Smokey the Magnificent

So the gluten-free week didn’t really pan out. We tried, but other than not actually serving bread at dinner it was all a bit of a sham. Without any medically compelling reason not to put chicken stock powder in the rice, who wouldn’t? Other than vegetarians and the kinds of classy Traditional Foods individuals who get around to making real stock, of course.

The domesticity angle was less of a dead loss; I semi-kinda-sorta deep-cleaned one day, and the floor actually stayed clean for some hours together. It turns out that the snortlepig is an enthusiastic domestic servant; she vacuumed and wielded the broom with diligence and intimidation, and at one point I came across her dutifully scrubbing the toilet. (Against all known house rules, of course, but what is one to do? She had both lids up and was using the toilet brush expertly. Surely one can’t be expected to discourage that sort of thing?)

So anyway, in light of last week, this week I will continue being domestic using a handy system I devised on Friday with a piece of paper and a spark plug. To wit, I left time management and decision-making in the hands of the gods. I drew a wheel on a piece of paper with categories in various spokes, like “Eat something healthy”, “Do something organisational” and “Read to the snortlepig”. I then spun the spark plug as the whim took me and followed its dictates. Don’t obsess about the spark plug, it isn’t important - one could as easily use a ballpoint pen or a human femur or whatever, it just happened to be what the pig was eating at the time. Anyway it worked, so I’m gonna do that again this week. K?

And now for the sixty thousand dollar question: Say that as punishment for your misdeeds you were forced to consume a date scone, one of whose dates was in fact a cockroach. Would you rather eat the one scone, knowing that the cockroach was interred in its depths; or eat a scone a day for a month, never knowing which one was infested?

Oh, and another thing. If you saw a Double Irish Chain quilt made with these fabrics, would you go “Ooo” or throw up a little in your mouth, or undergo any reaction between said extremes? It seems most Irish chain quilts are quite stark, with green “chains” and a white background, and I don’t like that; but I was planning to go for a softer look, with the background colours being the pale pinks and creams and the chains being green flanked by darker pink, with some kind of interestingly feminine, non-severe border with more dark pink in it. It’s for the snortlepig’s bed. I was thinking of doing a thicker lap-quilt to go at the end of the bed with the leftover fabrics, too, possibly with a scalloped edge so as to further offset the geometry of the Irish chain on the bedspread. Any thoughts? (Other than “Dude, you have fifty-eight sewing projects on the go as it is, have you the brainworms?”, to which I would not take kindly.)

…is to atone for my housewifely and culinary deficiencies of last week, occasioned by The Quilt, as a pre-emptive strike against Helpdesk Man running off with a large Swedish masseuse. So lots of cleaning - my sewing room is a sight to behold - running a bunch of long-overdue errands, and so on. I also need to make some mooshy foods for Mother, who is now allowed to eat but not to chow down beefsteaks. And just to mix things up, Helpdesk Man and I are going gluten-free this week. Not for health reasons, particularly; mostly because I got a book on gluten-free cooking out of the library, in fact; but if it should give us an extra twinkle to our toes and shinier spleens, so much the better. (Or not, actually, because giving up bread and baked goods would be a heck of a nuisance.)

I also need to catch up on my Suite hair care articles and try to do something with sister-in-law before her infant makes its appearance. It will be a busy week, I think. Plus I need to finish the snortlepig’s winter top before the weather heats up unduly; and oddly, making The Quilt has inspired me to finish a flimsy I made for the snortlepig’s changing table before she was born. You’d think I’d be put off quilting forever, but no - the free motion quilting was fun, or would have been if I hadn’t been doing it at a frantic hundred miles an hour and snapping needles into my eye, and I even enjoyed the binding process.

Well, as far as debit and credit goes in the universe, things are playing thusly:

• I seem to have escaped the Great Swine Flu Epidemic of ‘09 unscathed. (Credit.)
• Practically my only mother is interred in the depths of our dingy public hospital with her throat slit. (Debit, particularly from her perspective, one imagines.)
• The doctors are relatively sure they removed the entire thyroidal cyst from said throat. (Dubious credit, as they said that twice before. Silly doctors. Wouldn’t know a thyroidal cyst if it jumped up and bit them in the face.)
• My quilt is three sleeps away from its deadline and still not entirely pieced, let alone backed and quilted and bound. (Debit, certainly.)
• Practically my only mother, languishing as she is in the depths of said hospital - and according to a reliable source, out of her mind on morphine - is unable to come over and walk me through the processes of backing, quilting and binding, none of which I have ever done before. (Guiltily self-involved debit which recognises there are Higher Things at stake, but still.)
• Have sore feet from pacing the library for an hour and a half last night trying to lull the snortlepig to sleep, so I could  listen to Helpdesk Man’s marvy young vocal collective singing at the book launch of the conductress’ mother, only to find that the singing was minimal and the speeches very long, although actually pretty interesting. (Debit? Credit? I do not know. Blisters are no walk in the park - heh - but on the other hand, should I run into a former schoolmate who was sporting a Paris hair cut and an arty bohemian top with leggings, I could always work “Last night at a book launch” into the conversation and thus distract her from my otherwise uncompelling suburban banality.)

In order to be expedient, I’ve divided today into 10-minute segments of Sewing and Not Sewing. It works better than the longer time slots, I think. So far I’ve managed to fool the snortlepig into thinking I’m giving her my full attention, long enough to make several fabric gateposts and begin appliqueing a pig on the ninth and final quilt block. And high time too. I’m going to visit Mother this afternoon, and have a whole bunch of hand sewing to take so as to improve each shining moment. It’s hard work creating Whimsy - every pleasing thought, such as “ooh, I could applique a little snail oosing up the stalk of the sunflower” ushers in what seems like hours of sewing.

Unsurprisingly, this week’s challenge is to finish the smegging baby quilt. And also to eat three lots of yoghurt, because it is good for the squish and better than my current practice of accidentally skipping breakfast six days out of seven. And to return a certain overdue library book before the bailiffs come a-knocking. And to get my Bible study homework done in good time for once. And not to die of swine flu.

To facilitate making significant advancements on sister-in-law’s baby quilt I decided to divide yesterday up into half-hour segments of Sewing and Not Sewing.  In theory it keeps me on-task and prevents the snortlepig from Thus far, it hasn’t been a staggering success.

Half-Hour One: Dressed me, dressed the snortlepig, did my hair. Unloaded dishwasher, made breakfast (kibbled wheat with cream and brown sugar). Made hot drink of apple cider vinegar and honey for health purpose now lost in the mists of time… either it’s good for my skin, fights cancer or assists in weight loss. I forget, but all good things, no? Went over half-hour by ten minutes due to eating breakfast.

Half-Hour Two: Arranged my box of fabric scraps in order of width; selected a bunch of 1 1/2-inch strips to use in making tiny nine-patches. Began sewing them together.

Half-Hour Three: Fed chickens. Cleaned microwave. Picked up vast quantities of mandarins from the grounds and squoze them to make jelly. Went vastly overtime because a) I just finished squeezing them when the timer went off and wanted to actually make the jelly, and b) the pig, having trotted around the garden contentedly for the entire half-hour, now decided she missed me and had to have the milks.

Half-Hour Four: Continued making nine-patches; arranged them in a 4 by 4 pattern with bigger blocks in between. Decided to carry on until the pig began to pesk, which gained me another 19 minutes (and then only because she hit her head by standing up under the table. She is a good pig. I will keep her.)

Half-Hour Five: Several hours of being distracted on the internet.

Next day: Woke up with probable swine flu.

So there you have it. I did manage to do some applique and embroidery last night, so I made some advancement; but I’m not sure I’d call it significant. Anyway it’ll all be much of a muchness when I’m lying dead in a pool of my own phlegm.

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:

• A shot every time Jonathan Kent mentions How He Raised Clark
• A shot every time Lana flings herself embarrassingly at Clark, either for the purposes of making him ask her out (seasons 1-4) or tell her his secret (season 5), and another every time she pauses again while going down the stairs of the barn to let him change his mind, which he never does
• A shot every time Lex points out that he is his father’s son
• A shot every time anyone makes an ironic joke foreshadowing a) Clark’s eventual relationship with Lois, b) the Superman costume, c) Clark working at the Daily Planet or d) Clark and Lex becoming mortal enemies
• A shot every time Clark storms into Lex’s room flinging the doors wide
• A sip and a discreet cough every time someone showers in the room above the Talon
• A shot every time it becomes clear the plot of the episode is a ripoff of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
• Finishing up the bottle every time an episode does all of the above

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

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.

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.

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?