Smokey the Magnificent

Apparently we’re very paranoid people. I found three sicky buckets under our be. We could have all vomited at once with ease, safety and hygiene. But we never did, and now we are moving house and it is too late.

Have you ever noticed that any occupation sounds faintly sordid and ironic when used as the descriptor of a corespondent? It’s absolutely true. Try it.

“My wife left me for her chiropractor.”

“Yesterday my husband eloped with an architect.”

“All was going well until Jan abruptly filed for divorce and moved in with the plumber.”

“Natalie arrived home to find her goldfish dead in the bowl, a pile of unpaid bills and a note from her husband saying he had fallen in love with a tour guide.”

“Tonight I ran into my wife with her new flame, a purveyor of steak knives from Tallahassee.”

“After her husband left her for a truck driver Bethanne took to drinking heavily.”

“I don’t see Matilda much any more. Last I heard she was still happy with the prison guard she left me for. They were expecting their third child in March.”

You see? While one presumably has nothing against architects, truck drivrs or even chiropractors, one’s sympathy is aroused - and one finds oneself forming a faint sneer and going “Oh, an architect. I bet his mommy still does his laundry.” Or ringing up seventeen of one’s closest friends to say “Did you hear about Pauline? Her husband ran off with a lady from Greenpeace!”

Also, I have discovered that the good Lord did not dower me with the ability to clean ovens. It’s probably a sign.

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?

Well, duh. To do a third of the things required to move house.

I’ve made a list, three pages long and counting, of tasks ranging from “scrape paint off the bathroom floor” to “check if Tia Maria has gone off and throw out bottle if so”. Actually Helpdesk Man has to do the Tia Maria thing, all alcohol tastes like the sputum of Satan to me, wouldn’t know if it was good or bad. Does Tia Maria even go bad? Anyway. I was going to give myself Points for each task, but alas - the spirit is willing, but the funds are gone. All my Suite101 money has been amassed into the common fund, like a pure riverlet being swallowed by the roaring ocean. Bear in mind that analogy says more about the size of the riverlet than the ocean. But still though. Frivolous spending is on hold for the time being. Just as well I got that fabric before we found the house, no? :p Then again, I suppose I could still amass the points and hope my Suite income will start skyrocketing enough for me to make good on the debt one day. It’d certainly make moving house seem cheerier.

I’ll probably have to spend a good chunk of tomorrow taking the snortlepig back to the doctor, too. The nail failed to make its appearance, so she’ll need another X-ray to see what it’s up to. (Probably been assimilated, which means it will take only the mildest of electric shocks to transform her into Iron Pig, snortliest superdude of them all. Good reason not to get a trampoline, at least until she’s past the terrible twos.)

Oh yeah, and… anyone want to help us move house? *beams* Not this week, obviously. When the time comes. Sure you do. You promised you would, at Lent.

It is dis one. (Drat. Classified just expired.)

Now we just have to…

• try to coerce some poor homestay student into staying with us
• break the news to our current landlords, who were hoping we wouldn’t need to move until nearly November
• switch over Internet
• redirect our mail
• pack up all our belongings, decluttering as needed
• buy (preferably through bartering loaves of bread or Helpdesk Man’s soul or summat, being a bit strapped for cash) a mattress, some bookshelves, a desk lamp, two desks, three chests of drawers and a drier in order to accomodate our new arrangements and the homestay student
• come up with the dosh for 3 week’s bond plus 1 week’s rent (see above and cash-strappedness)
• clean the house
• scrape paint off various windows and floors from dodgy paint jobs
• get someone in to clean the carpet to erase the presence of the snortlepig
• find someone to babysit the chickens, as Mother (who kindly agreed to adopt them if the landlord didn’t fancy the idea, which he doesn’t) is away for moving week
• empty the garage, oh my

and… am I missing anything? All before October 2.

But still. A house. Yay. Better than a dose of swine flu, I always say… with conviction and fervor these days, as it happens.

…is to do at least one thing every day that will make moving house easier when the fateful day comes. I was thinking of cleaning under the spare bed today, for example: the snortlepig hid a potato under there some weeks ago and I’m curious to see how it’s coming along.

Question the First: If you spend two and a half hours cleaning the house, make a nutritious dinner and then make custard from scratch for dessert, but forget about the custard and hop in the bath while it’s cooking, does the latter incident cancel out the former industry?

Question the Second: Why do all Bond women look alike, even those of different races? (We watched Thunderball tonight, a snooze-fest if ever there was one, and I spent most of it thinking there was one too many Bond girls, because the redhead looked brunette when her hair was wet. Terribly confusing, and when I did figure it out the plot didn’t make any more sense anyway. One has to admire a director who can make a big-budget underwater scuba battle, complete with circling sharks and bombs, drearier than a wet weekend.)

Question the Third: Why, after twenty minutes of searching, did I finally find the snortlepig’s other boot curled up inside Helpdesk Man’s laptop under the bed? Why would it be there?

Question the Fourth: Anyone know a mnemonic device to remember the difference between infra- and supralapsarianism? I always get them confused. I did, however, learn one yesterday for remembering the difference between stationery and stationary, not that I have a problem in that regard anyway. BA, innit. But according to the IRD lady, “E for envelope”. (”And A for automobile”, mused I immediately, being of quick-witted and of sharp mind.) Cunning, no?

…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.

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.

I think I’ve revised the points system to a usable format. To wit:

Tasks Worth 1 Point

• Take snortlepig for a walk
• Give chickens fresh water and food
• Vacuum
• Have dinner ready before Helpdesk Man gets home (main dish, that is, not veggies; we eat late)
• Complete Bible study homework before 5PM on Wednesday
• Try out a new recipe
• Empty compost bin
• Post article on Suite

Tasks Worth 2 Points

• Clean out chickens’ cage
• Take snortlepig to Mainly Music
• Get toy from toy library
• Change sheets and pillowcases
• Mop

Tasks Worth 3 Points

• Run errands in town
• Plant veggies/flowers in garden
• Have guests over for dinner

Tasks Worth 20 Points

• Write and have published a print article

Other One-Off Tasks with Values As Specified

• Finish sister-in-law’s quilt - 10 points
• Finish snortlepig’’s mini-quilt - 8 points
• Mow entire lawn - 6 points (not really one-off, but sporadic)
• Make snortlepig’s felted jacket - 3 points
• Make snortlepig’s winter hat - 2 points
• Make snortlepig’s green winter top - 3 points
• Make jeans gardening apron - 3 points
• Finish painting sewing room - 4 points
• Sand and paint sewing room windowsills - 10 points

As for the bribes,  I had the brilliant idea last night of simply calculating it at one point per dollar. Duh. Not including shipping, though, because that’s confusing and I don’t feel like it. And it’s my blog. Yah boo sucks.

So anyway, starting from today my grand total is 5. Yay! Those being posting a Suite article (on Victory Rolls, which are my new favourite hairdo), feeding and watering the chickens, taking the pig for a walk and taking her to Mainly Music.

The latter was surprisingly pleasant. I’ve been putting it off for yonks but I accidentally woke up in time today and felt I should get it over with - largely because the snortlepig has started moshing and dancing jigs every time she hears music. Of course, as soon as we got there the selfsame pig thrust out her lower lip and scowled for the duration, declining either to wiggle like a worm or clap, clap, clap her hands. I couldn’t really blame her; the songs were no Billy Joel.

Afterwards, though, she cheered up, aided by a handful of crackers and a sippy cup. They had a sippy cup for each child with just a little water in the bottom - I was in awe at the brilliance of this. The poor kid even got to try a bite of banana, a substance I rarely allow at home because the smell gives me the perishing feebles.

Also, there was a kid called Edge. Edgy, no?

After it was over I decided to carry on down the road to see if the op shop had a brown woollen extra-large sweater I could felt down for the snortlepig’s coat. It didn’t, but I did run into a girl who enthused about my crown braid and asked me all sorts of questions about growing her hair long. I was waxing lyrical about biotin when I realised this was all an elaborate preamble to selling me a copy of The Baghavad Gita As It Is. Hmph.

Also, in a radical executive manoeuvre I have decided to christen this Gratuitous Pig Shot Week.