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Category: Light-hearted Waffle (Page 1 of 6)

A collection of piffle, random thoughts, and the riff-raff that has no place being in a real category.


There are some things in life that you don’t miss until they are gone. In my life, one of those things is a functional vacuum cleaner. With two fluffy cats and a short-but spiky haired dog, it becomes something of a necessity.

Sucky the Dyson Vacuum
has a very brushy head
He’s got a head for hard floors
And a little one for the bed

All of the other vacuums
claim to suck up lots of stuff
But when you go to use them
they don’t bloody suck enough!

On one windy summer day
a dust storm came to town
And Sucky, with his brushy head,
he sucked that red dust down!

Now our old carpet’s fluffy
and our lino is dust free!
Sucky, the Dyson Vacuum,
You’re the ideal vacuum for me!


It is always the small things in life that make make your soul glow. :) This week I watched a bunch of shrivelled, furry green buds – remarkably reminiscent of canine testicles – hatch from their little cocoons and stretch into bright, cheery blooms.

A close up of the poppies that are on my kitchen bench

A close up of the poppies that are on my kitchen bench

I’ve never patted flowers before, but these copped a bit of a scratch behind the ears. I couldn’t help it. They were furry and adorable. Ugly, yet interesting. I could almost imagine them cooing and stretching their little stems up for more.

I rather like the little guys. :)


I don’t mind the odd meme, but this one has been bugging me. It seems perfectly easy, all you have to do is “pick up a book on the top of your book stack, turn to page 123, read the first five sentences, then post the next three sentences”.

My book stack… riiiight.

Well, here goes nothing I guess. Prepare to be entertained.

The top of my stack is, rather unfortunately for the sake of this little exercise, occupied by a chunky library book called “How to Do Everything with HTML & XHTML”.

Browsers sometimes ignore mistakes in HTML code. You don’t have this luxury with XHTML. Your document must be well formed, which simply means it must contain no errors in syntax.

Positively scintillating, no? If that is not a cry for R&R time, I don’t know what is. I mean, I could have fibbed, maybe sorted through a few books and found the most wonderful sentences I could, but that’d be cheating. The meme police would have my hide for even thinking such a thing! No, I’m afraid I simply have to bore you to tears instead.
I tag Moondoggie, Ren (who no doubt hates these things but the thought of finding out what is in her book stash is simply too irresistible), Boneman and PSWC.

A Finger of Scotch

It is in me bloody index finger, it is. Right on the centre of the pad. A teeny tiny flesh-coloured flexible glass-like sliver of scotch thistle prickle has found it’s way into my flesh and is actively seeking out nearby nerves and giving them little nerve wedgies.


I just tried to peg out a load of socks and undies. Opening each and every peg sent shivers down my spine. Writing tomorrow’s shopping list was waaaay more exhilarating than it should have been, and typing is making me sweat just that little bit. Don’t even get me started on clicking my mouse, ouch!!


I’ve prodded and gouged and soaked and salved but the sodding thing is nowhere to be found. At this point I’m considering a stiff drink and a set of bolt cutters.


No matter how good of an idea it seems at the time, bare-handed weeding of prickly dead things is not to be attempted. Ever ever. The worst bit is that, because of the lovely pricklies, I didn’t put it in the garbage bag. Oh no, I’m too sensible for that. I turfed it over the side fence so I can pick it up out the front tomorrow and put it directly into the bin. Agghh!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll give this one last shot before calling it quits for the night.


Come on, Eileen!

Or in this case, Eileenette.

I have a space invader. Here I was, minding my own business, getting ready to upload my assignment to the college server, when all of a sudden I spotted a rogue link on my homepage!

My mind immediately went to visions of little 1337 haX0rz in darkened bedrooms, laughing their collective arses off at the success of their devious plan to thwart my assignment submission. After some thought, and reading the link text of “Eileenette – Work”, this seemed a little unlikely.

So I took a deep breath and clicked.

My new houseguest had practically wiped her feet at the door and brought a pot of my favourite homemade casserole. Not only was the link I clicked carefully placed in my existing menu, but the brand new page I’d ended up on was themed. I kid you not, good old Eileenette had looked at my index page and made hers fit my theme!

Want to know the best bit? She did it from scratch. There was no snaffling of source code for my intruder. That’ll earn an A+ for politeness right there.

Polite as she is, she has got to go.

My house.

My site.

Out. Out. OUT!

I’ve sent off a rather wordy email to the campus server gods via my perpetually frazzled teachers. Methinks someone in that department has sniffed one too many too many laser printers.

In the meantime, my new intruder-cum-friend is camped out on my virtual sofa bed surrounded by her improvements and assignments, whilst my assignments are safely stored away on my flash drive awaiting her eviction.

Of course, we are waiting on possibly ozone-affected tech monkeys who apparently wouldn’t know how to run a chook raffle, let alone sort out permissions on a student server, so she could be here a while…

Souped up

Perhaps my plan was a wee bit ambitious. Maybe I should have started a little smaller, concentrated on recipes that were tried and tested, and perhaps done a little more thinking before the actual doing…

I made soup.

Oh, it sounds completely simple and easy, doesn’t it? I thought I’d just make a few large batches for those days when I get home and have absolutely no capacity for any thought above basic functions. Open freezer, choose box, microwave, serve. It couldn’t be simpler. I was pretty sure that making these non-thinky foods was going to be a walk in the park. You simmer your veggies, you whizz the ones that require whizzing in the blender, you pour the concoction into little tubs and bingo! Done.

Pfft. As if. Nothing is ever that simple.

I chose a recipe from my favourite freezer cookbook that went by the name of Zacatecas. It is essentially sweet corn, capsicum and chilli in a veggie stock base, half whizzed and half chunky. The photograph in the book showed a gorgeous white bowl filled with a glorious rich orange soup, smothered in mozzarella with some crispy tostitas on the side. I was inspired. I set to work warming my stock and slicing the plump little niblets off the corn cob. I merrily diced my red capsicum into 1cm cubes and I picked out 2 nice hot chillies and sliced them into rings.

It was around this time that things started to go a bit pear shaped. The recipe called for half of the soup to be pureed, which is something that many a recipe requires and something I’ve done many times before. What I haven’t done, however, is blend anything in our new “Cafe Series” fancy schmancy industrial strength blender, and very rarely do I blend 2L of anything at one time. I popped in half of the soup, put the lid on and held it down. I put on my very best happy housewife smile and looked at the controls. Pulse. Pulse looked like a good option.

The withdrawal of my burning hot wrist was immediate, but it took several seconds for the entirety of what had just happened to sink in. I stared, stunned, as a small glob of steaming yellow and red mush dribbled off my spice rack and landed with an underwhelming plop on top of the coffee machine. The entire corner of the kitchen was covered in what was probably the most vibrant fake vomit ever created.

I examined the emetic appliance carefully while trying to cool down my burning wrist. The mental check list ran through my head as I searched for the flaw in my method. I drew a blank. This, of course, would not do. The housewife part of me was staring at a steaming goblet of partially pureed soup (whilst conveniently blocking out my newly bespeckled walls) and the scientific part was querying the possible reasons for this seemingly freak occurrence.

And so, the lid went on again with my fingers perched high on the top. I cautiously fingered the button and was rewarded with yet another chunky liquid lava explosion, this time raining down over myself and the freshly washed dishes.

It was mid-way through the blast that the little light bulb had tinked on in my head. I reached forward and slid the small measuring cup in the lid a 1/4 turn to the right. It went pfsssh.


The soup is boxed and frozen, my walls are washed, the spice jars have all had a bath and it turns out that chilli coffee doesn’t taste all that bad. Next time though, I think I’ll be sticking with good old chunky beef and vegetable!


“I’m not an addict, baby, that’s a lie”

Well, it might be more accurate to call it a stretch of the truth. You see, telling people that you’ve only played for 6 hours straight so far and that you can quit any time you like is far more convincing when you aren’t twitching and ticking like a thing possessed.

I knew it was bad news. I resisted as long as I possibly could. I have enough bad habits as it is, I didn’t want another time-sucking activity to juggle. Alas, I am weak and malleable, a fact my dear friend Faewyn took full advantage of. Now I find myself clinging to the back of a borrowed pony and galloping with my fellow comrades through groves of trees possessed, while being tailed by angry orcs and ticked off arachnids!


It has been 9 hours since my last fix. The dishes are piled high in the sink, the bed is unmade, and the kitties are mewing for food. This is quite a slippery slope I find myself on.

But geez it is a bit of fun!


Driving Miss Deathtrap

A long time ago, for my 18th birthday, and a slightly shorter time ago for my 21st, my parents promised me that they’d go halvies with me in a car. There was talk of fuel economy and the absence of a clutch pedal and all manner of pie in the sky model numbers being thrown around. It was a wondrous time, so full of hope and wonder.

Last week, it finally happened.

I finally have my first car.

Scratch that, let me rephrase. I finally have access to a car that is owned by my mother until the rego runs out. In reality it is probably my second car, but I can’t seem to make my mind take that step. A second car should be an accomplishment, the pinnacle of all things automotive in one’s life to date. It should be a comfy, reliable replacement for the rattly old bomb of a first car that barely managed the basics of A to B travel.

I seem to be suffering from a severe case of automotive regression.

Deathtrap is the ultimate in P-plating first car comfort. Gone are the days of the shiny black paintjob and sitting unassumingly at a red and leaping off the line like a bat out of hell. The poor old dear is now a rather dreary two tone matte grey and has about as much chance of coming out on top of a drag as she does towing an unladen trailer. The ceiling is starting to get that perished foam sag and before you can even get your backside on the seat, the unmistakable odour of mouldy socks leaps out of the door and assaults your nostrils. All that aside, on mechanics alone, she is more than a bit frightening.

But nobody believed me.

“It’s a car. Deal with it.”

“You’ll get used to it”

“It’s a bit different driving a V6 than your little toy car”

Somehow, word has gotten around that I am a bad driver who can’t handle her cars. This is, of course, utter nonsense however when someone with such a reputation starts banging on about how utterly scary her new ride is, there is understandably some rather blatant scepticism.

And so I proved it.

Enter Sin. Sin fancies herself quite a good driver and routinely drives an older model car that scares the willies out of me. Sin also has no qualms about telling me that I’m being a total crybaby and so, on a bit of a whim, she found herself with keys in hand.

After the initial surprise and disgust at the powerful odour emanating from the interior, we climbed in and started her up and waited for an empty road.

It was around the time that we were inching along the street with her foot planted on the accelerator that she began to realise that I might not actually be the driving wimp that she suspected me to be.

“Oh. My. God. My foot is on the floor. What are we doing, like 4kph? This is so wrong!”

I think it was close to the time that we hit the 70 zone and fairly vital bits of engine lost contact with other fairly vital bits of engine and just spun merrily by themselves that her faith in being able to show me I was whining about a perfectly good car began to waver.

“Shit, does it always do that? What IS that?”

As I came back from running errands to find her standing near the bonnet, it appeared that she’d figured out that glorious eau de sock fragrance was a bit more than just an inconvenience.

“Dude! I’m allergic to your car! My lips are tingling!”

Thankfully it was well after establishing that she could still do hill starts in a manual that all hope for Deathtrap’s redemption was lost and support for my position was gained. I’d guess it was around the time that I pointed out that we’d stalled in an 80 zone.

“But we are still driving, and I don’t sta… Oh my god, we’ve stalled! What is with your car??”

I think stalling two more times before we reached home kind of cemented the thought.

“You are not an ungrateful bitch, this car is bloody scary!”

Buuut, as first cars tend to, it is growing on me. Ok, so it is certainly an A to B vehicle, but seeing as I’ve never had unlimited access to a vehicle of any kind before, this is a fairly big selling point. And sure, first gear is gutless and 2nd gear may once have gripped enough to move engine things, but 3rd is pretty sweet and 5th is just cruisy. And really, if I park on high ground only very tall people can see the peeling paint, and matte black is fairly fashionable.

But I suppose, most importantly of all, I live at point A and need to get to point B.

*sigh* I guess it is time to get that roadside assistance membership.

A bit drafty

The problem with saving drafts on your blog is that it feels like you’ve blogged when in actual fact, whilst briefly satisfying,  the whole experience is lacking a most integral part of the whole blogging experience. Pressing that publish button is quite important to the group enjoyment of the thing, otherwise it is just some whinging old biddy with too much time on her hands and access to a keyboard.

Oh, and don’t be too concerned about the whole holly thing, it won’t be staying. There are a few nice new outfits that are being hemmed and pressed and are just waiting for me to get my tailoring backside into gear.

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