Gellar and David Boreanaz. And really, how sad is that? Not only does it denigrate the actors the people profess to love by insinuating their onscreen chemistry isn’t the result of, yaknow, acting, but it seems the sign of a highly twisted psyche to desire vicarious fulfilment through the not-so-storybook situation of an actor cheating on her husband with her costar. I mean, sheesh, people. (Note to self: look up origin of the term “sheesh”. Google keeps directing me to kebab pages.) Anyway, Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle dated and ended up breaking up, and that sort of thing would surely be more disillusioning than the fact that actors occasionally marry outside their cast; no?
Anyhoo. This week’s challenge is to edit 20 of my older Suite articles - either content/keywording or pictures - and write at least one article based on solid use of the Google Adwords keyword tool. It’s a fascinating tool but one I’ve only used sporadically; and having just learned that a fellow Suitie earns enough to pay her mortgage with only 50 more articles than myself, I feel compelled to step up my professionalism a notch. Granted, she writes about taxes and finance, which probably has better CPC than articles about washing your hair with baking soda; but still.
I also gotta read a book a day to the snortlepig, and make a birthday present for her small friend who’s having a second birthday party on Saturday. (So it begins.) I’m broke and have a bunch of nice fabric left over from my patchwork skirt/sister-in-law’s baby quilt, and the small friend is about the same size as the snortlepig: so I was thinking of making her a wee twirly skirt. Which is, of course, yet another thing to sew, and with a deadline too; but hey. My current list of to-be-completed sewing items now also includes a Gibson Girl skirt and waistcoat; a steampunk/rockabilly chocolate brown skirt and corresponding tulle petticoat; a padded camera case; and two long-sleeved shirts for the pig.
In fact, I should probably go and sew something right now. Leaving you with the question: Would you rather be married to a man (or woman, as the case may be) with Superman-like abilities, or an average joe (or jane, respectively)? It’s a tricky question; on the one hand, constant feelings of inferiority and the probable impossibility of having biological children (although I’m not sure on the canon of that); on the other, free trips to Hawaii. And a husband who could do the housework in ten seconds flat, but then, what would that do to one’s personal oomph? I for one would always be tempted not to do anything useful, on the grounds that Superhubby could do it in a tenth of the time and I may as well leave it for him; which would not be healthy.
Not having blogged for a few days, I will itemise my points for the sake of expediency.
1. The pig inspects her vomit with the wary interest of a Victorian naturalist coming across a new species of jellyfish on the beach.
2. In a shocking turn of events, it’s July. I have neglected my garden for months, but on Wednesday I finally got around to planting garlic, red onions, peas and snow peas. I also bought some all-seasons carrot seeds today. If only a tenth of the peas I planted come up, we’ll be inundated; I think all those metres of bare earth went to my head.
3. Homemade hummus, mixed half-and-half with natural yoghurt, is delish.
4. What is up with butter-flavoured shortening? It’s a ghastly idea; I came across it in a recipe for banana biscuits which a thousand eager commenters said “taste like muffin tops”. Perhaps more to the point, what’s up with muffin tops? Have we become so precious as a species we cannot face the stem of the muffin without getting an attack of the vapours? Someone on Smallville the other day requested the muffin top without the stem and I chalked it up to insanity, but now I see people everywhere going on about them. I mean, que? The flanks of a fishie without the head, yes; a pineapple without its core, certainly. But a muffin without the stem? It’s preferences like those that make me inclined to mutter “What this country needs is a good war”. Except I think it’s mostly Americans who have the muffin-top-without-the-stem thing, and it never pays to mutter that in America.
Maybe it’s a dieting thing? Did Oprah once call in her experts to show the world how 89% of the calories in a muffin sink to the bottom? Well, they do in mine, but only because I stuff cubes of cream cheese or squares of Turkish Delight chocolate in them before baking. Or maybe it’s a protest against dieting, kind of an adipositivity “celebrate the muffin top” vibe. I don’t know.
5. This is awesome:
6. Turns out Bride and Groom magazine doesn’t send you a complimentary copy of the issue for which you wrote an article, and you have to happen upon it in the post office and go “Ooh, I wrote that!” Also turns out they don’t pay you unless you fill out an IR330 and mail it to ‘em, but that’s OK, especially given that keeping track of invoices isn’t your strong point and you thought you’d been paid six months ago. There’s nothing more pleasing than unexpected money.
7. Except successfully performing manly DIY tasks by yourself. You know those hooks I bought for the bedroom wall? I located the studs by banging scientifically on the wall (which the snortlepig took to heart; she has taken to officiously knocking on all the walls of the house); measured up and drilled holes with my father’s power drill; bought screws of the correct size; recognised a screwdriver in the garage which was trying to look like something else; and wrangled those hooks onto the wall before theu knew what hit ‘em. My two cheese hats and Helpdesk Man’s cowboy hat are currently chillaxing in a regal row above our underwear chest (yes, we keep our underwear in a chest; it confuses pirates), and I feel empowered.
8. I also managed to unscrew the something plate on the sewing machine to retrieve a bit of applique that had made a dash for it, but I had to call my mother for that one. She knocks down walls and puts up wallpaper.
9. Would you rather be a Womble or a hobbit?
Did you know there’s a whole hobby among movie costumers of identifying reused outfits between films? I came across some examples here; fascinating stuff. It seems the BBC is a major culprit, which is hardly surprising given how liberally they recycle their filming locations, extras and (according to horsey people I know) horses. Still, very eco of ‘em.
Yesterday I spent my first quantity of money from my points system challenge thing! Four wrought iron fleur-de-lis hooks for eleven dollars something each. I need to obtain a few more, which they didn’t have in the shop, and I’m gonna hang them in vertical rows of three in the bedroom to hang out hats, coats and bags on. Cunning, no?
In other news, meh. Life is looking a little bit moop here, folks. Helpdesk Man slid his motorbike last night coming home from swordfighting and managed to bruise his finger, rip up a brand-new pair of trou and scuff his gear up to the point of needing a new helmet and jacket. Not to mention new tyres, which he blames for the crash (thought: possibly in a several-hundred-dollar attempt to save face?). The snortlepig has developed the lurgy and is alternately lapping up her snotters with her tongue and vomiting them back up again. The latter at least I can understand, but it is trying; and the pig thinks so too. Plus, last night she was making pre-vomit gurgles while sitting with Helpdesk Man on the bed, and while holding her over the side to be sick - none too bright, as carpet is harder to divest of upchuck than a duvet - he managed to fall spectacularly on his head. And the house is a mess in a dingy bits-of-fabric-and-pattern-pieces-strewn-round-the-floor-amongst-half-chewed-bits-of-apple way. And we’re having guests tomorrow night. And I can’t figure out how to make the snortlepig’s top without having raw edges exposed to the world.
So, anyway. If you were offered - by a chap, say - a lifetime supply of turnips for only $50 - not all at once, but delivered to your house on a weekly basis, wherever you lived in the world - would you take it? Discuss. There’s no right answer, but there is a wrong one - and if you should choose it, remember that I’ll be right here, silently judging you.
Pardon my tardy blogging, I’ve been a busy Smokey.
Not surfing the net for a week was intensely frustrating, but I got a fair amount done. I should make it an every-second-week thing, maybe.
On Friday Mum and I travelled up to Auckland to go to Savemart, a kind of huge warehousey second-hand clothing store. Our city has a Savemart too, but as it turns out, it’s nothing like the Auckland version. It was awesome. Nearly every piece of clothing was designer - labels like Jacqui-E and Cue - and there were quirky, good-quality, well-made clean outfits as far as the eye could see. I want to live next door to it! Second-hand clothing is wonderful - a sort of ethical/ecological get-out-of-jail free card because whatever sweatshops and pesticides went into making the clothes, they’ve already been bought… so snapping them up is really doing the world a favour rather than the reverse. I like it.
I ended up getting a brown woollen cardigan and a Pumpkin Patch top for the snortlepig, and a faintly steampunky cream blouse and arty Jacqui-E grey winter dress which is even breastfeeding-friendly(!) for myself, all for about $60. It’s not an uber-cheap op shop, obviously, but a darn sight better than buying new.
This week has started productively with a fervent display of domesticity in my part. And high time too. We’re having guests for dinner on Wednesday, Bible study starts back up on Thursday and Mainly Music and singing group continue as usual, so I’ll no doubt I’ll be my usual industrious self. In a still-in-bed-at-9:30 kind of way.
But more to the point: if you were stuck in a two-metre cubed dark box for a week, with food passed through a tiny slot every so often but no human contact, would you rather be totally alone or have a gerbil in with you?
Today I made vichyssoise, hosted singing group, made part of a winter top for the snortlepig, wrote part of two Suite101 articles, baked bread, iced a batch of cupcakes, watched an episode of Smallville and made up this song in the shower:
“Everything is good with sauce
From a horse to a fish, or a sausage of course
You could eat an oyster
While hiding in a cloister
As long as it had lots of sauce!
Do you have a piece of steak
And is your friend’s name Dawson?
They’d both taste good - so would cake -
As long as they had sauce on!”
The tune is based on bits of this song, which is hardly respectable.
In seven minutes it will be midnight, and I feel I have achieved something today.
Gosh, this not going on the Internet has lead me to great virtue. Yesterday I earned myself eight whole points, mostly by being solicitous to the chickens; and today I finally finished painting the sewing room with the help of my small sister. And about time, too. Tomorrow I’ll be able to clear off the kitchen table for the first time in months… although why this matters, I don’t know; it’s not like we eat off it or anything. And in a desperate effort to waste time while not going online I read a book on “eco chic” which has gotten me all riled up about sweatshops. They’re Bad, people.
In terms of my professional life (”Your wot?” Hush.), I am happy to report that I have landed my first cover story. My editor at OHbaby liked my article on communication with babies so much it’s the cover story for the next issue! I am most pleased, even if my nearest and dearest all responded with “Ooh, do you get more money?”, which I do not. I come of a mercenary breed.
Said editor also gave me the go-ahead to write a piece (for an issue due next April, if you don’t mind; no fast food business, this) on maternity clothing throughout the ages. It should be fun to research, especially given my recent interest in historical fashions; and I get to interview the Womama lady, which might be fun. She wants me to include some info on what women have historically worn during birth as well - a question to which I have never devoted as much brain power as it no doubt deserves. Nighties? Queen Victoria wore the same night-shift for all of her nine children, and then one of her daughters wore it during her birth; but other than that, I do not know. Anyway, I have until December to write it.
My bruise has matured to a more sombre and purplish hue, but is still impressive.
Right. Better go have a shower, by which I mean “stand in the bath rinsing paint trays with my foot”, and get to bed. Mainly Music starts tomorrow at 9:30, and given that I was still in bed today at 10 when the church’s most stylish mother turned up for a playdate, I had better get all the head-start I can. In my defense, Helpdesk Man was supposed to beep me this morning to wake me up: and in his defense, the internet was down. Have added “alarm clock” to my wishlist.
My family is really getting into the spirit of philosophical discourse. Dad asked me the other day if I’d rather eat four live fish or face a charging rhinoceros. I went for the rhino. Thoughts?
Wanna see my knee-bruise? Of course you do.
Innit!
This week I have decided to be virtuous. No news really, it’s rare I enter a Monday planning to be lax and dissipated; but there you go. In the interests of which, I have made a shocking Challenge: this week, no non-work-related internet. Except emails. And my blog, of course. But nothing else. I can look up nineteenth-century hairstyles for the purposes of writing Suite articles about them, but the minute I get distracted looking up old Empire interviews with Colin Firth or Googling photos of UFOs, off to the hot rack and the Iron Maiden. K? I have cold chills just thinking about it.
In other news, last week I discovered the disconcerting fact that my usually respectable mother would consent to having a sapphire prominently embedded in one of her front teeth for a million dollars. Would you?