Smokey the Magnificent

Is this sort of awesome, or awful? I really don’t know. Bear with it for a verse or two - her voice is, ah, Raw and Untutored - but let me know what you think. Is it fanfiction - which I hate, loathe, despise and abominate - or somehow cooler than that? You tell me. I know it’s filk, but I’m so new to that concept I actually don’t have an opinion about it yet. Which pretty much puts the universe in a state of flux.

Patchy, I’d say. Some of the lyrics are touching, and some of them just sound obnoxiously faux-Jossian - too many damns, for one. I hate it when fans try to emulate a writer’s writing style - it’s like all those commenters on Pioneer Woman who talk about their punks with self-conscious beeziness and say “dadgum”. Weedy, is what it is… which is largely why I hate fanfiction. The other reason is that I’m a LOTR fan, and to see people who think they can emulate Tolkien’s bleak, spare, deceptively arid writing style by keyword-stuffing “glimmering” and “fey” into descriptions of violet-eyed half-Elven princesses, well, it makes me want to cause messy death. Which is not the case with this song, I hasten to add. At its worst it just makes me wince a bit and go “Puh-leese”.

And that’s what I look for in a song.

Peanut butter at one house, bread at the other, plates packed in a box… this is all very disturbing. I was at the new place today packing and shivering with cold, and it took a good twenty minutes for me to think of unpacking a sweatshirt from a box and putting it on. It felt faintly illicit, as if the new house should not be used for such profane purposes as dressing.

I also had a horrid experience last night while unpacking a box of kitchen iems. There was an enormous cockroach chilling in my brand-new mini-ramekins. It was probably from the house. That’s probably the reason the previous tenants moved out, you know. Every night, millions of tiny feet marching, marching, until the sounds of the roaches softly moving hammered themselves into their brains and caused them to gibber. Super.

Also, it is prayer meeting here tonight. I am trying to psych myself up not to apologise to people for providing only one type of homebaked cookie. Normally I would do lemon muffins as well or die in the attempt, but we’re out of sugar and flour and most of my baking stuff is elsewhither. And we have no microwave, so if anyone needs butter melted or a wheatie bag heated up or a hamster inhumanely killed they’ll just have to lump it. The situation, not the hamster. Or both; whatever.

Is there an internationally-recognised protocol on the correct place to keep the fly spray? And would you rather move into a house with roaches, or one in which the previous owner had offed herself in the laundry?

1. If you could miniaturise any animal and keep it as a pet, what kind would you choose? (I say elephant.)

2. If you were a celebrity and cuter in the face, what product would you endorse? (Victorinox veggie knives. They’re awesome. Also Casa Rinaldi caramelised balsamic vinegar, although they’re probably too classy for celebrity endorsements, particularly by non-Italian celebrities.)

3. Where do my comb be at?

Well, yesterday was the end of an era. As the snortlepig looked on in silent outrage a slightly creepy vanful of homeschoolers loaded up Bridget and Saffron into cardboard boxes and drove them away. Farewell, useless chickens. I miss you very, very slightly.

Yesterday was also the day we got the key to the new house. We walked a box of sewing fabric over in the pram and inspected the house, rather nervously as we’d only seen the place once. The paint was a little bit skungier than we remembered and the bedrooms a somewhat more awkward shape, but we also discovered a couple of arty features we hadn’t noticed - namely a sloped ceiling in the spare bedroom and storage under the window seats. So it was OK. The snortlepig loved it, mostly because there was plenty of room for playing dead frogs on the floor.

Inspired by this I planned to spend today trundling back and forth with the pram, unpacking things. Unfortunately today was also the heaviest rainstorm since the deluge. Fortunately the Internet conked out, so I was forced to be productive and ended up packing half a dozen more boxes. Can anyone explain how we had 7 ice cream containers in storage but 15 lids, when we hardly ever buy ice cream in any case? Very odd. Anyway my dear friend Eva is coming around this evening to help me take a carload of boxes to the new place… a somewhat mixed blessing, as Eva has formidable housekeeping skills which force me into de-smegging the house before she gets here. I hate it when people are tidier than me. Thing is, they usually are…

During a break in the rain showers the pig and I went outside to scrape weeds out from the cracks of the path. I ended up amazing myself by emptying out two metal buckets, making drain holes in the bott0ms with a hammer and nail, and planting capsicums. Somehow picking up a hammer still seems immensely empowered and transgressive - pathetic really, as I sprang from the loins of a woman for whom knocking down walls and upholstering furniture is all in a day’s work. But my usefulness has traditionally been strictly limited to the kitchen, so there you go.

Today Brother-In-Law gave us a Kirby demonstration. Up until yesterday I didn’t know what a Kirby was; apparently, up until yesterday I hadn’t lived.

A Kirby is a vacuum cleaner, it turns out - but only if you say so with an ironic smile and a hasty qualification. For a well-trained Kirby not only sucks so hard that topsoil comes up through the carpet, it also blows leaves around your garden, buffs your car, scours your pots, massages your back, sands your furniture, de-dust-mites your upholstery, brushes your dog and unscrews your lightbulbs. I kid you not. And, as Brother-in-Law repeatedly pointed out, its price tag - approximately equivalent to the deposit on a largeish plantation - becomes far less angina-inducing when you consider how much you would spend by rushing out to separately purchase a leaf blower, light bulb unscrewer, massager, sander, dog brusher etc. Which begs a few rather major questions, if you ask me: but there you go.

We didn’t buy the Kirby. We were never going to, in fact. We’re broke, for one; we already have a vacuum cleaner; and we’re moving into a house with no carpets in three days. But no matter. Brother-in-Law simply needed to demonstrate a certain number of Kirbys for training purposes, the law degree being apparently less marketable than one might think. Which all makes me feel a lot better about my BA, although a lot worse about my vacuum cleaner, which we bought from Briscoes with wedding vouchers. Turns out it only removes surface dirt and has little or no impact on dust mites. And here I thought having a cord that goes schlp when you press the button was the height of chic. (Oddly enough, the Kirby does not possess this feature. Brother-in-Law was momentarily fazed when I pointed this out, as he was when I inquired about the company protocol should the Kirby achieve sentience. He recovered both times, however. He will be a good Kirby salesman, I think. I wonder if that’s a compliment?) Brother-in-Law shampooed our office carpet, and a good thing too - so in gratitude, I said I would pass on referrals. Anyone want a free Kirby demonstration, perchance? It’s quite fun. Theatrical, sort of. He fills all these pristine white filters with the scum of ages from your floor, and you can look at it and go “oo” in the same way that you might go “oo” if the doctor showed you a lump of matter extracted from a cyst in your knee, for example. Slightly repulsed awe; you know the feeling. He also flings around bits of sand and baking soda and black cloths, and makes you do a hundred strokes with your own pitiful vacuum cleaner, and asks you invasively leading questions about your tolerance for wallowing in your own sloughed-off skin cells… Helpdesk Man got all defensive and said “I LIKE sleeping in my skin cells, I PUT those there”… anyway it’s faintly provocative and edgy, like good street theatre, and even though you know you’re not going to buy a Kirby and he knows you’re not going to buy a Kirby and you know he knows and it’s all terribly pukkah and above-board, you still feel a faint twinge of guilt at the end and reflect sadly that your life will be a tad more dismal without the option of saying “Darling, you look so tense; let me get the Kirby” and accidentally attaching the sander instead of the massage pad. But then, it’s all somewhat predicated on the housewife actually doing housework, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t save time to be able to conveniently clean between the grooves of a ranch slider if you’ve already mastered the art of saving time by not cleaning between the grooves of a ranch slider, and having even felt pretty good about your life during this period. In fact I’m moderately confident having clean ranch-slider grooves would improve my overall quality of life by, what? 0.2%? Not even.

But anyway. If you can deal with all that, let me know. He’d be happy to demonstrate for you; ecstatic, even. You would make a fully-trained lawyer very happy, and if that isn’t the saddest thing you’ve heard all week I don’t know what is.

The question, then: Would you be flattered if someone told you you’d be a good vacuum cleaner salesman?

Things the Snortlepig  Says

• baby
• mama
• dada
• doggie
• ducky
• button (dutton)
• pea (bee)
• Abby
• THEREsheis!
• hi (HAI!)
• hello
• Peepo!
• balloon/ball/bag (baah)
• happy
• juice (doose)
• car
• Rowan (Wowa)
• Row, row, row
• hat

Things the Snortlepig Does Not Say

• Pardon me, I seem to have kicked you in the head by mistake
• I’ll put that away, shall I?
• No milks right now, thanks, I’m watching my figure

I have discovered a new love. Shirring.

In a fit of artiness I spent yesterday making the snortlepig a summer dress… and by “spent yesterday” I do mean the entire day. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t meant to take that long, but then, I adjusted the pattern. I did a sort of patchworky thing with three different green fabrics I had instead of just using the one fabric - fun, but it involved carving up the pattern with scissors, which felt v nerve-wracking and transgressive. And I had to make my own bias binding, and continuously-bind the hem of the skirt. Ooh, and I flat-felled the side seams, just to show I could.

The point is, it was time-consuming and fiddly. But when night fell and I realised that amazingly, I didn’t feel burned out, I decided to start on a simpler project - a shirred strappy top. So I looked up this shirring tute to refresh my memory and felt inspired, and then read the several dozen comments saying “Help, this doesn’t work” and felt uninspired again. But it does work! Just like that! I practically finished the top in ten minutes flat, and would have if the snortlepig hadn’t woken up. And now I’m trying to think up ways to incorporate shirring into every other outfit she’ll ever wear. Any ideas?

Last night we went to visit the nephewpig. He is cute in a not-very-good-looking-but-will-doubtless-improve-with-a-steady-diet-and-clean-living kind of way. Lots of hair, big ears, and was missing his left hand, although I was assured it was chillin’ in his onesie somewhere. Sister-in-law had the labour from hell, poor thing - Syntocinon, epidural, continuous foetal monitoring so had to lie on the bed the whole time, threatened C-section due to tachycardia, and had to be put under general anaesthetic afterwards for stitches. She seems remarkably OK with it all though - not effusive by any means, but not curled up gibbering in the corner either.

The snortlepig, to our surprise, behaved in an impeccably cousinly way. Not only was she not jealous when I held the baby for half an hour, but she gave him hugs and kisses (v rare for her at the best of times) and tried very gently to remove a bit of skunge from his eye. She even learned a new word - “baby”. Yes, it is still nameless, although I heard the two alternatives and let’s just say, nobody’s gonna be scratching his head wondering what religion the kidling’s parents are.

So, question: Do you feel the mother has the right to choose the baby’s name, within reason? Do you feel her right to do so increases proportionately to the unpleasantness of the labour?

Also, do you feel virtuous when you eat fish? We had fish last night and I felt virtuous. Virtuous, and full of fish.

I spent an oddly fruitless yet industrious day today, zigzagging the edges of fat quarters and pre-washing them. Two bobbinsful of thread, several hours of work and yet nothing to show for it except an artily-draped clothes horse covered in cotton and flannel. I never used to pre-wash fabric, but I was recently reading some scary articles online about the chemicals they use in dyeing and sizing fabric. Also, apparently flannel shrinks like a fish. (And frays, and stretches… I was looking forward to making the snortlepig’s flannel quilt, but I’ve been a bit put off by a brigade of craft bloggers assuring me the stuff’s hellish to sew. Maybe I’ll start with the cotton quilt instead.)

I did finally finish the snortlepig’s green winter top, too. Hopefully there’ll be a few more cold days to justify its existence! Not a roaring success, though… I made up the pattern myself in a fit of artsiness, and it’s a bit too big and a lot too wide and slightly dodgy round the neck and armscyes with a dodginess I can’t quite pin down, but which probably has something to do with the asymmetricality of sleeve pieces. I have a whole new respect for pattern drafters. Anyway I bought a bunch of half-price remnants and clearance Spotlight cottons the other day to make the snortlepig’s summer clothes, and this time I’ll be prosaic and use patterns. Free toddler sewing patterns are few and far between online, it turns out - most of the freebie patterns are for weedy things like baby burp cloths and hooded towels. Still, I found a few cute dress patterns and one little crossover kimono top pattern. I’ll start with those. Well, I’m planning on altering the dress patterns a bit. I can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, like doubling the vanilla essence in previously-untried recipes just to prove I’m my own woman and not a mindless minion of The Man. Also, vanilla essence is delicious.

Would you accept a million dollars if you knew it would increase your chances of getting lung cancer by 7%?

Or is it Auntie? Aunty Smokey. Auntie Smokey. Aunt Smokering. Hmm. Anyhoo. Helpdesk Man’s sister was induced sometime yesterday, and gave birth to a nine-pounder at 9AM today. Horrific really, fancy being in labour all night. She must be dead to the world. Anyway, we don’t know the name of the dudeling yet, which is odd because they apparently decided on it months ago. Maybe it just didn’t look like one of whatever they chose. Or perhaps they plan to beat the recession by allowing visitors to each submit a name and a bribe, with the honour going to the highest bidder. In which case, kudos. I wonder if our budget would allow me to spring for “Calvin”, just to shake things up? But these are unworthy thoughts. Mazel tov, sister-in-law-person-and-small-nameless-snortlepig.

I like packing books. With the exception of the theology books I keep mine uncategorised, so stacking them in boxes reveals a delightful cross-section of personality that would probably intrigue posterity if I became a sculptor or blew up a bus or something. The Silence of the Lambs nestling next to Winnie-the-Pooh, for instance; Reader, I Married Him cheek-by-jowl with a misshelved copy of a tome boldly entitled PREDESTINATION.

Kitchen items are less fun to pack. They are asymmetrical, breakable and require much thought. How many baking dishes can I live without for the next two weeks? Will I suddenly burn with the desire for a lemon yoghurt cake if I pack my bundt tin? (I chanced it.) What about my mini-muffin tins? No, too risky, I’ll want to use up a lot of lemons before we leave, so I might make lemon muffins. Should I get rid of my dodgy-bottomed springform cake tins, even though I used the bottoms several times this month to shape pizza and pavlovas on?

Worst of all are the contents of the bathroom cupboard, which I have started packing in self-defense as the snortlepig likes to unhaul them from the cupboard anyway. I was on a skincare kick for awhile, exacerbated by a free-samples kick, which left me with dozens of sample bottles and wax strips currently made obsolete by my anti-chemical/eco/natural kick. Part of me cynically wishes to keep them for when I backslide, but the other half views them as cancer in a tube… so you see the dilemma. Had fun seeing if I could make one half of my lips bigger than the other using Sally Hansen’s Lip Inflating Cream, though. I couldn’t. They just went tingly. With the tingles of cancer.

Last night’s dinner with Helpdesk Man’s family was a success, incidentally. I made a huge basket of flatbreads and grissini which we had for starters with dukkah, pesto and olives and such foibles. Then dinner was creamy sundried tomato chicken strips on a bed of corn risotto, with roasted carrot and kumara spears cooked in brown sugar. Sister-in-law made milktart for dessert and I added pecan tartlets and peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. During dessert the snortlepig disappeared and was discovered in the living room with the remains of the bread basket, diligently and enthusiastically dipping all the breads and licking them. She is a sweetcheeks.