Smokey the Magnificent

1. I am frequently amazed by the kind of men who manage to get wives.
2. Yesterday I finally bit the bullet and attempted to cure myself of fatigue, anaemia and the moops by consuming raw, frozen liver cut into little pills and swished down with water. It was horrid, but considerably less horrid than downing liver in its customary cooked, chewable form. I only managed to ingest about a teaspoon’s worth, and it had no appreciable effect on my desire to train for a half-marathon, but they say it’s cumulative. I will Let You Know.
3. I found out at the supermarket today that the salmon I have been smugly purchasing to ward off the brainworms is farmed, not wild. There’s always something, innit. Farmed salmon is evil; they keep them in cramped conditions and feed them soy and grains and things, which mucks up their omega 3-omega 6 ratio and no doubt makes them discontented in their squish. And then they have to feed them dye to get their flesh the correct pink. I got cod instead, which is cheaper and hopefully less evil, but not very appetising.
4. Did you know more women have blonde or red hair than men? Wikipedia said so. I wonder if it’s due to the Barbie/Ken beauty model.
5. Speaking of Barbie and Ken, Toy Story 3 is excellent.
6. I need a way to make a lot of money fairly fast. Nobody’s going to lose an eye or anything if I don’t, but it would be handy. Ideas?
7. I made white chocolate ice cream with homemade ginger cookies crumbled through, and it is mighty tasty, but Helpdesk Man does not like it. I am torn between wounded scorn at his dismissal of any ice cream that is not double chocolate, and smug because it means more ice cream for me.
8. The snortlepig is probably going to grow up to be a taxidermist or a serial killer. She has a penchant for Death. The highlight of supermarket trips is visiting the “dead fishies”, to the point where she refers to grocery shopping as “seeing dead fishies!”; and today when we went to the butcher and they had large portions of cow hanging up out the back, visible through a window no doubt designed to prove that everything is sanitary and pukkah, the pig was delighted and insisted I lift her up so she could beam at them for five minutes while a butcher whacked off bits with an evil-looking knife and gave us uncomfortable glances. Also, though? According to the sign, the Maori word for beef is “kau”. This gives me more happiness than words can convey.
9. Would you rather lose all your worldly possessions in a fire, or be stranded for a month on a desert island after your plane crashed into the briny?
10. I have megalophobia.

Today I was seized with a wild, creative urge occasioned by being behind on the laundry. I made the snortlepig some trousies.

They have side seam pockets, the insertion of which taxed my tiny brain to the uttermost.

Also big knee-pockets, into which I am thinking of putting small pillows to cushion the knees of the snortlepig when she falls on them during walks. I’m not sure, though. It seems anti- the survival of the fittest. One would not wish to do the species a disservice by artificially advantaging a snortlepig who cannot retain control of her own two feet.

Just for larks, I also topstitched some pretend pockets on her rump. It’s doing little things like this that keep me topside of the Seine.

And because I am Thrifty and Virtuous, I made the legs very long and fully lined so they can be turned up and the pig can wear them till she’s, like, thirty. And don’t think she won’t.

The pig was also struck with the creative yen today. Know what gets ballpoint pen off an LCD monitor? Handsoap, hairspray and/or rubbing alcohol. Thank you, Google.

10:32 - Under-layer of fondant successfully applied to all three cakes. Helpdesk Man, who was also stricken with the deathpox, is lying in bed next to a bucket. The snortlepig thought it would be amusing to watch as I dusted the table with icing sugar, and then plant her foot in the middle of it. Oddly enough I still like her; it must be the fever. Am keeping body and soul on nodding terms with scraps of cake and fondant.

11:39 - Realised any skill I once possessed at making icing roses has disappeared, either due to the passage of years or rapidly-progressing nerve damage. Am Googling “how to make icing roses”.

12:02 - In a martyr-like display of maternal solicitude, made bacon and eggs for me and the snortlepig. Snortlepig choked on a piece of bacon rind. Proudly: “I throw up!” Peering, delighted: “I throw up BACON!”

1:36 - Seven roses of somewhat dubious botanical verisimilitude completed. The pig keeps eating the flower paste. Helpdesk Man has staggered out of bed and had a bowl of ice cream, despite my warnings that Dairy is Mucous-Forming.

2:56 - Have piped a large number of royal icing butterflies on greaseproof paper. It calmed me temporarily into a trance-like state, until I sneezed three times and my amygdala got lodged in my sinuses.

6:13 - All cakes fully masked. Had a break for a while giving the pig the milks and watching a bit of Volver, which Helpdesk Man and I started watching last night upon discovering it in several Top Feelgood Movies of All Time lists. Last night the main character’s no-good husband tried to rape her teenage daughter, who killed him with a knife. About the time she started dragging the body to a nearby chest freezer we decided we didn’t Feelgood, and went to bed. Today, while the snortlepig slept and had the milks, the main character engaged a local prostitute to help her dump the body. I also learned the main character’s father had had an affair with another woman, who may or may not have burned him and his wife to death before leaving town, and whose daughter is now dying of cancer. It’s a gay romp, I tell you. It’s also subtitled, so after half an hour of this my eyes started to frizzle and I decided icing the wedding cake would be more Feelgood. Incidentally: never trust things you read on the internet.

8:11 - You know what I’d do if I ever wanted to torture someone real bad? I’d find one of those tiny freezer compartments you get in fridges, all iced up thick around the edges. And I’d hold his hand in it for five minutes until it was good and chilly. And then I’d bang it back and forth, not particularly hard, against the sides. And then I’d do it again. It would be extremely unpleasant. I’ve affixed the roses to the top tier and placed a few butterflies on wires amongst them, but they had a high mortality rate when I peeled them off the waxed paper so I’m making another batch. I asked Helpdesk Man and Flatmate Man to saw my dowelling, but Flatmate Man is as drunk as a large, smallish fish and Helpdesk Man has oosed off to get some Burger Fuel for dinner, me being both too busy and too infested to make the boeuf bourguignon for dinner, which yes, actually was on the meal plan, although admittedly not spelled quite that well.

10:39 - Yay! Apart from putting in the ribbon, the cake is DONE. Including some spare butterflies to give the transport girl in case anything shatters in the car, which is sadly likely - those butterflies are ridiculously fragile. As are the real ones, though - realism, innit. Anyway. I am going to bed.

Today I told the snortlepig she could not lick the beaters yet, because I still had to beat in the vanilla essence. She called me a pesky wench. (A “peshky wench”, technically.) At times like these, I begin to doubt my parenting. Discuss.

1. It’s MOD PODGE, people! Not Modge Podge! I will slay your ancestors!
2. That last episode of Doctor Who was freaking awesome. I cried. Up until that point I was wavering on the season as a whole, but blimey. Epic, yet without sacrificing intimacy. And a corking line. And a fez.
3. I do not like the term “the menopause”. I know it’s technically accurate - well, I don’t, actually, but I assume it is, otherwise why would vast hordes of otherwise unpretentious people emit such a poncy phrase? - but anyway, it gives me the screaming heebies. Enough with ominous articles. I also dislike “an herb garden”, for similar though not identical reasons.
4. I decided on Sunday that my challenge for this week will be to complete one project per day. So today I made a grey skirt - actually I started it in a frenzy late last night, and it even hung overnight to allow the hem to droop correctly. Aren’t I coming along? Anyway, I finished it today and felt v smug, but then realised that all my other projects will take more than a day to complete. I started painting cardboard letters copper in order to stick them on the pig’s steampunked-up whiteboard, my (possibly) next project, but then realised there was no way I could actually paint it and make the fabric baskets all in one day, and then I thought about how many press-studs and little pearls needed to be hand-sewn onto my arm warmers, and how long it would take to learn how to do double-welted pockets in order to make my utility skirt, and then I started wondering if I could count cleaning out the pantry as a project, and then gave up the idea when I realised it just wasn’t gonna happen, and now I’m not sure what my challenge for the week is, but it bothers me unduly that I don’t have one.
5. My sister-in-law is expecting another baby. I will have to knit it something, maybe.
6. Gibbous-inspired clothes just never look as good as the real Gibbous ones. I can’t put my finger on exactly why, but they look junkier. It might just be the lack of incredibly arty photography, but I don’t think so. The skirts have too much fabric and not enough deliberateness of structure, mebbe. Anyway, I’m tempted to try it. But the only event on the horizon which justifies such an outlay of time and vintage lace is practically my only sister’s wedding in November, and I’m not sure if she’d appreciate me turning up looking like a post-Magimix Helena Bonham Carter. Also, I’d have to look at the photos in twenty years’ time, and even now I suspect I would snicker. And that is never a good sign.
7. Flowers for Algernon is not a good book to read if you are even mildly moop. It will make you lunge for a knife.
8. Is not this practically the awesomest thing ever? I want to make one, maybe for Disneyland. Then when we wanted to ride the Grizzly River Run I could just pop it on, and we could oose into DCA and ride it and then go back and romp at the HoJo’s water park. Except I don’t know where I’d be able to buy a towel that wasn’t made in a sweatshop, and one would not like to make it with a used towel. So it might not be doable. Still, I spent a good half-hour today pondering it. This is why I never get anything done.
9. I was playing poker on Sunday with a large, smallish group of semi-manly men, and asked them all “Would you rather have your own unicorn or a hundred sheep?” And they all instantly said “UNICORN!”, and it was awesome.
10. Would you accept a million dollars from a genie on the condition that if you ever said the word “migratory”, you would die instantly?

Sometimes, the sheer volume of the things I plan to make and sew overwhelms my brain like a load of laundry in a wardrobe, and makes my eyes twitch. This is a Bad Thing. Not a totally bad thing, as it allows me to think of myself as a crafty person brimming with ideas; but on the occasions I break through this happy bubble and realise I haven’t done anything more creative for a month than sweeping around a rectangle on the floor and pretending it was a rug, it makes me feel very small inside, and then I have to go eat carbs.

At the moment, my list of unfinished creative enterprises runs as follows (not in bullet-point form, as a) the length would be depressing and b) bullet points are too orderly to represent the reality of the situation): a small cushion made out of scraps from my wedding dress, a pink and green Irish chain quilt for the pig, another one in flannel for the pig in winter, both justifiably put on hold as she doesn’t have a bed of her own right now anyway; half a winter wardrobe of dove-grey, pink, beige and blue clothes for the pig, for which I bought fabrics, only it turns out she has plenty of clothes; the pig’s art station, a blackboard/whiteboard easel thing from the inlaws which I wish to make steampunky and awesome, because it doesn’t match the living room; a knee-length swooshy dress made with this awesomely manly tweed from the thrift store, whose very essence I wish to subvert by lining it with a dusky rose print and adding lace and doing cap sleeves and stuff; a grey more-than-a-circle skirt; a lace pettiskirt; lacy pantalettes, just below knee length; a pair of knitted stockings with little Xes all up the front, even though I suspect this will not look as good on me as on the Gibbous model; a pair of knitted stockings with horizontal blue and tannish stripes, sort of Alice in Wonderlandy, even though ditto; a pair of knitted lacy cream arm warmers that I’ve been knitting since the dawn of time; three unspecified baby gifts for recently ex-foetal pigs; typographical miniature cushions with ampersands and things on them for Helpdesk Man’s office, not that he’s holding his breath; a brown duster like Helpdesk Man’s current black one; a floor-length voluminous winter coat for me in smoky blue; a shorter one from the same pattern in some unexpected colour, so as to make me known in the boroughs as the Girl With the [undetermined but totally groovy] Colour Coat, which is on hold indefinitely as I can’t think of the right colour; a pair of natty lace wristlets, possibly done with very thin string in crochet, if I learn how; another pair of arm warmers with the leftovers from my pinstriped skirt, with dozens of little shroomy Victorian buttons down the side; a Mod Cloth-inspired grey dress with an asymmetrical cowly collar that makes me look like a scifi heroine; a demure grey pinny with tucks on the bodice, cunningly concealing invisible zips for breastfeeding access; a truly awesome autumn leaf quilt for the master bedroom, which is so ambitious I wisely refrained from buying the fabric and committing myself, but it still pesks my mind; a more doable but still not done bronze and blue bedspread cover, because Helpdesk Man doesn’t like the Laura Ashley one I got on sale three years ago, and it has ink on it; a cool Star Trek quilt I have vague and noble intentions to make for Helpdesk Man’s best friend’s couch, which is unseemly; somehow creatively ModPodgeing my old faux leather boots which are falling apart and showing their faux; a fairy-inspired dress with a ballet top and froofy skirt, for which I bought a lot of expensive fabrics and then panicked because they are sheers and I don’t do sheers, and they’re too expensive to mess up; a Grecian evening gown with a woven bodice which I want to make with some fabric someone gave me, only I don’t think my hips will stand the cut and I don’t have much occasion to wear evening gowns anyway, and Helpdesk Man wouldn’t like it because he objects to dresses that don’t have a defined waist; a pinstriped zipup dress based on a top I got from an op shop, but trying to copy the pattern gave me a headache; a top for the pig made out of this awesome dragonfly flannel I got last year, but she doesn’t need it and by the time she does it’ll be too small to make a whole top; a mini quilt I made ages ago to cover the changing table, which still needs to be bound but is a bit rubbish; a hand-sewn chevron quilt I started years ago, but I’ve gone off the colours; several underbust corsets, because I bought a bunch of spiral steel boning and things a while back, but am waiting on eyelets and inspiration and diligence, etc; new oven mitts; a new manly apron for Helpdesk Man, because his other one went missing; some summery, holidayish fifties-style bright dresses to wear to Disneyland next year to improve our festive moods, including a red polka-dot dress for the pig like Minnie Mouse wears; a smoky blue knitted hoodie with a frill around the bottom and a cabled tree on the back; a knitted grey dress with words from the end of The Return of the King chain-stitched all over it, in case I ever need to go to a book-signing; a harem pant/bellydance-inspired pair of pyjamas, although ovbiously not with dangly coins on them, but with breastfeeding access, but not until my current PJs wear out because of the environment, and they’re proving to be very long-lived; a fairy costume for my friend who’s a fairy at children’s parties, for no good reason except I looked at her costume she bought online and thought “Muahaha, I could totally make that”; a knitted top or two for Helpdesk Man; knitted knee-high socks for me and the pig that have demure wee bows at the top; a new Roman blind for the room of Flatmate Man, because the current one looks like a girly shower curtain; a stuffed pig for my nephew, which was supposed to be his Christmas present, but I got bored with the nose; a knitted top for the pig from a pattern I found online; a two-layer cutout top for the pig that I started making, but it wasn’t going well so I shelved it; and an assortment of hair accessories for myself to match the clothes I am planning to make.

You see the issue? I wouldn’t even swear that’s the lot, either. There’s a bolster cover lurking on my sewing shelf whose origins I can’t even remember… two, actually. Now, not all these ideas are unfinished in the sense that I actually started sewing them. Some of them are nearly done, some I have the fabric for but no notions, some just milled around in my head long enough for me to construct a precise plan. The point is, I spent a lot of mental energy on them. I spent weeks planning that autumn leaf quilt, and I knew at the time it was doomed, even as I said hopefully to myself “I could do a block a week, while I watched movies; it’d only take a few years”. I still have the sketches somewhere, probably.

In fact, the sobering thought occurs to me that if my next year’s New Year’s Resolution was “Finish up all unfinished or thought-out projects”, I couldn’t do it. Not a chance. Not in a year. Does that seem right to you?

Anyway, in the spirit of ignoring my own inadequacies, I thought I would show you pictures of the projects I have actually completed in recent history. Not the squab I finally finished for the bedroom window seat, because it’s a bit dubious and the light was all funny. Here’s a muskrat instead.

Pretty nifty, no?

Here’s a bowtie scarf I made.

This here’s m’ pig.

I made her dress.

She likes it.

I went all arty with the bodice, and Helpdesk Man laughed at me. He is basically a smegger.

He did, however, insist on me putting a bow at the back (see above re. defined waists, which is amoosing because if there’s one attribute the pig doesn’t have, it is a defined waist), and that helps.

Also, in true marvy craft blogger form, this dress was made out of an old bedsheet. Weep in awe.

Anyway. I also made her a hat from a Ruffles and Stuff tute, which is not that super but does in a pinch. She hates it, acourse. She’s always pulling off her hats. But I got her to cooperate while I was taking photos by getting her to say “communism”.

I also knitted her a wee scarf and handwarmers.

And I finished my pinstriped skirt.

That was a rubbish photo and it makes me faintly moop, so I will conclude with another muskrat.

Pretty nifty, no?

Even though the snortlepig pesks me all to hell, I like her. Here are some reasons why.

1. When she’s chillin’ with me on the couch and wants to go somewhere else, she’ll say “Back inna second!” as she scuttles away.

2. Sometimes, when she is having the milks and I ask her to come off, she will bury her face in the milks and cover her eyes with her fat wee hand. And I’m like “Dude, you’re latched on, you can’t pretend you’re not there”, and she looks at me with beady eyes between her fingers, and then I hold her nose until she unlatches and she laughs and laughs and says “‘gain!”, and it is amoosing.

3. The other day, she was stirring a pat of butter and some onions around a saucepan and chattering away. And suddenly she looked down at the pot and squeaked “Oh, where’s a butter a go?” and started hunting round the onions trying to find it.

4. She reads Helpdesk Man’s comics over his shoulder and points out all the cloaks.

5. She is immensely fond of The Pirates of Penzance, and sings “Come, friends, a plow a sea, Dooce a luss a Jason, take a duck a Jason” many times a day.

6. She understands the concept of not having things in the cupboard. If she wants crackers and I say “We don’t have any” she says “All gone. Later” and is perfectly philosophical about the matter.

7. She feeds us things she is eating, even things she loves very much.

8. She knocks on Flatmate Man’s door and says “Come a dinner! Dinner time!”

9. She demands I look up photos of “Diseymand” on the computer, and shows a healthy appreciation for Mickey Mouse and the “dresses”.

10. She says “fingums” instead of fingers, and “pengums” instead of penguins.

11. She strides up to random cats and picks them up without fear or a by-your-leave. They do not bite her.

12. She puts away the knives and forks from the dishwasher, and is fairly efficient, even pointing out the forks with smeg baked on ‘em; but sometimes she will get distracted flirting with her reflection in the back of a spoon.

13. When we remove her clothes she will run to the nearest person available, leap into a starfish position and say “NAKED!” with a look of immense glee. This disconcerted Flatmate Man a bit the first time.

14. Whenever I ask her “Are you my friend?”, which I do a lot, probably ’cause I was a middle child and Forcibly Weaned, she says firmly “Yes. Friends a Daddy too”.

15. Sometimes she wakes up from a sound sleep and says things like “Rhinos!” or “Cats are great!” and then goes back to sleep.

16. Whenever Helpdesk Man goes out, she makes sure he does not forget to give me a kiss and also one for her. If he does, she shouts at him out the door in garbled distress until he comes back.

17. The other day she went through Helpdesk Man’s bag after he came home from the supermarket and exclaimed in tones of rapture “Oh my goo’ness, MUSHROOMS!”

18. At singing group practice last week, she joined in on Panis Angelicus, resulting in several false starts as we couldn’t figure out who was off-key. Her Latin was good, though.

19. She is still convinced she patted the “winos” at the zoo.

20. I dunno, really. 19 seemed a silly number to leave off at. Her cheeks are nice. And she dances. She started waggling her bottom in her sleep the other day when a rap song came on during a movie.

Anyway. I will keep her for the nonce.

For the last seven days or so I have been suffering from what Helpdesk Man informs me is a low-grade flu. For all I know it’s very low-grade leprosy or homeopathic ebola, but I will take his word for it. It is not unto death, just enough to prevent me from being productive and bouncy. Helpdesk Man has been a trooper throughout - this morning he took off his T-shirt in bed so I could blow my nose on it. We were out of hankies. See above re productivity. Anyway, marriage is a wonderful institution.

Actually I haven’t been totally unproductive. I have been well enough to knit, a few feeble inches at a time, and during my Week of Moop I not only completed a bowtie scarf but started a pair of armpit-length fingerless gloves using a snazzy diagonal eyelets stitch, the success of which has impressed my lurgy-addled brain immensely.

Also, I went to a party. Not this week. Before. It was a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, and in a fit of brilliance two days before it I decided to go as the Queen of Hearts. So I bought an impressively vile red prom dress from the op shop and thought “I shall make an overskirt out of playing cards, for this will be Simple and Speedy”. It wasn’t, but thanks to a very long church AGM and the sweatshop skills of my tiny sisters, I got it done. The pig went as a single card, which actually was simple and speedy, but only because my little sisters did it themselves during said AGM.

Here do am be the pig, and myself twirling with Alice, the birthday girl.

K?

The snortlepig has adopted a new custom. You know how one blows a kiss? Well, she bites her hand instead of kissing it and then wipes it on my face. It is at once immensely threatening and self-defeating, like cutting off your own hand with a sneer and throwing it at the messenger of your enemy.

Also, I utilised the bok choi. That isn’t Navy Seal code. Cauliflower dish. It was passable.

Conversations with the snortlepig have entered the realm of the absurdist lately. Take this wee chat from yesterday.

Helpdesk Man: Come on, pig, we need to sort out your tiny toofpegs.

Me [in a fey and playful mood]: Shall we sort them out or pull them out? Which do you think?

The snortlepig: Tomatoes.

And then there was the night she woke up, shouted “RHINOS!” and went back to sleep. It makes me jumpy. She’s also developed the disconcerting habit of grabbing my face with both hands, enjoying a brief spasm of rage and saying in a slow, creepy and violent manner, “Heeellllooooo, mmummmmyyyy”. What does it mean? Maybe I should have followed my mother-in-law’s advice and had my milk tested after all.