Smokey the Magnificent

80kmph, fifth gear, successfully avoided a pukeko, managed a couple of intersections and only changed into first gear in mistake for third twice. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Driving round curves, in particular, reminded me very much of sewing - in fact, at one point I had a strong impulse to get out of the car and clip the curve of the road for a neater edge. Fortunately, I did not mention this to my father-in-law.

Today, as happens once every several years, I had an attack of domesticity. My usual prudent approach in such a situation is to lie down until it goes away, but today I did not. So far I have made a large batch of tabbouleh, from largely home-grown ingredients, no less; put a tray of cherry tomatoes in the oven to dry; and conceived the staggeringly brilliant notion of pulling out the old, tough lettuce plants to make room for some new ones.

I am now going to go organise the top shelf of the wardrobe. There are T-shirts up there in the incorrect piles. This cannot be.

Update: Helpdesk Man’s T-shirts have now been arranged by colour. By colour, maggots. Are you that good a wife? I didn’t think so.

Further update: It seems people have found my blog through Googling the phrases “do torvill and dean give each other birthday presents”, “neaps or neeps” and “security knickers”. Awesome.

1.Have you ever noticed that the face in the moon does not merely look like a generic old man with a moustache, but is exactly like Matthew Cuthbert from the Megan Follows Anne of Green Gables?
2. Me: “Do you like Parmesan cheese?”
Helpdesk Man: “It tastes like spew.”
Me: “But do you like it?”
Helpdesk Man: “Ehh, it’s alright.”
3. If you should hear the snortlepig telling you she pats winos, do not be alarmed. We took her to the zoo. And she did not pat the rhinos, merely ooed at them from over the fence, but it is sweet that she thinks she did. Maybe I can show her pictures of Europe and pretend when she grows up that we took her there.
4. I do not like audience participation. We went to a pantomime of Beauty and the Beast in the public gardens, and it was full of actresses chirpily cooing “Good morning!” Subdued mutter. “I can’t hear you!” Grudging rumble. “I said, good morning!” Pained bellow as the audience realises they are being held hostage and won’t get to the see the show unless they pony up with a yell. This always annoys me, but particularly when the initial response is more than adequate… which, however, was not the case yesterday. At any rate, I refused to be blackmailed and sat Britishly sulking until Belle abandoned her efforts to whip us into a frenzy - whether because she thought them a success or a failure, I do not care to speculate.

Today I took the plunge and booked my learner’s licence test. It was exciting, and nearly didn’t happen - the grim-faced woman behind the desk informed me that my tenancy agreement was insufficient proof of address, and I sulked for a bit and contemplated going home before realising in a fit of (by my standards) brilliance that I could pop to the bank and get a proof of address form there. So I did. On my return the grim woman loosened up considerably - clearly realising I was not, after all, a lightweight but committed to the task, as a convert to Judaism who must be turned away three times by the rabbis - and paid several compliments to the snortlepig.

Unfortunately my calculated gamble of doing my hair in a hurry did not pay off. It turns out they take the photo before you take your test, not after. So my learner’s licence will feature me will a severely pulled-back librarian bun and a somewhat grim expression, the latter occasioned by the snortlepig trying to climb on my knee and saying “Milks!” as the flash went off. Ah well. Maybe it will impress the police.

My test is at 11:15 next Wednesday. Sadly they have just switched to computerised tests, not scratchies. I like scratchies. Scratch and sniff would be even better, but probably frivolous under the circumstances. At any rate, if I fail to blog about it you must assume the worst and be appropriately sympathetic.

Tomorrow my practically only small sister is coming over to make ravioli, and we will have Pumpkin and Brown Sugar Creme Brulee for dessert. Doesn’t it look luscious?

Well, I did my taxes. It was ‘orrible. We will not speak of it. Then today I trundled the snortlepig into town and handed the form to the lady behind the desk, prepared to offer whatever explanations and apologies for my incompetence were deemed necessary, as well as a largeish wodge of money. Fortunately (I guess) both were put on hold, as it turns out they need to go through my form and check it before they officially charge me. In which case, if they’re gonna do it anyway, why did I have to do them??? I beamed at the lady and left before she could discover that the snortlepig had drawn in pencil all over Page 3.

While in town we did a few errands and ended up at the library, where I had a moment of bliss as I discovered both The Joy of Cooking and The Perfect Scoop were available. The latter is considered to be THE ice cream recipe book, containing such dubiously chic items as Red Bean Granita and Olive Oil Ice Cream. Inspired, I read through the whole thing and decided to make butterscotch caramel ripple stracciatella trufitos. Unfortunately my enthusiasm took a downturn when I made the Creamy Caramel Sauce and Helpdesk Man said “It tastes like cough mixture. Ew.” If anything, I undercooked it according to the directions, but it managed to acquire a burned taste nonetheless, and burned caramel is one of the unpleasanter things in life. (It was also one of the few exciting things we did in science class, but what principle it was meant to illuminate I cannot recall. Nothing ice cream related.) I might try again: the texture was gorgeous, anyway.

The next day, back at the ranch:

Ha! Success. Third time lucky. I tried making the sauce again last night - basically, you melt sugar into caramel and then whisk cream in while wearing an oven mitt to protect yourself from searing burns. Unfortunately I got a bit excited trying to get the sugar to melt before the snortlepig woke up, and stirred the caramel more than one is supposed to, thus causing it to clump up and take far longer to melt. And then the baby woke up. So I tipped the toffee onto a greased plate and will make it into praline instead… except it seems to have adhered permanently to the plate. But that’s another challenge for another time.

Anyway, this morning I rose with fire in my eyes and murder in my heart, determined to make said sauce or perish in the attempt. I succeeded. The sauce is velvety, creamy and not at all reminiscent of cough mixture. A large lump of toffee did get stuck to the whisk and refuse to melt back in, but I discarded it rather than risk scorching the batch and all was well.

I have half a mind to write to the author, though. “Wait until the caramel starts to smoke”, forsooth! Who thought that was a bright idea? The kind of guy who considers the acrid tongue-shrivelling taste of burned caramel complex and sophisticated, probably. Like those weedy menus that proudly proclaim “Burned Orange Souffle on a Bed of Wilted Greens and Aged Mushrooms”, trusting your snobbishness will lead you to breathe “How avant-garde!” rather than making pointed remarks about the pig bin.

The snortlepig and I have broken a cup each this evening. I wonder what it portents. Thirst, probably.

You know how one occasionally buys a kitchen appliance and then never uses it? I have personally moved the majority of the food processor attachments from house to house three times, while being absolutely convinced I will never use them. Yet somehow, I can’t bring myself to break the set by chucking them out. What if Helpdesk Man loses his job, the snortlepig requires a brain transplant and I have to sell the food processor on TradeMe in order to afford a pair of nifty wristlets?

Beside the point. Where I was going with this is that our new ice cream maker (Helpdesk Man’s present to me and vice versa for Christmas) is not one of those items. We’ve had it for ten days and have already used it five times… seven by tomorrow. I love it dearly. Lemon sorbet, frozen Coke, vanilla ice cream, butterscotch maple ice cream and strawberry sorbet so far… and another strawberry sorbet and some mango sorbet are in the offing. For the record, sorbet is an excellent answer to the question of What to Feed One’s Vegan Sister, as well as What to Feed One’s Lactose-Intolerant Friend.

Speaking of lactose, the snortlepig has finally mastered the word “milks”. Until today, I had thought that this was a good thing - arguably more subtle than clawing at my chest, would you not think? Only today I was sitting on the piano stool at church, eagly alert for my cue to play “I Stand Amazed In the Presence”, when the snortlepig eluded the clutches of Helpdesk Man and ran up to me shouting “Milks!” Helpdesk Man had to carry her down the aisle as she shouted “Mummy! Milks! Mummy! Noooo!” in full-blown tragedy voice. The congregation was most entertained. I think I’ll pack a cosh in my handbag next week.

You will be happy to hear that so far, I have not broken any of my New Year’s Resolutions. On New Year’s Day, despite the fact that it was a public holiday, I put in my time and did my hour of housework. And didn’t I feel smug! I have also made some progress on the road rules, although it may come down to working the psychology of the multi-choice quiz rather than actually knowing the rules. The test is kind of passive-aggressive, so when it says things like “How fast can you drive if you see a school bus letting off wee cherry-cheeked urchins?” and the options are A) 20 km/h, B) 3o km/h, C) 40 km/h and D) 50 km/h, you can just tell it’s waiting for you to tick D and then scream at you “FIEND! BLACKGUARD! WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!” So you tick the holier-than-thou-est answer listed, A, and lo and behold, you are right. (Don’t even get me started on its smugly leading questions about the Effects of Alcohol.)

Tomorrow Betty Scandretti, as she is known to her adoring fans - Uncle Bizzy, as she is called by the snortlepig, and practically my only sister - is gracing our township with her presence. The plan is to watch Up while Helpdesk Man and Betty’s somewhat male nattily dressed counterpart go out to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie. This is partly a Plan B occasioned by the inability of the snortlepig to behave in a movie and the inability of my mother to babysit said pig, on the grounds that her home became inundated with fleas while they were on holiday (!) and has to be fumigated. However, let it be noted that I am also not attending “Sherlock Holmes”* because, if the trailer is any indication, it is a travesty and a farce and should be boycotted by all right-thinking people. K? (Uncle Bizzy and I were going to see The Lovely Bones, but it is not to be. Up is smashing, though.)

Then the following night, several of my dearest friends (a phrase virtually synonymous with “only friends”, for the record, meaning “ones I can run into without having to say things like “Hey, didn’t you have a baby?” and “So are you and, um, still - no? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Oh, well, OK then!” “) are coming over to eat nachos and watch Star Wars. As little as watching Star Wars needs a reason, we actually have one - my belly-dancing friend codenamed Perdita, it transpires, has never seen it. Can you imagine? And I met her working at an arthouse theatre, of all things. So this is very exciting. We have managed to work her into a state of cautious anticipation, and will do our best to avoid peering at her avidly and nudging her in the ribs to make sure she takes in all the good bits. From time to time I feel a moment of panic, thinking “What if she doesn’t like it? S– from the movies didn’t like it. What if she thinks it’s rubbish?”… but then my inner Yoda calms me, replying “S– is dead inside, and Harrison Ford will work his magic. You are trying too hard. Do, or do not. There is no try.”. And then I am calm anew.

Do you remember the first time you saw Star Wars, then? I will always associate it with Raro, a repellent powdered drink mix, because I first saw it on TV with the Raro logo popping up at vital moments. It wasn’t as earth-shattering an experience as the first time I saw The Fellowship of the Ring or even The Princess Bride, mostly because I initially watched half of The Empire Strikes Back late at night and didn’t have a clue what was going on, and had to get my friend’s little brother to fill me in weeks later on who was doing what. But it was still pretty awesome. And much more memorable than my first taste of Star Trek. (”Dark Page”, the one in TNG with Deanna’s dead sister. I mostly remember a lot of shots of people climbing down Jeffries tubes… not exactly the stuff of legend.)

Also, I am making the snortlepig a pair of shorts. And the mango sorbet is almost done, and tastes pleasing. And that is all.

*I usually italicise movie titles. This is not an inconsistency. Those are scare quotes, meant to indicate a withering sneer at the thought that THAT film is worthy to lick the boots of the great detective himself. K? K.

There are a couple of children roaming our garden outside the house. I can hear them talking and clattering things, but I cannot confront them because a) I am not wearing a shirt, and would half to walk past the open front door to get one, b) the piggie is sleeping on my lap and c) I am a pansy. They’ve been round the house several times now, and I am afraid they might try to wander in or something.

Awkward.

Maybe I’ll sic the pig on ‘em. She can get mighty cantankerous when roused from a nap.

So I made a punk dress (pics still pending). All would have been well - but as is my luck, I got inspired and wanted to make more dresses. And I had just been invited by my dear friend April to a picnic which would involve a few fairy-obsessed friends. So I thought, why not? A fairy-inspired nursing dress. Transgressive.

So I started filling numerous bits of paper with anatomically wonky drawings of myself wearing a fairy outfit - sans head, of course, but I like to think I got a lot of personality into the shoulders. (Side note: it is surprisingly difficult to fairfyfy linebacker shoulders. I googled “how to minimise wide shoulders” and got about seven conflicting articles supplemented by yet more conflicting commemts sections, mostly involving wide-shouldered women who strenuously disagreed with the articles’ authors that spaghetti straps/halter neck tops/cap sleeves/dolman sleeves/raglan sleeves/boatnecks were good/evil, and anyway look at Jessica Biel. Which, yup. She does. Katee Sackhoff too, although it could just be the fatigues.)

Then I came to the reluctant conclusion that the dress simply wouldn’t look right without a corset. So off to Craftster to read a 100-page thread (really) about corsetry. Then a complex process of drafting involving gladwrap, duct tape and cornflour (don’t ask), and finally a mercifully clear tutorial on teh intarwebs. Intarwebs, how I loves you.

Then, as I looked remorsefully at a bodged-up half mockup from the duct tape incident, made from an old leg of denim overalls, it occurred to me that a denim corset might be a Good Thing to make before attempting the fairy version, being casualer and more sturdy and able to be artily ripped and covered with zips and paint splashes and bits of dead possum and such if the worst came to the worst.

So then I was making two corsets and a fairy dress. Only then I remembered this corset dress online, which I have desired very much for many months, but which is $450 US and you’ve gotta be kidding. So I thought, why not extend the lines of the denim corset  pattern and make a corset dress? Why not, indeed. So then I was making a corset, a fairy dress and a corset dress.

I then ran into a snag, because I had already spent all my allocated fabric money on bits of gossamer and moonshine for the fairy biz. Before I’d finalised the pattern. Because I’m daring. So I coaxed some more money out of the trembling fists of Helpdesk Man and sallied forth today to buy Stuffs and Fixins.

Unfortunately, none of our sizeable town’s fabric and craft shops stock spring and flat steel boning, which according to all reputable corsetieres is the only thing that will do. Plastic? Polypropelyne? Riligene? We pff at it. Dave’s Emporium, enterprisingly, went so far as to inform me they had it before I trekked in and was triumphantly told they did not. I pff at Dave’s Emporium, also.

Sadlier still, nobody had non-stretch medium-to-heavy-weight denim either. Or duck. Or cotton canvas. Or twill. Or small brass eyelets. The world is conspiring to keep my squish uncompressed. (Yes, Spotlight probably has it, but I can’t get there on the bus. Well, I probably could, but it would take two buses and three hours and probably damage my calm. Bussing with the snortlepig on a hot day is not for the faint of heart; neither, for that matter, is browsing in fabric stores.)  I visited one craft store, one fabric store, one sewing store, one tailor’s and one bridal shop, and ended up only with a small packet of silver eyelets and some thread. Pfft.

So I am currently in that tantalising and frustrating condition of itching to begin a project, but lacking the raw materials. It saddens me greatly. I just finished putting on a bit pot of chicken soup, despite the sweltering heat, as a hysterical displacement activity. I shall next start hunting out an online source for flat and spring steel boning, and after that the evening stretches before me as a vast, dark, corsetless void. I could keep tweaking the design for the fairy dress, but it’s at the stage of simply frustrating me and causing me to ponder overmuch on the unshapeliness of my legs. I’ll probably end up cleaning the house… heaven help me.

Or “Off Which I Cannot Pull”, if you prefer.

• Catching car keys. Usually I flail and miss, and on the rare occasion I do manage to catch them I stare at them blankly in my hand for a minute, giggle and say “Cor”, thus eliminating any possibility of sprezzatura.
• Ebonics.
• Calling people “honey”.
• Saying “I love you” without using a silly voice. (Stunted childhood, prolly.)
• Wearing makeup of any kind.
• Giving people other than Helpdesk Man and the snortlepig hugs of greeting or farewell. Most people I know are undemonstrative or possibly think I pong, so on the rare occasion an acquaintance swoops in and kisses the air around my cheeks I tend to go into fight-or-flight mode and end up squishing them, getting their hair up my nose or doing something otherwise non-apropos.
• Bohemian/grunge/thrift store chic dressing. I’d love to be able to don a cheese hat, a vest, three pairs of holey tights, a tulle petticoat and combat boots and saunter down the street wearing earrings made out of soft drink tabs and toting a hatbox, but I’d just end up sidling close to the shopfronts, picking at my hair and hoping nobody saw me. Which is a sad thing.
• Dressing appropriately for weddings.
• Looking earth-goddessy, glowing and full of verdant feminine power during  pregnancy.
• Babywearing.
• Matching shoes, handbags etc to my outfit.
• Scarves, either chunky or floaty.
• Berets.
• High heels.
• Clothes in general, in fact; but also, unfortunately:
• Nudism.
• Casually acknowledging celebrities in a way that indicates classy recognition and a quiet, non-intrusive tribute to their talents without outing self as a ravening fangirl or causing said celebrity to inwardly wince. Fortunately, being New Zealand, this isn’t an issue that comes up too often.
• Karaoke.
• Easy-going friendliness towards other people’s small children.
• Buzzcuts, I’m pretty sure. It’s one of the main reasons I did not star in V for Vendetta.
• Saying no gracefully to telemarketers, door-to-door evangelists, collectors for dubious charities and those people at the mall who squirt Dead Sea minerals on your hands unless you studiously blank them.
• Closing in Prayer.
• Weeping subtly and attractively during sad movies.
• Dealing with crocuses in an efficient and capable manner when there are people younger and nervier than myself present.
• Presenting my ID without trying to distract the IDer’s attention from the identity photo.
• Doing any form of banking without preemptively apologising to the teller for my incompetence.
• Watching Star Wars without beaming in a slightly defective way whenever Han  Solo is about to say something witty.

Yesterday:

You know what? I will probably never learn to speak French. A semi-sobering thought. I’d like to speak French - more accurately I’d like to be the sort of person who learns French for kicks, which the evidence suggests I’m not - but meh. It has tenses. I’m  agin ‘em. I have a friend, though, who taught herself German simply by visiting a LOTR message board. But she’s Aspie - proper Aspie, not just vanity Aspie - and therefore cooler than me, as so many of my friends are. (Case in point: most of them can drive.)

You know what else? I remembered the other thing I had to do this week. It was volunteering at the toy library. Two weeks ago I didn’t turn up when I shoulda, and one week ago I did when I shouldn’ta. If I flake again this week they might start asking me nasty questions about the missing piece on the activity table the snortlepig borrowed a month ago. Must get up tomorrow morning.

I also have to get up in order to make a Shin of Beast, a task which now seems faintly glamorous as I just watched Julie & Julia with my mother. Meryl Strep is marvellous. You think “Oh yes, Meryl Streep, she’s marvellous”, and then you see her in another film and realise yup, she really is. I have that experience with Hamlet, also. And, upon occasion, soft-boiled eggs.

Today:

Got to the toy library on time, thank goodness, and spent a pleasant hour and a half chatting about childbirth and counting 150-piece toys into buckets. It’s a heady power trip, saying to cowering mothers “You do realise there’s a goblet and two trapdoors missing, don’t you…. maggot?”. Collected some used coffee grounds for compost, visited Helpdesk Man at work, then trundled home. Right. I now have the unenviable task of persuading a Tupperware lady to demonstrate this Saturday at a baby shower. And then I need to attack that Shin of Beast and do some long-overdue gardening. Pip pip.