Smokey the Magnificent

Yesterday I forced Helpdesk Man and the piggie to accompany me into town on errands. It was productive if not soothing. I now have a music folder, a new pen (one of life’s most small and exquisite joys), two books of sheet music from the library for choir, and a packet of henna. The latter is necessary because tomorrow I will be meeting a Swedish girl from a long hair care forum I used to frequent, and I can’t very well meet her with roots, now can I? In fact, I should probably start panicking about how to do my hair… it ought to be a style which demonstrates accomplished long-hair-savvyness without looking ridiculous, perhaps a lace braid rose bunned at the back? I shall consider.

This morning I ingested a spot of Culture, going to my small sister’s piano competition. It’s a pretty stiff gig: the snortlepig was not invited and the usherette made very sure that the double air-locked doors didn’t open until clapping was heard. The contestants sat as if on death row at the front of the auditorium, waiting during the painful six minutes between performances for the judge to finish composing her scathing haikus and ting a little bell. I was scared. And it didn’t help when a sharply-attired Asian lad of apparently immense talent, who my mother whispered was rumoured to be the Next Big Thing, suddenly stopped in the middle of his piece, sagged on his chair and exited. He was 13… if he reaches 14 it’ll be a miracle after today.

Anyway, despite being the final performer my small sister held it together remarkably well and achieved third place: no mean feat, as her competitors looked like the types who had had Bach piped in in the womb. When I left she still had two songs to go, spread out over the next eight hours; in between performances they hold the contestants’ feet over open flames to build character. I think I prefer being a mediocre pianist; it’s relaxing.

Right, anyway. Plans for today. I gotta go to the pharmacy and pick up photos of the snortlepig to send to Grandma; wrote and post an accompanying letter; obtain, through fair means or foul, $3 to fund tomorrow’s Mainly Music session; make bread and chicken soup for tonight; do a wash; email the chappie who’s making my spice chest; eat lunch; feed the chickens; and finish up a Suite article on 19th century hairstyles. Oh, and bake… Helpdesk Muffins, multi-grain bread for Helpdesk Man to take to work, and something nommable to feed the Swede. Fun fun fun. How people manage to run a household while having a job constantly stumps me… then again, I also remember entering eerily into the point of view of the main character in Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, who lived a life of leisure and couldn’t understand how people had time to go to work and take baths. There just isn’t enough time in this life to live in any sort of holistic fashion, balanced yet fostering passion. I mean, one could easily spend two hours a day merely being really good at clothes - sewing them, shopping for them in a canny fashion, learning about pattern adaptation and fabric types, oiling one’s sewing machine and sponging one’s suits… and at the end of that one would only be dressed, let alone fed or having done anything useful. Same with home decorating, or growing your own food, or hair care, or whatever… one just never has enough time. It mystifies me.

In other news, my points system is still ticking along. It’ll be a while before I can buy my dieselpunk bodice though; my first order of business is to pay off my spice chest, which I need to do soon so the guy can start building it. So I’ll probably be paying myself back, points-wise, for the foreseeable future. A tad depressing, but one cannot just give up when the going gets tough. Bad Horse wouldn’t have - I mean Gandhi. In other news, I have yet to earn myself a single point by eating a piece of fruit. I think I have a pathological aversion to it. Carrot sticks are delicious, but one’s expectations are different - an apple always runs the risk of being tart, which is a thought that chills my very marrow. Odd, no?