When I was a kid, the funniest thing my Ma could say was "same to you with brass knobs on." It would dissolve my brother and I into hysterics on the floor. It sounded so uncharacteristically rude from a woman whose worst swear word for many years was a passionate "SUGAR!!" Another classic Ma funny that we made her repeat over and over was "Hootsmon! There's a moose loose aboot this hoose!" I had no idea what it meant but lordy, it made me laff.

Of course, once Ma ditched the good-girl act and her kids reached adolescence, she started swearing like a sailor. I suspect, just between you and me, that she had been doing it all along. Sneaky. Although we did teach her a thing or two... she once got some very wide eyes and dropped jaws in a meeting at work when she used the word 'fugly'. Heheh.

Can't remember why I started rambling about Ma's potty mouth. I was going to say "Bugger this blogging-every-day nonsense, I'm just not that interesting, or interested in being tied to a computer, especially on weekends when I'd rather be out noodling in a real three-dimensional world." Which is exactly what I did. The Curmudgeon and I dropped into The Village in the Edinburgh Gardens on Friday night - what a cool little place this was. It was a country-town carnival dropped into the inner city, and populated by Fitzroy hipsters. Lots of wacky performances. We did donuts in the Feetbus and enjoyed the Barina of Mystery - a dance piece performed in the front seat of a small cruddy hatchback. Cursed my long-broken camera because there was some visual fun to be had there, indeedy. Perhaps the most interesting was seeing all the gals (myself included) get prickly when a troupe of burlesque beauties paraded about in slow self-adoration, and all the boys started to drool. As my friend there said, "They're turning my boy on, and I don't like it." Imagine the photographs - women with narrowed eyes holding back their eager boys who had suddenly developed an intense interest in performance art...

 

Poor Squiddooo. Her best mate at the park, a neat and dainty black kelpie, is moving house and thus leaving the park. Squid always greets her, and only her, in exactly the same way - momentary pause from afar, then runrunrunrunWHAM, jumps on her. Very cute. The pack of pups (4) who meet every morning in the park and their associated humans (6) had dinner at my house last night to farewell said kelpie. It was somewhat mad with four dogs hurtling around but not much got broken.

So I ate too much and drank too much and slept too little and am feeling decidedly low-energy. Someone pass them there matches for propping open eyelidszzzzzz.

The trains were all buggered up on my line yesterday, with people spilling out onto platforms and looking all indignant. There was many an angry mobile phone call made. People cursing the train company and stomping off towards a tram (all full) or bus (likewise) and finally conceding defeat and walking to work. I kinda liked the walking bit, especially the agony of the uber-high-maintenance chicks in their spike heels. Tee hee.

It came out in the wash that the bumbling antics of the train company were not in fact to blame. THIEVES stole copper cabling from a station near the city because the price of copper has increased so much recently and they can sell it and roll about in the mountains of cash, laughing diabolically. I've heard tales of weatherboards being torn off houses and the copper pipes being pinched right out of the walls. Anyway, thieving = bad, wrong, etc, but I can't help but be just a little bit impressed by their creativity. And that they made hoards of people walk to work (who perhaps should be walking to work every day...)

I have stumbled across a site that produces voodoo dolls to your specifications... but only if your intended target is a small female person. See here. This utterly sums up why small boys are way more fun that little girls. Girls are wierd. Boys are revolting, but at least they don't haul around creepy little corpses like these.

Last night I dreamed that the Curmudgeon and I were escaping from the Nazis in Austria by hiding under moving trains, clinging to the undercarriage. He looked like Roberto Benigni and I looked like Penelope Cruz. We were both wearing lavish shiny tin hats.

For the record, we don't look like that. Or own metallic hats. We're remarkably good at action-adventure, though.

...is what I was thinking as I mopped out my armpits (in the bathroom, with paper towels and dispenser soap) this morning. I walked into work and discovered, upon my arrival, that I reeked in a particularly socially offensive way. I'm a classy bird. Much like my dog, who was treated to a trip to the beach on the weekend, and thanked us by throwing up rotten fish. Lovely.

The Curmudgeon starts his Noo Gig today. First weeks are dazzling and fun. Trying to work out where things are, remembering names, pleasant surprises (ooh, good window view!) and disappointments (Home Brand tea bags? What?!). Wishing him as much of the good stuff as possible.

"Of everyone who works here, mine's probably the youngest bike, and it's thirteen years old," announced my bearded, sixty-something bike mechanic with pride. The shop is a tiny cavern, the interior of which resembles a backyard shed more than it does a slick commercial operation. The workshop is central and the bike bits and pieces for sale are peripheral. The blokes who work there are the types that you see cycling in all weather, without a single lycra garment, on ancient steel treadlies from back in the day when the frames weren't aluminium and as thick as a log, and the paintwork is muted by design or fading. I like this place. I hereby proclaim it the Perfect Bike Shop and anyone who wants to know which it is, drop me a line. I was so sick of bike shops staffed by young mountain biking blokes who are surly and rude to anyone who doesn't know (and drop) brand names, and spend weekends conquering mountains. I'm very pleased to have found an alternative.

I've got absolutely nothing today. Not a crumb. So I'll post the lyrics to a song by The Eels called "My Beloved Monster" because just recently I realised that it is almost custom-written to be Squid's theme song. Especially the bit about disrobing me, given her appetite for destruction of my clothing.

My beloved monster and me
We go everywhere together
Wearing a raincoat that has four sleeves
Gets us through all kinds of weather

She will always be the only thing
That comes between me and the awful sting
That comes from living in a world that's so damn mean

My beloved monster is tough
If she wants she will disrobe you
But if you lay her down for a kiss
Her little heart it could explode

She will always be the only thing
That comes between me and the awful sting
That comes from living in a world that's so damn mean

Actually, I do have a crumb. A delightful and lovely friend of mine has deigned me NOT unliveable-with, and she will be moving in with Squid and I in a few weeks. I know she reads this so I will consult before designating her an Official Pseudonym. And theme song.

One of many: a quick look on eBay for napkin rings showed a disproportionate number of them shaped like scotty dogs.

WHY? (I mean about the dogs, not why I was looking for napkin rings. That is an entirely different mystery.)

I read something recently about Pekingese dogs having been the hippest pup to have among the in crowd of the first decades of the 1900s. This was for a couple of reasons - China was quite difficult to get to, and the dogs were kept in the Imperial Palace only. They could only be obtained by pillaging-and-smuggling means, showing that your dog was more bad-ass than anyone else's. Fair enough. But scotty dogs? These napkin rings were all bakelite, meaning they were of a 1930s/40s era. Why did people go nuts for Scottish Terriers back then?

...if it ain't got that swing. Thusly we learneth to swing dance. My poor motor cortex absolutely siezes up whenever it is required to do much more than move legs in perambulatory fashion and not walk into things, so this will be a long and slow process, people. Perhaps the Curmudgeon should invest in steel-capped boots.

But eventually, with liberal addition of pep, pinstripes and beret, we'll be just like this:

A few years back, I went to some salsa dancing lessons with a friend of mine. It didn't last long, mostly because all the blokes there were short which has two serious dancing repurcussions:

   1. they can't spin me because they can't bloody reach my arm when I lift it (kinda like when you torture small children by holding a lollypop just out of their reach. Not that I do that. Much.)

   2. their eyes are at... ermm...  chest height. Awkward.

But my Curmudgeon is nice and tall. Hurrah.

I got a phone call from Ma this morning saying it was snowing at her house. Further evidence for Global Weirdening. Little Johnny take note.

It's not often that I burst into tears while walking the dog in the morning. I cry easily when emotional - not something I'm delighted about, but there you have it - and seeing my Curmudgeon standing at my front gate at 7.30am, all dapper in his coat and holding a big bunch of red lilies, started up the waterworks. He also brought me a beautiful and thoughful shiny thing that I adore, and took me out for breakfast at Babka. 

I met him a year ago today. And remarkably, he's still here! He puts a little dance in my step and a big stupid grin on my mug, and I'm so glad to have him around.

Happy anniversary, Grumpy One.