I made a deal with myself that I couldn't get a new camera until I had a job.

The number of words I need to explain this post?

(Mental note: Clear the table before taking photos)

Pictured: Nikon Coolpix P510.  In red.

What the?

I've previously described some of the impersonations that my hair has attempted. Although I didn't get around to taking photos, I'm reasonably certain that any reader could imagine them.

I woke up on Saturday and I really don't know what to say about this one:

Gone wild?

Gone Star Trek?

Attempting to fly?

The probability that the creature the hair adorns is in fact human?

A compliment?

According to the course co-ordinator at my university I'm "academically incorrigible - in a winsome way"

And how much of an idea do I have as to whether it was a positive or negative comment?

Hmmm.... *goes off to find dictionary*

Self Expression

My hair obviously feels that it's been released from the bondage of length and weight and now takes the opportunity to express itself each night.

I just wish I could understand what statement it's trying to make.

I was rather taken aback on the first morning of new short hair to see it in a rather good impersonation of Hugh Grant circa 1999.

Then there was the Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo.

Then the mad scientist / conductor circa 1930.

This morning's effort was more of a "Drug-crazed Socialite, Morning After Mugshot".

Then again, when I think about it, how much do I want to know what it's trying to say?

Joy.

There are some things that bring joy to our lives.

Sometimes it's in successfully completing a task well.

Sometimes it's in the beauty of nature, or the kindness of a stranger.

Sometimes joy sneaks in amidst the mundane.

And sometimes it's in watching your dog try to catch the fly crawling up the screen - through a closed window.

How many flies did he catch?

And I'm like, "what the?"...

Went down to grab some groceries and go to the bank.

Not necessarily in that order, because I needed the money to be able to get the groceries (and don't ask why I don't simply get cash out at the supermarket, because I have the uncanny ability to pick the checkout that has insufficient cash to be able to oblige me and therefore have to go to the bank anyway).

And the day had got away from me a bit, but it was, in my mind, just after lunch.

And I came out from the shop (into the rain - about which I shall not complain at all - we need it) and loaded everything into the car, and took my trolley back, and then jumped into the car only to find that there was a traffic jam getting onto the road.

There was a traffic jam getting onto the road, because the intersection just up a bit was in a traffic jam.

And that intersection was in a traffic jam because traffic heading into town was at a standstill.

And I sat in my little white car shaking my head and telling myself that I live in a country town and we just don't get traffic jams and hoping that there hadn't been an accident.

And then I looked at the clock. 3.20pm. And I was just up from the local High School.

Of course, because I never go near town between 3 and 3.30pm (particularly on a rainy day), I can remain in my steadfast belief that we don't have traffic jams in country towns.

Oh for the sleepy, dozy school holidays to be with us once again! When I can go where I like when I like without chaotic school traffic.

And the chance that I'm the centre of the universe?

Unfortunate, really.

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?

Dear Doctor...

I am writing to request transfer of my records to my local veterinary surgery on the following grounds:-

• I took my Little Black Dog to visit the vet today, and was actually in the car on my way home a whole minute BEFORE my appointment time.
• He didn't charge me for the consultation because it was just to check that things were healing properly (but when he charges me it's still cheaper despite not getting a Medicare refund).
• He must know his stuff, because he treats a number of different species of animals (and his patients can't explain what is wrong).

How legal would this be? *sigh*

Why?

There was a man.

Standing on the steep roof of an old Queenslander house.

With a green grocery bag in his hand.

The chance I had my camera with me as I drove into town?

Eat Your Heart Out Maid Marion

Okay, so I don't want to perpetuate the popular image of Maid Marion from a certain television show that I only used to watch to drool over Guy of Gisbourne*, but will ever sacrifice tradition to a reasonably catchy title.

And I did sort of get a nick-name from some of the blokes at the regional youth and family camp that makes the reference relevant.

I did Archery as an elective at the camp.

Lots of the blokes brought their children down, but I ended up being the only adult woman who had chosen this particular elective when many of the others were up at the main hall making craft. Others attended a discussion group, and a few were off try to get babies down for a little sleep.

I'm a bit of a freak.

I was idly sitting awaiting the start of proceeding when I recognised Peanut from over at "Graze". Then I recognised her big brother and dad, who had all come out for the day. I should not have been surprised because I know they go to one of the churches that was coming.

Having referred to Peanut by her given name, and having been corrected by dad, I began to wonder if he really wanted me to introduce him at lunchtime as "Yummy Hubby"? I should have asked.

But didn't.

He's a policeman. I didn't want to get him off-side.

I caught up with Crazy Sister who brought out the kids on Sunday. Got to see her new house with the huge kitchen and everything on the way home! (Seriously envious of the kitchen. And the beautiful glossy white architraves and skirting boards - but not of the red dirt. Red dirt goes everywhere!)

But thanks to Yummy Hubby who took the photos and to Crazy Sister who emailed them, I can share these with you. Yummy Hubby takes pretty impressive photos, and I love that my double chin is hidden by the angle. I should employ him as my personal photographer.

Nice instructor who was helping with a technique for drawing back that would not involve the sort of injury to which, as the only adult female, I was the only one susceptible.

Then he also helped with release technique that added some more POWER to my arrows (possibly helped by the fact I was no longer worried about the chance of injury). Then I no longer needed to aim higher than I wanted to hit.

How many of my arrows struck gold?

... You think you're so smart - but as a matter of fact I managed to be the first one (apart from the instructor) to hit gold, but also got another couple later on. Hence spending the next 24 hours being referred to as Maid Marion by one of the blokes.

It appears that archery is a sport that requires no ability to catch, throw, hit moving projectiles with an implement, run, be flexible or have any sort of cardio-vascular fitness. I should take it up.

And how many of my arrows missed the target entirely?
... Approximately None




* Was that bad casting or what?! Aren't you supposed to like Robin Hood? And not be relieved when the seriously irritating maid Marion finally can't be irritating anymore?

What? You mean I'm supposed to have value for worth of character? Oh. Yes, I suppose you're right. I mean, of course you are.

You know your week is off to a brilliant start when...

You offer to check the church Post Office Box while you're there to buy stamps for a whole heap of kids group invitations. So the office lady hands over her key.

You get to the post office, only to remember that you should have asked what the Post Office Box number is, because you can't remember.

You ring the church office to check, sound like a total idiot, but manage to get the mail. Then you go inside to buy stamps and remember that the 40-odd letters you are holding ALL have the church's return address printed on them.

How brilliant is my week looking?

... hmmmpf

Can Someone get the Feathers Out of My Jam?

In-keeping with yesterday's culinary post, I submit this post for your entertainment.

This one involves my Mum.

That means it should be quite amusing.

Earlier in the week I happened to look out our bedroom window over to what remains of our kitchen garden.

It's frosty at the moment, and there's not much left of the summer's growth, some strawberries struggling with the morning frost, the last of the spring onions and some leeks that have taken nine months to not really grow much at all. There's also the remnants of what once were verdant basil bushes that went to seed and then died. We haven't pulled them up yet.

I was delighted to see two gentle parrots quietly helping themselves to the seeds. My Beloved and I stood and watched them for a moment before I bethought myself of the camera.

Sorry about the quality of the image. It was a grey day and I took the picture through the fly screen on the window so that I didn't startle them.


We think they were rosellas.

Of course, in a quirky coincidence there is another sort of rosella commonly known in Australia. It is a fruit that is often used to make jam. Many people love rosella jam, but it is not commercially available. You have to know someone who grows rosellas, and not many people seem to grow rosellas because the fruit is only ever used to make jam.

Vicious circle, that.

So when I was talking to my mother on the phone and told her that we had rosellas on our basil bush she was a little confused.

In her experience rosellas are usually grown on a rosella bush.

How many parrots does it take to make jam?
... approximately none!

I don't think ducks are very smart...

There were two.

Crossing the road.

Slowly.

When I saw them, I slowed down.

When they saw me coming they started waddling fast.

Away from the car...

... in the same direction I was travelling.

It made me think of problem solving in maths at school. "If you have a vehicle travelling at 60km/hr how much does it have to slow down in order to miss ducks travelling at x km/hr in the same direction?

The answer is: It depends when they work out that the waddling is just not going to help and they need to fly.

How many of the ducks did I hit?

... Approximately None!

In training.

In a few weeks I'll be studying.

It's a while since I've studied.

So I'm trying to get into the habit of coming and sitting in the office each evening.

Tonight I've got my order of service done for Sunday's service.

Now I'm blogging.

And Google Talking.

And the chance that blogging and Google Talking is good training for studying?

... Approximatley None.

But it's got to be better than watching TV, right?

Right?

BKO

Yesterday my Beloved and I headed up to Toowoomba for an appointment.

Afterwards we had a bite to eat at a cafe, then headed on to a brief Koorong stop to find a book that is next in line in a series I accidently started reading. They didn't have it, so my characters are temporarily stranded on their way to Alaska. Sorry, people, but they just didn't have the next book, so you'll just have to stay there for a bit.

Anyway, on the way between the cafe and the bookshop I nearly had an accident at an intersection.

Actually, it wasn't close to an accident, but my sudden diversion of all concentration onto another vehicle (including an excited pointing incident) could have caused an accident if anything unexpected had happened.

You see back in 2005 I took our little blue car to Toowoomba and traded it in on a lovely, new white car. I loved our little blue car. It was my first car and we had much fun and drove many miles together.

To see it yesterday was very exciting. Same number plate still, which gave an absolutely positive identification. I felt a bit sorry for the driver after I'd wildly pointed at him to draw my Beloved's attention.

The chance my Beloved has any lingering doubts about my lack of sanity now?

... Approximately None!

Infrustructure...

(Noun) The name of the feeling that overtakes drivers when the government hasn't ensured timely construction of road infrastructure.

Okay, so I made that up. My inspiration came from a board in a coffee shop. All coffee shops should employ at least one staff member who passed senior English. Or can read English. Or has had some exposure to English at some point during his/her life.

That said, I will give them credit where it's due. There were no grocer's apostrophes. None. Well done, coffee shop chalk board writer!

Now to find a dictionary to help them with the half-dozen other mistakes.

We had the meeting of the Axe Wielding Murderers Inc. on Thursday and it was great. Emily Sue then came here for two nights and then this afternoon headed back to Givinya's for a few nights until she leaves Queensland.

It's good to know that all cyber space people are not either figments of my imagination, or psychotic. And now she knows that Queensland is not just a fictional place where all the characters from southern soapies go when they leave the show. Win-win really.

And the chance that, having just been a bit catty about the standard of English at one particular coffee shop, there are no errors in my text?

... Approximately None!

Emily Sue - put down the red pen!

Axe-Wielding Murderers Inc.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow so much.



It will be the inaugral meeting of Axe-Wielding Murderers Inc.



Or at least that's for all Emily Sue knows.



You see, our southern bloggy buddy is coming (actually has already come) to Queensland to meet some of us. For all she knows we're psychotic. Let's meet the players, shall we?



There's Crazy Sister. Bit of a clue there in her name. She has an acknowledged relationship with flame that has been well documented on her blog. She also mentions handcuffs. Enough said.



There's Swift Jan who admits to extensive training with sharp implements. She says it's because she's a hair-dresser.



There's Givinya. Now she says she's a speech pathologist, and we've pretended that we met at a university residential college. Who knows, really. I can tell you that she once SMSed me about storing murdered bodies in the void under my kitchen bench.



Then there's me. I've tried to pretend I'm a 30-something woman who works as a pastor in my church. All sweetness and light. Who's to say that I'm not a 57 year old man called Bernard with a fetish for cat-lovers? After all, when asked what my favourite office equipment was during a getting to know you exercise I once answered with much enthusiasm and a dark tone, "the shredder!". No-one was too friendly after that. I'm not certain why.



But now I think about it, what's to say that Emily Sue is all she seemed in cyber-space?



... Approximately Nothing!



And there would have been links within this text if parts of my computer hadn't tried to crash after a monumental "Graze" related confusion. Thankfully blogger automatically saved this tripe for your reading pleasure. How lucky are you?

Tee, Hee.

So I've done it!

I've applied for a University degree.

Now we'll see if they want me.

And how unhappy would I be if they rejected me out of hand?

... Well, I probably would be, you know.

Jen is Burstin' Out All Over

Trying madly to remember where the song I've adapted comes from. I'm guessing "Carosel".

So, I might have not met my exercise goals and best eating patterns in the crazy time leading up to Easter.

And I might have pretty much indulged in the "Food Tour of Malaysia" while overseas.

But although I refusing to get on the scales for three weeks after my return, there are some indicators that I'd better get cracking on the exercise programme.

So here is my little secret.

I have had three sets of clothes fail in the belly department.

Yep. Three (and that doesn't count for the 3/4 pants that split in the sideseam in the vicinity of my thighs).

1. A pair of new 3/4 pants where the stitching beside the fly began to let go and I had to sew it up. I tell you, those pants would have gone back to the shop (it was about the 2nd time I wore them) if it hadn't been in Toowoomba and I needed them to wear on holidays. I was cranky, because it was obviously woeful manufacture and not that I am getting a bit porky.

2. I busted the zip on my board shorts when I went swimming with elephants in the Genting Highlands. I blame the fact that when the elephant rolled over and I hit the water I must have contorted somehow in a strange way and that was the reason the zip broke - Definitely not that I am getting a little porky!

3. When I got home I was wearing an old favourite pair of suede-finished pants and the stitching beside the zip let go. Of course, they are getting on a bit, so it is probably not that I'm getting a bit porky.

Chance that I've not gained a few centimeters?

... I neither confirm or deny! (Basically because I haven't measured and don't want to know!)

Men and Women are Different

In marriage there are many moments that you stare at your spouse in utter bewilderment at how they could be so different and still be part of the same species.

I like to have new clothes. I like having things that give me some variety and choice. I prefer it if they are flattering in style and colour. I like them to fit nicely. I like to know that they don't gape at the neck or produce peepholes where they button up. It's nice to know that they aren't pilled, pulled or too thin from wear. They have no stains, no repairs are necessary to the buttons or seams yet.

I like having new clothes.

My Beloved on the other hand doesn't really care. If I suggest he needs a new shirt for church he looks at me blankly and says, "why?". When it comes to his normal week he's in work uniform each day, so only really feels he needs a couple of shirts and a pair of jeans for the rest of the week, and some old grungy clothes for working in the yard.

So when we were going on holidays I insisted that he needed some new clothes. He would be wearing 'civvies' for 15 days and a couple of sets of clothes were not going to cover it (particularly once the ones that I wouldn't let him take were removed from his options). So I dragged him to the shopping centre, then he reluctantly used a Christmas gift voucher he'd been given, and we got him some new clothes and they were, "all right".

This morning I was hardly awake when he came in saying he was going to have to use his oldest work shirt to work around the yard in, because he had run out of suitable old clothes. In my half asleep grogginess I managed to list off about three other shirts I could think of that were not longer suitable (in his wife's humble opinion) for wearing as casual clothes. He dug around and found them, then did a little happy dance around the bedroom, "I've got lots of old clothes, I've got old clothes!"

And the chance I haven't worked out that in the future I can sell him on the idea of buying new clothes on the basis that the old ones can be worn around the garden?

... Tee Hee.