A Tad Excessive?

So when you get your new credit card, do you take the old one and

1. Cut it up, making certain to

a. cut the signature into at least three pieces, and

b. cutting the numbers in half across before cutting them into pieces; then

2. Carefully divide the resulting bits into two piles that are each missing key pieces, then

3. Throw out half the pieces in one week's rubbish; and

4. Throw out the other half two weeks later when there is no chance some weirdo can ever put them back together.

The chance that's not a tad excessive?

Don't learn to touch-type if you're ever going to allow your right index finger to get caught in a falling double-hung window.

That's about it, really.

(It has stopped bleeding now, which is a bonus. It's amazing how hard it is to get blood out of denim 3/4 pants without it, either.)

Typing has become painfully slow (as my brain tries to work out which finger to substitute) or is just painful.

But how many words need a 'y', 'u', 'h', 'j', or 'n' anyway?

... *earl* ever* o*e *o* ca* t*i*k of. (Wait! I can write 'of'!!!)

Lessons from Lolly-Making

My Mum and I had a lolly-making working bee at our house today. It's the church's Spring Fair next Saturday. Together we made 5 trays of French Jellies, 1 of triple layer Marshmallow, and I made chocolate fudge after Mum left.

This was a pretty good day's work, lots of standing over pots and stirring involved (and one panicked call to my Grandmother seeking explanation of a weird thing that was happening).

The lessons for today involve:

1. The stove heats up the mixture best if it is turned on at the wall;
2. Avoid dropping the lid off the colour bottle into the jelly mixture;
3. It is easier to have two people working in a kitchen if one of them is NOT doing Zumba moves;
4. Marshmallow cut into dainty squares in the container will grow into mammoth squares once rolled in coconut;
5. If in doubt whether the chocolate fudge is up to standard, don't tell your husband that he'll have to eat it if it isn't before he's pronounced sentence.

How much chocolate fudge is going to make it to the Spring Fair?

Helpful

So, I start studying today. Exciting, hey.

Textbooks arrived Friday, Study Guide and Readings today, and this evening I have half a dozen messages in the online forum.

So I have dutifully sat me down to do some reading, closing the study door to keep the television noise at bay and I am continually being interrupted by the LBD deciding to come in.

Among the many idiosyncracies of our house is the fact that we decided to paint it ourselves. This meant that there was no sense in putting the door handles on until the doors were painted (except for bathroom and loo - we decided those were important enough to be removed and replaced when we got around to the painting thing).

So my office door has no means of securing it and it opens in. So the LBD simply pushes his way into the room, bringing the distracting TV noise with him. He doesn't want to settle in here and whenever I put him out he comes back in.

How much work am I getting done?

... Hmmpf

Seeking Engine De-greaser...

I presume that not many people are in this same boat.

I presume that because if there were heaps of people in this same boat, the supermarkets would still stock the particular item I need.

And they don't.

I stand in front of the wall of hair care products, reading all the labels of all the products for all the brands looking for something that deals with oily hair. There hasn't been anything in a supermarket since Revlon stopped making (or at least selling into the supermarkets) Flex for oily hair in the late 1990s. For a while I did find a Pears product for normal hair that sort of filled the gap, but they don't seem to exist anymore either.

Obviously no-one has normal hair anymore, because I could get colour longevity, frizz reduction, perm protection, hydrating, rejuvenating, split-end inhibiting, body enhancing, long hair strengthening, super moisturising, every-day use type of products. 'Everyday' or 'frequent' use is pretty pointless for my hair, because I don't want to have to shower at lunchtime just to wash my hair so that it doesn't have that greasy sheen for the afternoon. And I'm happy to wash my hair every couple of days, if I can get away with it.

I've discovered lately that if I hairspray to within an inch of its life, I don't seem to get greasy so quickly (or at least it doesn't look greasy).

I don't put conditioner anywhere near my head, but confine it to the ends only.

I put the shampoo into dry hair as recommended by a previous hairdresser in the hope that the shampoo gets a better 'grip' on the grease before I wet everything.

And I'm still left wanting to slip down to the local Supercheap Auto and buy something that will actually get my hair clean enough that I only have to wash a couple of times a week.

More dangerous, of course, is the bottle of dishwashing detergent under the sink. They wash race horses in dishwashing detergent. It says it's 'easy on your hands' so how bad could it be?

I sometimes think phoning my hairdresser in Yeppoon and buying some more Redken super grease removing shampoo, even if it does cost about 5 times what I would normally pay for shampoo.

And at this point I remind myself that greasy hair and face has got to be good for me as I age. I've never needed all the moisturising stuff that people spend so much money on. Surely the grease has to pay off in fewer wrinkles?

... please?

But of course the chances of it working out for me?

... Approximately None!

Mother Knows Best

Have you ever noticed how often mothers are actually spot-on correct?

Dreadful, isn't it?

My Mum has long had a saying (presumably based on the Queensland climate), "Don't worry if your washing is out and there's a shower in the morning - it will still be dry before dark."

I did a quick load this morning, despite the fact that the day did not look propitious.

In fact, if it had been anywhere but here (we usually miss out on the rain here - all the towns around get it) I would have said it looked downright precipitous.

Anyway my washing was out and the sun wasn't, but I'm sure it was getting dry slowly. Then I noticed the sound of light rain. As I was about to do the run down to rescue it I looked out at the neighbours' roof and realised that it must have been misting and lightly raining for a while. Too late for dry washing rescue. Nevermind, my Mum always used to say, "Don't worry if your washing is out and there's a shower in the morning - it will still be dry before dark." It'll be fine.

I looked at the time. It was 12.15pm. Do you know, my Mum was exactly right - I reckon the washing was about 15 minutes off dry when I checked it as the sun was going down.

How many sets of clean and dry underwear do we have in the house?

... Enough for tomorrow, thankfully.

Isn't Charcoal Supposed to be a Cleaning Agent?

So why can't I get the black, charcoal-like substance off the pot in which I slightly burnt the LBD's food?

And why, when charcoal is used in filters to take nasty things out of water, does my pot still smell of burnt liver?

Both of these despite the baking soda, soaking overnight, detergent, scouring pad, Jif and more soaking overnight.

And why do my hands now smell of burnt liver, despite the fact that I used rubber gloves?

The answers I have to these (and many other) questions?

... Approximately None.

A Variation on an Australian Classic...

I wasn't going to do a specific Australia Day post. For one thing, it almost seems unAustralian to make a big thing out of ourselves. Almost like skiting. Really, we should pack up a picnic, go somewhere remote, and enjoy being eaten alive by insects for the day because I forgot the Aeroguard.



However, it seemed more important to clean out everything in the pantry, see what Russel has eaten, and give him fewer hidey-holes. Maybe we could then catch and release him (which would almost be like going fishing, which is a way many people spend the Aussie Day long weekend). Or at least there would be fewer food alternatives and this may make the bait more attractive.



So we found an old corflute public notification sign to put across the door of the pantry to block Russel's escape, and my Beloved passed stuff out to me, and I in turn placed it on any flat space that I could find. It's amazing how much stuff fits into a 1200 millimetre (4 foot) square pantry. And how much mess it creates in the kitchen and dining room.


After most of the stuff was out, we could see Russel running around the floor, looking for a better hiding place. There wasn't one. He was quite cute - a little brown critter with big dark eyes and a tiny twitching nose.
Russel - Faster than a speeding... digital camera. (You can see his tail to the right of the photo)

My Beloved got an ice cream container and was trying to scoop Russel up and put the lid on. He wasn't quick enough with the lid.

Then the little mouse found an excellent hiding place.

It was nice, and dark, and enclosed.

My Beloved wasn't too certain about having a mouse running up the inside of his work trousers, and was madly trying to shake Russel out; but because Russel was running up the trousers, not his leg (and my Beloved has slender, elegant racehorse legs that don't fill up the aforementioned trousers) my Beloved wasn't exactly certain where Russel was at any given time.

My man is brave. He was heard to say at one point, "I hope he doesn't bite," as he tried to shake the pesky rodent down, but in the end Russel's climb was terminated by the fact that my Beloved always wears a belt. There was no where else to go. My Beloved then realised that he'd accidently managed to capture the little mouse (albeit in a slightly unorthodox fashion), clapped a hand over his right buttock, moved the blockade with his free hand and headed outside to work on the 'release' part of proceedings.

I probably would have released Russel a little further away from our house, but for some reason my Beloved wasn't keen on being out in public view during this stage of operations (perhaps some of Russel's furtive behaviour had rubbed off on him). From our back verandah I saw Russel streak away to find somewhere to hide.

Now I just have to go and clean out all the shelves in the pantry, check all the grocery items for signs of mouse, and put them back. At least I know that the pantry needed some rearranging anyway and so will take this opportunity to do so.

And I know someone is going to comment, "How is that story in anyway related to the title?"

Well, I couldn't help but think that many people chose to go to the beach for Australia Day. Some men wear Budgie Smugglers (i.e. Speedos). My Beloved just chose to wear Mouse Smugglers instead.

What's the chance that this new fashion will take on for Australia Day?

... Approximately None!

Although maybe next year Russel might like to go to the beach.

Advice to an About-to-be-Married Friend

I was cleaning up some old files on my computer and came across a document that I'd written to be included in a scrapbook for a friend's hens party. Among other things like recipes, and what our friendship had meant to me, we were requested to give our best tips for a happy marriage. I take it that I didn't want to do the usual sugarly stuff that everyone else would do - I found this gem, just as true today as when I first penned it:-

"Look, just ignore the state of the hand basin. It’s never going to get any better. Those days of it staying clean-looking between cleaning days are gone. Get over it. There is something about shaving that requires water to be spread over as great a part of the hand basin, mirror, walls and floors as possible. They get taught this by their fathers, I’m certain.

Don’t get me started on the toilet floor."

My Beloved, I do love you and appreciate how much work you do around the house mowing and whipper-snippering, washing up, vacuuming, washing windows, painting and all those odd jobs. It's just a reflection of the number of reasons why I love cleaning the bathroom -

... Approximately None.

How to Make Beef Jerky

I swore I would never have a recipe site, but here goes...

1. Go on an elimination diet where you can't eat processed meat or tinned tuna with your salad at lunchtime.

2. Go shopping in the morning and decide to buy some chicken and some BBQ steak to cook, cut into small portions and freeze, so that you have some lunch meat.

3. Cook the chicken early, so that you can have it with your lunch today.

4. Decide that the steak can cook while you eat your lunch, before going back into the office.

5. Watch an episode of The West Wing while you're eating.

6. Once finished with the TV and having eaten your lunch, go back into the office and start doing all the things you've got to do.

7. Remember that one phone call will need the piece of paper with the bloke's name and number on it - it is in your handbag on the kitchen table.

8. Discover the beef jerky still cooking in the frypan.

9. Fill the pan with water and hope that it will actually come clean.


How much good value and economy was there in my cunning plan?

... Approximately None!

The Slaggin' Dragon

Why does laundry day come around so regularly?

And why is there always some garment that needs special attention?

My Beloved had blood on one of his shirts. And in a shirt with striped sections why did it have to be on the white, rather than the bottle green?

My Mum has passed on a number of laundry tips over the years, for example oily stains can be removed with a combination of Sunshine Soap and Spit. Sounds lovely and alliterative, but is just plain disgusting. Apparently there are greeblies in saliva that break down oily substances. And it works. But it's disgusting and I hate doing it. None of the pre-wash stain removers seem to get the residual oil out, even if they take out any colour associated with the stain - so I spit.

The other one (that's actually relevant to today's post) stems from when Mum did a couture dressmaking course years ago. Apparently all dressmakers live in dread of accidentally pricking themselves on a pin when making a wedding dress and leaving a tiny blood spot on the snowy fabric. And Mum was given the top secret, fail-safe remedy for this disaster.

At this point, I think I should warn Givinya that she proceeds at her own peril. She is the one person I know who can both identify my Mum and also had her wedding dress made by Mum. Mind you, I don't think she needed to use this special method on your dress, but I can't be certain.

So it turns out saliva works here, too. But according to Mum it has to be the saliva of the bleedee. Now I can see everyone reading this who has ever been married is wondering if the dressmaker pricked themselves. This would mean that on the one day of our lives that we looked most radiant, wearing the most expensive dress we have ever worn, we may have been walking around in the only dress we've ever owned that has been spat on. Congratulations!

Mum made my wedding dress, but as if I'd worry. She used to spit on a tissue and clean my face with it! How's spitting on a dress going to hurt?

Back to my Beloved's shirt. It was his blood. He was at work. I thought I'd try the ol' spit method anyway. I don't know whether it's that Mum's right that it has to be the bleedee that spits, or whether my saliva hasn't had the chance to be turned into an industrial strength cleaner with the aid of pregnancy hormones. How much effect did it have?

...Approximately None.

Why is there no Kitchen Nazi at this Workplace?

Every workplace I've been employed at has had a Kitchen Nazi. There is always somebody whose job description makes them the boss, or the social club has elected them, or sometimes they just appoint themselves to make certain that the kitchen is left in reasonable condition.

It is the Kitchen Nazi who puts up the sign over the sink or the dishwasher boldly stating that "Your Mother Doesn't Work Here", or "I'm not your slave". They get their 5 minutes of fame during staff meetings to highlight sundry kitchen infringements. They are responsible for the sign on the door of the microwave that tells you in no uncertain terms to cover any food you might want to reheat.

I could have used that sign at lunchtime, but I work from home.

I mostly always cover stuff (and certainly always clean up after myself, after all "My Mother doesn't work here" - I'm it!), but today I was making some toast and remembered a particularly spectacular batch of savory mince I'd cooked last night (and I wish I used a recipe, because although it has many of the same ingredients it is never the same twice). I thought I'd take some from the pot, heat it up, and have it on my toast. I was in a hurry because the toast was already on.

While I was rescuing the toast from cremation there was a bit of a bang from the microwave.

How many Kitchen Nazis do I employ?

...Approximately None.