Still having Christmas gift trouble. According to Helpdesk Man, buying him a moderately awesome possum-shooting kit - gun, pellets, holster, fancy hat - would make me the Best Wife Ever. But buying him a much more complete and instantly-usable kit containing a gun, pellets, holster, fancy hat and a possum is crossing some sort of “line”.
He will get socks and like it.
I just discovered an awesome webpage. It is, somewhat inexplicably, hosted by ecclesia.org; it is titled simply “Handy Hints”; and it is mostly gems of wisdom along the lines of “Prevents brooms from slipping when you prop them against a wall. Cut off the finger of an old rubber glove and slide over the handle”; sooth stuff, mostly. But then suddenly, in the “Insects and Animals” section, underneath “Prevent flying insects. Hang fresh bunch of stinging nettles to front of door”… there is this.
“Outrun Crocodile/Alligator. Run in a zig-zag pattern, and not just in one straight direction. When making left or right turns, the crocodile/alligator has to come to a crawl to move in that direction because of its short legs.”
This isn’t an isolated tip, mind you. The same section includes advice on Elephant Attack (”If one runs after you, and tries to stomp you, get out of their line of site. For example, if you are around some trees, hide behind a tree. If it comes after you, zig zag to another tree.”), Bee Attack (”If you are being stung by a swarm of bees, don’t breathe. Bees are attracted to carbon dioxide.” But repelled by the STENCH OF DEATH, presumably?) and, most handily of all, Shark Attack:
“Do not swim away, because sharks are attracted to erratic movements. When a man swims away from a shark, it looks to the shark like he is struggling, squirming, and panicking, and the shark will attack! Also, do not play dead. A shark has all the senses we have, plus more, and a shark will know that you are not dead, but will be confused why you are not acting like you should be. So, it will get curious and may start to knaw at you.”
That’s knaw with a K, folks. If I ever become a fascist dictator, I’m going to make that the official spelling. Dissidents will be forced to breathe at bees.
So, yesterday, someone dissed mah pig. I was at the supermarket with the snortlepig and the auxiliary pig, feeling vaguely skilly because I managed to wheel them around the supermarket with minimal tears and make my new credit card work on only the second try… actually the third, if you count having to push it in, not swipe it, but still… and as I loaded the goods into the boot, an old Chinese couple approached me with clipboards. At least, I assume they were Chinese - the clipboards were for a petition asking the Chinese government to stop persecuting Falun Gong practitioners, it being (according to the leaflet) a peaceful religion, with no post office and very few exports. This petition has been circulating around our fair city for approximately ten years - you can’t walk down to the Indian grocer in our suburb without being accosted by it, and again on the way back. I must have signed it about forty times. (And, side note, what’s with that anyway? Is an evil Communist regime really going to go “Oh, ten thousand people in New Zealand think we shouldn’t persecute a religious minority? Well, right-o then”? I mean, as I say, I sign the thing when asked; it seems like the pukkah thing to do; but it seems like there must be more effective methods of persuading governments. Nuclear methods, mebbe.)
Anyhoo, so I smiled benignly at the couple and said “I think I signed that one yesterday”, and the chap approached Miles in the trolley and began to make fond faces at him and chuck him under the chin, the way one does with pleasing infants. And then he said “How old?” and I said “He’s four weeks today”. Whereupon both petition-holders began laughing their heads off. There was a brief pause, and I said “Yes, he’s quite big” - because he is, and people do frequently make comments to that effect, which is fine. But they kept laughing and laughing. And after a moment it became Awkward, and eventually I gave them a smile of vague, frightened goodwill and hefted my laughably enormous baby into the car and drove off, thinking: they totally done just mocked my pig. And they were still laughing.
Suggestions? I mean, yes, he’s fairly sizeable, and possibly babies run smaller in China, but I wouldn’t have thought he was mirth-inducingly big. And is that really the way to raise support for Falun Gong?
Also, look at him. Who would mock such a pig? He’s squashy in the face and says “pla” when he sneezes.
In other news, the cat of Helpdesk Man’s dear friend just died. So, being a Woman and therefore full of Tact and Empathy, I made a commemorative mousse. It was less blurry in real life. Helpdesk Man’s dear friend didn’t have much to say about it, but he did eat the mousse.
RIP, Oogley.
So, yeah. I had a baby.
Not that one. That one’s a bat.
It probably would have been easier, though. Maybe next time I’ll have a bat.
Anyhoo. Baby. Yus. Miles David. Nine pounds six, if you don’t mind. Cute in the face, poops a lot, not a tooth in his head, and doesn’t know squat about the South Beach diet; in which respects he reminds me strikingly of his dear papa. I would show you a photo of his newborn self, but my midwife took them and managed to include the more salacious parts of a Smokey in every single shot; not to mention the waters of the birth pool, which are enough to convert one to dry-cleaning for life.
Miles is coping well with life. Between the civilising atmosphere of the birth centre and our natural desire to impress him with our excellence as parents, we have been unusually polite in the face of his sometimes unreasonable demands; and he has responded by being as amenable as his digestion allows. It is an artificial and probably short-lived truce, but it works.
MILES [2AM]: Parents, I have a complaint.
US: What is it, my sweet sugar lumpkin? Do your insides pesk you? Let us walk you around and pat you lovingly on the back.
MILES: Boip. Boip. BOIP. Boip.
US: Oh dear, you have the boips. You are brave and soulful in the face of adversity. Have you perhaps completed the boips?
MILES: No. Yes. …Boip.
US: What a clever and precocious child you are! A spot of milks?
MILES: Thanks. I will.
[All slumber.]
MILES [2:25AM]: I’m sorry to bother you again, but I think I may have pooped.
US: What an admirable boy! We shall turn on the lights and leap to your sanitary aid.
HELPDESK MAN: Let me, wife of my bosom, for you are weary with the exertion of birthing our marvellous boy.
ME: K.
MILES: AAAAH! MURDER! TREACHERY! MAYHEM!
US: Ach, tish and piffle, little sweetness; coochy coochy, hey nonny nonny etc.
MILES: Sorry! Sorry! I don’t like having my nappy changed.
US: Think nothing of it, son and heirling; it is a distressing event indeed. Come, let us sleep. Have some more milks.
[All slumber.]
MILES [2:40AM]: I have more boips. Also, I was sick on your face.
[Etc.]
As you see, this pleasant interchange is unlikely to continue for more than a few days - I’m ballparking Helpdesk Man’s breaking point as Wednesday - but it is merry while it lasts.
I’m, like, totally in labour.
I always wanted to blog that. It’s the small things in life.
1. A month or so ago I was downing my hideous fermented cod liver oil tablets, while my sister-in-law watched with great interest. Then she said “Man, those are big, no wonder you swallow them one at a time”. And my brain went “?!”, and I realised that in several years of swallowing supplements designed to make me clever and sleekit, swallowing more than one at a time had never occurred to me. Since then my life has changed dramatically.
2. As of Tuesday, the Auxiliary Pig is no longer tangled up in his umbilical cord. This is a Good Thing. Better yet was the ultrasound tech, who upon seeing “3x nuchal cord” as the reason for re-scanning snorted loudly and kept up a muttered commentary through the proceedings, along the lines of “Never in all my years working here have I seen such a frivolous reason for re-scanning; I don’t know what these people are thinking; too much information, I call it, just causes needless stress, she should have just kept her mouth shut; ridiculous!”, which endeared her to me greatly. Better yet, she had to take a bunch of photos of the Auxiliary Pig’s face and neck to prove that it was unobstructed, and she let us keep them. A bit chinless in a few pics, but promising; he looks a bit like the snortlepig, if she had a more transluscent skull.
3. I am being totally productive. Upon realising I could have fewer than ten weeks to go I flew into a panic and started actually sewing some of the fabric which has been sitting smugly in my sewing niche; which, as it turns out, is the way to get things done. I have currently completed a winter pinafore for the pig, a pair of rather dishy Ottobre rompers for the Auxiliary Pig, a knitted baby hat I made up myself, and a small, short-sleeved shirt. I am now in the process of sewing another pair of rompers from a pair of hand-me-down trou, some winter pyjamas for the pig, a knitted kimono top, and a mei tai. (Yes, all at once; apparently completing one project before starting another is beyond my level of cunning.) After that will come another winter dress for the pig, a ring sling, a sleep sack, a knitted aviator cap, a coat for the pig, and as many more baby clothes as I can churn out before the Auxiliary Pig arrives and demands to be dressed.
Unfortunately our camera is lost, so I cannot show you the gorgeousness of the things I have made. Here’s a water buffalo, though. Just imagine I have harvested its wool and made it into a cunning little vest.
4. Helpdesk Man has officially started the Atkins diet. We have now spent our life savings on slabs of meat and surprising quantities of produce, and he has taken to hoarding his Vitamin C tablet to eat after dinner as a truly pitiful substitute for dessert. Tonight he and Flatmate are out, so I am taking the opportunity to make a Lime Marshmallow Pie in their absence. Ha. (It’s classier than it sounds. Not only do you make the marshmallow topping yourself, from scratch, but you also make the graham crackers for the biscuit base. Also, it has limes in it.)
Helpdesk Man and Flatmate Man have been discussing little else but the carb content of mustard and Brussels sprouts for the last week, and yesterday Helpdesk Man announced he was going to spend his birthday voucher on a set of bathroom scales. I am clearly the manliest person currently living in our house…. not counting the pig, who it turns out can do the splits. How? She certainly didn’t get it from me. I could never do so much as a handstand or cartwheel, and my childhood suffered accordingly.
5. I have discovered the most awesome blog. I read it all. I Am Baker. Lookit that hydrangea cake.
6. It is surprisingly hard to find good, free knitting patterns for baby vests online. Anyone? I want one that buttons on at least one shoulder and down one side, so I do not have to pull it over the head of the pig and give it flashbacks to the childbirth experience and stunt its tiny psyche; also one that is appropriately manly, attractive, easy to knit, and did I mention free? No luck so far; very annoying. I’m tempted to wing it, but last time I did that I ended up with a hat I should probably donate to the preemie ward, if it has a box for spectacularly un-fussy preemies with no dress sense; and I knit so slowly that an unwearable item is no small matter.
7. This may reveal unfortunate things as regards my character, but I have come to the realisation that people who blog about loving their husbands freak me all the way out. Mother pointed me in the direction of a crafty person with a blog she thought I might like; said person lives in our town and Mother feels we might Get Along. I thought so too, until I read her blog, and what is it filled with? “I love my husband”. Like, every third post. And now I can never meet her, because she’s my age (and indeed, her husband used to be in my class at school), and all I’ll be able to think when I look at her is “Heh. You love your husband”.
I mean, naturally I am glad that she does; and had she stuck to discussions of weaving and sewing, I would have probably assumed that it was the case. But come on, people. A little reticence. A little dignity. A slight sneer when the love of your life enters the room, to prove to the world that you are still your own man and not some moonstruck dingbat. Perhaps an occasional well-deserved critique regarding his face. Is it so much to ask? Must you spew newlywed bliss all over the internet like so much rainbow upchuck? It’s unseemly.
Right. I am going to go sew some straps on that mei tai snugly enough that the Auxiliary Pig won’t be able to plummet to his doom, no matter how hard he tries. And he will, if he inherits a healthy sense of nihilism. And I’m pretty sure I’m on a supplement for that.
So, say the universe offered you a choice of two boons. Which would you prefer?
1. That no cockroach, spider, stick insect, praying mantis, or other creepy-crawly of doom might ever come anigh you, nest in your hair, lurk at the top of your shower nor indeed enter your residence, without your specific permission (allowing for the slim possibility that you might want to go into tarantulology at some later stage of life);
or
2. That you would never develop diabetes.
Discuss.
Tomorrow is the belated birthday party of Helpdesk Man, and I am in the middle of making not only cupcakes and fudge, but the chocolatiest ice cream cake ever. Its base is of Oreos, crushed with butter; its lower half is of homemade chocolate ice cream, streaked through with white chocolate straciatella; its upper storey is of homemade white chocolate ice cream, streaked through with dark; separating the two, like unto the waters below and the waters above, is a ribbon of homemade dark chocolate sauce. When the fullness of time has come it will be iced with chocolate ganache, and the sides of it sprinkled with chocolate curls; and on the top in chocolate sauce shall be piped divers figures; possibly satyrs sporting with maidens, and cornucopiae, and a bell and a pomegranate, a bell and a pomegranate, all around the edge of the cake; or possibly “Happy Birthday Helpdesk Man”, depending on my nerves. And it shall be AWESOME.
And the reason for this cake is threefold. Firstly, because it is a party, and what is a party without a cake? A mere shindig. Secondly, because I made practically my only sister an ice-cream cake recently with white chocolate raspberry ice cream, and it was good. Thirdly, because Helpdesk Man and Flatmate Man are both going on the Atkins diet come Monday, and I feel they should get a hearty sendoff.
Yes, indeed. Atkins. It will be interesting. It was Flatmate Man’s idea at first, and Helpdesk Man joined in only after I reminded him that in ten weeks or possibly even less, he will be required to join me in a birthing pool and the midwife will see his squish. A solemn impetus, but it has been amusing to watch his resolve gradually crumble to gibbering abjectness as Flatmate Man periodically emerges from his room, thumbing through a copy of the Atkins book saying “You know you’re not allowed alcohol”, and “Of course you won’t be able to eat chocolate”, and “It’s a pity we’ll still be on the induction phase over Easter, we’ll miss out on all the hot cross buns and Easter eggs and things”. Happily, I have been told by several people that going low-carb while pregnant isn’t a good idea; so I can eat theirs for them. Life does have its compensatory joys, don’t you find?
This is the pig, being three.
This is the birthday cake I made her.
This is what the pig would call a baby tortle.
The pig was about that size when she was born, although of course she looked more like this:
I, on the other hand, looked something like this.
Edward, not Bella. I may have had an even ghastlier pallor, but I cannot guarantee it. Anyway, that’s pretty much how I looked. I’d go into details, but my Hypnobabies protocol instructs me to let all such reminisces ping harmlessly off my Bubble of Peace and slink back into the void. Hypnobabies has no sense of fun sometimes.
Today was my, ahem, third driving test. To spare you any suspense, I passed; and just as well, because the whole experience is very demoralising to my inner calm, and I think another few goes would have given me a gastric ulcer. Crikey. I was initially pleased to see that my instructor was not the same lady with whom I’d bumped the car in the parking lot; it was, instead, a kindly-looking older man with a Scottish accent, and I warmed to him instantly, thinking he would be fatherly and approving.
He was not. At the beginning of the test I did a few silly things out of abject terror, and each time he barked at me “Wanna tell me why you did THAT? That’s not correct driving, SMOKEY, and if you don’t drive correctly I’m not gonna pass you!”. And I was all “Dude, you’re harshing my mellow”, but by the third outburst I was convinced I’d failed already, which oddly enough cheered me up a little; it seemed that the universe was humming along on its accustomed path and all was well. So I tootled contentedly through the rest of the test, even going so far as to answer back when he snapped that my overcautious gap selection could have made me a hazard to cars behind me, if there had been cars behind me. (Me: “True, but I knew there weren’t any cars behind me, and this is an 80k zone, so it seemed sensible to be cautious”. He: grim silence, probably taking pleasure in picturing the car crashing into a flaming fireball of death.) And at the end of the test, instead of relieving my nerves with a simple yea or nay, he worked through a laundry list of my driving defects - which oddly, were entirely different to the defects mentioned by the other instructor - I’m not sure if that’s good or bad - and ended by grudgingly admitting “Well, you did pass…”; clearly implying that left to his druthers, he’d have had me sterilised and shipped off to the Americas for the good of society, but his hands were tied. At any rate, he successfully managed to suck any sense of accomplishment out of the occasion, leaving me even more depressed than the time I failed.
Smegger.
And did he even ask after the baby? He did not. Wouldn’t have killed him.
Essentially, I should feel like this:
but as it is, I feel like this:
and that is all I have to say about that.
On the bleak marshes there lived a virtuous maiden with her father and his second wife. The farmer was fortunate, and the maiden drank plenty of good goats’ milk and ate her fill of good barley bread. But the girl’s stepmother had bitterness in her veins, and so she devoted her days to tormenting her daughter-in-law.
One cold day the stepmother had awoken in a foul mood, and she scolded and beat the maiden all the long day, and at nightfall finally drove her from the house. Weeping, the maiden stumbled through the marsh, pursued by the stones and taunts of her mother-in-law. The tears so blinded her that the maiden was forced to tear the kerchief from her head to dry her tears. But a wind sprang up and caught the kerchief from her, and the girl ran after it.
Now the marsh was flat and desolate, but here and there a stunted tree grew. And the maiden’s kerchief tumbled towards one such tree, and as quick as sight disappeared into a crack in the tree’s grey trunk. The girl reached in after it - and to her astonishment the crack was deeper than her arm was long, though the tree looked small, and she could not reach the kerchief. And as she groped the crack widened, and with a cry the maiden tumbled inside.
When she came to, the girl gasped to find herself dazzled by sunlight. The grey bleakness of the marshes had disappeared, and she was sitting in a field of wildflowers and singing birds. Astonished, the maiden arose and began to explore. To one side of the field she heard laughing voices, and rubbing her aching limbs she stumbled towards them.
At the end of the field was a clearing, filled with shining folk. Women in dresses of the palest hues swung and danced and combed their hair; tall men with beardless faces drank from crystal goblets and swam in a pool filled with shining fishes. The maiden gasped at such a sight and backed away, ashamed of her own dirty clothes; but the most beautiful lady of them all, with a dress of cobwebs and kind, ancient eyes, ran forward and clasped her hands.
“Greetings, O favoured one!” she said, and her voice was like light. “Your sorrows have not been unseen by the land of Faerie. Here there is peace, and bliss, and you shall live without fear.”
Then maidens came and took her, and they washed the battered maiden and dressed her wounds with salve. And once she was arrayed in a dress of palest green, they pressed her with grapes and sweetmeats that sent strength coursing through her veins. And the Queen of the Fairies came again to the maiden and said “See, I have chosen a husband for you among our people”. And she presented to the maiden a golden-haired man with sparkling eyes; and as the maiden looked into his eyes she felt all the songs of the songbirds welling up in her heart, and she loved him well. And so they were married by the field of ever-living flowers, and the fairies paid them homage.
It seemed like only a few hours later - though in the real world a year and a day had passed - before the sun slipped away and twilight stole over the clearing. And the Queen of the Fairies called the maiden, and spoke to her kindly.
“Forever shall you dwell among us, and your children will be blessed and have great gifts”, she said. “But beware the wrath of Faerie! If ever you squeeze the pimples on the back of your fairy lover, you will at once be cast back onto the marsh - and though we do not wish it, I foresee that your death would soon follow such an event. So beware!”
The maiden promised faithfully; and the Queen led her to a marble couch in the middle of the clearing, where her husband lay. The maiden lay down and tried to sleep, but the silken covers slipped away, and by the light of the moon she saw that her husband’s back was covered in juicy pimples. Alas! the maiden was a picker, and she did not last ten minutes. She felt a rumbling cry of rage from the trees and grass around her, and the next minute she found herself once more swooning by the tree in the bleak, cold marsh. Then the marsh weasels came.