busted

Early this morning, while my family slept, I spontaneously jumped in the pool for a swim. It was great! I cannot tell you the last time I swam, usually I'm hanging onto Millipede, swoooshing him around in the water. But this time I had free hands to do with as I pleased.

After a few laps and a bit of a float, the excitement of the "me-time" got the better of me and I started to muck about. I won't be confessing to the embarrassing details, but basically I got a bit too gleeful and silly and, well, completely carried away... and I crashed!!!

Now I'm sporting a busted top lip:

1. Half my lip has swollen huge, like I've chickened out of one of those Hollywood pouty duck-mouth jobs, after only one shot of the silicon.

2. I have a cut which looks like a giant cold sore.

3. And a bruise which will be mistaken all week for a hefty moustache.


Whoooot-wooo, pretty.



(Despite the disfigurement, I still had a great morning.)

the making of memories

The strangest thing just happened to me.

A little backstory first though...

People would describe Mr You as a collected, calm, generally co-ordinated "got it together" kind of guy. Though sometimes, once in a very very blue moon, something, well, strange happens.

The first time it happened was waaaay back in the very beginning. We had been good friends at uni for a year and a half before we became a couple. I count the first time we kissed as when we crossed over into couple-dom, and it was during this first night...

...I was working on a Photoshop piece for uni, way back before Photoshop even had layers (yes folks, I'm getting a little long in the tooth). Mr You had his own computer at home at the time, and being skilled and generous as he was, he invited me to come over to borrow his computer to finish off my work.

It was during this evening (before the kissing started) that the first "strange event" occurred.

I was sitting at his computer, he was crossing the room towards me, he said something I swiveled in the office chair to face him as he spoke, he tripped on the corner of the rug and head-butted me with his big noggen on his way down. I broke his fall and was almost concussed in the process.

I tried really hard to not cry infront of him, he blushed bright crimson, and after the shock and awe of it all wore off we laughed, hard! We still laugh at that.

Somehow we ended up kissing that night. Perhaps he thought he needed to give me a concussion for that to occur?


Flash forward another year... Now we're a couple. I'm hanging out with him in his funny little uni-student-share-house-bedroom, it's morning and we're getting ready to go out for the day. He pops the top off his deodorant bottle, flips the bottle high in the air intending for it to spin, him catch it, and then apply it to his manly-pits all in one smooth impressive move. What actually happened was as he flipped it high in the air he lost control, it spun and hit me square in the head. Again, pain, but eventually, and to this day, many tears of laughter!

Getting the pattern here?


So just now, baby is finally having a day sleep (HALAY-JULIA), I'm sitting here quietly at the kitchen table replying to emails, Mr You comes in from his office an we have a quiet whispered chat as he makes himself a cup of tea. All seems safe and well, right? Wrong!

What happens next is the single strangest thing, I'm still baffled and laughing...

He comes up behind me and gives me a little kiss on the back of my neck, goes picks up his full cup of tea, pauses, walks back towards me purposefully, is half way through saying "hang on", then POURS THE CUP OF TEA DOWN MY BACK!!!!

I can only assume the rest of his sentence was going to be "Hang on, you'd do well to taste more tea-like".


I'm in tears of laughter typing this now. I still can not explain to you WHY this happened, or what his original intention was. All I know is that one minute I was safe, the next I'M COVERED FROM EARHOLE TO BUM-CRACK IN HOT TEA!!!

We both yelped, jumped, queried, exclaimed, wiped and laughed... all in hushed don't-wake-the-baby tones.

Thankfully Mr You drinks his tea very milky or I could have suffered a nasty scold and be left trying to explain the whole soggy incident to Family Protection.

quote of the week

SCENE 1-
Mr You   (inquisitive) :   "Have you used this toilet today?"
Me        (embarrassed) :   "Umm maaaybe, why? Is there evidence of some sort?"
Mr You   (nice voice) :   "No, it wouldn't have been you fairy-bowels. That smell must be coming in the window from outside."

HHmmmm. Do I slap or kiss him now? I'm not sure...


(Pic from fairyfurnishings on Etsy)

inner workings of a Big W catalogue model

buyers remorse

Mr You and I are in deep regret this morning, clearing jumping in to buy our house a few months too early. This SHOE is for sale not far from us!!!! Okay, so it's a tad out of our budget, but that's only because it's in a great spot and on a stack of land.

Couldn't you just see it? Mr You in a checked shirt and overalls, me wearing an apron and my hair in a bun, hanging the washing out on the shoe lace! :D

So peeps, if any of you are interested...

so bad it's good

This year, spooked by losing my job and running out of money, I splashed out a whole 49 cents for a 10 pack of Christmas cards!

Naively coerced into a false sense of achievement by the "promising" card on the front of the pack, with it's fine vintage appeal...
Only to discover this kind of thing inside! >>



AND THESE ARE THE GOOD ONES!!!! You should see the others... Radioactive Santa, cropped across the head. A pigeon-toed teddy with a lapfull of gifts floating off centre in too much white space. And one with a font so wacky it looks to me like it reads "Johns Christmas Wishes".

May I be so bold as to suggest they are SO BAD THEY'RE GOOD!?

But I'm not sure I can send them. It has occurred to me others may not share in the "so bad it's good" joy.


Mr You and I have a long history of delighting in all things "bad". We often frequent gigs at a local club who's insides are designed to make you think you're on a cruise ship; complete with balcony decks and portholes! Then there was the time we drove over an hour deep into the western suburbs to watch the semi-finals of the Air Guitar championships.

And don't even start me on the genre of "so bad it's good" TV shows and music. I know I have touched on our admiration of Shakira before, but we'd be here all night!...


So anyway, keep your eyes peeled on the postbox. You may be the lucky one who gets the card with elves crawling out Santa's pants!

mountains of mess

It's only taken 5 days... 5 days to turn every surface of the entire house into my own factory:

My studio table is a pizza of drawing and painting stuff...

The spare room has been overtaken by a forest of sewing, complete with vines of fabric, shrubs of wadding, ironing board, balls of wool, etc...

The coffee table is spread thick with wedding thank-you notes in progress, stamps, envelopes, address book...

The dining room table has sunk under the weight of wedding photo's...

And thanks to my failed efforts to recreate the bircher muesli I became addicted to on our honeymoon, the kitchen is a little less than tidy too.

I pick Mr You up from the airport very early tomorrow morning.
What to do? What to do?

Spend the evening bouncing enthusiastically around the loungeroom to loud 80's pop, ending in an icecream stupor???
Or intensively de-flossy-fying the ridiculously messy house???

It IS Friday night.... Hmmmm....
Is it too soon to call "happy wife, happy life" on this one? heeee

a master chef I am not

Thank-God that Master Chef show has come to an end! I've just spent the past few months being unbearably hungry for food well beyond my abilities. The cravings leading me to brazenly attempt feats I shouldn't. The last week alone resulting in a finger burn (nothing new there), a badly grated thumb knuckle, and an egg that turned itself into a cluster bomb and very nearly blew up our whole kitchen.

Now it's over (and I survived) we can go back to eating what we know, without those accompanying feelings of bitter disappointment and want for something far better. Thank-God!


(Note to fellow kitchen novices: I'm sure, like me, you know not to cook an egg in the microwave. But, as it turns out, you can't even re-heat one. Not even if you think you're being smart by boiling an extra egg the night before so you can have one for your lunch tomorrow. Not even if you peel it and pop it in the microwave for just a little while so that the mayonnaise can melt into your egg a little on your yummy sandwich. Nope not even then. Heed my word, or you'll be eating peanut butter on your sandwich like me, again bitterly disappointed that it's not what you'd been craving. Another word of warning - while cleaning the decimated egg out of the microwave, it is impossible not to end up with egg-smudge clogged in the tiny round air vents, resulting in your kitchen smelling like egg bomb for days! Urghhh).

eye-spy a sign

I had completely lost track of eye-spy again recently. But thanks to a weekend trapped inside due to torrential rain and a great topic from August Street, I'm glad to be back at it again today.

I love funny sign spotting. So I have a few to share:

I took this first photo because it totally sums up our town, (LOADS of older folks flock here to retire). It' not so much the sign itself, more the "display". It cracked me up when I saw it:


The next one is outside the corner store, (chipped and faded), here in our little village. The ad agency must have had a ball with this campaign:

Mmmm, so I've heard. ;)


Meanwhile, back in Sydney, to THE BEST Chinese dumpling place in town...

The menu alone was packed with jems like this:


The signs on the walls were all excellent too, and on our way out we grabbed one of these menus:


And we had to pose with this brilliant sign on the window. If you look closely you can see all the "corrections" they've made so far... (speciaL, noodel, etc), just haven't made it all the way to Firday yet ;)


Before you ask, yes we have both the Engrish and Chinglish books. :D

hey diddle diddle

A friend of mine, who had been a vegetarian as long as I've known her, (past tense is because she's no longer a vego, but still a friend), once burst out during a quiet moment "We bought a leather lounge!" followed quickly by "There I said it!"

We chuckled because this admission had clearly been weighing her with guilt. Funny that such a banal thing should seem like such a big deal (not that I'm saying the lounge was banal, just that compared to other confessions this was pretty domestic... Something like "I was once a man!" would have suited her level of embarrassment more). Anyway I really didn't think anything of it, other than feeling sorry for her that she felt she needed to confess this fact to everyone she knew.

Shine the interrogation spotlight in this direction, and hear to me squeel:

"I'll be wearing a white wedding dress!" ... I take a sharp intake of breath and hold it for the response.

I know, I know, most of you out there will be thinking, "Um Der, Yeah". So why do I feel as though I need to confess this fact to everyone?

It's because alot of people I've told this to so far have looked at me as if I've just told them I'll be wearing this:



It's true, I never thought I would ever wear a white wedding dress myself, and this is probably adding to my troubles and other peoples surprise. But the shocked double takes are starting to make me feel a little insecure. And that's just when I tell them the colour, what's going to happen when I'm actually wearing it?

I didn't pay alot for it, and it didn't come from a wedding dress shop, but essentially my dress is going to look "the part".

I was nervous when I bought it, but I thought it was just the fact that I looked so bridey in it, which I wasn't expecting, but that I'd get used to it. I'm discovering now that there seems to be such a stigma about it that I didn't expect. As I'm trying to work all this out I think perhaps many people assume that women that choose to wear white dresses:
A) Have one of those creepy 600 page wedding scrapbooks they've been keeping since they were 5 years old, and have just been on the hunt for a real man to act it all out with
B) Thinks undeniably that wedding day is all about her, and how she looks
C) The choice of dress will be tacky
D) And the wedding will be all ice sculptures, smoke machines, cheesy wedding singers with bad comb-overs, and Mariah Carey music.

Since when did the word "bride" become such an unfashionable term inducing shivers in all who use it? And when did wearing white become such a taboo? I'm blaming these vixens...



On the weekend we went to a Wedding Expo (more gasps)... It was a very small regional one, so we weren't too daunted about going, and Mr You was the one who convinced me to go, saying when else are we going to get a chance to go to one of those things? So we went and I made him promise not to let me laugh at anything inappropriate ('cause let's face it, yes I'll be wearing a white dress, and that's one thing, but there's a whole world of other stuff in this realm that's down-right funny).

The first time I had to stifle a laugh was seeing the teddy bears in dresses and suits strapped to the front of all the wedding cars. Every wedding car display featured some sort of stuffed toy or beanie-bear dressed to the nines and strapped to the front!!!! C'mon, that's funny!

There were a couple of god-awful table displays, and there was a lady sitting next to a square of astro-turf (who knows what that was about?), but the rest was kind of what you'd expect. Highlights were all the cake samples we got to "taste-test", and the fashion show where all the models were attempting to make it to the end of the catwalk and back in way-too-big-for-them-stilettos.

But the one thing that has impressed us the most.... the photographer who was championing this style:



Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon,
the little dog laughed to see such fun, and the groom ran away with the spoon!

WTF!!!???


Anyway, as you can see I'm trying my darnedest to put all this in perspective. YES, I'll be wearing a white dress at our wedding, but NO we will not have stuffed toys strapped to the front of any forms of transportation, my relatives will have no need to blush at the amount of boob that'll be on display, I will not be wearing a veil so tall and poofy it touches the tree's or so long it nets and captures small children, and we will not be dancing a boxy waltz to Whitney's "I Will Always Love You".

Yes, I'm still a bit nervous about looking like a bride (and the word "bride" does make we quiver a little), but relax people, it's just a dress and just one tiny part of a very full day. Right?

So all that said and done my dress is ready. My Mum and Sister Sparkle are going to pick it up for me this weekend.
There's no turning back now. Anyway, why would I want to? It's pretty.

happy slanket

It was hard to sleep last night, what with the roar of the wind, trees banging against the house, and things being catapulted onto the roof. The weather here is WILD at the moment! Wild I tells ya!

Mr You's sister has evacuated their house because of flooding from the rain water, and his parents are expecting the river they live on to flood sometime tonight. It's crazy!

Thankfully we've had power most of today, after not having it most of yesterday. It's hard to entertain yourself without light or power, and the lack of cups of tea was nearly the end of me.

Anyway, it's been a good day to stay inside: staying as warm and dry as possible. Lucky for me, I was bestowed with the PERFECT thing for this very purpose from Mr You thismorning...



I laughed hysterically for at least 10 minutes, then we spent the next 10 in photoshoot mode, as I demonstrated all the handy aspects of living life in a blanket with sleeves!

This Winter there will be no more cold arms while trying to read in bed, no more tangles while freeing my arms from a blanket as I rush to answer the phone. No more cold tea drinking or mouse clicking hands. Nope, I'm'a gonna be warm and toasty from fingers to toes. All. Day. Long... :D

I told my friend about it on the phone, and after a chuckle she commented that I just need to hope no one pops by unexpectedly. After some thought on this, I realised it's perfect for that too. Underneath my slanket I can spend Winter dressed fantastically, so that when visitors (especially those Mormon women who keep catching me still in my pyjama's, which I think gives them the notion that I need their special and frequent attention) come by, I can merely let my slanket drop to the floor on my way to the door, revealing my new stylishly clad self. No more trackies and skivvies for me!

Oh, it's so perfect. Thanks so much Mr You. Thanks too for the yummy breakfast and happy, birthday themed music I awoke to.
A wet but cheery day. :)

on the topic of rugs

I had a brief Skype chat with my Auntie who lives on the other side of the country last night. (Skype is like an online video chat).

She asked if I was wearing a wig...
and I wasn't...

that's not good, is it?

blush

you may now call me floppy

Over the past 2 weeks I thought I'd been doing a pretty good job of playing nursemaid for Mr You. Cleaning and cooking, fetching pillows, tea, medications, snacks, books, remote controls, doing up shoelaces, putting on socks, bathing, applying deodorant, chauffeuring, answering the phone, cutting food into tiny pieces, tidying up the yard, keeping the relatives updated on progress...

But today my care-taker credibility all vanished in single sunken moment...

I took Mr You back into hospital today to an appointment where he had to have his cast off, x-rays examined, his surgery wound checked, arm bent and stretched to check for mobility, and a new cast put on.

Mr You did very well. Everything was looking good, and HE remained conscious throughout the whole appointment. It was all going swimmingly, until I started to get the sweats, got that prickly hot/cold feeling, and started getting dizzy. I tried to get up and slip out of the ward before anyone noticed, got as far as the door and completely blacked out... And like a corset-constricted victorian dame, I damn well feinted.

A male nurse held me upright, while another nurse dashed and brought me a chair, yet another rushed for a glass of water, and another buzzed about fetching me a cool face washer, and ANOTHER rummaged for the jelly beans. It was a well rehearsed operation. They said it happens fairly often... but usually to the PATIENTS!!!! Not to the companions!

Oh, and there I was, plopped on a chair in the middle of the doorway between the waiting room and the ward for all to see, head most unglamourously wedged between my legs, eyes wide open but unable to see, hearing all this go on around me, while the 6 or 7 patients were instantaneously abandoned by their nurses and doctors, all because I got squeamish.
Oh Lordy... The embarrassment! The shame! The heckling I will cop from Mr You for the rest of my days!

I'm not normally so lame. I don't know what happened.

I may very well have to rename myself floppy-p.

note: that odd shape in his x-ray is his shiny new inner bling: a new elbow knob, titanium of course.

))face

With little under a month until our twelfth anniversary together, there’s been a concerning development…

Mr You : You've got to know that after this much time together, when I call you bumface it's meant as a term of endearment... Are you making us a cup of tea?
Me : No
Mr You : Do you want one, Bum?


hmm.

how to party like you're 5 years old

Yesterday was Mr You's birthday, and now that we live and hour and a half drive away from his family, we were able to invite them for a party. It was a beautiful sunny day, despite the predictions of rain, which was great for our garden party plans. We had a BBQ in the back yard with chairs for the adults, and a big rug of toys for all of Mr You's nephews and niece. We played pass the parcel, and musical chairs. There were balloons and party blowers, along with waaay too much sugar. It was FUN!

This was my first attempt at a real birthday cake, isn't it cute? I got the idea here. And as we passed out the slices, I issued a warning that I was to be held in no way responsible for any seizures caused by the colouring. I think everyone escaped unharmed... Although today we got a text message from Mr You's sister letting us know that his niece has just done her very first smurf-blue poo! I'm so proud. :) I can't wait till his Nan passes the yellow block!

the toenail people

This is: What makes me laugh out loud.

Five months ago we moved from inner city Sydney to a small coastal town. Since then we have discovered a new hobby; collecting amusing clippings from the local papers. The local press is strewn with typos, bad grammar, great colloquialisms, and things that, well, just crack me up. We've started a scrap book to hold our ever growing collection, and it's sorted into themes.

This clipping is from the "local advertising" section. It cracks me up every time I see it. It's not just the service that it offers, it's the way-too-eager expression on the woman's face too! ...(Kind of like she's hiding a roll of gaffer tape behind her back, and she intends to use it... strap you into your chair with it, gag your mouth, and do unspeakable things to your toes... and she can't wait!).

a want to be fiddle-licious

Last night I got a look accompanied with a raised eyebrow when I announced to Mr You that I want learn to fiddle.

It all started with a dubiously angelic sounding group of women wearing wedding dresses. A DVD Mr You’s Dad (we’ll call him Papa-You) insisted I watch because I have an Irish background (my dad comes from and lives in Ireland). It was at excruciating! Watching women in wedding frocks sing not-irish songs through syrupy smiles. (unless you count Ronan Keating hits).

So, when Papa-You came to stay with us last week I sat him down and made him watch my DVD of Sinead O’Connor’s documentary about the making of her Sean Nos album, to show him a comparison. A few of my favourite scenes in that doco are of 2 different women singing unaccompanied a capella songs in Gaelic. Anyway, he said he enjoyed it, and agreed it had a higher ranking of “Irish” authenticity than those prom-dress-chicks.

Last night we went to Papa-You’s place to celebrate his birthday. He upped the anti and cracked out his Chieftains DVD for me. It was great, a live concert in Nashville, where they teamed with Bluegrass artists (including Gillian Welch!) to show how similar irish folk music and bluegrass actually are. It’s uncanny, and unassumingly entertaining.

Anyway, ever since I’ve been “reeeerrring” and “diddlydiddling” like a violin rippin’ up some celtic-bluegrass.

Unfortunately I have a sneaking suspicion that I’d need to learn violin first before I could start “reeerrrydiddiling” in an infectiously foot-tapping fiddle style.


Do you play an instrument? I don’t, never have… I’m very un-musical. How long does it take to learn an instrument, bluegrass style? …(when you’re un-musical?)

Mr You tells me that playing violin is really hard because they don’t have frets. And considering he has 4 guitars, a mandolin, a banjo, and a keyboard in the house already, maybe I should start to learn something we already own.

But how am I supposed to one-up Papa-You with a keyboard? No, the only way will be if I squeeze into a wedding frock and bust out the fiddle (like her) before his very eyes. Then at a key moment, give a secret signal that brings a few of my Guinness swigging, irish jigging aunties out from the sideline for a bit of a arms-by-their-sides diddly-dee dance-along.

what a workout

The other morning Mr You, while poking at his armpits, asked me:
"What does it mean if the lymph nodes under your arms are very sore?"

I thought for a while... ruled out breast cancer... then realised...
"Is it just sore muscles from skimming stones at the creek yesterday?"

"Ahhh", he replied, with a somewhat sheepish grin.

(quite a workout for computer geeks like us) :)

starkwether, homicide, children of thalidomide

Mr You is really smart. Yes, he’s the biggest smart-arse ever, but this time I’m talking about the other type of smart: the clever kind. He knows all sorts of stuff, stuff I have no idea about, and he seems to remember everything. I put it down to never getting drunk as a teenager – keeping all those nubile brain cells, the very ones I myself must have pickled.

He’s the one you want on your team if you’re playing Trivial Pursuit. In fact one night we got a whispered call from Elle, they were at a trivia night, and she had snuck into the bathroom to ask Mr You the answer to one of the questions. She sang a few lines of “Too Shy” to us, and Mr You know right away that it was by “Kajagoogoo". I mean who remembers that?!

He’s not scholastic though, never liked school or took much notice. So when he amazed me with yet another beam of knowledge this morning (something about thalidomide babies) I demanded that he tell me how he knows all this stuff.
His reply? “We Didn’t Start the Fire”
“What?”
“We Didn’t Start the Fire, by Billy Joel. It’s got everything in it you’ll ever need to know about recent history”

And I’ll be buggered, he’s right you know! It’s all in there.
Now please excuse me, I’m off to tune into Classic Hits radio to see what else I can learn!

ladyboys

I’m super busy working on a whole bunch of paintings at the moment (I’ll share them soon), but it has come to my attention that I seem to have trouble making boys look like boys. I’ve tried all sorts of things; short hair, flattening out their cheekbones, fuzzier eyebrows, squarer jawline, and there’s even a bit of man-nipple showing in the punk one! But each time they still lack that chromosome and are mistaken for ladies. The only failsafe is adding facial hair.

Don’t feel bad if you’ve mistaken my lads for gals, you’re not the only one. When I described these fellas as boys, Mr You was shocked.
“They’re not boys, they’re hot lesbians!”

Go figure.

Apparently I can’t draw boys, but I’ve got the minorities all worked out. Next on the drawing board are transvestites, transsexuals and drag queens! Stay tuned...

(…and with the keywords in this post I can sit back an watch my google search hits skyrocket)