Smokey the Magnificent

Christmas is approaching (fools), and I have begun angsting about gifts. A while back I discovered a rather lovely rhyme - purportedly from the Victorian era, although I doubt it - designed to make the process easier. It goes thusly:

Something they want

Something they need

Something to wear

And something to read.

Gosh, I thought. That’s nifty. And I vowed to do it. But it turns out, it’s not as easy as it looks. For instance, do craft supplies for the snortlepig come under Want or Need? She doesn’t, as far as I know, actively want anything for Christmas; I don’t think she’s figured out the concept of a wish list yet. So does it count if it’s something I know she would want? Does it break the whole principle to divide, say, Something They Need into four separate gifts - say, crayons, chalk, stickers and glue? Does the poem include Christmas stocking presents, or exclude them? What if Something She Needs is also Something To Wear, and possibly Something She Wants as well?

Pottering around the internet, I discovered that mothers more cunning than I have wrestled with this selfsame problem, and overcome it. Basically, they cheat by changing the poem. So a mother who has already planned to give her child, for instance, a handmade tote bag, a toy that goes ping, a zoo membership and a bag of cocaine will simply justify the purchases by altering the poem to read:

Something handmade

Something bought

Something to do

And something to snort.

Or, if I were to retroactively justify various presents bought for Helpdesk Man over the years - a whiskey glass with a moustache etched on it, a hip flask, a wallet and some hand-embroidered manly hankies  - I’d make it something like this:

Something unintentionally hipster

Something from which to swig

Something made outta the dried skin of a dead lamb

And something not very big.

No Shakespeare, but it gets the job done. And y’know, the existence of this literary form this really sheds some light on the origins of the poem “Three Rings for the Elven-Kings under the sky”; don’t you think?

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.

Shall I compare thee to the snortlepig?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
See’ng my clean dress (when she was small, not big)
With a thin coat of puke she would distemper it.

My first pig’s face was yellow like a fright
But no such jaundice see I in your cheeks
And, being changed, you kick with great delight
Cheerful and sweet, despite your poop, which reeks.

She screamed; you sleep. She wailed; you gurgle. She
-Though arguably cuter in the face-
Pooped only once a month (from neck to knee)
Your active bowels denote the Master Race.

But if you turn out bad (and I suspect it)
My abdomen shall sue you. ‘Cause you wrecked it.

Nearly every famous speech from history and the arts can be given new meaning by adding “like, so“. Like so:

“I came, I saw, I, like, so conquered”. -Julius Caesar

“Frankly my dear, I, like, so don’t give a damn.” - Rhett Butler

“A woman without a man is, like, so like a fish without a bicycle.” - Gloria Steinem (attrib.)

“E, like, so equals M C squared”. - Einstein

“Make it, like, so so!” - Jean-Luc Picard

“Unfortunately, no-one can be told what the Matrix is. You, like, so have to see it for yourself.” - Morpheus.

“Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d meats/Did, like, so coldly furnish forth the marriage table.” - Hamlet

“It’s, like, so a trap!” - Admiral Ackbar

“We are, like, so not amused.” - Queen Victoria

Amirite? It’s nice to know that my $12,000-plus-extras-for-Cookie-Times-from-the-library-vending-machine degree in English didn’t go to waste.

You, like, so shall not pass...

Since you asked, although I note you didn’t, we had many reasons for choosing the name Miles for the Auxiliary Pig. Firstly, we felt it conveyed a cosy, homely, English-old-man-in-a-tweed-hat-with-a-pipe vibe, which pleased us. Secondly, there was Miles O’Brien on Star Trek, and he is awesome. Thirdly, Liam was the most popular boys’ name in New Zealand last year, so that was out. Fourthly, Helpdesk Man vetoed evey other suggestion I came up with - a sprawling and venerable list including such gems as Lachlan, Llewellyn, Brock, Leander, Mason, Morris, Hunter, Firth, Finn, Fionn, Linden, Lincoln, Lewis and Hugh. (Yes well, I wasn’t unquestioningly keen on all of them.) Fifthly, and this is actually true, Helpdesk Man has an ancestor known in his day as Miles the Slasher, whose coat of arms features a severed hand dripping blood.

Sixthly, the name Miles reminded me of a pleasing poem we once studied at university: “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”, by the venerable Robert Frost. It is a sweet poem, made all the more awesome by being quoted in a few seminal episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer; and goes like this.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Charming, no? Anyway, my sister was asking about it; so this evening I emailed it to her, and on reflection sent the link also to Helpdesk Man, who being an undereducated philistine had not read it (I rightly assumed).

Some minutes later Helpdesk Man leaked out from the bowels of his office, and we had the following conversation:

ME: Did you read the poem I sent you?

HELPDESK MAN: Yurs.

ME: Did you like it? Isn’t it nice?

HELPDESK MAN: I thought it was a bit suggestive. It had sinister undertones.

ME: What? It’s a nice poem.

HELPDESK MAN: What do you think it’s about?

ME: Stopping by woods on a snowy evening?

HELPDESK MAN: I think you’re being naive.

ME: What do you think it’s about?

HELPDESK MAN: Well, “I have promises to keep” strongly implies that he was burying a body.

I don’t think he was joking.

1. I am forty million years pregnant.

2. I want to drink ALL THE MILK IN THE WORLD.

3. I am paralysed by a mental inability to make baked custards, which I desire muchly, and to finish sewing a bunch of winter clothes for the snortlepig, which she sorely needs.

4. I watched LA Confidential the other night and was left with the impression that it was a Good Thing, but if held at gunpoint would not be able to tell you who most of the corpses were or exactly what was going on with the bad guy, who surely can’t have been all that bad anyway, because he was Zefram Cochrane and also the farmer in Babe.

5. Braxton-Hicks remind me of when the Enterprise on Enterprise does that weedy hull polarity thing instead of having proper shields. Kinda cool, texture-wise, but it won’t keep the Klingons out.

6. When was the Holocaust named the Holocaust? During? After? Was there a poll? Did some people have an alternative title?

7. The pig made up a song yesterday. It went like this. To get the full effect, you must understand that she has trouble pronouncing the word “fat”, so she says “flat”:

“Mummy’s so flat

She has flat cheeks

She’s so squishy

She’s got a baby in her tum

It’s very very very very very very very very squishy

It’s the squishiest baby I ever seened”.

8. Still haven’t settled on a name for the Auxiliary Pig. I’m thinking Gaviscon.

9. A small and unworthy part of me sort of wants to get into a minor fender bender of dubious faulthood with another car, so when the chap gets out to yell at me I can go into labour and disconcert him all to hell. Wouldn’t you?

10. Just finished reading Love in the Time of Cholera. Good book, but a surprising lack of cholera. I kept waiting for someone to die of it, and nope. It could just as well have been Love in the Time of Eggplant, eggplant featuring rather more promimently in the text and having less sphinctery connotations to boot.

11. I bet a good bout of cholera would get the Auxiliary Pig out.

1. Passing or failing a driving test are not the only two options. One can also work oneself up into a fever pitch of nerves for half an hour, loitering around the AA building reading “Tips for Passing Your Driving Test” in a frenzied panic and sucking on glucose sweets in order to prevent oneself passing out, only to find out that one’s left rear indicator light is out and the only skill one will get to demonstrate for the grey-haired matriarch is opening one’s car door. One must then pay a hefty fee to rebook the test for the nearest possible date, which is two weeks in the future.

2. According to second-wave feminist Germaine Greer in her classic polemic The Female Eunuch, one has, and I quote, “a long way to go, baby” if one reacts with disgust or horror to the idea of drinking one’s own menstrual blood.

3.  The bit of a sari which goes over one shoulder is called the pallu, and can be used for covering one’s head, holding hot dishes, wiping a baby’s nose and sundry other helpful activities. One can even knot one’s keys up in the end that dangles down one’s back.

4. Spare ribs can actually taste pretty good if you marinate them in honey, soy, balsamic vinegar and other nice things and slow-cook them.

5. Glass chopping boards look arty and do not transfer the dank stench of garlic to dark chocolate when you chop it up for a cake, but they blunt your knives and are dangerously slippery.

6. Most of the times honey is mentioned in the Bible, it does not refer to honey from bees but to date honey, which is made (I think) by squooshing them.

7. No culinary heights I ever attain are likely to garner me as much adulation as I get when I mix garlic with butter. This disturbs me.

8. If you write an article about using catnip as a hair conditioner, seven months later a woman who has also written an article on the subject will fire off numerous angry emails to the administrator of your site accusing you of plagiarism; and by numerous I mean “every couple of hours”. Not only will this rankle for professional reasons, but it will remind you sadly that your own experiments with catnip rinses neither produced a luxuriant shine nor cured your split ends, but turned your hair into a lank, greasy mess, leaving you with an almost-full bag of catnip that mow constitutes a disposal problem in a neighborhood inundated with cats.

9. Pet shops sell fish called penguin tetras, which are like neon tetras only a) much less pretty, b) more expensive and c) not at all reminiscent of penguins. I do not know why. Have they ever sold one?

10. Burning a dead Christmas tree is fun! The needles all light up and send flames shooting for the sky, or rather the (live, planted) tree in the way of it; and then, after a few nerve-wrackiug moments, it subsides and leaves a a mere charred shell, which would probably be poignant if you weren’t in a hurry to cook sausages over it.

Well, it’s been such a hideously long time since I blogged here that there’s no way I can segue back in gracefully, so I’m just gonna do it via a Facebook-esque pretend fill-in-the-blanks quiz. K? Also, I’m only here because I’m supposed to be writing an article on child-led weaning.

I have not blogged for a hideously long time because… if I can put it real subtle-like, Operation Auxiliary Pig is go. I am eleven weeks pregnant. The previous nine weeks - gestation calculation being a weird and tricksy beast - have largely been spent horizontal, dizzy and abject. On the upside, the snortlepig has come up with a brand-new euphemism for upchucking - “spitting one’s dogs”. As in, “You gonna spit your dogs, Mummy?”. Current aversions include the smell of the butchery and fish aisles, large wodges of protein that require much chewing, and John Travolta - although the latter aversion significantly predates the pregnancy.

Also, practically my only sister got married last Saturday, which joyous occasion required me to make a dress for myself, ideally one which hinted at pregnancy rather than lax diet; a sort-of-flowergirl dress for the pig (she being cute in the face, but not responsible enough to do anything as vital as walking down the aisle); and a clockpunk wedding cake the size of THE WORLD. In between attacks of low blood pressure, of course. The smell of dried fruit soaking in sherry is strangely calming to the tum - why do you think this is? And as it turned out, the wedding cake was far more enormous than it had to be, and the father of the groom accidentally left the remains in the trunk of his car for several days after the wedding, but apparently it was still good. A really groggy fruit cake has the survival capabilities of a Twinkie made of roaches, and that is a comforting thing.

Today I reached the pinnacle of happiness when… I discovered a whole new method for cooking chicken. In the past, I’ve either made chicken stock by using the carcass from a roast, or by buying some frozen chicken carcasses from the butcher. Either way is fine - stock, yummy, frugalish. But the other day I sent Helpdesk Man out to buy the carcasses - a manly kind of task - and in his innocence he came back with a $13.99 bag of frozen chicken portions. So I was like “!” and then “.” and decided to roast the lot. So I did that, and poured off the juices into a jug, and then shredded the meat off the bones and used the bones for stock. And aha! I now had delicious stock, and enough shredded chicken meat to make toasted sammies, fried rice and a chicken pot pie, plus snacks for the pig, and a jug of delicious, nommy chicken fat with a kind of demi-glace beneath. And when you consider that a single pair of moderately-cup-sized Boneless Skinless go for $10 on a good day, this struck me as No Bad Thing. I will do this again.

My Christmas preparations are… happening. Smug? Why, yes I am. Today I bought the snortlepig’s first two presents - a packet of those twirly drinking straws to celebrate her recent mastery of drinking from them, and a pair of scissors with bees on. She also wants a baby Christmas tree. Where does one buy a baby Christmas tree? Also, this year I SWEAR I WILL MAKE STOLLEN. For the past decade and a half I have spent every year saying “Ooh, I should make stollen” and not doing it, and it has become like unto a splinter in my mind, driving me mad. Similar situation with hot cross buns, actually, but I conquered that this year.

Tomorrow night I am going to… watch Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part One, and eat a chicken Caesar salad at a nice-looking Italian restaurant. It is exciting. It’s a shindig for a friend’s birthday, but unfortunately she is inviting several friends I do not know, and they will probably be competent and scary and have coordinated handbags and haircuts that are actually styled, and maybe know secret things about bronzer that I do not. So I am naturally angsting about what to wear, and the pregnancy issue isn’t really helping; but in a fit of feminine competitiveness, I have decided to wash my hair. Only I was supposed to do it tonight and I forgot. I will, though. Probably. Or I could just pretend I had taken a vow.

The snortlepig is currently singing… “You Raise Me Up”. Only it’s “I am scared when I am on your shoulders”, which makes a deal o’ sense.

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.

Today Helpdesk Man and I sallied forth, pig in tow, on a cast iron pot mish. Our previous frying pan (Analon anodised aluminium, we’re looking at you!) had begun to flake Teflon into the food and smell vaguely rubbery when heated. And then there was the matter of Helpdesk Man growing fingers out of his armpits and the pig speaking Cantonese for an hour every time she had a fried egg. So it was time.

We didn’t get Le Creuset, partly because of the half-mortgage price tags, but also because they’re enamelled and we liked the idea of absorbing iron into the food, which apparently happens with true cast iron. (And a similar thing with Teflon, apparently…) Incidentally, I may have been pronouncing Le Creuset wrong my entire life. Leh Crusoe, I thought it was, like the chappie - but the lady in the shop pronounced it Lah CrooSAY, which now I think about it makes more sense with the spelling. I am deeply shamed.

Nice pots, though. The Old Lodge, pre-seasoned, black, could kill a man. And a whisk, because our old one was of feeble construction and one wire kept pinging out and hitting you in the eye. We needed a new fish slice too, after Helpdesk Man used it to swat flies one time and I said “Don’t do that, it’ll break” and he scoffed at me and then it broke, but the pig was pesking around the shop and we forgot. The lady gave us a free teatowel, though, to wrap ourselves in on those cold winter nights under a bridge due to having spent all our money on cast iron pots.

I want a grain mill, also.

Further along the crunchy front, tomorrow I will be in possession of milk and water kefir grains. It is a little scary, like finding a chinchilla on your doorstep. I’m not sure how to make them not die, and I’ve never tasted… them, and what if I don’t like ‘em?

Also, becoming tired of my own stagnancy and lack of fame and riches (see above re grain mill), I am hereby setting up a writing schedule for me to stick to. I don’t want to, mind you. It sounds ghastly. But the one-hour-of-housework thing has worked surprisingly well this year, so here goes.

So.

Until I complete these goals every day (Monday to Friday), I will not surf the Internet:

• 20 minutes of Suite101 writing/editing/publishing
• 10 minutes of UTH editing/writing
• 10 minutes of marketing, ie. queries or invoices
• 10 minutes writing print articles, if they are due in 2 weeks or less (obviously, it will take longer once the deadline looms, but this will help, one hopes)
• 15 minutes writing fiction
• 10 minutes writing/researching/find agents for my non-fiction book

Making 75 minutes in all. This is a lot. But my ability to read xkcd depends upon it. And when I look back on my wispy existence in twenty years’ time, will I wish I had spend less time writing and more time googling “really awesome coat”? Probably not. I may wish I’d eaten more dietary fibre or refrained from trying to knock over a bank with a Sharpie, but those are different issues.

I feel virtuous already. Gonna go put trousies on, and everything.