Random Amanda Dot Com

Pink, Purple, Grape or Fushia?

2008-12-05T08:12:00.003+13:00

You've probably noticed that life has been getting in the way of blogging recently. Sucks for you and sucks for me, although I have a venerable wealth of blog posts to share...

Including the most recent wedding mishap, the bridesmaids dresses. Oh yes, that's right. With over 300 days to go I thought I'd sorted out one of the bigger tasks, and all for just $81. I was wrong.

So I purchased two really pretty dresses, sight unseen, through Trade Me. All who saw agreed they were what I had been looking for, the right style, fabric, colour, etc. On Wednesday I got home from work and the package was there! So I rushed it down to my bedroom, practically ripping my clothes off at the same time (so I could try one on, duh) and using my teeth to rip open the courier bag.

I look at them. Not quite right...

I make myself decent and jump on the computer, to look up the auction. The title of the auction states "PINK dresses", capitalisation included... the body of the auction states "Colour: Pink".

The only problem is the dresses are purple.

Craig comes home and I show him the dresses. He says purple.

Mum comes round for coffee. She says purple.

They gang up and bully me into growing balls and asking for a refund. Seller says they are pink. I suggest she's mixed them with perhaps a different colour dress? No, she says, I only sell pink or green in that style. She's nice enough to agree to a refund though.

I take them to work, and just in case Craig, Mum and myself are all colourblind due to some mysterious Mosgiel influence, I conduct a survey. A very conclusive 100% purple result.

So the dresses are on the way back... and I'm back on the hunt for some bridesmaids dresses. Bugger it.

Hungry hungry puppy

2008-11-19T11:08:00.001+13:00

Ruger has an operation yesterday, they found a third of a tennis ball and a bit of a mess but he's obviously on the mend because he was stealing toys off the puppy at the vet this morning.

Eeyore makes a good point

2008-11-14T10:35:00.003+13:00

I've determined the reason behind this week's melancholy. As well as the imminent departure of my fellow booze hag and confidant, my baby Ruger has been sick - sick enough to be sleeping over at the vet. He is going to be fine, and his mystery illness isn't the worry - it is the companionship of both Ruger (and soon Jill) I'm missing. Thank goodness the net exists and I can be all Eeyore to the rest of the world.

Luckily God invented the internet, as otherwise I wouldn't have got this drunken message from my friend in Canada "I am a little bit drunken at the meantime so will read this email tomorrow but what I get from it so far is good. Go Calgary and yagerbombs!!! Arhgggg. I need some bed." That makes me happier.

Friends are helpful. As well as sending happy drunken messages, they perform interventions, they get as drunk as you do so you don't look bad, and they assist you dissecting strange encounters. Amy, fellow bride to be and one third of the three plannateers shed light on a very strange incident for me the other day.

First, the incident.

I pop into the Ladies. As I walk in, I see a reasonably new lady to my work brushing her teeth. I smile politely, nod, and select a cubicle for, for you know. Anyway.

"I've seen you around this floor, you work in Planning?" random teeth brushing lady says

"um" I intone from my abode "…yes I do"

"What's your name? I'm Rose"

"I'm Amanda" I say, voice barely past a whisper. The building has poor acoustics and I don't want people waiting for the lift knowing I'm in the ladies performing some business.

"What?"

"Amanda" I hiss

"Anita?"

"Aaaa MANnnnn DAHhhh"

"Oh. Nice to meet you!"

"Ah, you too" I say, with just a hint of fear in my voice.

Afternoon tea yesterday I relayed this conversation to Amy.

"Is it weird to meet people in the loo?"

"It's weird to nod at them. She might have thought you were, you know"

"Being friendly?"

"Being a lesbian more like"

"I WAS WHAT!"

"Hey at least you've got yourself a blog post."

My friends know me well.

Watch out Michael Phelps

2008-11-12T09:04:00.003+13:00

Last night was the last session of swimming lessons. As well as floating and blowing bubbles, I can now roll over and drink in a great deal of pool water. I can also semi-swim from one end of the pool to the other.

Just because it is the learners pool and is only 15m long doesn't make it less of an achievement. Besides, I got a ribbon for being a Gliding Champ. So there.

Caution: Amanda Will Bite

2008-11-11T08:21:00.004+13:00

Is it the time of the year or is it the politicians have been doing enough bitching and moaning for all of us? I'm tired, grumpy, and uninspired. Well, uninspired might not be the term. Unmotivated perhaps? I have been gagging to get behind my sewing machine and become productive again. But it hasn't happened. Somehow my sense of humour has gone AWOL. Stupid election.

I've got bills, responsibilities and commitments. When did I become an adult? Stupid being an adult. I told someone to use their indoor voice the other day! I KNOW!

Another adult trait I've picked up is the withering look. It just appeared one day, damning the dorks to submissive surrender.

And finally, I'm not being IDed as much when purchasing a vino (although that maybe because I've purchased alot of it recently).

Tenaciously judicious and examalicious

2008-11-06T12:53:00.004+13:00

I have been away from work and blogging, as I have been busy procrastinating from study, studying, and sitting exams. Examinations are never straight forward. Tuesday's exam was no different.

It was my first 200-level exam, and the lecturer hadn't given me any indication as to the format of the exam... thinking this was the norm, I went digging in the University's exam paper archives and printed off all the previous exams available.

I laid them out on my desk and skimmed through them, when I noticed a very unusual thing: they were all exactly the same questions.

An exam is many things - hard, scary, yuck, and tedious, but it is not usually described as "the same".

Without much else to go on, I decided to take a punt and study accordingly.

This method worked well. I went to the exam feeling sick but without injury (see previous exam adventures) and equipped myself with a detailed essay outline.

I look on the door to determine where I have been seated. That's when I discovered my exam was not quite the same as previous years… They'd cut an hour off the time allowed. Uh-oh.

I then proceeded to spill my waterbottle over the exam paper, earning myself the evils from the noisy little old ladies who make a bit of money under the table by making a racket during my exams.

I finished though, and with time to spare. Thank god they'd cut an hour off the exam. I hadn't paid for the whole (originally required) three hours of parking, and I didn't want a ticket. Plus I wanted to get out to Wingatui to stop with the rest of the two nations.

Plus I used the words judicious and tenacious in my eight page essay. I love -cious words.

Dummies

2008-11-03T11:32:00.000+13:00

I really feel for the cars that passed us on our way home from work the other day.

I blame it all on my sister.

I'm a geek, I'm a lover

2008-10-31T08:31:00.001+13:00

My workmate He who shall not be named, and I are self-confessed geeks.

He who is a bridge-loving-bearded-obvious geek, whilst I am a closet-had-a-few-drinks-and-crank-out-the-binary type geek.

Although we are from different ends of the geekosphere, we share the geek bond, and the incredible ability to drag up incidents from the past and flog them over and over until all humorous facets have been revealed. Not to mention a race to get the exclusive blog posts...

He who is a bit of a mess, whilst I am a neat freak. So I was helping put away some books. He came onto the scene as I was placing "Pearl of the Plain" and "Heart of a City" onto a shelf together.

"What sort of filing system is that?" He who asked.

"Metaphor filing" I replied, sniggering at my geeky awesomeness.

Then He who shall not be named retorted:

"Two metaphors don't make a meta-eight"

Brilliant, and very funny, unless you are a non-geek, then sorry I subjected you to it.

Sign of the times

2008-10-30T17:45:00.002+13:00

Over the weekend I noticed some signs. Some funny intentionally, others not. Unfortunately I missed out on getting photos of some of the better ones, but I will forever know Blenheim as the town with a lack of proficient signwriting expertise.

I realised that this is becoming a bit of a hobby of mine, so I've compiled a collection of "The Greatest Signs, Randomised"

I like this one for the double denotation:
If you see the error here, you'll understand why I sniggered. And probably why my tea took so long:

This one is courtesy of Naesby's sports ground. Subtle but creepy:

Here's another from Naesby, at the car show. Let me point out that it was likely this car had only been entered into the carshow for the conveniant parking. The sign was the only remarkable thing about Cedric:

The Eternal Quest for the Tangy Fruit Sticks

2008-10-30T08:02:00.003+13:00

I made a decision early in the weekend that was to forever change the course of my trip to Blenheim.

I passed up an opportunity to purchase tangy fruit sticks.

I know! I know!!

So of course, from early Friday on, I craved them.

Every shop we went in to, I pursued my dream. Every shop we went in to, I failed.

I asked at one highly probable candidate, "Do you have tangy fruit sticks?"

The emo girl behind the counter scans below the counter with her sad emo eyes.

Finally she looks up, sadly.

"Um this?" she says, holding up a jar of tangy fruit balls.

I shake my head in disappointment.

"No thank you, I need my tangy fruit in stick form".

We left Blenheim, my hopes and dreams for tangy fruit sticks in tatters.

We stopped in Oamaru for petrol, the very last stop before home. I was parched from my nutritious lunch of a caramel square (Thanks Couplands Timaru) so wandered into the station for a can of liquid tooth decay.

On my way to the till, I stopped.

Fruit. Sticks.

Tangy?

I wasn't taking any chances. I made the purchase.

My hands shook as I opened the packet. I selected a pink stick as the fateful fruit stick, and bit in.

The clouds parted, and the sun shone down on the packet of Tangy fruit sticks! At last!

My life is complete, and my dentist is rich. We all win.

Mummy Mullets part deux

2008-10-29T21:28:00.003+13:00

You're about to read a momentous piece of randomamanda.com history today folks. My very first sequel post! The initial post, for those new to the randomness, is here.

Quite honestly, I never expected some good ol' piss-taking of my mother's fashion faux pas was going to generate such interest. Many people (and by many, I mean about four people) have contacted me to sympathise with my misfortune (proposed) mummy mullet, and so I feel it is only fair to share my Mum's hair cut with you.

She rung tonight and casually said "...I went to the hairdressers today".

"What, and got that mullet?"

"Not quite. You'll see it in the morning"

"I want to check it now"

"What, this late?"

"I'll make you a coffee"

"Ok, be round soon"

A tremendous weight was lifted from my shoulders when I discovered Mum had not gone ahead with the mullet, but had actually decided to go with a "Pob" (or "Pod" if you mishear me saying it, aye Mum). Mum shies away from the photographic spotlight but wished to set the record straight and prove her mullet free innocence.

Result:

Wedding invite: Safe.

Just another Blenheim sunrise

2008-10-29T07:51:00.000+13:00

I've returned from a short holiday in Blenheim, with many stories and adventures to tell. Stay tuned!

White on!

2008-10-28T20:32:00.001+13:00

I cannot believe I've been rambling on for five months without mention of stationery.

One of the great pleasures in my life is when it is time to restock a piece of stationery from the cupboard. There's always so many different varieties to choose from, and the "first use" thrill is like a P high without all the bad bits.

But the one piece of stationery I hold closest to my heart is the humble White out. I prefer my twink to be of the liquid variety - the tape white out lacks personality and the job it does is inadequate. There's also twink pens. They have their place, but their place is not with me.

Did you know liquid twink applicators come with a sponge or a brush tip? I have found the sponge tip to be superior in the short term, but in the long term the brush outruns them all.

Liquid twink was the preferred twink in four out of five people surveyed.

This geekatorial was bought to you by Amanda!

Top 10 ways to tell you've worked in my workplace too long

2008-10-22T14:21:00.004+13:00

Top 10 ways to tell you've worked in my workplace too long

00010011. Binary is an in-joke
2. The in-jokes have developed their own in-jokes (the fire pole etc)
3. You consider scheduling some time at home to data cleanse your iTunes library
4. You start making comments like: "It's not like you'll be on your hands and knees for an hour or something" and "What's your performance like?"
5. You start collecting comments like the ones above
6. You use "mitigate" to refer to the weeding
7. In order to ease your mind you have obtained a Certificate of Compliance for the garden shed
8. You've change your home computer font to Verdana 9.5
9. You know the lolly preferences of your team mates
10. You can distinguish PMT and AMP from the AUD, IMU, DWX, EEOs, LUCs and ROWs

and a bonus...

11. The top ten list propogates further in-jokes "you've spelt number 6 wrong" and "you'll be mitigating something at the wedding, hahaha"

Where, where, where is Dibbo?

2008-10-21T11:22:00.004+13:00

Our workmate Dibbo is off on holiday for two months. We're at the half way point, but our morale is starting to wane. Before you think I've gone all royal on you, I'm not talking in the third person. I'm talking about the team here at work.

As well as being our font of all rock knowledge and an authority on colour schemes and design, she's responsible for the ecologicaliciousness of Dunedin. So we shouldn't be terribly surprised that the house plants on her desk are taking back the computer equipment:

I'm checking Dibz's emails, to save her from having a thousand emails to wade through, and I'd like to say I'm very impressed by the high standard of joke emails she receives.

So in conclusion, Dibbo-dear, can you give your opinion on the proposed colour scheme for the wedding here, (I think the greeny green is too green - it can go without, possibly).

P.S. The funding came through, did you get my text?

P.P.S. He who shall not be named wanted tio excite you with "DOC is looking to hold an Otago Bio-D forum"

Dress up dolly

2008-10-20T21:22:00.004+13:00

My sewing room cupboard and my refurbished glory box are stuffed to the brim with dress ups, old clothes, and accessories. I love playing dress ups!

Lisa is a bit of a bad influence. She loves wine and dressing up as much as I do. We're the sort of girls that the teachers would separate at school.

Naturally when we had Swedish day at work, I was Agnetta, the Swedish Volleyballer, although my research was lacking; I learnt later I was wearing far too much.

Dressing up as a graduate was fun. Being accosted by dozens of people who wanted to congratulate me was even better; we happened to dress in BA colours on a BA graduation day.

When I was walking home as Princess Di, Colonel Sanders accompanied me home. But we had to walk past a KFC. Embarrassing, but not the worst dress up drama I've weathered. (PS Who do you think I'm with: Burt Bacharach or Meatloaf? Calvin got toey when the boys told him he was the former)

I'm always hesitant to go to a private party dressed up. Sometimes, barely anyone bothers to dress up, and you look like a bit of a tool. Other times, you are the only person dressed up, and you are shame faced. And occasionally, you dress up as a lady of the night, and you are scared for life when noone else bothered.

Where to for Random Amanda?

2008-10-20T08:05:00.003+13:00

This morning, I was reminiscing about the Careers program which, in 7th form, told me my ideal career path was to become a milliner. Well I've been unemployed now for five years waiting for my perfect job to come available, so I decided to redo the quiz and see if I still should be designing facinators.

I logged into Pathfinder and discovered, to my surprise, that the quiz was pretty spot on - thank god for that as I'm not quitting my degree now. However there were the odd few unusual suggestions which I want to share. For full effect, imagine me doing the job.

1. Hardware salesperson
There must have been a question about Joanna G in there somewhere. Funnily enough I've been trying to talk people into buying a stripper pole for $50 from Peaches and Cream. What a deal!

2. Shearing Contractor
I've seen shearing up close and personal - in the Mataura pub. But ask Craig or Doug - I'm terrible at haircuts.

3. Model
Since I never submitted a photo, my reputation obviously precedes me.

4. Jockey
I thought being a jockey and a model would be mutually exclusive, but I suppose a talent for the nags might run in the family (Dad was a jockey).

5. Zoo Manager
Amazingly they picked up that I am already employed as a Zoo manager at home.

6. Crop Farmer
I think the job title should be "Crop Duster" actually.

7. "XYZ" Teacher
Lots of different teacher roles popped up. This is because I like telling people what to do. The problem is I can only cope with children in groups of two or less, and get frustrated by stupid people. So might not pursue this one either.

8. Stuntperson
This is probably the most likely of the unlikely jobs. I'm excellent at falling over convincingly.

Ginger Whinger

2008-10-19T11:55:00.002+13:00

Last week I thought I ought to look up what my wedding flowers actually meant, as if they meant something dodgy I would have time to change flowers.

I'm having freesias, which mean "innocence". Perhaps I am innocent, but the better term, I guess, would be naive. This is because I often have to google things to understand what they mean.

I came to this conclusion when in the car with my Mum and my sister. I explained I used to call folks of the ginger persuasion "minges". Of course, I now know that this term is grossly incorrect, mainly as the folks at work suggested I look it up on my home computer (unless I wanted fired). My sister nearly wet herself at her big sister's stupidity, then asked:

"So what does minge mean?"

This makes me feel a lot better. Not only did Danielle find my stupidity stupid, she didn't even know what I meant. Luckily for her, she is finding out six years earlier than I did.

Nemo, Lance and Amanda

2008-10-16T08:59:00.001+13:00

I'm diversifying my exercise habits. I've decided, after procrastinating for a long time, that it's time I learnt how to swim.

Swimming is a skill that has eluded me for a long time. For one, I hate having my face touched, and that includes by water. The prospect of wearing next to nothing in public is kind of off putting also, but a sport that requires waxing, even if it is "French" - well, now there's a killer reason to avoid it like the plague.

I haven't bothered to read about it, but I figured doing different types of exercise work different muscles. Since whenever I ride a bike I get a very very sore arse, I decided if I was going to fit into a swimsuit, I'd go for a bike ride.

It was maaaaaaaaarrvellous. Lambs frolicked next to the fence, unaware the World's Biggest Lamb Fan was watching in wided-eyed wonder (at least, until I rode into the ditch). I also saw a mother duck and 12 wee babies.

I learnt that next time I'll wear sunglasses and keep my mouth closed, because I was a human windscreen. I love riding my bike. But I hate the after-taste.

I got back after biking for 5kms, and strutted inside, strutted, as my legs were stuck in the "cowboy show down position". I got myself into the chair, and it took me an hour and a half to get back up.

I need a sport to ease into. Maybe bowls is the ticket.

It's inspiration Jim, but not as we know it

2008-10-15T20:47:00.003+13:00

I have a lot of ideas for blog posts, many of which don't make it further than that initial lightbulb moment. That's because I've got a hopeless memory, and because some of the stories are about people who may come across my mocking tones on the net - my workmates are lucky to have the unabridged random Amanda diatribe.

I have no such qualms about writing about strangers. I write my ideas in a notebook (one of my tools to fight off memory loss) and today, whilst with notebook in hand, the young gents behind me on the bus were talking about their sex lives.

My story, originally about swimming (that's tomorrow's now) turned into scribbled notes about these fellas incredible sexual prowess. But since I'm trying to keep this at R16 I can't use half of the material.

I look back to when I was their age (one just turned 18 this last weekend) and my life was nowhere near as 90210. Britney, Rihanna and Christina were all guest stars in these blokes bedrooms, and much to the disgust of the lady sitting next to me, they went into some quite fascinating stuff.

One of the girls who'd they'd shacked up with had turned lesbian; one, Gemma, was quite close to Dodgy Derek "if you know what I mean", and the boy directly behind sounded like he'd had Quite a New Years in Wanaka.

I really wish they'd been in their school uniforms, as I certainly hope the Danielle they were referring to was not my younger, innocent (or not according to the boys) sister.

I ought to take the bus more often.

Old wives tales

2008-10-14T08:01:00.003+13:00

When hungry, I enjoy watching Food Television. As well as giving me ideas on what to eat, I also motivate myself to get up off the couch, stop this self-torture, and actually prepare something from the kitchen.

A lot of the cooking shows are American, which is nice if I had a deep frier and a taste for powdered sugar, but as I don't I usually tune out. I also tune out because of the tendency to remove the H from Herbs, resulting in, "mmmm, fresh EEEEeeeeeeeerbs!". Although saying that, the Americans probably think we are savages for pronouncing the silent "H".

I've noticed a few inner-city herb gardens recently which is nice. MTF has silverbeet growing and a place down the one way into town is growing parsley. I know silverbeet isn't a herb but I have it in my herb garden so shussh.

Parsley is a pain in the neck. I use about 6 sprigs a year, but you can only buy it in punnets of six, so I end up having a parsley garden with a couple of other herbs in the gaps. There's an old wives tale that warns against giving parsley away, lest someone gets pregnant. I don't quite believe it as I gave some to my elderly neighbour and she's not knocked up, but I can't risk it.

Speaking of elderly neighbours getting knocked up... I looked out my lounge window on a recent Sunday morning and saw an older guy out the back door of the flat next door. He was standing there, having a smoke (post coital probably) and wearing the lady's pink bathrobe. I vomited in my mouth a little and hoped it was a one nighter, but his truck has been out the front a few times. The wonders of modern medicine!

Crazy friends, a wedding and a doorway

2008-10-11T11:10:00.005+13:00

We've been invited to a wedding today, which has led to some discussions on the appropriate etiquette and decorum we'll be expected to display. So far, Craig's had to buy a new shirt, James has been banned from wearing his Nikes (and your Adidas ones too), and Jill's been told, "you're not in Scotland now, you can't swig Cherry Brandy from a hipflask at the ceremony".

With all these do's and don't flying round, I got thinking about "the awkward door situation" the other day. It is basically compulsory for blokes to open a door for the ladies, so they've probably got the nuances of it down flat, but for us lasses, well, it don't come naturally.

Here's the thing:

I was walking out the door at work the other day, when I heard Ros behind me saying bye. So obviously, she was also about to use the door. I froze, door in hand, waiting for her to come through.

As she said her goodbyes I realised she wasn't as close behind me as I thought prior, so I should shut the door. But I'd waited too long.

Here's the catch 22: She was so close to leaving, that should I close the door, it may slam in her face. Bad enough, but I wouldn't be able to make a clean getaway. Oh no, Ros would open the door to see me escaping down the hall, and would realise who had slam the door in her face.

However, if I stood there and waited for Ros, I would potentially look rather odd, or even a bit of the ol' peeping Tom type, and could crowd the theoretical personal space bubble.

I opted to look like a creep and stand there with the door open. I don't know if I would close the door if I could make a clean break, but probably not. Unless I didn't like my workmates. Which I do. Usually.

One small step for men, one giant leap for the shed

2008-10-06T19:51:00.006+13:00

After months of procrastination, the stars aligned and enough people gathered in the one place to get our garden shed moved from point A to point B on Sunday, as originally planned in July. The father in law provided the building expertise, the father provided the logistical nous, and the boys from across the road provided an audience to the action.

I sat the digital camera down and taped 30 minutes of the shed moving - all up it took about an hour. I've condensed it into 3 or so minutes of speedy DIY porn:

No blog post would be complete without the blonde moment of the day.

I attempted to measure the height of the garden shed, in order to determine compliance with the Dunedin District Plan. When I had determined my shed was compliant with the height plane angle requirements of the Residential 2 zone, I started to retract the measuring tape... as it retracted, it whacked me in the face as it went past.

I squealed, then glanced around to check if anyone had witnessed what felt like a face slicing. No one had, so I turned to leave the 1.1m side yard... and promptly tripped over.

Sigh.

Soft Porn on the Dancefloor

2008-10-06T12:12:00.004+13:00

We went out on Friday, for a night of entertainment, education, and excitement. Initially, I thought the dodgy goings on were the result of the nature of the night, but after mulling it over, I think it is more the nature of Dunedin - thus I have produced a list of "Don'ts" based on my experiences on Friday night:

Do not stand or sit by yourself watching the half a dozen girls dance. It is creepy.
Do not approach the girls dancing and ask to take their photo for them, whilst thrusting your hips.
Actually, do not thrust your groin region at all.
Do not ask for ID, jokingly, then grab and restrain girls.
...and once you've restrained someone, you are not likely to get a kiss on the cheek, so do not ask for one.
Do not yell out the front window of the car "You've got a vagina".

Luckily, I was with my fiance and several friends, so I couldn't help but laugh at the creepy men, the sad little boys, and the boozehags with inappropriate clothing. But without those folks around I think I might've been a tad scared. What I was scared of was the soft porn goings on down on the dance floor. I might not be a naive young lady, but I saw more petting at the Fever Club than a late night Sky One porno.

If last Friday had been "Girls, girls, girls", this Friday was all man.

Kia Ora New Zealand

2008-10-03T08:54:00.003+13:00

Jill, our favourite crazy Scottish girl, was bumming round at home (it is the school holidays, so bumming isn't really the word) when an ad for Proactiv solution came on.

Jessica Simpson's bright and clear face popped on the screen and announced "Ke-ahh-youra Noo Zeeland!". Despite being a Brother from another Mother (country), she knew Jessica Simpson was way off the mark. If you are going to say Kia Ora, say it properly. Not that Jill can say "iron" properly, but that's another blog post.

This debacle reminded me about the time during Maori Language week, when I attempted to inject a bit of bro into my discourse. Picture this:

The phone rings in the Random Amanda household.

"Kia ora! Amanda speaking!" I chirp, with a hint of a Lynne from Tawa twang

...silence....

"uh, um... g'day?..." I say, into the depths of my cordless, "...anyone there?"

A nervous laugh is quickly followed by the disconnection tone - thus, I ended my attempt to Maorise my conversational styles.

The moral of the story being you can be wrong or you can be right, yet you'll still get laughed at.

Carnivore

2008-10-01T08:32:00.001+13:00

What with a recession, a new kitchen, and a wedding and all, we are trying to cut down on the basics, to save some cash.

I've been reducing the amount of meat we use by adding lentils or serving more vegetables, but Craig is struggling to cope - there is no nice way to put it. He can't cope, physically, mentally, or spiritually, without meat. Craig is a carnivore.

I remember making my yummy wedges once. Without bacon. Needless to say the fact that we need to save for a wedding is a minor miracle. Lesson learnt: serve meat.

We share the cooking. Craig sometimes is very anti-vegetables, and makes just meat. I'm serious. For example, one time Craig served up red wine marinated venison... and... that was it.

On top of this, I'm trying to keep healthy for the wedding, so went out for a walk with Jill the other night, leaving Craig with tea duty. When I returned, he'd made a massive salad... sweet huh?!

Guess what was in the salad? That's right, the salad had bacon and chicken through it. Yum?

I don't think I can dabble in vegetarianism anytime soon.

Lotsa Lady Lumps

2008-09-27T11:13:00.004+12:00

Half a dozen of us girls went out last night, my first real hardcore girls night out in a long time...and boy was it a girls night out.

When having a few, I tend to have intense conversations that develop tunnel vision, thus missing the action. But I got enough context to know that two, ah, "friendly" girls were attempting to be "friendly" with the gaggle of gals I was with.

I was handbag sitting whilst Ellie went to get a drink and the others where dancing, when Lady Lover Uno came over:

"Amanda," she said, obviously having asked one of my friends, because she must think knowing my name was a good pick up line "come dance!"

You are all probably laughing, thinking that "crazy Amanda" isn't used to the female ways, but what I didn't describe is what she was doing with her hands at the time.

I was sitting demurely on the seat, and she ran her hands from my ankles to the high hem line of my dress. Just a drunken grope? Perhaps. But she then sealed the deal with :

"You have the nicest legs" (obviously it was dark, so she couldn't see them).

The above would be traumatising enough, except for what happened a bit later.

Sitting, talking about the world, I happened to notice a group of about six girls come in (the bar wasn't busy). Just a bunch of girls, out for the night, just like us.

Except one of them. She was an average girl - didn't look too drunk, she was kinda pretty, I guess, except she had the most unusual top on.

It looked, for lack of a better term, like she had boobies painted on her top.

In actual fact, it was her lady lumps, hanging out of her top for the whole world to see.

Words failed me and I averted my eyes, not before alerting my companions of the danger that had arrived.

She was whisked back outside quick smart, neckline hugging her belly and all.

The third in this medley of lesbianism is more of a faux pas of my own. I'm a pretty open girl, so when Jill and I were singing "I kissed a girl, and I liked it", we were singing it not because we noticed the two ladies having a pash in a doorway (we didn't exactly), but because we liked the song.

We only realised it was two girlies when they walked past us, glaring, hand in hand.

In conclusion, we kept to our man loving ways, and we weren't beaten up. Two achievements I am sure you will note as being quite newsworthy.

Pretty Fly for a Black Lab

2008-09-27T08:10:00.000+12:00

Paris Hilton and I have more in common than our hair colour and (sometimes) stupid comments. We've also got a fetish with dressing up our dogs, as demonstrated previously.

Difference is, her dog weighs 500gram, mine 30kg.

As an aside, Steph and Amy bought me that shirt for Loud Shirt Day which I coordinated on my floor at work this year. The 5th Floor raised $152!! Yay!

Ruger, you're one good looking dawg.

Water baby

2008-09-26T12:18:00.005+12:00

Ruger is our baby, so when we went up to Clyde we took him with us. He hasn't quite learnt how to swim yet, but his girlfriend Zena was jumping off a rock, so he wanted to join in...

The boys actually managed to catch a fish! Ruger has encountered these fishes several times, and always wants a bite:

Sensitive Parts

2008-09-24T08:21:00.000+12:00

I don't know if I'm the only one who has noticed, but I've come to realise that folks out there will always pick on your sensitive bits - accidently - but still.

Friends may think they were just saying thank you in a funny way, but "cheers, big ears" has me rushing to a mirror, to check they aren't sticking out from under my hair.

Alas, then we move to the curse of the spaghetti arms. Netball coaches everywhere look at my long arms with envy, but I just hang my head in shame. I blame them for my lack of interest in exersise. Why run round when you are used to standing by the goal all the time?

And we might as well mention the cheeks - yes, the rosy apple red cheeks my face sports are useful for pro-sunscreen campaigners everywhere. Shame then that I haven't "been out in the sun without sunscreen on, tsk tsk", I've just got a high colour complexion (and a complex now) thank you very much.

The only reason I am able to hold my head up high is the Disney movie Dumbo. Rest assured if lost in a forest I shall wrap my ears around me for warmth, use my cheeks to signal for help, and use my spaghetti arms for food.

Nasty Square (It's hip to be -)

2008-09-22T08:35:00.000+12:00

At high school, four square was a popular pastime in my group of friends. We would normally have to expand it from four to eight and even up to sixteen square. The larger it got, the higher the chances that someone you were having a cat fight with.

The M.O. was quite simple - brand the person you were spatting with, without the other players picking up on the passive-aggressive nature of the attack.

and then there was volleyball...

Volleyball was primary school's passive-aggresive answer to four square. It would begin friendly enough, but petty grumblings would smoulder into full blown spike bomb fueled attacks... and I went to a Catholic school.

One game we didn't play was bullrush. This was the original method of expressing your disgust with another, hence the reason it was banned.

Even when you become a big kid, you find other ways of expressing your hate. I've got the last game of interclub squash coming up tonight, and I'm sporting bruises from last week's game.

Nothing much changes.

It's all in the name

2008-09-21T19:00:00.003+12:00

After months of struggling with spelling my very own conjunction, and weeks of struggling with the syllabilic arrangement of the same, I've gots me an easy to spell url...

http://www.randomamanda.com

Same random Amanda, same random time, same random place.

Mummy Mullets

2008-09-19T09:37:00.000+12:00

Yesterday morning, my mother and I were carpooling to work, when she said "Do you know the lady who does the writing on the paper on the Sensing Murder show"

"mmmm" I replied

"Well, I was thinking about getting a hair cut like hers"

"ooo" I said. "I think short hair can make women look a bit... mmm.... old."

"I could keep it long at the bottom and get it shorter on top" my mother replies

There's a long silence whilst I digest this information. Various questions swirl through my head. Are we related? Is she pulling my leg? Does she keep up with popular culture?

I finally manage: "you want a mullet?"

"oh" she replies, "I suppose that's what it would be".

I vomit a little in my mouth, and try to hold back the tears. Will her hair grow back in time for my wedding? Will it look like they've photoshopped in an 80's mother of the bride in the photos?

My only hope is to find a hairstyle she'd suit, and convince her to get it. I just hope I get to her in time.

Where are you from? A Kiwi?!

2008-09-19T08:15:00.000+12:00

Last night Jill and I went to the supermarket, and I discovered that I needed to start faking my accent...

Jill: Hello

Checkout Lady: oo Where are you from?

Jill: Scotland....

Checkout Lady: My daughter lives in England!

Jill: Oh Wow!

Amanda: My friend is going to England!

Checkout Lady: Silence Kiwi, your accent is common and unwanted.

Amanda: *sob*

So from now on, I shall sound like an transexual English man.

Be Wary of Competition

2008-09-18T09:51:00.003+12:00

If you've got small children, then you'll be able to relate to this. Not that I want my children to be overly competitive, but I have fallen into the trap of saying things like "let's see who can finish their breakfast first" just so that they will eat their breakfast. That backfired big-time this morning. Here's what happened.

I know this is going to sound very boring, but bear with me. As per a normal working and day-care day I got up and made porridge for breakfast for myself and the children. The youngest sat down and ate hers, I ate some of mine while reading the newspaper, and the oldest mucked around and made little progress. When I looked up from the newspaper to discover that the oldest had not eaten any porridge, I used the tried and true method of competition with "well, it looks like I will be second for eating breakfast this morning" and I could not believe the response...

First - finger pointing and "I'm not going to be your friend if you eat your porridge before me". I can probably live with that, and we'll probably be friends again soon regardless of who finishes their porridge first. But the next response really got to me, I didn't know whether to laugh or shake in my shoes. This is what my beloved child said:

"When I get older, I am going to come and find you, and kill you!!!!"

So be very wary of competition as an incentive for getting children to do things, it may just backfire, and dying over a bowl of porridge just isn't worth it.

The Collator's Curse

2008-09-17T09:54:00.002+12:00

Once upon a time,
in a business far to close to myself,
a young lass called Amanda
worked on a major mailout.

A lot to organise and a lot to sort out -
Gold packs, and white maps full of ambiguity,
A3 sized plans, and a sealed page or two
all to be collated together for continuity

There was just one hitch
to this perfect plan.
This hitch came in the form
of the Evil Photocopy Man.

This Evil man wanted to unhinge
myself and/or the rest of the team,
so he photocopied the white packs wrong
disrupting our collating scheme

Explicit instructions were provided, verbatim,
for the gold packs next to be duplicated.
There were 83 gold packs missing from the number required -
Yet again the evil man gave reason to be berated.

A phone call was made to the Photocopying man
(The wrath of Amanda had been wrought)
As gently as they could they told him
"We'll be finding someone else to hold the fort"

So the Evil Photocopying Man
Had been dispatched from works employ
Yet his hopelessness was still to be fully understood -
On Monday we discovered yet more to annoy!

After such a poor Monday
(of which they are anyway)
Amanda used her time in lieu
to leave work early that day

but who did she see at the bus stop
but a sheepishly Evil young man
who'd managed to disrupt our perfect
photocopying slash collating plan.

Blogging Virgin

2008-09-17T08:28:00.003+12:00

Everyone says it's easy the first time, but knowing your going onto a world stage and may end up making a spelling mistake, or worse still get your grammar wrong is still quite daunting.

Now I am concerned that I will suffer blogger-block. I think I will just fill in any pregnant pauses with binary solos:

00000000001
00000000011
00000000111 (Translation - 1, 3, 7)

And to complete my debut blog, I will finish with a rumour, after all that's what blogs are all about aren't they. Amanda got the photocopier guy fired, no multiple copies, no double-siding, no shortage of toner, just plain one-copy, single-sided fired...

You heard it here first!!!!

Bridal Idol

2008-09-17T07:47:00.000+12:00

Weddings bring alot of decisions with them. One of the more important decisions we've made thus far is who our attendants are going to be. It wasn't a hard decision - I chose a life long friend, Renee, and a life long relative, my sister. Craig had it reasonably easy too.

Renee's off travelling the world, so prior to asking her to be my maid of honour, I had a worry about what I'd do if she couldn't get over. Then I came up with a brilliant idea - "Bridal Idol"

In Bridal Idol, contestants compete to become my bridesmaid. They'll have a series of tasks, and each day the "panel of judges" - myself - will vote one off.

Yes, it is a good idea, and why, yes, I do have some ideas for tasks, should you wish to undertake a Brial Idol yourself

Fend off annoying relatives - best fending wins
Pit stop: Powder nose, repair chips to nails, replace pantyhose if necessary - fastest stop wins
Calm the bridezilla
Toasting round, where the best and nicest (not necessarily true) speech about the bride wins
Present opening - time trials
Running in heels and an evening gown

I can think of several girls I know that would be great at all of the above, but bridesmaids are usually close friends, and there's no competition for that.

Wet wet wet

2008-09-15T08:17:00.000+12:00

The beautiful weekend just past, and the beautiful day ahead is well appreciated. Below are some photos of our section, barely a month ago.

Enjoy the sunshine (and dry ground) today

Wwweeeee!!

2008-09-14T20:29:00.002+12:00

We are not beach people, but do a quick search for wedding photos on the net and you'll notice we are under a bit of peer pressure to get some pictures on the shore on our big day.

I was having a moan to my good friend Lisa, and she, ever practical, suggested we go photo location scouting. So the other weekend we had a fun afternoon in Dunedin's Botanic Gardens.

I took a few shots of the flora and fauna...

and had Lisa take my photo in front of the statues - as you'll see, something of a hobby of mine...

but I've left the best for last... the playground!

Boys Toys

2008-09-13T20:41:00.001+12:00

Having James and Jill back in New Zealand is awesome. We've been taking every opportunity to catch up and hang out.
Craig & James revert back to their 7 year old selves, picking on us girls and playing with their toys.

As well as watching a little car going fast, we had a lot of fun just shooting the breeze.

Later that night we went out for a meal and a drink, and Craig popped "the question" to James... "the question" being... "will you be my best man". I don't know what sort of trouble James will cook up for the stag do... and the amount of dirt he has on us to for "the" speech.

We went for a drink at the Flying Jug and Mosgiel's finest a) think we have nice teeth, and pretty hair, and b) think we really do get to have a have a get to have a talk deep you know really?.

Hounding the hordes of hoarders

2008-09-12T14:34:00.006+12:00

I had to get tough today. Paul was thrice-handedly responsible for the accommodation review at work. He took up more floor space than an Auckland apartment. I conducted a survey of his area... what I really wanted to do was stuff the contents of his office real estate into (quite) a few boxes, and hide them - but I knew he couldn't cope with that.

I had to lay down the law.

From: Amanda Riach
Sent: Friday, 12 September 2008 02:29 p.m.
To: Paul
Cc: The Team
Subject: Intervention

Good afternoon Paul

This is an intervention.

A quick assessment of your desk has led to the following list being drawn up:

4 staplers

2 Sellotapes

A Tigger

2.26m high stack of paper (cumulative)

3 cups (2 half full of various liquid)

5 post it note pads

6 Highlighters

2 Oranges

A Flag of Sweden

We are here for you should you wish to seek help.

Kind regards

Your friends who are buried under your desk

He was disappointed. He pointed out I was picking on him, and leaving the other two offenders alone. In order to restore harmony in the office, I decided to survey Darrell and Campbell's desks also.

The thick bulk of paperwork surrounding Darrell's desk area acts as insulation during the winter months, raising the temperature of his desk area to sauna potential (He believes this is the reason I'm hanging round his desk naked over winter). However, appearances can be deceiving. Although Darrell's bulk looks impressive, it is a mere 1.42m high (cumulative)

Campbell's desk has already had a geotechnical assessments done on it to ensure the safety of his area. In actual fact, the foundation of the building was strengthen on that corner, due to the weight of his various files. Campbell's bulk is an impressive 3.28m high (cumulative).

The looming accommodation review will cause some dramas when these fellas are required to slim down their stacking systems. I just hope I don't have to mop up their tears.

Saving the world one penguin lay at a time

2008-09-12T08:44:00.001+12:00

Last Friday my workmates and I planted trees with the Yellow Eyed Penguin Trust at the Okia Reserve. In summary, we planted trees for the penguins to make babies under. The long story can be found on the YEPT website.

We had a wander round the reserve once finished, and I took some snaps...

Then we stopped in at the Portobello Pub for some gins and chips...

Ghosts of an email past

2008-09-11T14:03:00.005+12:00

At work, we've been discussing the traces of your past you leave on the Internet. I, for one, am glad the flaming teenager years are well behind me, and a quick Google seems to confirm that. Immature teenagers say things they don't mean, and I wouldn't want to see that sort of brainless girl fighting coming back to haunt me, because it's brainless, frankly.

Some folks at work have to look for a while before they find anything. I remember finding Amy's CV within 5 minutes of learning we were getting "a new girl". I'm pretty random, so I'm not surprised at the Google results my name picks up. I've been involved in a lot of online and offline communities - Bebo, Facebook, Launchpad, and again, old websites, sausage porn, hell, it's been archived. Even my study's made it on the web. I'm not terribly surprised to have a presence online. Hell, I've even encouraged it (this blog would be an example).

Being of a random persuasion has resulted in some, well, random results. Example: "good thing SOMEONE remembers to feed niggernuts". Without context, that comment sounds bizarre. I was advising Craig I'd fed his virtual hamster... actually, with context the comment sounds bizarre.

As a special treat, I'll give you the "About Me" text from 2002 - I was, remember, only 16. So the fact she talks in the third person isn't so creepy, is it.

Born on the 7th of January, Mandie, as she is also known, enjoys a wide variety of things. Her interests include having fun, socializing, web design, drama, and lots more! With her light brown hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, Mandie enjoys dressing up, buying stuff, making money, and being herself! Amanda is 170cm tall, and 55kgs. When Amanda grows up, she hopes to be a web designer, doing this from her own home, which coincidentally, will be on a farm, weather it be a dairy farm, sheep farm, or just a lifestyle block. If you havent clicked, shes a bit of a drama queen! She LOVES drama! She really hates backstabbers, and also hates bananas.Mandies email is mailto:mandie@dramaqueen.co.nz?subject=Hi! if you want to know more!

I still hate backstabbers and bananas, I weigh more the 55kgs, and I don't live on a farm - but a lifestyle block would be nice. Ok, maybe I didn't get into web design, but I found out why I enjoyed it so much - the writing!

The moral of the story, I guess, is to always remember what you post on the Internet isn't private. You might as well stand in the Octagon and hand out leaflets.

Carrot sticks and stick figures

2008-09-10T09:18:00.000+12:00

As regular readers and every acquaintance knows, I'm getting married in September 2009. Yay!

Getting married means wearing a white dress. White clothing makes people look fat. Therefore I must starve myself for the next year. I tried the exercise thing earlier. It was too hard. So I've joined a calorie counting website and have been counting calories - the operative word being counting. I'm not sticking to anything much.

I love how my Calorie Coach is so positive.

Here's a preview:
So imagine my disappointment when I realised that the Calorie Coach is nothing more than a perky Denise Austin type in disguise. "Why?" I hear you asking. Well my friends, it's the carrot and stick approach. Every day, the date the target weight is going to be reached on moves ahead one day. I was supposed to reach it in late January when I first started.

Food poisoning is beginning to sound promising.

Forgetting one's pants

2008-09-09T08:06:00.004+12:00

Some days, you forget your keys. Others, you forget an important document, or even your pants. Today, I forgot my shoes.

Well, specifically, I forgot the shoes I should be wearing to work. The shoes I've worn are of the pink and black leopard print type, and I'm sure they are in the "do not wear" section of the Corporate Uniform Policy.

As always, there is a simple explanation for this mishap. I only had one pair of black flats, so on Saturday I purchased a new pair. They have a suede type finish, so when I went to put the dog out this morning, I slipped on another pair of shoes, lest I disturb the perfect suede type finish of my new shoes.

Once Ruger was tucked up in his kennel with a cup full of kibble, I went inside, locked the door, looked out the window and saw Mum waiting... left.... and left my shoes behind.

What makes it worse, I think, is that the top end of me is looking quite smart today (I think). I had my first haircut in 11 months last week, and I wore an ironed shirt, and a new merino top in an awesome colour, and my flash "going to job interviews" blazer (but I'm not going to any job interviews). So I can just imagine everyone going... "yep... yep... yep... WHAT THE?!"

Methinks I am going to do alot of work from the safety of my desk today.

I believe I can fly

2008-09-08T21:28:00.004+12:00

Cuz I've got nothing better to do

While I'm waiting on you

Past and far away through

Your slow arse travelling crew

I can fly! It's true!

Science Alive

2008-09-04T08:09:00.003+12:00

My proudest Science Class related moment was delighting my fellow classmates in 5th Form Science by leaning over my desk and kissing Mr Scott's arse. Classy.

But despite those sorts of antics, I really did learn some things - well, at least three things.

Punnet Squares! (see wiki)

I love punnet squares. Anyone who has done third form genetics will have encountered these in one form or another.

By using a punnet square, Cookie and I worked out we have a 25% chance of having ginga children. Much too high a percentage for us to risk it.

Complete Combustion (see wiki)
I recall camping with my mates in 5th form. Good times, good times.

In a scientific experiment, we found throwing raro juice powder onto the campfire removed the smoke. As did Lynx cans. Thus came the cry "I have achieved complete combustion!". Fireworks didn't fare so well (neither did the horses in the paddock next door)

So if you are struggling to breathe through your campfire - sprinkle a bit of sugary goodness onto it.

Decomposition Rates
At school I had this theory that a hollow block wall with a small hole in it would be the perfect spot for cigarette buts to be disposed of. My friends and I (or just myself) tried to work out how long it would take for the wall to be filled, but the "rate of decomposition of cigarette butts" didn't return any Google results that had a formula.

It would have been a wicked science fair project (much better than the crap the teacher had to suggest because I hadn't been listening)

In conclusion, stay in school and love (or at least be nice to) your science teachers. They probably had heaps of Amanda's to put up with... and kiss arse - but not literally.

The Phantom Assulter

2008-09-03T08:29:00.004+12:00

Usually I have very vivid dreams, which I bore my workmates recounting. But the last couple of nights I have had vague, barely rememberable dreams which has frustrated me no end. For the last two mornings I have woken up with injuries - can't move properly - injuries.

All I can surmise is:

Someone snuck into my house and attacked me silently
Someone in my dream attacked me and I can't remember

So I have come to the logical conclusion that I was attacked in my dream.

This morning was worse than yesterday. I rolled out of bed (as I do most mornings) and did some sit ups and push ups (as I do some mornings). I then stood up. Oh the pain.

I stumbled to the shower and put turned the heat to "Lava" in a vain attempt at phsyiotherapy. Once I got out, I started dressing and was alright - till I tried to put on my knickers. After several goes at putting them on, I found the perfect leg/arm/back combination, and yes, I am wearing knickers today.

I'm still in pain from last night's attack.

Special Amanda's Special Trip

2008-09-01T08:02:00.005+12:00

Despite Saturday night's gin drinking session (where I kept forgetting to put gin in my drink) I was up for squash training bright and early yesterday morning. After a vigorous couple of games with my teammates, I packed up and then realised I'd forgotten a towel, so couldn't have a shower in town. No problems, I'll have one at home. I jump in the car.

It is when I turn to go onto the Southern motorway from Kaikorai Valley that I remember that Special Rigs for Special Kids event is on (information here and here). Why do I remember? Oh, just because I've got a dozen B trains giving way to me. "Shit, I'm leading the parade" I thought, (for all of three seconds) - then I discovered that I was, in actual fact, somewhere in the middle of it. I could see the motorway was full of these massive monsters and unsuspecting (or stupid) motorists.

I was amazed at the number of people who'd come out, pulled over, climbed up and made the effort to come out and cheer the special rigs and their special kids. Really heartwarming stuff, if you're not stuck in the middle of it.

I had to negotiate through the traffic to get to Mosgiel, and was stuck between two fire engines. Next, I came to a red light, and a policeman standing in the middle of the intersection. He waved the truck in front of me through, but I slowed down and stopped - hey, it was a red light and there was a cop standing right there! He frantically motioned - no - go! go! and after thirty seconds of trying to remember my Defensive Driving and what the frantic hand waving signal meant, so when I realised what he'd done I ended up speeding through the red light like a boy racer on crack.

It was then I realised the full scale of the parade. The streets of Mosgiel were thick with spectators all staring, cheering and waving.

Meanwhile, I was stuck in the middle of it, rumpled, stinky and bright stinking red from running round a squash court. Oh, and I was wearing my best work out gear too. Hot. Mosgiel's population looked at me in disgust - who was this girl who had deigned to rain on their parade with her shitty Pulsar. A Mack it is not!

Mosgiel's main street usually takes about three minutes to traverse, but it took about 10 yesterday, the longest ten minutes I have had all week. And so begins the tradition of Sunday afternoon gin drinking.

Problem Pukeko

2008-08-20T08:27:00.006+12:00

My friends know how much I love pukeko. So this article caught my eye:

Taieri Herald, August 5 2008: Pukeko Problems (page 3):

The habits of pukeko were discussed at the Saddle Hill Community Board meeting
on Thursday.

Dunedin City councillor Colin Weatherall wants two new pukeko signs on Old Brighton Rd by the landfill at a cost of $300 each, or $200 if a post is not needed to hold up the sign.

However, board member Ernie Ball suggested a chicken wire fence might be more appropriate as the signs did not stop motorists killing the native birds by accident.

Board chairman Keith McFadyn suggested a bridge might work, while member Scott
Weatherall thought a tunnel under the road might suit the birds better.

Cr Weatherall disagreed with them all and said any type of fence would not stop the birds, as they could fly.

This story reminds me of some twisted childrens fairy story...

Once upon a time, there was a wee wee Pukeko called Paula. Paula could be a bit dopey, and would run out across the road without checking both ways. but Paula the Pukeko was friends with Colin the Councillor, who wanted to warn the motorists of her dopey ways.

Colin the Councillor asked Ernie the Earnest, Keith the Kind and Scott the Sweet if they could help pay for the signs.

"Hmmm", said Ernie the Earnest, "we should put up a fence, so Paula can't just run out like a headless chicken?"

"Hmmm" said Keith the Kind, "maybe we should construct a bridge, so Paula can go pippity pop pippity pop over the bridge!"

"Hmmm" said Scott the Sweet, "we could dig a tunnel! Then Paula can zoom ze zoom through the tunnel!"

"Good lord!" exclaimed Colin the Councillor, "you are all forgetting one thing! Paula can fly!"

"hahahahahhahahahaaaaa" they all chuckled together. They had learnt an important lesson.

The end...

The Phenomenon of Eating Pants

2008-08-19T20:44:00.002+12:00

I've been a bit slack in posting recently, mainly because my nights have been filled with watching anorexic people being good at sports.

I'm not anorexic, far from it, especially since quitting the darts - I've gained 5kgs. Shameface. So my friends and I have begun a "Biggest Loser" competition. You know how in ever series there is the person who weighs the most, but that's not a surprise since they are bigger than Baywatch? That's me. Relative to the others.

But I've got lots of good intentions and every day since Saturday I have done some exercise. So I have done something four days in a row. Probably enough to mitigate the corn chips I eat, but moving on...

I've been doing "Denise Austin's Fat Burning Yoga" and I have to say, quite a workout. Denise, wow, she's a lovie, but geeeeeeeeez. She's so, so... Perky, and those eyes!! BAM! I found her website today, and she offers a free success plan. Problem is, they calculated my BMI wrong. I know what it is - I'm in a normal range (for the next 12 kgs, anyway) and yet Denise tells me I'm Overweight, with a BMI of 25.5! (Normal is 18.5 to 24.9 - follow this link for a BMI calculator). So I'm pretty depressed. Denise tells me that I have a lovely smile, and that I'm burning fat. What she really means is "you've got too much of it".

And to demonstrate why I haven't been getting up at 6am for some pre-work yoga, here's Denise:

Let's move on...

My friend and I learnt that we both have "eating pants"... and I wonder if these eating pants are a common item of clothing, lurking in the closets of binge eaters everywhere. My pants are so scrappy that if I leave the house in them I'm only popping to the liquor store to get alchohol poisoining or Mitre 10 for some blades, but they are the only pants that I can "lounge" in. Hef gets his smoking jacket, females everywhere get their eating pants.

My Mummy Told Me...

2008-08-12T21:24:00.002+12:00

Isn't it funny the things parent teach? My favourite lesson is about drugs. One of my earliest memories, and one of the earliest things Mum taught me was:

If a person comes to the door, and asks you if you want to buy drugs, you say No!

Because you see, back in the eighties drug dealers didn't hang round seedy places or wait in their gang fortresses for you to go to them... no, they were as likely to come to your door as someone selling a lux or a Jehovah's Witness. And probably more welcome.

The generational gap is great, and the list of things I've begun compiling to teach my kids is vastly different.

I learn by doing, and usually by doing wrong. Thus, the "Things I will teach my kids" List

Don't write a note saying "Let's Break Amanda's Arm at Morning Tea" and then forget about it and put it in my pencil case and then when it is discovered play dumb.
Don't mix Grape flavoured Fanta and vodka.
If you want to confuse someone at KFC, ask for a Snack burger without the Chicken fillet. They'll suggest you have a Salad burger. But insist on the Snack burger.
Don't mix white spirits with Bailey's
Don't try to keep up with the more experienced members of the social club because you will FAIL. And will FAIL at 5.30pm out on the street.
If you want to get kicked out of McDonalds, ask for a Big Mac with a circumsised Pickle. They'll boot you out about 70% of the time
If (or more likely, when) you are asked "What's up your nose?" the answer probably shouldn't be "Snot". Especially when they have a knife concealed.
No matter the urge, never roll your eyes when in view of someone, especially parents. It always ends badly.
Fireworks are awesome, but bonfires are better. Waaaaaay better.
Don't come home till after you've sobered up. Parents will notice the swaying and slurring. Walking home is usually a smart idea. In a group.

Perhaps suggest further items in the comments...

Is this yours?

2008-08-07T08:48:00.004+12:00

World Exclusive!

Mandiellaneous' foreign correspondent, "Ynneg" reports: found this on the door of a hotel room in kaza, the main town of the spiti valley in north india. very random, considering this place is literally the middle of nowhere

The Ratepayers and Householders Association will be very disappointed to learn of this obvious waste of ratepayers funds. Reports have surfaced that the infamous (to all Indian restaurants in Dunedin) "City Planning Curry Club" are the "brains" behind this branch.

Motivation is...

2008-08-07T07:59:00.005+12:00

As a fatty poomba who can't control herself in the presence of chocolate and/or corn chips and/or cashews (I love food starting with C, random fact of the day), and with a looming (probably not the word for something over a year away) wedding, I know I needed to loose some jiggly bits.

So I pondered my options, of which I believe I have two.

Get food poisoning. Preferably eat dodgy food on Saturday night so once the 24 hour incubation period is over you miss the optimal days of work - that's the theory, anyways.
Exercise and eat a healthy diet.

I've decided, if desperate, that a combination of the two will be suitable, but in the meantime I am going to exercise. And when starting a new fitness regime, instead of my usual dieting 'The Diet Starts Tomorrow' mantra, the mantra becomes 'No Time Like The Present'.

So, 8.10 last night, approximately 12 hours ago, I went exercising. The fact that I am here to complain at all is nothing short of a miracle.

I was thinking "Safety In Numbers" so I took my fur baby and I decided to run down the main street. It was about, oh, 5 meters in, that I realised my mistake... "Safety In Numbers" = "Plenty Of People To Watch Me Exercising And Judge Me (And Probably Point And Laugh But It Was Dark So I Don't Know For Sure They Were Laughing At Me)".

So I couldn't stop running. Some may say I've stumbled upon a huge motivational tool. I'd tell those somes that eventually I'd need to move to a town with a bigger main street, if I lived to do it more than half a dozen times.

Once I reached the pre-determined corner (which, unfortunately, coincided with the main part of the main street so I probably would've been able to stop running there anyways) I turned and decided to walk for a bit, you know, as a 'treat'.

My body had other plans. Spasms of pain shot through my lungs. Stitch booted me in the stomach. My legs became like jelly. Watery jelly. I crawled home. My 5 minute run meant the 8 minute walk home extended to 15 minutes, and my legs hurt so much this morning that I don't think I will be able to run for a few days. This morning my whole body is so tired that I may end up asleep, drowning in my coffee. Reflecting back, it was easier to run than to stop.

And the worst thing was, Ruger was pulling the whole time.

Stupid energetic dog.

Stupid wedding.

Stupid C food.

Mailing to Males, or, when good jokes go "Wrong"

2008-08-06T08:53:00.001+12:00

In the female dominated team at my work place, one of my favourite pastimes is teasing the males that happen to wander past, or, unluckily for Paul, have to work in an area with a high female to lesser sex count.

As already alluded to in this post, dear Paul is sensitive to women's matters (and let me tell you, Mr F is traumatised by the very thought of a pineapple lump). Not sensitive "can I lend you a tampon, here's a heated wheat pack" sensitive, but a "aarrggghhh you mentioned your gender, shutupshutupshutup" sensitive.

So when I was invited to a Joanna G party, I grasped the opportunity to tease Paul with both hands, and I dug and I dug and I stirred and I stirred. Poor Paul looked like he'd been through several Joanna G demonstrations after I'd finished with him.

But his defensive mechanisms grew stronger, and his "knickesknickersknickers" whilst cupping his hands over his ears was a good tactic. (Although suggested this as our new uniform did turn him a lovely magenta shade). So I took it that step too far. I sent him a Joanna G catalog.

Little did I know...

...picture this. A stunning white cottage, bathed in sunshine. A stone path weaves its way through a path of daisies, and a slight breeze rippling the gingham curtains. A mother, dressed in a fresh frock, with an apron over top, is just getting cookies out of the oven, when Bill, the friendly neighbourhood postman, knocks at the door.

"Hello Elizabeth"

"Why, hello William! Busy day?"

"Not bad, not bad. I have a letter from your family in the country, and a book or something for your kind husband Paul. How is he these days?!"

"Oh, you know, he slaves away at his job to make our future bright. He really is a pure soul. Give that there book to wee Tammy there, she'll open it for her Daddy"

"See ya Elizabeth"

"See you later William!"

and as William walks away, wee Tammy opens up the package for her Daddy, the besstest Daddy ins the world (in accordance with the picture she painted at kindy for Fathers Day.

"Look Mummy! A cake!!"

"Just one moment honey, Mummy is just putting a pavola in"

"Mummy, why do theses ladies getses to wear swimsuitss?"

Elizabeth spins around, quietly, lest she disturb her pav. "Let me see Daddy's book darling"

Elizabeth sees the cover - Joanna G - and feels faint. She sits, quietly, lest she disturb her pavlova, and tries to avoid fainting. Surely her darling would not look at these heathen women. It must be some mistake.

And alas, it was. Luckily for little Tammy, the request for a "birthday cake like the one on the cover of Daddy's book" could probably be done by the perfect mother in my (mainly fiction) reconstruction of events.

Getting my knitters in a cable twist

2008-08-05T22:26:00.001+12:00

I've taken to knitting.

I quit smoking on April Fool's day this year, and as well as saving money it has been pretty good for my squash game too. But there are down sides to having two hands free, for example they have taken to sneaking into bags of corn chips, and with nothing between my lips, the subsitute is mmm fooooood.

So I've started knitting. It's only been a week, and you know what I've noticed? As for every other thing I start doing to have a point of difference, it has latched on to become a trend. Move over Sienna Miller, quit snorting Kate Moss, you ladies have competition. I was watching MTV in the weekend and noticed some random emo band kid sitting, knitting. Whatever.

Anyways I have knitted - wait for it - a cheeseroll. If I can't eat, I might as well channel what I want to eat into my knitting. My next project is a tie to donate to the "Mai Tai Catalog", newly established in my place of work. I'll keep you updated.

What happened to randomness in August?

2008-08-05T21:49:00.001+12:00

Fire at the station

2008-07-30T19:59:00.001+12:00

Mosgiel is where I was born and bred, and Mosgiel is where I have chosen to make my home.

My colleagues take much pride in poking fun at the Taieri Plains, and in doing so they tear a little of my soul from me. I find it difficult to relay this story, since it is further evidence that my colleagues are, in actual fact, correct in their stereotypical taunts.

My father, for most of my high school years, worked at a petrol station. Now, one day, he was sitting out the back, waiting for cars to come in and smoking a dart, when Mum turned up with some dinner.

"Wally," she said, for that is my fathers name, "Can you smell smoke?"

Dad sniffs the air. "Hhhmm, maybe". He lifts up a ceiling tile in the back room, attempting to determine the cause of the smoke-smell. "Think we have a problem George" which is what he calls my Mum, even though her name is not George.

He hops down from the table (he's short, my Dad, and they didn't have a ladder handy) and rings the fire station. "G'day Bob, think we've got a bit of a fire down here".

"Sorry Wal, you'll need to ring 111"

So Dad hangs up and rings 111.

Fast forward a couple of minutes and a fire truck is parked outside the station, and Dad is standing outside, smoking a durry, while several fire fighters and their hoses are inside the petrol station, busy locating and putting out a small electrical fire.

The Mosgiel thing about this was:

Whilst Dad was waiting outside, several cars pulled in, wanting served. "But we need petrol" one couple exclaimed, while another bemoaned "so I have to use more petrol to drive down the road!". One guy was even quite rude, going as far as shaking his walking stick in a menicing manner and telling Dad he served in the war, and that Dad was lucky to HAVE a job as "I fought for your freedom to even WORK at a petrol station", and be yelled at by old people, obviously.

I was quite surprised to hear about how nasty the elderly got, mainly because I though mobility scooters ran off a battery, not petrol.

Because obviously, being elderly is an excuse for rudeness, but a fire isn't an excuse for no service.

Cold?

2008-07-24T08:27:00.002+12:00

Moaning about the weather? Quit your bellyachin'! My temperature gauge reckons it's -43.2 outside!

I'm afraid of the youth of today

2008-07-23T21:44:00.004+12:00

After a smart arse little shit raised my bus drivers blood pressure today (and did a pretty good job of raising mine too), I got me a-thinking about the youth our society is raising... and it isn't looking pretty.

I have a theory. The vision that is demonstrated in the production of visual media by each generation is a strong determinant of the success of that generation. My analysis, below, is a disturbing insight into our future. I can't imagine being terribly relaxed during my retirement.

I took the below photos while I was on the first aid course chronicled at an earlier date. The tea room was a room for "Penguins", aged 5 - 8, to learn "life skills"

...on "Why We Love Trees"

Have a guess at what Emma is trying to say first...

...well, she's trying to tell us trees give us oxygen. As you know, oxygen gives us brain cells, which we will need to teach the young to spell, so they can write us prescriptions when we are old and cranky. I hate being old and cranky. Let's hope Emma will learn to spell a-n-t-i-d-e-p-r-e-s-s-a-n-t-s and m-o-r-p-h-i-n-e!

Next, wee Paul here is a "positive" wee fella...

...however, I suspect this was actually written by my partner Craig. If you don't see the irony in the above picture, please print this blog single sided. Four times.

and in the Public Service Announcement department...

Ding dong ding dong! Watch for sharks! (I'd be teaching these young 'uns about a whole different type of predator. We don't want our young to be tied up in therapy or embroiled in law suits whilst we're waiting for our sponge bath!)

You won't be able to read the text underneath, but the text says:

Sharks are dangerous because:

a shark can eat you!
it can kill you!
you may lose your leg or arm!
they can bite you really hard!

In conclusion, I will no longer swim near the beach, as I don't want to be bitten quite hard, made armless and legless, eaten then killed. Not necessarily in that order.

Thrice as nice

2008-07-22T21:12:00.000+12:00

Watch out Craig, I'm gunna smack yo in da face! Nasty stuff, this one.

But really, I was just flying in for a cuddle. Of course.

Kung Foo Too

2008-07-22T08:16:00.002+12:00

Second picture in the "Kung Fu" series...

I love that Craig is rocking out in the background. If you can imagine me clutching a microphone, and a drummer to the side, then we've got one kick arse band going on.

Woo

First Aid for First Aiders

2008-07-21T20:55:00.001+12:00

As a dedicated member of the Health and Safety team at work, I happily put my hand up to undertake a first aid course. BUT

Yes, you know me by now! There's always a but. This but, however, is a big but.

Good friends of mine know about the time Squeaky cut his face with a coverslip in science, and the teacher rushed to MY aid. Or (sticking with the science examples) the time we had to dissect a frog, and I... wagged that class. Of course, it goes back alot longer than that.

One of Mum's favourite stories is the "Stubbing her toe in Monte Carlo, and she didn't notice, then she looked down and saw the blood - SCREAMED the bloody shop, everyone thought I was MURDERING her"... or the time I "broke her toe at the Watsons, but it was the blood that prompted her to tell anyone she'd fallen over".

Unfortunately, I'm the black sheep of my family. My Mum and sister are both heavily involved in St John (my sister's hobbies include laughing at my mishaps, stopping people bleeding, resetting open fractures, and catching testicles when they are ripped off (now THERES a story)). So, the fact that I have a fear of blood is quite humorous to them.

It was day two of the course. I'd managed to get through the first day of the course (with a fair amount of eye closing), and the second day was panning out to be less gruesome than the previous. I let my guard down. Mistake.

And then they moved onto what you'd do with a severed finger... woo... I feel woozy just thinking about it... and I tried to tune it out. So I weighed up my options.

I've fainted plenty. I know when its coming. The issue is, fainting always, always happens when it is embarrassing to do so, i.e. at work serving customers, at funerals. So I didn't want to add first aid course to that mix. I know from experience that I never have as much time to act as I think I do, so I have to think quick. During the funeral example, I told Craig I "think I'm going to faint" as I was going out for the count.

I'm sitting at the front of the class. If I leave, I have to leave in front of everybody. But if I faint, I become a living breathing resuscitation dummy. I lunge out of the class. I sit outside the classroom for a good five minutes, sweat pouring off my face. I regain my senses enough to realise my makeup will look like shite. But you know what? Better to look terrible than to be given the kiss of life from one of my fellow students.

Woooo - kung FU

2008-07-16T16:35:00.003+12:00

The first photo from what I'm calling my "kung fu" series:

I had a productive weekend, thank you for asking.

I don't like Pina Coladas

2008-07-16T12:26:00.001+12:00

Your sense of smell is a pretty powerful thing. You'll be taken back in time, be revolted, be aroused, become hungry or want more.

For me, the smell of white rum is a powerful smell... one which invokes memories, turns my stomach, and can curdle a good mood faster than a drink driving boozehag at the Tav.

It all began with that famous Jimmy Buffett classic...

I was tired of my lady
We'd been together too long
Like a worn-out recording
Of a favorite song
So while she lay there sleeping
I read the paper in bed
And in the personal columns
There was this letter I read

"If you like Pina Coladas
And getting caught in the rain
If you're not into yoga
If you have half a brain
If you'd like
making love at midnight
In the dunes on the Cape
Then I'm the love that
you've looked for
Write to me and escape."

And so on and so forth...

We were a tad obsessed with this song as teenagers. My group of friends, one friend in particular, would latch onto a "musical genius" - think Meatloaf, Michael Jackson, and would thrash the hell out of it. By "thrash" I don't mean it in its conventional radio thrashing use, I mean thrash in, living and breathing it.

So we managed to procure a bottle of white rum, and, since the budget didn't stretch much further past that, we somehow managed to con someone's mum into buying us coconut milk and god knows what else, under god knows what guise. Then, to add a further step to this already convoluted plan, we managed to convince our respective parents to allow us to stay over at Al's place.

The Pina Coladas were blended, and... were terrible. But we'd paid $20 to a old looking 17 year old for this white rum, goddamit, and we were drinking it, if it killed us.

I don't exactly recall much more than this, except for sculling a tall glass of it on the promise I'd get a Big Mac for getting rid of it...

and hence, should you bring white rum within a 10 meter radius of me, I will not be amused.

Collating collators

2008-07-14T12:32:00.001+12:00

Some people collect stamps, mum collects teddy bears, and a friend of ours collects old kooky plates.

Being the Randomiser, I collect pink paperclips, pegs and fasteners. I have nearly 600 now...

Donations of pink paperclips are accepted at all Westpac branches.

Nine to five drone

2008-07-14T08:08:00.000+12:00

Nine to five drone

by Amanda Riach

I see a spiral into sinking sand:
This deep despair at dead end duty, it
can effect energy and elicits little effort.
Phone calls from people, preaching, praying, paying,
or freaking about failed faxes, and
correspondence: C/O me, charitable conveyor belt courtesy

Inexplicable items in my intray, I’m a
drone, so delegated deals for me to deal with are
littering my life, like leaves litter:
guttering. Gangerous grease gives my
psyche a (sick, but) stern shield
against anger and angst angled at me.

But bloated and bourgeois bureaucracy,
(its racket replicated by roller doors) regularly relinquishes to
politicised problems with the populace, pragmatically puppeteered by
the faceless suits who soothe with a anonymous smile.

Out of it, oddly, I realise
I have hope, and how the hell is their handiwork;
In it, I’m living, but in time, I’m
absconding, and release will alleviate me.

We have a vengeful God

2008-07-11T07:55:00.003+12:00

God has got the world rocking along quite nicely, so he seems to have a nasty little game going with me. I've got a theory, best explained with two recent examples.

In hot water...
I'm a member of the health & safety team for the 5th floor at work, and in the most recent meeting, we were updating the hazard register, when someone pointed out that, ah, hot water could burn you.

So when we had the next team meeting, I thought I'd tell the team, that, haha, hot water can burn.

Ahhhh. Don't mock, especially on a Friday morning when God can't be bothered doing work so he sits in on team meetings and waits for me to slip up.

It was a week and a bit later, probably between Judgements, when He decided that "revenge is a dish best served scalding hot". I'd been in a hurry (read = slept in) and only had time to grab a pack of noodles for lunch. I cooked the noodles (because you have to cook them, obvz) then went to grab them out of the microwave... and poured half a bowl of noodles down my arm.

My friend had come for lunch, so despite my hard earned St John First Aid Certificate (there's a story in that, too), I wanted to look cool, so didn't place my hand into cold running water for 15 to 20 minutes as per recommendations. Instead I used the cold Spree can to subtly rest my hand against.

But that's not all.

...and missing a frying pan
I have been sleeping like absolute poos recently, and had a particularly bad night this week. As well as a rotten mood (hence the lack of posts) I was also a bit slower than the usual warp speed. Well, God wasn't having none of that. He'd had enough of my grumpy-arse and decided to deliver a rapid series of brain farts my way.

Here in Mollywood we're doing up the kitchen, so at the pool table, I thought I'd strike up a conversation about kitchen appliances.

I saw my opportunity when Debbie arrived a bit later to morning tea, and I decided to strike up conversation. "Debbie", I say, "would you get me laid?"

Everyone pissed themselves, alot. My colleagues and their dirty minds had heard the dodgy version of what I was intending on saying: "Debbie, would you consider getting Miele?".

And I'll leave it there. I don't want God stuffing with my broadband connection, I've got Telecom to do that for $50 a month already thanks.

P.S. I'm not being blasphemous, I totally get the religion thing. Jesus turned water into wine, so he's the sort that we'd drink with at the social club. Maybe not throwup-outside-the-hospital-at-5.30pm-drunk, but a good bloke nevertheless.

Creamoata

2008-07-10T22:12:00.000+12:00

Creamoata

by Amanda Riach

Strange company of letters, it is,
To foreign eyes (and stomach)
The brain and the tongue can’t deduce
If –moata is “moat, ah”,
or “mow, ahh – ta!”

I won’t whip on about the decree of enunciation
But I will complain about this:
Amongst salt, ground ginger, cinnamon
This “creamoata” is listed
Whilst cooking with Edmonds

Corporatised products pressures me to a degree,
into hasty decision regarding
the branding I oat to have.
As this raw chef was to learn
Kremelta is an entirely different word
and cannot be beaten into “Gingerbread loaf”.

Training wheels

2008-07-07T08:26:00.000+12:00

Last week I went to driver training, and I tell you, it was the bestest training ever!

We went to the Silverstream Racing Track and skidded a couple of cars round the track, learning to "control" skids, and "driving it like you stole it" towards a building at 60kph, then braking for your life! Don the driving instructor was awesome and didn't panic. Like Craig would.

So of course, I was incredible at driving after this four hour session.

It was Tuesday, so it was time for my weekly driving lesson (in a manual) out to Outram! I hopped in the car, chucked it in reverse, and then slowly backed out.

Craig could see a car coming down the road and has a panic - "foot on the brake, foot on the clutch, foot on the brake, foot on the clutch!"

I panic (at his panic), and stomp - on the accelerator.

The car zips across the road - narrowly missing the car coming down the road - and I manage to bring the car to a stop... where the neighbour's car usually lives. Thank god he was out in it, or I wouldn't find this as funny as I do.

So there are some simple lessons to learn:

don't get cocky after driver training,
remember which one is the brake pedal, and
when the world is panicking around you, keep your head!

PANTS

2008-07-04T11:55:00.000+12:00

Ever needed a name for those hard to call friend friends?

I've devised a term to deal with those hard to name people. After anecdotes ran long trying to concisely describe "we were (good/best/long-time/old)-friends, but due to an incident involving(boys/bitching/backstabbing), we are now (kind of/sworn/mortal) enemies."

So my work colleagues assisted me in producing the term "Previously Acquaintances, Now Terminally Septic", or PANTS for short.

So next time you need to tell a story with the girl who stole your boyfriend in 6th Form as a character, you know what to do. Spread the word.

Pineapple Lumps

2008-07-03T09:53:00.001+12:00

I am a risk-adverse person. I like knowing what's happening, what's going to happen, what I'm doing next. This is why, in a round about way, I was attacked, one morning.

Every night, I pick my outfit for the next day, choose underwear, and get out my shoes. My shoes go by the front door, ready to put on as I dash out in the morning, and my clothing goes into the bathroom, ready to struggle into after my shower.

It was a typical morning.

I was, for once, running on time. I reached down and picked up my underwear. Then, teetering on one foot whilst the other one flayed about in the air, I unfurled my undies...

...and a massive spider, the size of a pineapple lump - no exaggeration - lunged towards me from the safe haven of my panties!

I screamed, snatched the rest of my clothes from the floor, and ran from the room.

Below is an artists representation of the attack:

I am even more risk-adverse after the pineapple lump incident, and my clothes are now kept on hangers or on the basin. As an extra precaution, I stamp on my underwear before putting it on.

Awkward Moments

2008-07-02T17:50:00.001+12:00

We went out to Craig's parents for tea last night. After tea, we settled in the lounge and chatted away, leading onto the topic of Craig & I's long awaited marriage.

We turned to the TV to fill in a brief lull in the conversation, when an advertisement for How to have Sex after Marriage came on. Time slowed down, and the hue of our cheeks burnt brightly.

Craig made a slight clearing noise of his throat. I giggled nervously. Craig, bless him, made some throw away comment regarding his distaste for marriage, which only ramped up the intensity of my cheeks higher. I wanted to start a new conversation but I couldn't even look up from the interesting spot on the carpet I had fixated on.

After an eternity, a new advertisement came on the screen, and the moment passed. I can't wait till I have that power over my children & their partners.

Farmer Chic

2008-07-02T10:59:00.001+12:00

I've mentioned before I like to save a penny where I can (although I'm not shy of spending plenty of pennies at a sale!). Well, I'm terrible to go clothes shopping with, because if I like something, I usually counter the urge to splurge with the rational thought "I could make it for less than that".

I don't have the time or the talent to make most of the clothes that gets that treatment, but a shirt that I found at Wildpair was special enough to make it into my schedule... it was flannel, it was plaid, it was everything I ever wanted (comfort, chic and crazy) all in one package. An expensive package of $90. Hah! I said... I can make that.

Fast forward a week, and I'm at the Warehouse, passing the mens clothing section, when a shirt catches the corner of my eye... a plaid flannel shirt. $10! I bought the smallest one in the non-fugliest colour, and ferrited it home.

I got my new shirt onto my dressmakers dummy and realised a small isn't always small. After a frustrating couple of hours (spread over a couple of weeks) I realised it required the full tailoring treatment. 7cm off the side seams and several weeks later... and we get to last Sunday, when I actually tried it on...

Your heart sunk just then, didn't it. Well, don't fear, the crisis I experienced was of a minor nature. The sleeve cuff reached my elbows. Solution? Short sleeved shirt. Sure, it's Dunedin, and short sleeves mean less chance to wear it, but hey, cheaper than binning it.

On Friday, we had curry club, and we walked past Wildpair, and the flannel shirts that started it all. I looked at them, and I feel mine is just as good, if not better. But I was looking at the shirts while on the end of season rack... perhaps there are reasons to pay the extra cash!

Get into my car

2008-07-01T20:50:00.000+12:00

In the second installment of random videos found on my computer, I present something slightly disturbing, circa late 2005.

Fanning the wedding flames

2008-07-01T09:46:00.000+12:00

I thought I was the only person in my family who produced crazy stories due to randomiser tendencies, but alas, I was wrong.

Ladies, think of a day which produces high blood pressure, -zilla tendencies, and strains friendships - yes, your wedding day. The only day of your life you have to look perfect, so you can't recognise the girl in those photos.

Now, my mum was telling me about my Aunty's wedding day, and I've been retelling the story ever since.

As you can imagine, or attest, the night before your wedding is sexless and/or sleepless. In my Aunty Helen's case, it was both. She was awake for most of the night, and when the clock reached 5am, she decided she might as well get up, and get the paper. The service was at 11am (early back in the day) so she needed to have an early start anyway.

As she stepped out of her mother's (my grandma's) small house, she noticed something was wrong - the air had a strange feel to it. She tentatively walked towards the dairy - and realised the neighbours house was on fire! She rushed back inside, yelling for grandma to call the fire brigade, then rushed over to the old guy's place and jolted him awake with hysterical yelling outside his bedroom window.

Fast forward a couple of hours...

Grandma invited all the firemen over for breakfast and a cuppa, but she wouldn't let them walk on the carpet. Whilst most brides would have their mother fussing over her, my Aunt was not so lucky. Grandma was busy fussing over the firemen, ensuring they had their own square of newspaper to stand on!

Lucky for my cousins, Aunty Helen got down the aisle, eventually. Hey - it's traditional to be late down their aisle, isn't it? I just hope my wedding day is a tad less exciting.

Confessions of a Wind-Breaking Chef

2008-06-30T21:22:00.001+12:00

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.

Water Rage

2008-06-29T16:48:00.002+12:00

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...

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!

Those dodgy knitting types...

2008-06-28T14:23:00.001+12:00

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.

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.

Surprise! I'm... building?

2008-06-27T11:27:00.002+12:00

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...

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.

Scooby Snacks

2008-06-26T16:01:00.006+12:00

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.

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.

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...

Bowling in Binary

2008-06-22T17:01:00.005+12:00

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.

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.

* Names have been not changed, they aren't innocent enough

War Wounds

2008-06-21T13:44:00.000+12:00

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.

Golfing around

2008-06-18T21:35:00.004+12:00

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

2008-06-18T13:52:00.004+12:00

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.

From the wrong side of the pound fence

2008-06-16T22:18:00.000+12:00

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.

Battle: Baby vs Puppy

2008-06-13T21:31:00.006+12:00

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.

Virtuous Transport

2008-06-12T21:36:00.004+12:00

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...

By Special Request: A Birthday Ditty

2008-06-11T12:56:00.003+12:00

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!

Animals do the darnest things

2008-06-10T20:53:00.005+12:00

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

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

2008-06-10T11:04:00.004+12:00

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.

Oui oui

2008-06-06T08:04:00.005+12:00

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.

Take your stick insect to work day

2008-06-05T18:18:00.004+12:00

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.

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.

Shark Attacks

2008-06-04T09:49:00.008+12:00

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.

Beginnings...

2008-06-01T19:36:00.000+12:00

Hello!

Welcome to my haphazard compilation of thoughts, stories, pictures and creations.

Buckle up, I'm sure to take you on a random journey!