Ninja Undie Attacks

What is it with men and washing machines? My other-half is pretty good at separating whites from coloureds and not putting fluffy towels in with work pants etc... but it's those BLOODY burrs that get me!

Anyone that knows me knows that we are involved in Tuff Truck and this means that for weeks prior to the event there is a lot of work to be done on the property to get it ready. Some of this work involves fencing and clearing, of which my other-half is an active participant.

The problem is that getting stuck into this type of work means that he has to walk through acres and acres of long grass and scrub that has these nasty little burrs - ones that look like little Ninja throwing discs. They are three sided and these little bastards are SHARP.

So, these nasty little pricks (take that anyway you like) have a habit of adhering themselves to his socks. When he comes home after a weekend up at the site, there are literally HUNDREDS of them hitching a ride back with him. A solution we used to have was our little 'prickle remover'... my rat, Fee Fee. These seemed to be the rat equivalent of chocolate, and if I laid out the socks for her (or if Greg was sitting somewhere with her) she would spend ages picking them off and stashing them in her 'pantry' to enjoy later. We no longer have Fee'... so the little buggers remain intact.

The problem lies with washing these socks. Greg has the really annoying habit of just tossing them in with the 'first' load of washing... which includes all my lacy bras and undies. Burrs + lacy undies = OUCH!

I first became aware of this factor during an important meeting. I was deep in conversation with a client and was suddenly aware of a sharp sensation in my... ahh.. 'nether regions'. I shifted in my chair to get comfortable and was met with a similar sensation elsewhere in my underwear.

Attempting to soldier on with the meeting, I spent the next 30 minutes shifting around in my chair (much to the odd looks of those around me), attempting to discretely deal with the sensation of having 1000 bull-ants in my undies. Once the meeting was over, I raced off to the ladies to try and work out what the hell was going on.

Bolting into the loo, I tore off my underwear and inspected them closely. There were literally HUNDREDS of tiny little burrs (unseen as when I dressed that morning it was still quite dark) imbedded in the lace and elsatic, that had slowly worked their way to the surface, inflicting what can only be described as the equivalent of 'chilli powder in your undies-type' injuries to my 'bits'.

I decided that I would take an early mark for the day and went home to deal with my injuries... you've gotta love Savlon... and spend the afternoon doing a major 'pantie inspection'.

To say there was some major lecturing on sock washing that evening would be an understatement.

Amen!

For some reason, I find THIS hilarious... I am SO going to hell!

A Dead Pussy in Her Drawers

First up, no cats were hurt when this happened... so all you cat lovers out there settle down. After writing my previous post, I remembered something that happened back in the nineties that, to Jo and I, was a source of endless amusement for years afterwards... know as the 'Dead Pussy in Your Drawers' incident.

Jo never had 'more than one cat'. In her own words, she had one 'major cat' and any others she owned at the time were referred to as 'minor' cats... and if there was only one 'minor' cat, it was always referred to as her 'Spare Cat'. She believed that everyone should have at a Spare Cat, in the event that a 'Cat Disaster' should occur - you would always have your 'Spare Cat' to fall back on. I never found out exactly what a Cat Disaster entailed, but Jo seemed to take the whole thing very seriously.

At the time of this event her Major Cat was a funny-looking ginger moggie called Rocky who had a fixation about driving in cars and sleeping on the ironing board while you were trying to iron. I can't remember the name of her Spare Cat, but she was a smokey coloured, fluffy little thing that Jo had taken in as a stray. They all lived in a little weatherboard cottage that Jo shared with a guy that we simply referred to as 'Some German Guy'.

Anyway, one Saturday afternoon she invited me over to assist her with the serious task of emptying two casks of one of those fruit-n-wine concoctions, something that we did with great enthusiasm as she had also made a 'cheesy-fruity-crunchy-platey-thingy' to go with it. Jo and I literally had a language all of our own going, much to the annoyance of our mothers as it allowed us to discuss things without them catching on.

So, we spent the afternoon getting stuck into this serious task and by the time we had completed our mission we were pretty much blind roaring drunk. Around this time, I happened to ask why I had seen Rocky around, but not her Spare Cat. Jo explained that she hadn't seen her for a nearly a year and had assumed that (like cats tend to do)it had decided to move out to greener pastures. It suddenly became obvious to us that finding this Spare Cat was paramount, in case we had a Cat Disaster happen!

We staggered around the house slurring "Herrrre pushy, pushy, pusssss... pushy pusss" - or something along those lines - for some time, looking under beds and in cupboards in case she had become trapped. Jo insisted that if that was the case, her Spare Cat was verrrrrry intelligent and would have found a means to survive. I figured that if the Spare Cat was verrrrrrry intelligent, she would have written notes and pushed them out under the doors to let us know she was there.

In our drunken stupor, we decided that this would have indeed happened, as she was a verrrrry intelligent Spare Cat, so moved our search out to the front yard.

At this point Some German Guy came home. What greeted him in the front yard was two very drunk women wandering around the front yard calling "Herrrrrrrre pushy cat... pushy cat... pusss pusss...herrrrrrre pussy". It was all very Monty Pythonesque and if it had been filmed would have probably earned us a large sum of money on Funniest Home Videos. Anyway, after watching us for a few minutes, Some German Guy asked us what was wrong and our reply about looking for the Spare Cat didn't seem as important to him as it was to us... so he went inside to escape the embarassment of being seen with us.

Once we had scoured the front yard, we moved our search to the back yard - stopping to grab a bottle of wine from the fridge to assist us in 'maintaining our focus on the serious task ahead'. After checking every nook and cranny in the yard (as much as you can when you are blind drunk) we came upon an old chest of drawers. These drawers, explained Jo, were chock full of memory-stuff-goodness-and-bits that she couldn't fit inside. We decided that this was a good time to go over this memory-stuff-goodness-and-bits, so opened the top and middle drawer. There was nothing inside... this caused Jo to burst into drunken tears, as she couldn't even remember what exactly had been in the drawers in the first place.

Then we opened the bottom drawer... and there was the Spare Cat, curled up with her tail around her nose, sound asleep.

Jo was extremely pleased about finding her Spare Cat (she was now fully prepared for a Cat Disaster) and began calling and cajoling her to come out. To which, the cat ignored her and continued its slumber, so it all went something like this:

J: That cat is ignoring me. I've spent the last few hours looking for her, and she ignores me.
S: That's the thing with Spare Cats, they are so ungrateful.
J: Really? Spare Cats are ungrateful?
S: Yup. I've heard it has something to do with only being a Spare Cat, emotionally devastating to them.
J: Where did you hear that? I can understand being an underling to a Major Cat could be traumatic... is that the same as being devastating... to a cat, I mean?
S: Yup, and being a verrrrrry intelligent Spare Cat with an extended vocabulary, it would have been even more devastating. In short, your Spare Cat is angry at you and is ignoring you.

At this Jo began to cry. She sat down in front of the chest of drawers and began to tell her Spare Cat how much she loved and appreciated her, and how important she was in the grand plan of being prepared for a Cat Disaster... and still the Spare Cat ignored her.

S: She's a verrrrry deep sleeper
J: Hmmm, maybe we should yell at her?
S: Okay, like in the Pet Shop skit then?
J: Yup

So, we began to do Monty Python's Pet Shop skit about the dead parrot... very loudly. This resulted in Some German Guy coming out to see what was going on. After explaining that we had indeed found Jo's Spare Cat (thus ensuring that everything was in place should a Cat Disaster occur) Some German Guy wandered over to the half-open drawer and peered in.

SGG: Uh, Jo... your cat is dead
J: No she's not, she's just sleeping
SGG: No, Jo...your cat is definately dead... mummified and very dead.
J: Nope, that cat is definately sleeping.
S: Yes... Spare Cats tend to sleep verrrrry deeply, it's a trait of theirs.
J: Really?
S: Yup
J: I never knew that. Maybe that's why she has been missing for so long, some form of cat-apoenea or something? Good thing cats don't drive, she'd probably fall asleep at the wheel.
S: That's a good thing, probably one of the gooder-rest things I've ever heard.
J: What's that?
S: That cats can't drive, they'd have accidents as they wouldn't be able to stop
J: Why is that? I'm sure cats would be verrrry responsible drivers - if they could drive!
S: They wouldn't be able to reach the brake pedal...
J: Ah! That makes sense.

At this point, Some German Guy decided that we'd lost the plot and went back inside, with a parting comment that the cat was indeed... dead.

Jo was going to have no part of this, so picked up a broom and began prodding the sleeping Spare Cat. It still didn't move, so I offered to prod it in the head, to teach it a lesson about ignoring people. Jo reluctantly agreed, so I prodded the sleeping Spare Cat right between the eyes, all the while yelling "Wake up Spare Cat, wake up!"

The broom went straight through its forehead... and out the back of its head.

I screamed... Jo screamed... and in my panic, I staggered back with the broom still in my hands. This resulted in the - now obviously deceased - cat, swinging wildly about as it hung on the end of the broom handle, making a terrible 'crunchy' noise as it did. I raised the broom in the air, intending to get the offending Dead Spare Cat as far away from me as possible, but this resulted in it sliding down the broom and onto my hand, which went through its head. Screaming, I threw the broom in the air, which completely dislodged the Dead Spare Cat so I was now wearing it like a crunchy, furry boxing glove.

I went into a crazed dance - hopping around and screaming - until I managed to fling the Dead Spare Cat off my hand, which resulted in it flying off directly at Jo.

What resulted was lots of drunken running around the yard screaming, Jo crying as her Spare Cat was indeed dead... and that she was now unprepared for a Cat Disaster. The noise caused Some German Guy to come outside, which at this point saw him coming across Jo, myself and a mummified Dead Spare Cat sitting on the back lawn crying (not the Spare Cat though, as it was dead).

SGG: What the hell are you two doing???
Jo: My Spare Cat is dead
S: Yes... it is indeed dead. Jo now has no Spare Cat
SGG: I told you that while it was still in your drawers, Jo
Jo: Oh... so you knew it was dead while it was in my drawers?
SGG: Yes Jo, your pussy cat is dead
S: Jo...
J: Yes...
S: You had a dead pussy in your drawers...
J: Uh... I had a Dead Pussy in My Drawers, didn't I?
S: Yup

We both collapsed with laughter about having a Dead Pussy in Your Drawers, totally forgetting that Jo was now indeed, Spare Cat-less. Some German Guy grabbed a shovel and quietly disappeared with the now deceased Dead Spare Cat to give it a decent burial in the garbage bin, leaving us rolling around the ground laughing...

Once we had sobered up, we mourned the Dead Spare Cat... and opened another cask to give it a wake of sorts. Funnily enough, Some German Guy declined to join in, instead muttering something about needing to get away from this madhouse, as he grabbed his keys then drove off.

To this day, somewhere in Germany, I'm sure he stills thinks we are nutters.

1800 Jerk My Chain

My best friend of 35+ years passed away late last year, and I am still mourning a loss that is going to break my heart until the day I die. Jo was my bestest-estest buddy and we both have a rather obscure way of looking at things, so she would fully understand the amusing side of the following post.

I received a phone call a few days ago from ****** finance company, in regards to a credit card she had that I was listed as a reference for. To say that the guy who called was persistant is an understatement, but he was a source of amusement to me on a subject that saddens me. And there is also something oddly satisfying about poking another human being to see how long takes to make them explode...

T: Hi, my name is Toby from ******, may I speak to *****?
S: That's me, how can I help you?
T: I'm calling in regards to Jo ******, we need to contact her urgently.
S: Mmmm, I have a fair idea where she is, but not exactly.
T: I'm sorry? So you have contact details for her?
S: Nope...
T: So, you can't get in contact with her then?
S: Not by what you'd call normal channels, but I do believe it can be done...
T: So, do you or do you not know where she is, we need to speak to her urgently.
S: Umm... depending on what your personal beliefs are, she may speak to you... yes.
T: Look, can you get her to contact us urgently?
S: What's your address then?
T: I will give you a number to get her to call.
S: Hmmm... far as I know, she won't have her mobile with her.
T: Can you give me her home number then, so we can call her?
S: Even I don't have that one
T: What about a work number then?
S: Wow... if I had her boss's number... damn, I'd be a squillionaire!
T: Sorry? *long pause* I don't understand? This is not a joke you know!
S: Okay, how about I give you my personal opinion on where I think she may be?
T: Thank you, that would be a great help.
S: Okay... there are fluffy white clouds, a dude in a long gown with a flowing beard and lots of little guys with wings flying around and...
T: Are you jerking my chain? This is not funny...
S: No Toby, death is not funny
T: Death? What do you mean death?
S: Jo passed away late last year, dumbass...
T: *long pause*
S: Are you there?
T: Umm, sorry. It *pause* seems our records are...
S: Yes, out of date
T: CLICK!

Use by date: 4507AD

Part of my plan to finally get back into my size 10 jeans, is to increase my water intake. This has resulted in me becoming somewhat of a connoiseur of bottled water.

I've worked out that Perrier is the best 'fuzzy-water', but basically there is no difference in the 'not-moving' stuff - apart from the price. But what has me confused is the habit of putting a Use By Date on them... on water... wtf?

From what I was taught back in my school days, water is basically recycled anyway: In the sea, evaporated into the clouds, rains into the rivers which then flow back into the sea. If you chuck lifeforms into the equation, it goes something like this:
In the sea, fish pee in it, evaporated into the clouds, rains into the water catchments, fish pee into it, into the cities/towns, out of the taps, into the lattes and soups, down the gullet, out of the gullet, into the toilet, off to Bondi, back into the sea... where fish pee in it.

Considering that 'all water is all water' - we have simply been recycling the same water since day dot, with even the polar caps giving up and taking some back throughout history. Wow... maybe someone should do a study on the percentage of fish pee in the polar caps!

If you stop to think about it, your cup of coffee probably contains dinosaur pee (this info would be intriguing to a 5-year-old with a dinosaur fixation and would be handy as a blackmail tool for getting them to drink water!) or maybe even the pee of some infamous historical figure!

Maybe I should open a Water Bar! For $2.50 you could have your choice of:
Beethoven's 5th Pee
Hilter's Power Pee
Einstein's Spelling Pee
Pee Wee Herman's Pee
Custer's Last Pee

Dammit... I'll be a millionaire!

It's pronounced 'Pee-Lah-Tays'... darling!

Figuring that I really need to get some exercise happening, I bought one of those Malibu Pilates Chairs you see on TV late at night... late at night when people who live on Tim Tams and Lattes are generally gathered in front of the TV waiting for a miracle cure for their obesity and acne.

After watching the DVD a few times, I figured I had the whole thing worked out and proceeded to stretch myself into various positions with funny-sounding names, much to the amusement of the other half. I tried this for a few days, but was left feeling the DVDs didn't really get to the heart of the whole 'joining of body and mind' thing that Pilates is touted for. So, I trotted off to do a Pilates class, hoping to better educate myself in the use of my new toy at home.

First up... people that do Pilates on a regular basis (and who don't live on Tim Tams) look like greyhounds. Lean... racey... fast-looking.

Me? I look more like a Staffy...

So, here I was looking like an escapee from a K-Mart 50% sale in my t-shirt and trackie dacks... surrounded by a bunch of whippet-like ladies in yoga pants and lycra. My first and fatal mistake was my mispronounciation of the word Pilates. Apparently calling it 'Py-lates' is not a good way to start your lesson.

You could literally hear the whole room gasp. The instructor - a rather lanky woman by the name of Ariel (pronounced 'Arrr-reeee-arrrrrl') literally launched at me spitting 'It is pronounced 'Pee-Lar-Tays' darling... 'Pee-Lar-Tays'! She threw her chin in the air and stalked off as only an ex-ballerina can... and then ignored me for the rest of the class.

Lucky for me, another 'Staffy' was in the class (her name was Sarah... pronounced as just 'Sarah') and we (well, just me actually) managed to get through the class without hurting or further embarassing ourselves. I made a mental note that this would be my first and last 'Pee-Lar-Tays' class and that I would simply have to pay more attention to my DVDs and do a little Googling.

After the class, I asked 'just Sarah' why she put up with this crap and she simply said the classes are convenient, close to home and got her away from screaming kids... and she had dropped around 14kgs to boot. You've gotta be happy with that.

She also pointed out that there is a Gloria Jeans across the road for 'post-class' recuperation...

Oh... Gloria Jeans is pronounced 'Oh Mah Gawd I Need A Muffin With My Latte'...

The Happy Van of Evilness

I've started a diet in earnest.

When you can hide two Tim Tams between your belly rolls, it's time to acknowledge that you indeed have a weight problem. With this in mind, I started on that Tony Ferguson weight loss program and it works for me... until I hear that bell, that is.

I'm doing okay, most of my cravings have disappeared and I've dropped a few kilos over the last couple of weeks. I'm making myself exercise - I've bought one of those Pilates Chairs, but that's another story altogether - and have discovered that I don't need to eat 'bad stuff' to feel happy... until I hear the bell, that is.

Think of it like Pavlov's Dog: The dog is fine until the bell rings.

It is this conditioning that causes my dilemma... with the bell ringer in question being the Home Icecream man in his 'Happy Van of Evilness'. This nasty little man is like your local drug dealer... skulking along loaded with his wares, pouncing on unsuspecting, good folk going about their business.

I mean, seriously... how unfair is it to turn up JUST BEFORE DINNER during school holidays when the streets are covered in kids, whose mothers have been spending the last hour trying to get them inside to eat their dinner? C'mon... this guy just ain't playing fair!

When you are dieting, that bell could be two tones short of a cat's howl... but it still sounds like a symphony - a symphony of chocolately bits and crunchy cones, filled to the brim with creamy delights and... ... you know what I mean. It hurts... just as bad as any addiction you are trying to kick.

But I have come up with a solution!

Next time the nasty little man in the 'Happy Van of Evilness' comes calling, I am going to beat him at his evil game... I'm going to load up with Sugar Free, Low Fat Icecream beforehand... shovel myself full of the stuff... overload myself...

... then I won't be able to get to his van...

...the stuff is so full of Malitol, I will be stuck on the toilet for days. From past experience, when they say 'excessive consumption may have a laxative effect' believe it...



... oh dear God... believe it...

Buying Australian

With all the hoo-hah about Aussie jobs going overseas (and rightly so) what is the *right* thing to do in regards to buying Australian?

The suggestion seems to be to just turn our backs on products made by companies that have moved operations overseas. The problem with this though is that whilst 3 out of 5 employees who worked for the company have lost their jobs... do we have a moral obligation to try and protect the other 2 that managed to keep theirs?

On TV the other night, they showed how much cheaper buying Aussie products actually is - which is great - but seriously, is the Australian public going to actively search out these products over 'preferred' brands. It's up to the supermarkets to make sure these items are prominently labelled and placed, but I really can't see many big companies punting well-paying companies off the middle shelf so the Aussie stuff is what you see first.

But again.. what about the ones who managed to keep their jobs? Do we really want to risk making it a 5 out of 5 job loss statistic? There's no easy answer...

On a lighter note, something occurred to me about products made by the well-known promoter of Australian made products - Dick Smith...

... there is no way in hell I will ever get my other half to eat a product that has the words 'Dick' and 'Cheese' on the one wrapper....