Please, don't think any less of me. Whilst this is embarrassing, I also find it pretty funny too, and it would a crime not to share. The other day, I was in the kitchen at work, waiting for my vegetable soup to cook in the microwave.
Side note - I had a friend with a huge paranoia of microwaves, and some of that has rubbed off on me. I won't stand directly in front of them unless I have to. Our microwave is situated at head height, which, applying "Anita's Theory of Microwavability" would result in some brain tumor type issues. Of course, the worst case was a microwave on the bench, pointing at your ovaries (because, obviously, they're more important than a functioning brain. I didn't say this theory was proven) ...end side note
So, whilst waiting for the vegetable soup to cook, I, *ahem* passed wind. Most expletives I would usually use (shit, poo, crap) are inappropriate in the predicament I found myself in. To my horror, my nose registered a hit on the radar, and mentally begged the microwave to speed up.
And then it went even pearer shaped - one of my work mates walked in...
and he asks: What's that smell?
Me (guilty): I can't smell anything
Work mate: Mmmm I can, ooo it smells good!
Me: it does?!
Work mate: Yeeeah! What are you having for lunch? I want some
then, things go from bad to worse. Another work mate arrives...
Work mate 2: Ooo, what's Amanda got cooking?
Work mate 1: Yeah, I was just saying it smelt incredible!
Work mate 2 (ironically): Smells like curry! Don't go stinking out the office this afternoon Amanda!
The microwave dings, I rip the bowl out of the microwave, and before they could see it was a harmless, smell-less vegetable soup, I sprinted past them for the safe refuge of my desk.
30 June 2008
29 June 2008
Water Rage
There's been a well publicised incidence of "Wave rage" up North, but down here in Dunedin its been happening for some time.
Two of my colleagues, Cindy and Rose, "push play" at Moana Pool some lunchtimes. But there's been trouble. For their protection, I've changed the names of my colleagues - I don't want retaliatory attacks to occur...
Two of my colleagues, Cindy and Rose, "push play" at Moana Pool some lunchtimes. But there's been trouble. For their protection, I've changed the names of my colleagues - I don't want retaliatory attacks to occur...
The main pool is divided into several lanes for lap swimming, with signs at the end signifying the speed of each lane - Slow, Medium, Fast and Thorpe Speed.
Cindy and Rose picked the slow lane. After a few lanes, Rose found she was not finding it fast enough in the slow lane, so shifted to the medium speed lane.
and there she was, swimming away, when she got banged into. Accident, she thought, until it happened again...
It was then passively-aggressively suggested that Rose was actually in a "5 minute medley lane" and she was welcome to "join in". Rose politely declined their offer, and pointed out no signs were on display advertising the fact.
...and then she was banged into again...
...and, yet again.
So when Rose got out of the pool, and they followed her shortly after, she gave them an evil stare - as evil as possible when you look similar to a drowned rat. Although she wouldn't show me the internal bleeding sustained, I'm sure there was bruising.
So, media types, review your labelling - wave rage isn't the crime, it's Water Rage that is the problem!
28 June 2008
Those dodgy knitting types...
TV3 have started a new show, called The Big Stuff. If you've seen it, you'll understand why I was filled with a irresistible urge to clean out my house of any item I haven't used in the previous 5 minutes. If you haven't seen it, you're lucky. A life coach looks at why you're a hoarding mess, cleans your place up, and makes it a nice, clutter free and funky place to live.
Chapter 1: Cue Porno Music
It took me a while to realise why this pattern stuck out - was it the dashing good looks, the bouffant hairdo, the surreal shade of pink? No, I realised, there's nothing more satisfying, more sexy, than watching a man pull on a home knitted vest... and drag on a smoke. Sexy.
Chapter 2: Ugly son of a -
Generally, getting a paper bag put over your head is a bad thing, but in this mid-70's magazine, they recommend putting your kids in one - hey, insulting your children's looks is fine - a little thing like genetics doesn't affect that now...
Don't jump to the obvious denotation and say "bazaar is not bizarre" - work on the assumption this was written in Ye Olde English, and laugh with me at the shortsightedness of the Editor of this Bazaar book for gay items.
Chapter 4: Squash Tops
So I cleaned up my place... and... it is a slightly tidier place to live. Not funky. Not clutter free. I need a nice but bossy lady to tell me I DON'T need these books, I DON'T need the fabric stash, I DON'T need etc etc etc...
My sewing room is by far the worst. I uncovered some craft magazines and knitting patterns, and as I don't knit, I thought it would be a good idea to get rid of them! Because I like getting free stuff, I went through the patterns looking for stuff my Mum could make me, but I discovered a whole lot more...
Introducing...
Amanda's Dodgy Old School Publications Part I
Click on the pictures to take a closer look, if you can stomach it...
Chapter 1: Cue Porno Music
It took me a while to realise why this pattern stuck out - was it the dashing good looks, the bouffant hairdo, the surreal shade of pink? No, I realised, there's nothing more satisfying, more sexy, than watching a man pull on a home knitted vest... and drag on a smoke. Sexy.
Chapter 2: Ugly son of a -
Generally, getting a paper bag put over your head is a bad thing, but in this mid-70's magazine, they recommend putting your kids in one - hey, insulting your children's looks is fine - a little thing like genetics doesn't affect that now...
But the thing that makes this image really disturbing is the baby at the bottom right corner - obviously traumatised by the older children's ugly stick affected places. Donations are accepted at any Westpac branch.
Chapter 3: Bizarre & Gay
Don't jump to the obvious denotation and say "bazaar is not bizarre" - work on the assumption this was written in Ye Olde English, and laugh with me at the shortsightedness of the Editor of this Bazaar book for gay items.
Chapter 4: Squash Tops
As a keen squash player, I was at once stunned, mortified, disgusted, and concerned that a) someone would consider knitting their squash attire, and b) that a female would be able to move with that degree of camel toe. Only readers with strong constitutions should click in for a closer look.
Chapter 5: Helmets for Special Types
A subtle laugh here, but a good one was had, I promise you. It seems the 70's idea of safety involved head protection made of wool. Perhaps "wrapping them in cotton wool" sprung from the victims of the above? Whilst you're donating for the paper-bag afflicted toddler, spring these lads a couple of bucks also.
Craig pointed out these were some stunning balaclavas, but he wasn't sure they'd take off in the criminal world.
Well darling, I love you awfully, so just for you, it goes a little like this:
Young balaclavaed lad (in a British accent, naturally): Ah, excuse me, kind sire, but could you awfully spare a moment to put your hands in the air? Oh, you're too kind, look at that incredible wallet. Oh well, thank you, good day.
27 June 2008
Surprise! I'm... building?
I’m getting married, eventually, so it comes as a bonus that I like my in laws. It is also a bonus that my father in law is a builder, and we’ve got a house we’re doing up.
But I have to say, it is a bit scary to come home sometimes.
Work colleagues and friends are well aware of previous episodes – evidence below, which, may I add, were all things that occured whilst away from my humble abode...
But I have to say, it is a bit scary to come home sometimes.
Work colleagues and friends are well aware of previous episodes – evidence below, which, may I add, were all things that occured whilst away from my humble abode...
Before:
After:
…and on Saturday, the latest episode was produced… the paths…
and the foundation for the garden shed - we're moving the shed (to the right in the picture) to a new spot. 
On Wednesday, I’m thanking the stars I didn’t press the snooze button another time – at 7.59am the following arrived in my driveway:
But the end result looks great, and the future plans for the area (soon to be) vacated by the garden shed will improve the outdoor area heaps. Yay!
It comes as a relief that the alterations we are planning for the kitchen will require building consent, so any whim my out law father gets will be tempered by this (slight) obstruction.
26 June 2008
Scooby Snacks
I'm a bit of a scrooge, and I noticed we'd spent just over $7 on dog treats during our last shop – the ones we give Ruger when he is going to bed. So I thought I'd try make something. The following recipe is one I adapted following my experiences with one off the net.
(Scary looking, but only dangerous to cookies...) 
Ruger Snacks
1 ½ cups of water
½ cup of oil
2 eggs
3 tablespoons peanut butter
2 tablespoons vanilla essence
2 cups of flour (I used wheatflour but you can use plain, or a mixture) plus 2 cups of extra flour to add to the mixture to thicken it up
½ cup corn flour
1 cup rolled oats (or oats) plus an extra cup of oats to add to the mixture to thicken it up
Mix wet ingredients together. Mix dry ingredients together, then mix into the wet mixture to form a dough. If the mixture is too wet to knead, mix in the additional flour and oats till you can knead it. Roll out and use your imagination or cookie cutters to make into shapes.
Cook for 20 minutes at 200 degrees C.
I love irony, so I made Ruger some men shaped cookies.
½ cup of oil
2 eggs
3 tablespoons peanut butter
2 tablespoons vanilla essence
2 cups of flour (I used wheatflour but you can use plain, or a mixture) plus 2 cups of extra flour to add to the mixture to thicken it up
½ cup corn flour
1 cup rolled oats (or oats) plus an extra cup of oats to add to the mixture to thicken it up
Mix wet ingredients together. Mix dry ingredients together, then mix into the wet mixture to form a dough. If the mixture is too wet to knead, mix in the additional flour and oats till you can knead it. Roll out and use your imagination or cookie cutters to make into shapes.
Cook for 20 minutes at 200 degrees C.
I love irony, so I made Ruger some men shaped cookies.
But look at him, he loves them! I tried to demonstrate that he ate them head first, but alas, he was too quick for this shutterbug.
(Scary looking, but only dangerous to cookies...)I'm not going to be buying new carpet for a long time...
22 June 2008
Bowling in Binary
We went out on Friday night. It was my first night out in a while, which made it a very cheap night - $12.50-ish. The Social Club's annual tournament was held at Bowl-line, where Craig, Suz*, Lea*, Mark* and I made up the "A Team". That's about where my success ended.
I could tell you what I remember, but a list of vague in-jokes is much more fun.
I could tell you what I remember, but a list of vague in-jokes is much more fun.
- The influence of all those IT types lurking round my group was too much, and I started bowling in binary.
- Synchronised bowling with Stew* was fun, but I suspect it won't catch on - although Stew did a tad better than I did overall.
- The "Do not eat or drink" signs need to be made so I see them before I make a dick of myself, again.
- Spiderman's friend needed to shift his arse out of our lane.
- Spiderman's friend should check he is bowling his (pink - snigger) ball down the right lane.
- Mark managed to send a bowl down that overtook Spiderman's friend's (have I mentioned him?) ball. Snigger.
- The people who take bowling seriously: a) look the same, regardless of sex, and b) wear gloves. Harden up!
- If you require the bathroom facilities at the bowling alley, be prepared to limber up first - they're a tight squeeze.
- Bring nail clippers with you, although nail related injuries can be a good excuse for poor performance.
- Don't use a green bowling ball, or, have butter on hand in case my thumb gets stuck, again. You'd be surprised how scary a stuck thumb can be.
- Don't be surprised when you get your thumb stuck and it hurts - you're accident prone, after all.
- There are an incredible number of poor bowling related puns that we managed to pin down. I eight those lane jokes, I've told them so, many nines.
- A score of 104 is good, unless that's over two games, then it is the score I got = embarrassing.
- Cableways doesn't think you should watch your poker and hear it too - if you want to know what the deal is, go to the ladies loo.
21 June 2008
War Wounds
I was so proud of the bruising I sustained on Wednesday, I had to post a photo:
Yes, I am tough, thank you for asking.
18 June 2008
Golfing around
I found this video whilst tidying up the My Documents folder on my computer. This, along with other videos I'll share at another date, made me laugh so hard I incited the dog to riot. I hope you enjoy!
All edited by me, with myself and Craig in starring roles.
(If you can bother hanging out for the end, listen carefully to what I say after the music fades out.)
Examine my head
Phew! What a busy couple of days I've had.
I'm known as a bit of a schizophrenic conservationist, so (hopefully) this asynchronous communication will allow me to stick to one chapter at a time, partly through the power of editing and partly through a hand which wants to drop off my arm.
This morning was rather turbulent - I sat the exam for my eighth paper. In regular student terms, I’m now into my second year of study (pending today's results, due in 4 weeks), and should be moving out of my hall of residence and into a pokey damp flat. In reality, I still have three first year papers to finish, and am actually into my fourth year of part time study – but hey, at least I confess to abnormality.
Of course, sitting exams isn’t straight forward. I arrived at “my exam carpark” half an hour early, so I read through my notes and wondered what I had done on previous occasions – oh yeah, train smoked. It may be day 79 of smokefree living but it could have easily been day 1, I was so stressed out.
It got to 9am and I started to head to the Burns building. I climbed over the low fence between the carpark and the footpath – and I tripped and very nearly got carted away in an ambulance. I limped the rest of the way towards my exam, trying not to cry and wondering if the blood would seep through my jeans (it didn’t).
It was quite a relief reading through the questions – I remembered learning most of it, although I can’t imagine many people chose some of the long answer questions. 9.30am came and I started writing… and 6 lines later I stopped. My pen had run out, already. Luckily, being as anal as I am, I’d bought in a spare.
All things went smoothly until I had a half time stretch. Then, the hour long squash game last night kicked in and I was stuck there. So the supervisors were probably thinking I was trying to stretch out and look at the girl's papers in front of me (who was doing a different exam, and smelt like Dior’s Poison) but in all honesty my spine had decided to go the way of my writing hand and stop working.
Then, like a flash, I’d finished. I had 20 minutes to spare so spent some time adding to and checking my answers.
With four minutes to go, I realised I had misread question 2.4 and hadn't provided the example required! Arrgghhh! (Discuss the characteristics of high-context and low-context cultures, and provide an example that demonstrates how misunderstandings can occur in communication between members of these two different kinds of culture.) Shit.
I had a third of a page left, and it would just have to fit into my conclusion. My "confidence" mantra became “I only need to get 25 marks, I only need to get 25 marks, and I only need to get 25 marks” and I went to write down something… and my backup pen stopped. That’s right. The supervisor (the one with the cough – why do they always hire little old ladies who are noisy knitters and have a persistent cough?!) lent me her pen, and hovered over me while I screeched down an answer into the final seconds of the exam…
I managed to, somehow, finish the exam, and get back to my car safety. I just wish I had an icepack big enough for my whole body.
I'm known as a bit of a schizophrenic conservationist, so (hopefully) this asynchronous communication will allow me to stick to one chapter at a time, partly through the power of editing and partly through a hand which wants to drop off my arm.
This morning was rather turbulent - I sat the exam for my eighth paper. In regular student terms, I’m now into my second year of study (pending today's results, due in 4 weeks), and should be moving out of my hall of residence and into a pokey damp flat. In reality, I still have three first year papers to finish, and am actually into my fourth year of part time study – but hey, at least I confess to abnormality.
Of course, sitting exams isn’t straight forward. I arrived at “my exam carpark” half an hour early, so I read through my notes and wondered what I had done on previous occasions – oh yeah, train smoked. It may be day 79 of smokefree living but it could have easily been day 1, I was so stressed out.
It got to 9am and I started to head to the Burns building. I climbed over the low fence between the carpark and the footpath – and I tripped and very nearly got carted away in an ambulance. I limped the rest of the way towards my exam, trying not to cry and wondering if the blood would seep through my jeans (it didn’t).
It was quite a relief reading through the questions – I remembered learning most of it, although I can’t imagine many people chose some of the long answer questions. 9.30am came and I started writing… and 6 lines later I stopped. My pen had run out, already. Luckily, being as anal as I am, I’d bought in a spare.
All things went smoothly until I had a half time stretch. Then, the hour long squash game last night kicked in and I was stuck there. So the supervisors were probably thinking I was trying to stretch out and look at the girl's papers in front of me (who was doing a different exam, and smelt like Dior’s Poison) but in all honesty my spine had decided to go the way of my writing hand and stop working.
Then, like a flash, I’d finished. I had 20 minutes to spare so spent some time adding to and checking my answers.
With four minutes to go, I realised I had misread question 2.4 and hadn't provided the example required! Arrgghhh! (Discuss the characteristics of high-context and low-context cultures, and provide an example that demonstrates how misunderstandings can occur in communication between members of these two different kinds of culture.) Shit.
I had a third of a page left, and it would just have to fit into my conclusion. My "confidence" mantra became “I only need to get 25 marks, I only need to get 25 marks, and I only need to get 25 marks” and I went to write down something… and my backup pen stopped. That’s right. The supervisor (the one with the cough – why do they always hire little old ladies who are noisy knitters and have a persistent cough?!) lent me her pen, and hovered over me while I screeched down an answer into the final seconds of the exam…
I managed to, somehow, finish the exam, and get back to my car safety. I just wish I had an icepack big enough for my whole body.
16 June 2008
From the wrong side of the pound fence
I'm busy studying for an exam so am avoiding procrastination as best as I can, but wanted to share the photos below. They say a picture is worth a thousand words - well, these probably prompt a thousand questions.
13 June 2008
Battle: Baby vs Puppy
I'm lying in bed as I type this. It's cold, I want to watch Project Runway, and the boys are hogging the TV.
We've got a new dad at work. He highly recommends kids. Meanwhile, I've been trying to talk Craig into a new addition - a puppy! So the pros and the cons have been tossed around the office the last few days.
Just for heart melting measure, here's the cutest puppy ever (with the exception of Ruger)
Aaaahhhh... yeah, warm fuzzies...
So, I present: (drumroll...)
Baby Vs Puppy
Battle It Out
I've thought of the common, everyday aspects of responsibility, and then I've determined which creature I'd prefer for each. Who will win?
Situation: DIY your own creature
A baby: Lots of fun initially, then 9 months of sobriety and a long labour of pain
A puppy: Pick one up at your local pet shop before you realise it is a bad idea!
Winner: Puppy, might be fun, but I can eat cheeseburgers for fun (and I can stay drunk longer too)
Situation: I'm not going to do the long term sums, instead I'm thinking of the HERE and NOW! I'm thinking money, money, money!
A baby: Working for Families, the DPB - politicians pockets are bottomless and it's election year.
A puppy: Can someone lend me a fiver? Mummy can't feed this puppy for free!
Winner: Show me the money, baby boo...
Situation: What goes in, will come out... and it probably smells
A baby: Has its deposits captured in a nappy.
A puppy: Deposits its deposits on newspaper, if you're lucky - the carpet is typical.
Winner: A baby, as long as exploding nappies don't become habitual.
Situation: Energy levels required
A baby: Sleeps heaps in a crib, hard to lose unless absentminded at supermarket and leave on checkout.
A puppy: Sleeps heaps but when awake can escape out the cat door, get stuck in the cat door, and can chew the cat.
Winner: Baby, conditional on earplug availability
Situation: Consequences of bad parenting...
A baby: Sue Bradford making an example of you, CYPS getting round to allegations (eventually).
A puppy: Ignorant neighbours dislike you, and make exaggerated complaints to the Council (because lying always gets results!)
Winner: A puppy - I don't want to give Ms Bradford anymore airtime, thanks!
RESULT: Baby 3 - Puppy 2
BABY WINS!
A close result, and an epic battle.
Now, I'm off to lock my child in a cage outside.
12 June 2008
Virtuous Transport
I'm taking the bus to work tomorrow. For some, the bus is a method of getting to work. For me, the bus is an unwelcome adventure into an assorted range of randomness.
Bum Proxemics of the South Dunedin kind...
When I first started this virtuous mode of transportation, the bus would wind its way from the bright beauty of Mosgiel, through the dungeonous depths of the lower castes of Dunedin. It was exam time, and I was intently studying my Sociology textbook, mulling over the benefits of gentrification (and a shot of it into the beforementioned lower castes of Dunedin) when a career beneficiary boarded the bus.
It was not, I suppose, for another 5 minutes after we'd left the bus stop, that I sensed something next to me, and I looked up. An arse hovered next to me, waiting, anticipating a seat. Alas, years of handouts had softened this lady (in several ways, I might add), and she wanted more. My SMALL bag, tightly clutched next to me, needed moved. Her bottom communicated these things, and more.
I took evil forms of transport for some time after that ordeal.
Fare's Fair
Last year the ORC announced some welcome changes to the bus service - with the service to and from Mosgiel greatly improved. One of the best changes (especially after the previous story!) was the introduction of an express service - straight from Mosgiel to Countdown. As well as cutting out about 20 minutes of travel time, it also cuts out the contact with those dreaded diseased.
I purchased a GoCard, with great excitement at this technological advance. God knows how Ernie the crazy bus driver would deal with it (he's a whole different subheading), but for my generation, waahhooo! But there's been troubles.
My bus-buddy, my ipod, went flat, and I was reduced to reading the receipts in my wallet to stay awake. I noticed something disturbing - one of my bus trips had cost me $4! A whole .40c more than usual. I felt I'd been slapped in the face, and undertook to write a letter, until wise counsel reminded me of the postage costs I'd face for my refund...
...It was a couple of weeks later, and I'd taken the bus a few weeks now. I'd noticed, when leaving town for Mosgiel, when I said my stop, they'd look at me confusingly. So I changed my tact - 6 zones please - and the anxiety was released from the bus drivers faces.
It got to the time where I needed to load money onto to GoCard, and, as coincidence would have it, my bus-buddy had a crap out. I looked at my receipts and mused over the strange balance my card had aquired - $42.16. With a daily fare of $3.60, I couldn't understand where the single cents were going.
I looked through the receipts, and it slowly dawned on me. I got out my bus timetable to double check, and the heavy weight of guilt landed upon my chest. The whole time I'd been asking for 6 zones, I was getting off after 7 - ripping off the system of .54c each trip to Mosgiel. BUT the weird thing about this is the minimum amount of zones you can travel on the Express service is 7 zones! So my drivers were either humouring the poor blonde girl, or else they were harbouring a head of blonde ones too!
...and yesterday I was charged for 5 zones as a child to Mosgiel... it just gets weirder!
Ernie the Crazy Bus Driver
Everyone knows Ernie the Crazy Bus Driver. I don't even know why I'm talking about him. But I'll share my favourite story.
I was still living up in Kinmont, so was on the old route. We'd just come over the overbridge and had started decending the hill, when up ahead - the Police had parked in the middle of the road, while cleaning up from an accident on the sharp corner of Morris Road (yeah, with that double storied place, you know the one).
Ernie calls out to everyone "Don't worry folks, I'll get us past this! If the bus tips over, I'll hit the brakes!" That would have been funny, if he was joking.
He swung the bus between the police car and the gravel shoulder of the road, and on a 40 degree angle, we slowly edged past the accident, luckily not becoming one ourselves.
So you can probably understand why I'm considering carpooling instead...
Bum Proxemics of the South Dunedin kind...
When I first started this virtuous mode of transportation, the bus would wind its way from the bright beauty of Mosgiel, through the dungeonous depths of the lower castes of Dunedin. It was exam time, and I was intently studying my Sociology textbook, mulling over the benefits of gentrification (and a shot of it into the beforementioned lower castes of Dunedin) when a career beneficiary boarded the bus.
It was not, I suppose, for another 5 minutes after we'd left the bus stop, that I sensed something next to me, and I looked up. An arse hovered next to me, waiting, anticipating a seat. Alas, years of handouts had softened this lady (in several ways, I might add), and she wanted more. My SMALL bag, tightly clutched next to me, needed moved. Her bottom communicated these things, and more.
I took evil forms of transport for some time after that ordeal.
Fare's Fair
Last year the ORC announced some welcome changes to the bus service - with the service to and from Mosgiel greatly improved. One of the best changes (especially after the previous story!) was the introduction of an express service - straight from Mosgiel to Countdown. As well as cutting out about 20 minutes of travel time, it also cuts out the contact with those dreaded diseased.
I purchased a GoCard, with great excitement at this technological advance. God knows how Ernie the crazy bus driver would deal with it (he's a whole different subheading), but for my generation, waahhooo! But there's been troubles.
My bus-buddy, my ipod, went flat, and I was reduced to reading the receipts in my wallet to stay awake. I noticed something disturbing - one of my bus trips had cost me $4! A whole .40c more than usual. I felt I'd been slapped in the face, and undertook to write a letter, until wise counsel reminded me of the postage costs I'd face for my refund...
...It was a couple of weeks later, and I'd taken the bus a few weeks now. I'd noticed, when leaving town for Mosgiel, when I said my stop, they'd look at me confusingly. So I changed my tact - 6 zones please - and the anxiety was released from the bus drivers faces.
It got to the time where I needed to load money onto to GoCard, and, as coincidence would have it, my bus-buddy had a crap out. I looked at my receipts and mused over the strange balance my card had aquired - $42.16. With a daily fare of $3.60, I couldn't understand where the single cents were going.
I looked through the receipts, and it slowly dawned on me. I got out my bus timetable to double check, and the heavy weight of guilt landed upon my chest. The whole time I'd been asking for 6 zones, I was getting off after 7 - ripping off the system of .54c each trip to Mosgiel. BUT the weird thing about this is the minimum amount of zones you can travel on the Express service is 7 zones! So my drivers were either humouring the poor blonde girl, or else they were harbouring a head of blonde ones too!
...and yesterday I was charged for 5 zones as a child to Mosgiel... it just gets weirder!
Ernie the Crazy Bus Driver
Everyone knows Ernie the Crazy Bus Driver. I don't even know why I'm talking about him. But I'll share my favourite story.
I was still living up in Kinmont, so was on the old route. We'd just come over the overbridge and had started decending the hill, when up ahead - the Police had parked in the middle of the road, while cleaning up from an accident on the sharp corner of Morris Road (yeah, with that double storied place, you know the one).
Ernie calls out to everyone "Don't worry folks, I'll get us past this! If the bus tips over, I'll hit the brakes!" That would have been funny, if he was joking.
He swung the bus between the police car and the gravel shoulder of the road, and on a 40 degree angle, we slowly edged past the accident, luckily not becoming one ourselves.
So you can probably understand why I'm considering carpooling instead...
11 June 2008
By Special Request: A Birthday Ditty
Jacinda's Mum's Birthday Ditty
Jacinda, your mum is turning sixty
and I think that is significant.
So I've put pen to paper
and written you this rant.
In nineteen forty-seven or eight,
your mother was made to be;
and in the month of June
her folks discovered 'it' was a she.
I don't know her name, alas,
but for argument's sake we'll call her Jane
I could hazard a guess at her middle name
but, for now, from punting I shall abstain
This birth of a wonder put into motion,
plenty of quite awesome things,
such as being a constructive member of the populace
and maybe starting the neighbourhood club for swings…
Perhaps that's how little Jacinda
was created, in a sense
although inferring her father is the milkman
would probably cause some offence.
The wee bundle was quite a handful,
to clothe, feed and raise,
but still the shining apple of her mum's eye,
even with excessive use of clichés.
So well done, Jacinda's Mum
For reaching the big six-o
Have the best of happy birthdays,
Congratulations we all bestow!
Jacinda, your mum is turning sixty
and I think that is significant.
So I've put pen to paper
and written you this rant.
In nineteen forty-seven or eight,
your mother was made to be;
and in the month of June
her folks discovered 'it' was a she.
I don't know her name, alas,
but for argument's sake we'll call her Jane
I could hazard a guess at her middle name
but, for now, from punting I shall abstain
This birth of a wonder put into motion,
plenty of quite awesome things,
such as being a constructive member of the populace
and maybe starting the neighbourhood club for swings…
Perhaps that's how little Jacinda
was created, in a sense
although inferring her father is the milkman
would probably cause some offence.
The wee bundle was quite a handful,
to clothe, feed and raise,
but still the shining apple of her mum's eye,
even with excessive use of clichés.
So well done, Jacinda's Mum
For reaching the big six-o
Have the best of happy birthdays,
Congratulations we all bestow!
10 June 2008
Animals do the darnest things
My animals have been more crazy than usual. Lucky for you, I've been reading John Hedgecoe's Basic Photography, picked up from the Regent Book Sale. Kinda pre-digital and all - "if you don't mind viewing your images on a television screen, then a digital camera might be for you" but still helpful. So, you're lucky because I've been capturing my animals on camera, even more than usual.
For those of you who need an introduction...
Morris
A brown (but grey coloured) tabby. Enjoys eating, sleeping and attacking. Around 3.5 years old.
Ruger
A black lab. Enjoys eating, sleeping and cuddles. Around 15 months old.
The Beanbag
The beanbag is important territory in the Animal Turf War. Morris, being small enough to get his whole body through the cat door (as opposed to Ruger only getting his nose through) is the default animal on the beanbag. Only occasionally does Ruger challenge Morris whilst on the beanbag - I've seem him trying to pull the purple blanket off (with Morris on), and now and then he steps into it with Morris there. When Ruger is on the beanbag, Morris steers clear, but that's because the ringside seat is free (in front of fire).
In this photo, Ruger is waiting his turn. He'll be waiting a while!
Exception: On Saturday night Morris climbed into the beanbag and shared it with Ruger. It has only taken a year for the two to get that close. Not that they are best of friends now - other photos/proof below shortly.
The Couch
In conclusion, my animals are crazier than I am.
For those of you who need an introduction...
Morris
A brown (but grey coloured) tabby. Enjoys eating, sleeping and attacking. Around 3.5 years old.
Ruger
A black lab. Enjoys eating, sleeping and cuddles. Around 15 months old.
The Beanbag
The beanbag is important territory in the Animal Turf War. Morris, being small enough to get his whole body through the cat door (as opposed to Ruger only getting his nose through) is the default animal on the beanbag. Only occasionally does Ruger challenge Morris whilst on the beanbag - I've seem him trying to pull the purple blanket off (with Morris on), and now and then he steps into it with Morris there. When Ruger is on the beanbag, Morris steers clear, but that's because the ringside seat is free (in front of fire).
In this photo, Ruger is waiting his turn. He'll be waiting a while!
Exception: On Saturday night Morris climbed into the beanbag and shared it with Ruger. It has only taken a year for the two to get that close. Not that they are best of friends now - other photos/proof below shortly.
The Couch
I don't know what is going on, but no one else was allowed on the couch last night - Morris was a'grooming, and the 3 seater couch was aaallll his.
The Birds
When I left for work this morning, I swear, the house was immaculate. During the day, Morris had participated in a spot of, ah, unbiodiversivying, and I came home to a hall and bedroom in the state it is below. Note Ruger in the background: he's not quite sure where the bird is, but eager to have first dibbs and make his Daddy proud.
The Duvet Trench
When trying to get ready for squash, I noticed Ruger lying at my feet. Then, to my horror, my duvet began to wiggle - great, I thought, the bird Morris bought in is touching my bedding.
But no, it was Morris, lying in wait for Ruger to get close enough - can you see his paw sticking out?
This battle eventually spilled out into the lounge, where things got nasty and wounds occured.
In conclusion, my animals are crazier than I am.
Too much cooking spoils the lies
I was a busy girl in the weekend - as well as making the cheese rolls touted by D-Scene as being awesome (PS: they are), I made bread rolls, chocolate chip cookies (YUM), cheese & bacon muffins (don't use muffin liners - trust me), I did a roast, and I cooked up some Chicken, Bacon, Kumara and Corn soup, featured in the ODT last week. Whilst I'd recommend less flour, more corn, I'd also recommend you avoid telling your children lies. Here's why.
As a lass, meals served would be the meat and three vege, or the much despised mince, mixed vegetable and mashed spud. I shudder thinking of it.
One vegetable which would make an appearance on my plate was mashed swede, mmmm-mmm. Or so I thought.
As all good chefs do, I had a taste of the mashed kumara before adding it. My heart stopped, my body froze. It didn't taste like kumara! It tasted like mashed swede. How could this be??
The kumara and the swede occupy similar areas of the pantry, so I checked I hadn't inadvertently swapped root vegetables around.
Nope, swede fully intact.
What is happening? Have my taste buds been ruptured by excessive consumption of gin?
Suddenly, it dawned on me.
My mother, once holding a status similar-to-or-higher-than-a-saint, had misrepresented the truth by serving me mashed kumara, but representing it as swede!
What was a girl to do? This girl, on Sunday, I invited the culprit, and my dad, round for a roast. It was time for mum to face the truth.
"Mum", I said, explaining what I had learnt the night prior, "Have you anything to say for yourself?", thinking that, perhaps, she'd not known the difference between the two vegetables. (Ignorance is the strongest defence in my justice system). However, confronted with the evidence, my mother crumbled, claiming "not to know what you are talking about" and "I shouldn't have been such a picky eater". Then, ironically, when offered a scrumptious piece of kumara, she declined it!
My thoughts on this drama? - The truth is a dish best served in an ironic manner.
As a lass, meals served would be the meat and three vege, or the much despised mince, mixed vegetable and mashed spud. I shudder thinking of it.
One vegetable which would make an appearance on my plate was mashed swede, mmmm-mmm. Or so I thought.
As all good chefs do, I had a taste of the mashed kumara before adding it. My heart stopped, my body froze. It didn't taste like kumara! It tasted like mashed swede. How could this be??
The kumara and the swede occupy similar areas of the pantry, so I checked I hadn't inadvertently swapped root vegetables around.
Nope, swede fully intact.
What is happening? Have my taste buds been ruptured by excessive consumption of gin?
Suddenly, it dawned on me.
My mother, once holding a status similar-to-or-higher-than-a-saint, had misrepresented the truth by serving me mashed kumara, but representing it as swede!
What was a girl to do? This girl, on Sunday, I invited the culprit, and my dad, round for a roast. It was time for mum to face the truth.
"Mum", I said, explaining what I had learnt the night prior, "Have you anything to say for yourself?", thinking that, perhaps, she'd not known the difference between the two vegetables. (Ignorance is the strongest defence in my justice system). However, confronted with the evidence, my mother crumbled, claiming "not to know what you are talking about" and "I shouldn't have been such a picky eater". Then, ironically, when offered a scrumptious piece of kumara, she declined it!
My thoughts on this drama? - The truth is a dish best served in an ironic manner.
06 June 2008
Oui oui
Craig & I went away for the weekend, and after about 1600 kms, you start running out of conversation topics. So I seized the opportunity to steer the conversation towards a favourite topic of mine - correct spelling and punctuation.
Everyone knows I'm (just a tad) anal when it comes to the English language (especially in print publications), but I extended my interests into the French language with Craig, just after Oamaru on Monday.
Amanda: Did you know that when I write that you're my fiance, I use one e, but when you write it, you have to use two e's?
Craig: What bullshit. Why?
Amanda: Well the word fiance was stolen from the French, and the French have masculine and feminine words. Fiance with one e is masculine, and Fiancee with two e's is feminine.
Craig: So when I spell yes in French it is w-e-e and when you spell yes in French it is w-e-e-e-e
Amanda (after a minute of stunned silence): aa... well, not quite.
Craig: Well what then?
Amanda: Actually, the French word for yes is spelt o-u-i
Craig (mishearing): Ooos? OOOSSS? What bullshit were they on??
Amanda: No, O-U-I
Craig: They're still f___ing crazy.
Deep breaths.
Everyone knows I'm (just a tad) anal when it comes to the English language (especially in print publications), but I extended my interests into the French language with Craig, just after Oamaru on Monday.
Amanda: Did you know that when I write that you're my fiance, I use one e, but when you write it, you have to use two e's?
Craig: What bullshit. Why?
Amanda: Well the word fiance was stolen from the French, and the French have masculine and feminine words. Fiance with one e is masculine, and Fiancee with two e's is feminine.
Craig: So when I spell yes in French it is w-e-e and when you spell yes in French it is w-e-e-e-e
Amanda (after a minute of stunned silence): aa... well, not quite.
Craig: Well what then?
Amanda: Actually, the French word for yes is spelt o-u-i
Craig (mishearing): Ooos? OOOSSS? What bullshit were they on??
Amanda: No, O-U-I
Craig: They're still f___ing crazy.
Deep breaths.
05 June 2008
Take your stick insect to work day
I usually complain about having to put Ruger away in his kennel in the morning - our backyard is soggy and I'm usually wearing heels. I get even grumpier about having to refill his water bowl. When I got to the tap this morning, I freaked out, because I saw a massive spider!
I had to reach round it to turn on the tap, and it moved…and I moved, away… but it was then that I realised the massive spider was actually a stick insect. I pumped my arm into the air - YES! Paul at work nearly dribbles at the thought of stick insects, I must take it to work!!
I rushed inside to the container cupboard and grabbed an ex 250ml Sour Cream pottle, then went outside and tried to ferry the stick insect into the pottle. In the process, I knocked him off the wall and onto the ground. Great, I've killed him. But an unconscious stick insect is much easier to get into a pottle though, so off he went with me on the bus.
While we were travelling in I noticed he still wasn't moving so I put him in the recovery position. I wasn't about to do mouth to twiggy bit so I left it at that. I mused over a name for my new little friend - Sticky? Twiggy? Gavin? No… ummm, Phasmatastic? Frank? Aahhh…PAUL!
Taking animals with me isn't unusual… I took a hedgehog (Hamilton) to highschool once. Earlier this year I bought Ruger to work, and I used to take Morris (my cat) with me on car rides. Debbie bought a snail to work to prove a point another time. I painted his shell with a glitter love heart.
I had to reach round it to turn on the tap, and it moved…and I moved, away… but it was then that I realised the massive spider was actually a stick insect. I pumped my arm into the air - YES! Paul at work nearly dribbles at the thought of stick insects, I must take it to work!!
I rushed inside to the container cupboard and grabbed an ex 250ml Sour Cream pottle, then went outside and tried to ferry the stick insect into the pottle. In the process, I knocked him off the wall and onto the ground. Great, I've killed him. But an unconscious stick insect is much easier to get into a pottle though, so off he went with me on the bus.
While we were travelling in I noticed he still wasn't moving so I put him in the recovery position. I wasn't about to do mouth to twiggy bit so I left it at that. I mused over a name for my new little friend - Sticky? Twiggy? Gavin? No… ummm, Phasmatastic? Frank? Aahhh…PAUL!
Taking animals with me isn't unusual… I took a hedgehog (Hamilton) to highschool once. Earlier this year I bought Ruger to work, and I used to take Morris (my cat) with me on car rides. Debbie bought a snail to work to prove a point another time. I painted his shell with a glitter love heart.
And so Paul and I wandered into work, where he was greeted with little enthusiastim but plenty of disbelief and disgust. Whilst I was introducing him to Annica and Campbell, he regained consciousness and made a break for it!
However my quick thinking meant his escape was foiled, as I trapped him into the container. Annica deemed this "mean" and suggested we release him into the Octagon. My heart sank - I was attached to the wee fulla. But he was unhappy, and I knew Annica was right. I had to go out on a limb, and let my Paulie go.
So, with a heavy heart I made the decision to find Paul a new home. The Octagon was quickly scuttled, because of the risk of Paul being scuttled by cars. The botanic gardens were too much of a trek in my heels. I thought about releasing him into the Plaza area, part concrete jungle, part urban oasis. Plus plenty of rose bushes, which I hear they are fond of, but on my way down, Paul (the stick insect lover) offered to foster Paul (the stick insect). Solution! Yes!
And so my brief encounter with nature ended. But I have the memories to savour.
04 June 2008
Shark Attacks
This has bothered me for ages. WHAT WOULD HAPPEN... if someone with AIDS is swimming in the ocean, minding their business, when BAM a shark bites off their leg? For Elton John's sake no HIV+/AIDS patients are killed in the writting of this question, so the person (let's call them something ironic like Stu - Stu being short for Stumpy) gets away without one of his legs.
So Stu, Stu, the Stumpy Man, (haha) gets away, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE SHARK? Aye? Remember Stu had AIDS? Poor bugger, without a leg to stand on, but poor shark - she's just eaten a leg with Aidness. Does that mean the shark (let's call her Stevie, after McLeods Daughters) becomes Aidized?
and does the ocean water get it? oooo my brain hurts. Sorry Stevie, but I don't think the ocean has any advances on humans when it comes to AIDS. But don't worry, Elton might write a hit single about Stevie, which raises heaps of money, which is given to the Foundation for Researching AIDS in Cartilaginous Fish
"Stevie"
Stevie is travelling tonight in the sea
I can see the dorsal fin chugging down Speights
Oh and I can see Stevie waving goodbye
God it looks like Stevie, must be the salt water in my eyes
They say Speights is tasty though I've never tried
Well Stevie says it's the best drink that she's ever seen
Oh and she should know, she's drunk it enough
Lord I miss Stevie, oh I miss her so much
Stevie my shark friend you are toothier than me
Do you still feel the pain of the people you've eaten
Your eyes have died but you see more than I
Stevie you're a star in the face of the sea
Stevie is travelling tonight in the sea
I can see the dorsal fin chugging down Speights
Oh and I can see Stevie waving goodbye
God it looks like Stevie, must be salt water in my eyes
Oh God it looks like Stevie, must be the ocean in my eyes
Then...
I had a really disturbing dream about a shark attack. Let me recount it for you... (Don't go blaming anything Freud would blame.)
It was night-time, and I was in bed, sleeping.
In my dream, I was cleaning the chiller of the old New World produce department, like I used to do on a Saturday when I was 15 and worked in the old New World produce department.
I was using a squeege mop, which incidentally is not the sort of mop I used when I was 15 and worked in the old New World produce department, cleaning the chiller (I did it at about 6, then went and watered the plants).
From random corners of the room BAM real live shark sock puppets would lunge out at me, and attack my ankles! I know! Terrifying!
I had to whack the shark puppets with the unauthentic squeege mop, knock them out, and then, I had to use the unconcious shark sock puppets to clean! I promise you, I never used sock puppets of any kind when I worked at the old New World produce department (although when picking up rotten citrus fruit I wish I had something on my hands - shudder).
You'll be pleased/relieved to know I've overcome my fear of shark sock puppets by building one of my very own. His name is called Maclean and he is a Great White Shark, just like the nasty little blighters in my dreams.
and I'm spent.
So Stu, Stu, the Stumpy Man, (haha) gets away, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE SHARK? Aye? Remember Stu had AIDS? Poor bugger, without a leg to stand on, but poor shark - she's just eaten a leg with Aidness. Does that mean the shark (let's call her Stevie, after McLeods Daughters) becomes Aidized?
and does the ocean water get it? oooo my brain hurts. Sorry Stevie, but I don't think the ocean has any advances on humans when it comes to AIDS. But don't worry, Elton might write a hit single about Stevie, which raises heaps of money, which is given to the Foundation for Researching AIDS in Cartilaginous Fish
"Stevie"
Stevie is travelling tonight in the sea
I can see the dorsal fin chugging down Speights
Oh and I can see Stevie waving goodbye
God it looks like Stevie, must be the salt water in my eyes
They say Speights is tasty though I've never tried
Well Stevie says it's the best drink that she's ever seen
Oh and she should know, she's drunk it enough
Lord I miss Stevie, oh I miss her so much
Stevie my shark friend you are toothier than me
Do you still feel the pain of the people you've eaten
Your eyes have died but you see more than I
Stevie you're a star in the face of the sea
Stevie is travelling tonight in the sea
I can see the dorsal fin chugging down Speights
Oh and I can see Stevie waving goodbye
God it looks like Stevie, must be salt water in my eyes
Oh God it looks like Stevie, must be the ocean in my eyes
Then...
I had a really disturbing dream about a shark attack. Let me recount it for you... (Don't go blaming anything Freud would blame.)
It was night-time, and I was in bed, sleeping.
In my dream, I was cleaning the chiller of the old New World produce department, like I used to do on a Saturday when I was 15 and worked in the old New World produce department.
I was using a squeege mop, which incidentally is not the sort of mop I used when I was 15 and worked in the old New World produce department, cleaning the chiller (I did it at about 6, then went and watered the plants).
From random corners of the room BAM real live shark sock puppets would lunge out at me, and attack my ankles! I know! Terrifying!
I had to whack the shark puppets with the unauthentic squeege mop, knock them out, and then, I had to use the unconcious shark sock puppets to clean! I promise you, I never used sock puppets of any kind when I worked at the old New World produce department (although when picking up rotten citrus fruit I wish I had something on my hands - shudder).
You'll be pleased/relieved to know I've overcome my fear of shark sock puppets by building one of my very own. His name is called Maclean and he is a Great White Shark, just like the nasty little blighters in my dreams.
and I'm spent.
01 June 2008
Beginnings...
Hello!
Welcome to my haphazard compilation of thoughts, stories, pictures and creations.
Buckle up, I'm sure to take you on a random journey!
Welcome to my haphazard compilation of thoughts, stories, pictures and creations.
Buckle up, I'm sure to take you on a random journey!
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