Smokey the Magnificent

Last night my two small sisters came over while Helpdesk Man was out gadding. We watched The Truman Show, made a kind of faux pie thing with fruit salad in it and fettucine carbonara, researched the Great Exhibition and started making a kimono top for the snortlepig. Great larks.

I finished the top this morning. I’m not entirely sure about it, but it was very quick to make and covers her delicate wee neck and arms from the blazing sun better than my shirred tops do. And after all, if she ends up with a freckled decolletage before she even has a decolletage, her chances of making a profitable match are slim to nil. And who will support her during her bitter long years of barely-respectable old maiditude? Muggins here, that’s who. So I was thinking of doing another kimono top in a nice lineny colour, with slightly darkish red bias binding and some chunky appliqued flowers on stems. Thoughts?

We wandered over to the Gardens this afternoon for the shots.

I include this last not because it shows off the top, but because it is one of approximately three photos in existence in which the snortlepig and myself occupy the same frame. If I ever had to prove she was my daughter in a court of law, this could be an issue. In other respects it is probably a Good Thing, as I photograph about as well as Elijah Wood (no, really. Candid shots? Hoo boy. He does OK if you tart him up with lights and discreetly applied eye makeup, but slap him in a crowd full of fans and he tends to look geekier than they do. Which is endearing really, if anything, but presumably must be a trial to him as an actor. Interestingly, after I saw Sin City he has looked retroactively creepy in all the photos I took from the Return of the King premiere. Not that I look through them on a regular basis or anything; we were moving house. Still, though. And actually, my photography has improved somewhat in the intervening years… most of the premiere photos were of my thumb. And even my thumb is unphotogenic. It’s not the most Herculean of thumbs to start off with, me having dropped a ladder on it in my youth; but on camera you can practically see it squinting and holding its mouth funny. Quite fascinating. I wonder if it’s pathological.).

Other items of note:

1. I just discovered the best craft blog: Ruffles and Stuff. Lots of clothing recons, adult-to-toddler stuff in particular, and a lovely Victoriana twist to many of her projects which I can pretend is steampunk, not that she uses the term.

2. Helpdesk Man’s best friend mentioned the other day that he wanted to see our wedding video, and a cold chill ran down my back. Not just because of the oddness of a human voluntarily signing up to watch someone else’s wedding video - he was the best man and made a speech, so it sort of makes sense - but because in the three-years-in-November we’ve been married, I have been unable to bring myself to watch it. Is this common to brides, I wonder?

3. A flounce is like a ruffle, but instead of being gathered at the top which produces a bulky and textured top section, the flare is created by sewing the concave portion of a curved (as in gently U-shaped) piece of fabric to a straight piece of fabric, thus creating a smoother line. I learned that today. I learned what a peplum was the other day too, but I forget the finer points. Jackets have them flaring gently over the hips, sometimes. Not in my wardrobe, though.

4. As of the tail end of Season 6 Mulder’s hair has gone distressingly poofy. I hope this is a mere two-episode aberrance, not his new look. It’s practically a pompadour. Incidentally, does it not seem to you that hair in TV shows tends to get worse rather than better as the shows progress? Not universally - Friends comes to mind - but look at Cordy in Angel. Or Willow’s Season 7 look. Or Felicity, of course…

5. November starts tomorrow. NaNoWriMo. I feel distinctly uninspired.

I currently have 43 article titles jotted down for my NaNo challenge. Of course, now I have them I keep wanting to write the articles, which would be counterproductive, although still ultimately useful. This is the problem with challenges. Too often the artificial constructs suppress creativity or cause one to look for weaselly loopholes.

We’ve been sick again this week. Helpdesk Man took two days off, and I spent many hours languishing on the bed while the snortlepig pulled long strings of gore for her nose and then freaked out because her hands were “yucky!”. Sweet child, not too bright.

Well anyway, I think the sickness caused my brain leach out my ears because I can’t think of a thing worth blogging about. Saw 500 Days of Summer… made a tiny apple pie… saw the best episode of The X-Files yet (season 6, the one where the alien pretends to be a Black baseball player, and Scully and Mulder indulge in  witty tofu-related banter)… sent the pig to visit her grandparents, but she came home early in disgrace after tipping her bowl of dinner upside down… bought two wooden crates off TradeMe that were meant for storing jeans in (an oddly specific function, I felt) and planted punkins in ‘em… made cupcakes… you know. Nothing uber. Nothing that would sway a slightly conscientious gunman from shooting me in the head. Well, I washed my hair. No, that probably wouldn’t do it. Maybe I’m still suffering from residual sickness-related Moops?

Anyhoo. I did finish two tops for the snortlepig, so here they am! I apologise for the lousy photo quality, and by “apologise” I mean “blame Helpdesk Man”. Any time nice photos appear on this blog, they were generally taken by my small sister. Photography is one of those talents I admire from afar, marvelling with some fear at its technical aspects. Similarly, synchronised swimming.

I wasn’t too sure about this one when I made it - it has a few rows of shirring at the waist (if the pig had a waist) as well as the bust (ditto). I kinda like it on, though. It bulges pleasingly around her midriff.

The colour isn’t great in these photos, but I’m very fond of it - a deep chocolate brown, with pale pink for the straps and what the snortlepig calls the “dottos”. I shirred this top out of a remnant, which turned out to be a wee bit too narrow to wrap around the pig; so rather than stretching the shirring, I added a vaguely corset-laced affair on the back with some rather nice chocolate and pink double-sided ribbon. I’d hoped to find pink ribbon with dark chocolate dottos, but this works too.

My next project ought to be finishing the baby quilt, given that the baby in question is now a week old; but I have been smitten with the desire to make the snortlepig a bubble dress, so we will see. It’s odd; up until now I didn’t even like bubble dresses (or skirts, or tops), but I suspect the pig would look pleasing in one. Perhaps I am compensating for my own lack of fashion sense by wishing to dress the pig according to the latest trends, thus perpetuating the cycle of slavery to fast fashion and bondage to The Man while bypassing it myself?

You recall my case of the moops? Of course you do. And I’d just like to offer a heartfelt thanks to those of my readers who rallied around with chocolates, flowers, homemade cards and generous monetary contributions. It does my heart good to know that my modest literary efforts touch so many lives. Thank you, shiny people.

Hmph.

Anyway.

If you can bear to look up from your bally frosted flakes and cast a glance of cynicism at the screen, allow me to inform your turgid eyeballs that I am No Longer Moop. The secret for curing the moops, apparently, is as follows:

Make Mexican almond cookies and fling a bit of lemon in for luck; make chocolate chip cookies also; send them off with Helpdesk Man for his marvy young vocal collective’s marvy Labour Weekend singing workshop (ooo!); have the tin return empty with enthused compliments; bake a second batch of chocolate chip cookies for the next day while at the same time baking cheese profiteroles, mocha pecan pie, plum chicken with rice and caramelised carrots for guests; finish the straps on the snortlepig’s top; watch two Disney movies, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Little Voice; plant a zucchini seedling; spring-clean the bedroom, and dry a successful load of washing before the rain can sneak in.

Interesting, no?

In other news… NaNoWriMo. Until yesterday I was planning to cheat, spending the month updating my pretentious fable about an autistic penguin from last year’s 22,000 words to a chunkier 50,000. For various reasons - not least of which, I’m not sure I can squeeze another 28,000 words out of a pretentious autistic-penguin-featuring fable - I have decided to go for the more mainstream cheat of completing 50,000 non-fiction words within the month. That’s articles, queries… blogging, I guess, so be prepared for several more What I Dreamed Last Night posts, folks… shopping lists will be excluded, but only because in these economic climes they tend towards fantasy in any case. *sigh* Which brings me to another compelling argument re the change of plans: viz, it is more lucrative. (And so the soul of Smokey the Magnificent dies a little, dreams crushed by the Muse-strangling spectre of a mortgage. Except I don’t even have a mortgage. I can’t afford one.)

Anyway, that gives me six days in which to prepare. Planning being allowed under NaNo rules, I was thinking of writing as many article titles as I could on a bit of paper and simply attempting to plow through as many as I can in a day. My Suite articles tend to be 600 words or so, so three a day would do it; but I was hoping to do some print stuff too, as well as the article on historical maternity wear that’s due December 1.

So, anyone have any article ideas for me to write? Dad suggested some time ago I do a piece on the benefits of raw milk, so I just might query a newish eco magazine on the topic. Hey, do you think I could expand “Which is more absorbent, a poodle or a horse?” into a full-blown op-ed?

Friends, I am moop, and nothing is helping.

I scrubbed baked-on mince off my copper saucepan, reciting “I Shall Have Few Cooking Pots They Shall Be Bright”. Moop.

I wiped out my lovely tartlet pan. Still moop.

I tried to finish a Suite article on Harry Potter art ideas for homeschoolers - the daring kind, obviously - but ended up staring at it mooply, feeling moop.

I read Pioneer Woman for a bit. Meh. Moop.

Something more active is out of the question, because the pig is sleeping fitfully on the milks - I think she’s moop too - and I am consequently stuck beneath her as she claws my back-squish with her nails.

Maybe we’re low on some kind of vitamin. I took an Executive Stress B yesterday with my toona sammich, but it didn’t give me power-padded shoulders or cause me to stride around the room with a Bluetooth and a folder, or anything really. Vitamins never work on me, nor spirulina either - I think I’m inmune. And I heard recently that iron tablets possibly give you brain damage. Or was it just babies and iron-fortified formula? I forget. Either way… moop.

My Dear Friend M’s waters broke today, and she was consequently unable to attend Bible study. I was galvanised into action long enough to blanket-stitch around a few more leaves, and then what hit me? An attack of moop, is what.

I don’t even have the pizzazz to make fun of Helpdesk Man’s fedora. And I burnt a batch of biscuits today because the smegging blottus kitcher timer -

No. I can’t even work up rage about the kitchen timer. It probably has a case of moop too. “Seven minutes… six monutes… five minutes… oh, what’s the use?” And I can hardly blame it. Life. Don’t talk to me about life.

Have a sunflower.

Remember how I made the piggie a dress using a free Oliver and S pattern? Well, it’s finally warm enough for her to wear it. Here she is at the park in Cambridge. The pink hat was made by Helpdesk Man’s mother; it’s cute, but the pig was not so keen on wearing it. Anyone have a pattern for a summer hat for toddlers that attaches to the head with bolts?

She is nice, no? The pig herself seems to think so - during the uploading process she has been simpering and saying “Baby!” in a loving fashion and trying to pat the screen. She has a large, smallish ego.

1. I have discovered a new breakfast: Greek-style yoghurt mixed with a little cream and holier-than-thou Anathoth seventy-four-strawberries-to-the-inch jam. It’s verrah nice.

2. A few weeks ago I made a list of all the things we need for the new house, including bookshelves, a single bed, a desk, several chests of drawers and a hutch dresser. Panicked, Helpdesk Man went on TradeMe and bought a projector and a fedora.

3.Yesterday practically my only mother left for the other side of the world after having lunch with me and the snortlepig. It was unrelated, though. She’s probably at Singapore airport right now (and when I say “probably”, bear in mind that geography was never my strong point and she could be anywhere from Auckland to London, not discounting the bottom of the Seine).

4. Helpdesk Man and I had a lovers’ quarrel yesterday due to him being a friggin’ tard. You may help us settle it in my favour. Is a goose more similar to a duck than a fox is to a dog? Answer carefully. To foster impartiality I will not reveal on which side of the question my loyalties lie, only pointing out that good grief, foxes dig burrows and leap!

5. A wily reader will note I have not updated my Challenge progress from last week. It was… passable. “Lacked Vigour”, I would have scrawled on it in red pen if I were the teacher. But I did write several articles (no queries, though) and do a fair few houseworky things. My raised bed is now snugly full of earth - and if the weather clears up, I’ll plant spring onions and carrots in it today - and I’m slowly filling the half-wine-casks with garden mix.

6. I am making a baby quilt. It was going to be a very simple affair, 5-inch squares of pink and leftover brown from my patchwork skirt. But when I did that I wasn’t too thrilled with the colours, and my squares lacked the gridlike precision every other quilter on the Internet seems effortlessly able to accomplish |)how, people, HOW?). So I thought I’d disguise both aspects by covering the thing in appliqued leaves and Suffolk puff flowers. So far the effect is pleasing, but it has tranformed the project from  a quick whip-it-up-in-a-spare-morning affair to a fairly labour-intensive gig. And the woman in question tends to have her babies a few weeks early; so. Wish me luck and expedient blanket-stitching.

7. Two words that should be banned from the English language? Manky and sook. It is a little-known fact that Anakin Skywalker may never have turmed to the Dark Side had Obi-Wan not happened upon him after the death of his mother and sarcastically enquired “Having a bit of a sook?”

So I had the weirdest dream last night. I gave birth to sextuplets. At least, I thought I did, but I was sort of out-of-it during the birth (as one would be, I suspect), and all I remembered were that all the babies were girls, and I felt vaguely guilty for not giving Helpdesk Man a son. But then Mum took all the babies home for the night to give me a break (?!) and by the time I woke up in the morning, I was terribly worried that I’d forgotten to breastfeed them. So she brought all the babies and lined them up on the couch, and I was cross that she’d forgotten which ones were which, because I’d named a few of them. (Can’t remember what - I think one was Kirsten, which is not a name I’d choose in real life, although maybe if I had six I’d be less picky?) And then, to my horror, I realised that some of them weren’t babies at all but dolls, including a Cinderella porcelain doll Grandma sent over from Australia. So I stood there weeping, unable to tell which babies were real and which were dolls, and waiting for the midwife to come and tell me so I could feed the real ones. And I was all worried about how many legitimate babies I had, and hoping that they were somewhat fewer than six for the sake of my sanity. And then I realised that the one I’d beem holding wrapped in a tea-towel was neither a baby nor a doll, but a green plastic sieve I use to sift twigs and stones out of the dirt in the garden. And I was like “Huh, how did I not notice this before?” And then I woke up.

Moral of the story, don’t sleep in. I always have bizarre dreams when I sleep in. But call me a flighty and irresponsible harpy, it was something of a relief to wake up and find myself not the mother of sextuplets.

1. My 18-month-old daughter can now say “actually”, “flower” and “onion”. Not “plinth”, though. I’m thinking of teaching her to say it, just so I can leer at mothers at the park and say “MY baby says plinth. Does YOUR baby say plinth?” until they hustle their child off the seesaw and hurry away. Anyway, today in town she was pointing at a ten-year-old and saying “baby”, and without thinking I said “Pig, not everybody under 6 foot two is actually a baby”. She then spent several minutes shouting “ACTUALLY” at passers-by while I hauled her by the middle through a mall. Remind me to expunge that word from my vocabulary. (On a related note, remind me to expunge the pig. She’s getting a bit whiffy.)

2. This is the uberest Halloween costume ever. Scroll down if you’re a Firefly fan. If you’re not a Firefly fan, shame on you. Ditto if you’re not a Doctor Who fan, which is actually more relevant to the costume. ‘Tis neat, no?

3. First randomly-selected library book, The Girl Who Proposed by Elizabeth Smither, is quite good so far. It’s a collection of short stories, most of them angsty and on the topic of LURV. Not what I’d normally read, but not offensive to the mind in any respect. Plus, short stories are a useful format when one is reading in proximity to a snortlepig.

4. Speaking of reading and snortlepigses, Ollie by Olivier Someone-or-Other is the most delightful thing I have read in a good long while. I recommend it.

5. I didn’t really think the numbering through on this post. “Five Things”, I typed; it just came out. I don’t have five things, really. Nope. But let’s see… the snortlepig fell off the bed today and wailed… Helpdesk Man took her on a walk to buy likker after work (enrichment, innit) and I was able to de-henna my hair in peace; we had fish for dinner again; oh, I know! Yes. I have a challenge for you. Write a thousand-word short story or dissertation on the subject “The anemone of my enemy is my friend”. And if I like it, I will personally make you an e-sticker using my formidable Gimp skills.

Contests, man. They keep the readers flooding back.

Yesterday’s Challenge tasks:

• Write one article a day.

Yup. Did. A review for Untrained Housewife of “The Gift of the Christmas Cookie”, a book that tried far too hard. I know now why reviewers are tempted to give good reviews to items they get for free; it seems very unchivalrous to look gift swag in the mouth. But there you go. The book was weedy.

• Do one thing every day to make the new house look more homelike

I got rid of a bunch of packing boxes (thank you Freecycle), and potted up a bunch of seeds. The pig emptid out the pot containing my nasturtium seeds and the packet of snow pea seeds, and tromped for some time on the resulting pile. Very homelike.

• Do one organisational thing a day

Forwarded mail for previous tenants. I’m going to spend my life doing this.

Everything else

Nuh-uh. I was going to henna my hair, but the lady came to pick up the boxes at 7 and I didn’t feel I could carry off the encounter with green eyebrows and a plastic bag on my head. I will do it tonight, or even this afternoon if the pig allows it. Too long have I hidden my roots under a hat, in direct contradiction to Scripture.

Today I took the piggie into town, always a fraught manoeuvre these days as our pram is on the fritz. She tends to conk out halfway home and have to be carried, while I clutch my purchases in my other arm and feel my arms slowly slip from their sockets. Still, we needed to return a library book. And while at the library I did something daring. I’ve been complaining lately about not knowing any good contemporary authors. Mostly being a classics girl, I haven’t read much recent literature more arcane than Harry Potter. And given that I don’t know the scene, I’m not even sure where to start - mostly I pick up books on the grounds that I saw the movie, or heard that author referenced by another author, or heard someone talk about it. But I never pick up books cold, on the grounds that the title looks interesting. Do people ever really do that? I don’t. But anyway… today I did. In fact, three of the books I chose simply because the snortlepig picked them randomly out of the bookshelf and the dust jackets looked OK.

We will see how it goes. If I were a braver man I’d just start at the As in the fiction section and read my way right through, figuring that if someone liked it enough to publish it it probably wasn’t absolute trash. I’m not currently quite that brave (or well-endowed with spare time), but this is a start. I feel v daring.

Right. By a minor miracle the pig’s asleep without me, so I’d better go slap some henna on my head and make a milktart.

Yawn. Moop. Well, we are finally more or less absolutely moved in. Pretty much. Kinda. A woman off Freecycle is coming to collect the empty likker boxes for her house-move tonight, which will make the kitchen look considerably more respectable. And I have been seasonably afflicted, as usual, with veggie gardening fervor, so the back entrance to the house is littered with wee pots and dribbles of potting mix exhumed from them by the snortlepig, who is apparently anti-veggies.

More impressively, we have a raised bed. Slightly raised, anyway. More of a token raise than a legitimately rheumatism-saving waist-high raise; but a raise nevertheless. It was a bit of a mission , nevertheless. The raised beds on TradeMe go for ridiculously inflated prices, and after seeing a few dead simple four-plank affairs go for over $100 my Scottish blood revolted and I said to myself, How hard can it be? Which is a thing one should not say. So I called upon my mother to take me to Bunnings, which sold cutesy little prepackaged veggie-bed-building kits with planks and nails and the like for $129. Puh-leeze, thunk I, and trotted off to the loose lumber. Four planks of that turned out to be going for a good $50, which by that stage I was meekly prepared to accept; but my mother is made of sterner stuff. “Dreamin’”, quoth she and drove me to a place I had previously only known as a legend: Demolition Traders.

What I knew is that it used to be Mum’s favourite shop and you could buy old French doors there. What I didn’t know is that it’s essentially a decayed urban Disneyland - a tumbleweed-blown, dusty Main Street USA and the perfect setting, if anyone’s interested, for a student horror film. It isn’t a shop at all, it’s an enormous lot filled with old houses transported onto the site - some of which were cannibalised from other old houses - and filled wit bits of yet more houses. One is filled, as Mother predicted, with French doors; another with bathtubs standing up against the walls like a hotel for hygienic vampires; another with amputated taps. One warehouse was full of whole kitchens, extracted neatly from houses and standing around just  chillin’. And just to add a ghoulish Western B movie effect to the place, the legitimate goods for sale are intermixed with ancient carriage parts and wagon wheels, as well as seats made out of bathtubs a la Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It’s totally uber, and if I were left there alone after dark I’d very quickly end up gibbering in a warehouse, probably under the rowing boat named Titanic.

Anyway, an old chap eventually emerged from the gloom to help us sort through the piles of old weatherboards and such, while the pig courted tetanus playing amongst the gravel and rusty nails. To our request for H3 treated timber he snorted derisively and pointed us to H4 - apparently H3 rots like tissue paper when placed in contact with soil, and whose advice had we been taking? (Dad’s. Never trust an infralapsarian in the matter of treated timber.) A slightly younger and less picturesque individual cut the timber for us and manned the EFTPOS machine, clearly resenting us as lightweights who weren’t planning on hauling away any kitchens in our teeth. Nevertheless: wood obtained. $30. My ancestors would be proud, in a “Couldst thee not have cut it thyself from yon kindly greenwood, feeble wench?” kind of way.

Making the bed was likewise a heavier task than expected. I gave it my best effort with a hammer and galvanised steel nails, moving from one plank to the next to avoid the fingers of the snortlepig, who kept trying to hold the nails as I pounded ‘em. (She also had the disconcerting habit of waiting until I had nailed them in to - I thought - a considerable depth, and then casually reaching across and plucking them from the wood. That dude has fingers like biceps.) I got a few in straight, but the vast majority buckled and wilted and had to be extracted by Helpdesk Man. Fortunately he was so repulsed by my incompetence that he finished the bed himself, thus demonstrating that he is surprisingly manly. I want him to build a pergola next.

Anyway, the raised bed is now wobbling danergously on the back lawn waiting for a trailerful of dirt to stabilise and strengthen it. At least, that is what I’m hoping it will do. As it happens, however, we are now too broke to afford dirt (poetic, no?); so I’m making do in the meantime with $6 worth of supermarket potting mix and some seeds scrounged off a friend. Life remains snortly.

In other news, I am abandoning the Points system. My Suite101 earnings have better things to do for the foreseeable future, such as buying chests of drawers and bookshelves and stuff; and my tally marks got lost in the move. Instead this week’s Challenge will be as follows:

• Henna hair
• Write one article a day
• Query one article a day
• Do one thing every day to make the new house look more homelike
• Do one organisational thing a day
• Do Bible study homework
• Do singing group practice