Every Dog has its Way
Today’s daily awesomeness (http://twittertales.wordpress.com) ended well – but it started badly.
My friend Hannah is staying with her parents, who are Dog People. My SO and I picked her up from there to have lunch.
I developed a strong aversion to Dog People when I lived with a pregnant woman who wanted to have a home birth so that her dogs could be there. That was some years ago, but I haven’t recovered. I don’t like LOOKING at dogs. To me dogs are like desperately insecure people who make you feel wretched just by looking at you. (I like cats, because when cats look at you they don’t look needy – they look like they’re thinking about whether your belly or face will taste nicer when they eat you to death. Refreshingly honest, in my opinion.)
Hannah’s parents have two dog calendars in their kitchen, two life-size stone dogs in their yard, and two rather neurotic real dogs. The dogs are looked after VERY well. Each has their own armchair, which sits facing out the front window so they can harass passers-by in comfort.
One of these dogs, Rocket, hates me.
He likes Hannah. He loves my SO. He HATES me. And I hate him.
Dogs often dislike me because I wear long skirts, and when I walk the movement freaks them out. So as soon as my SO and I walked in he growled at me, and didn’t stop growling despite my best dog etiquette (crouch down so I seem smaller, don’t meet their eye or show my teeth, hold out my hand palm-down, speak quietly). No; I lie. He did stop growling sometimes – to bark outright. I speak enough dog to understand the tone of, “Get out! I hate you! You are not welcome here!” All this while simultaneously fawning at my SO’s knee (which I admit is a nice knee, but REALLY).
Did I mention I dislike dogs?
So eventually I was able to get past the foyer and sit at the kitchen bench. Rocket stayed on the other side of the bench, growling without pause as Hannah told him off, took chocolate slice from the fridge, cut it up and generally prepared for a picnic. I attempted to dominate Rocket by deliberately staring at him in hopes that I could be the alpha dog, but that didn’t work either.
The second dog doesn’t like me much, but it had gone over to its seat to stretch out in the sun. I came up with a cunning plan: I stood up (slowly and carefully) and moved over to the other dog.
“What a GOOD dog!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t you a good dog!?! Good good girl. Aren’t you just SO GOOD!”
Within two minutes Rocket was sitting at my side, silently pleading for a pat.
Because even bullies just want to be loved.
PS Does anyone have a fish tank (or a large salad bowl. . .)? S#78: “Adopt a Pet” is my planned awesomeness for 2 April, and since I have two cats, I plan to buy some fish.
Fruit Fear
I have fruit fear.
Fruit is a dangerous food. It might look good and smell good, then be incredibly sour. One grape might be heavenly, and the next rotten. This fear haunts me daily, as I attempt to eat a correct dietary amount. When I can’t handle fruit at all, I drink juice (dried fruit also tends to help, or any fruit that’s prepared by someone else).
Recently I’ve developed a fear of chicken (yes, hilarious, I know). I attempted to deal with it today by buying a pre-cooked supermarket chicken to have on a sandwich with avocado. (Based on the idea that anything cooked by someone else is bound to be fine.)
Just thinking about my long-since eaten lunch now makes me feel sick. Our living room and kitchen are filled with the smell of roast chicken, and it’s FREAKING ME OUT. As soon as I finish this I’ll be fleeing to the bedroom until further notice.
My fruit fear is going well, so I guess I’ll freeze the remaining chicken and let it lurk in my freezer until a saner day. (And, of course, subtley add it to everything my husband eats: “Like a cuppa, sweatheart? It’s extra nutritous today. . .”)
I weighed myself this morning. It didn’t go well. Still optimistic about tomorrow, though.
Cloud Wars: Storm Troopers
Today’s post is a little early, because I’m using a friend’s internet. On the theme of mad science, here is a quirky site:
http://wildammo.com/2009/08/09/what-stormtroopers-do-on-their-day-off/
Warning: Secure Your Chair Before Reading
Go and look at this blog. Just do it. But be advised a lot of it is somewhat inappropriate for children.
It’ll take you thirty seconds to realise how good it is. Just go.
January 11: Toilet Travails
At some point soon I’ll be writing something comparing Beijing and Indonesia (which I know a lot better) on my other blog, at https://felicitybloomfield.wordpress.com
Why is it that Indonesian adventures are always somehow toilet-related?
My partner and I are in Indonesia now, on the same island as the illustrious Jimmy Bind (no sightings yet, though, sadly). We’ve spent two days getting to our current location (and we’re getting picked up at 5am tomorrow to go and see Mount Bromo, an active volcano) so today was a rest day.
Rest days are usually boring. *I* certainly didn’t do anything exciting. My husband, however, dutifully picked up the slack.
We’re staying in a rather nice area of a quite nice city. All the houses around here have a series of annoying security things – fences are locked down on various roads at night (you can still get to any house by wandering around, so it’s really just annoying), and each house has a huge gate out the front, which residents need to reach through to unlock (sometimes blind and one-handed). My husband, who likes security, approves of this arrangement. I don’t – if it was up to me (which it isn’t), I’d leave at least one door of our house unlocked at all times.
However.
Our house is empty because the people who live there are away. We’re staying in the guest area out the back, which has a bedroom and bathroom (both lockable) coming off a tiled verandah.
Oh yeah, and a castle. Honestly.
Immediately over the back fence is a castle, complete with crenellations (bigger than on the Great Wall), turrets, and everything a megalomaniac could want. The owner is from Saudi Arabia, and he had the castle built specially (coz it’s pretty. Obviously).
Technically we’re not alone in the house – a dog walker comes every day (which means we need to unlock everything), and so does a “pembantu” (literally a “helper”) who cooks and cleans and generally becomes a paid member of the family. Our pembantu is called Mrs Ani. She’s one of the best.
Indonesia is tropical, and it’s wet season. Breathing is a little bit like drinking, and a little bit like being dunked upside down in warm soup. It’s smelly (one reason Indonesians shower twice a day), but it’s great. The doors to our bedroom and bathroom are made of wood, and they’ve expanded in the heat. That’s less great.
So my husband went to the bathroom, and since there were two Indonesians in the house (who could choose to use and/or clean the bathroom at any time, and who don’t speak English), he closed the door.
Big. Mistake.
Mrs Ani heard his calls for help, and was the first on the scene (somewhat bemused at this wacky Australian habit of actually closing bathroom doors). I heard her yelling and came to help.
The three of us pushed and pulled at the door, and yanked and kicked it and placed our backs against it. It did nothing. My partner told me later he was all right – his only concern was how we’d get food in to him over the next few days.
Mrs Ani and I began gathering an assortment of tools. We used two screwdrivers, a hammer (whacked against a thong so we didn’t break our absent hosts’ house), a plywood shovel-thing, large quantities of detergent, an electric fan, and a crowbar.
Mrs Ani became increasingly concerned and phoned our host (who, incidentally, we’ve never met – he’s a friend of some friends, Mr and Mrs Baik, which is how we ended up in his house), our actual friends, and the dog walker. No-one answered.
Because it’s so hot and the bathroom has no windows, Mrs Ani was afraid my husband would pass out.
Later Mrs Baik told us that Mrs Ani’s message had got through to the house owner. Too bad he’s on holiday in Australia. Nonetheless, he phoned Mr Baik long distance to let him know their mutual guests were locked in the toilet. My husband has already incited an international incident. That’s not bad after two days.
After about an hour, Mrs Ani gave the door yet another hefty shove, and it suddenly opened. My husband and Mrs Ani and I stood in shock for a moment, staring at one another.
Then there was much laughing and hugging, and much drinking of cold water and having a nice sit down. Mrs Ani left us alone and went to spread the tale (with abundant joy and, presumably, embellishments). Mr Baik arrived soon afterwards, and we went to their house. About 15 people are currently staying there, and all of them knew part of the tale and wanted to hear the rest.
Welcome to Indonesia.
We also discovered an oh-so-exclusive coffee that has an unusual claim to fame. Civets (big cats) apparently have exquisite taste when it comes to eating coffee beans – they only eat the most fresh; the most succulent. So after ten-twelve hours, when those amazingly good beans exit the civet, they are picked up by this coffee company and made into very very expensive cappucinos.
I’m afraid I chose not to have one. Apparently it has a lovely aftertaste, though – sweet and pleasant.
Christmas Letter 2009
For those who want gratuitous cuteness at this time of year, go see http://twittertales.wordpress.com
For the rest of you. . . here’s MY Christmas letter:
————–
The year gasps for air. It shudders. It foams at the mouth. It bleeds from the ears.
It doesn’t have much time left.
January: Got married. It was nice. There were butterflies.
Developed severe phobia of weddings.
February: Sister got married. It was nice. I smashed a bouquet on a tree when she wasn’t looking. Evidently I am still mentally ill.
March: Had my sixtieth novel rejection. Concluded my novels are too literary, and began a book entitled, “Farting my ABCs”. The research was exciting (especially the experimental bit). Partner still shares my room. Clearly our marriage will last anything.
April: Car broke.
May: Other car broke. Twice.
June: Cold. Partner clearly thinks “Farting my ABCs” is my best book yet. Hm. Got first car serviced, and discovered it was broken.
July: Still cold. Wrote blog entry on experience of marriage after six months. (Left out the interesting bits, despite rule 34.) Husband clearly from the dollhouse ie he has been programmed to make me happy. Not sure who is paying for it. Second car broke again.
August: Winter is stupid. Started twitter stories at http://twitter.com/Louise_Curtis_ (Louise is my other, nicer personality). Tricked people into interviewing me on radio and for the Canberra Times.
September: Cold. Hot. Cold. Hot. Parents had their 25th wedding anniversary. It was nice. Bribed nephew with cheese so he’d behave. Bribed self with LOTS of chocolate. First car broke again.
October: Fifteen kilos heavier than I was. When did that happen?
November: Passed the 1000-followers mark (between twitter and facebook). My cult leader status is now upgraded to Upper Minion. Tricked a writing conference organiser into letting me be a guest author. Made up a “reading” since none of my books are published.
Brother married. It was nice. I developed an eye twitch and a brand new photo-specific phobia.
Wrote a full-length novel on a whim. Lots of action scenes. See? I’m not literary.
December: No immediate family members remaining to get married, thank goodness (now eyeing four-year old nephew with suspicion. . . you never know).
Both cars broke. Fixed first car. It broke again. Merry friggin Christmas.
Here’s me and the partner:
And, in lieu of children, here are our cats:
May you live in interesting times.
Felicity/Louise
Daylight Day 76: Dangerous Baths
Spent the night listening to Pi moan and the Dads discuss whether I’d taste more like chilli sauce or peppermint chocolate when they ate me.
*
As the sun rose, the EMOs left to huddle inside. I saw their eyes, watching me. Watching my blood-flushed face. Getting ever thirstier.
*
I said, “You’ll have to climb up here. And what’s the point? What does it really mean?”
They discussed it, and I bought myself one more day.
——————————————
Since our hero isn’t able to bath at the moment, it’s more or less appropriate to share a passage from a book I just finished. It’s “Victorian London”, one of a series of historical books by Liza Picard. Like most non-fiction, it’s often a wade through educationalness (can you believe I finished uni?) but there are many moments of sheer brilliance.
This passage discusses the various methods used to heat baths (at the time, they were made of metal):
. . . Or you might prefer the more direct application of heat to the bath itself, such as Defries’ Magic Heater, which for the expenditure of 2d-worth of gas would produce a hot bath in six minutes – and, one would imagine, a pool of molten metal and a violent explosion fairly soon afterwards. Then there were those terrifying contraptions aptly called geysers since they were as unpredictable and uncontrollable as anything in nature, often resulting in blowing off your eyebrows. They assumed (1) a room free of draughts which would, and usually did, blow out the vital match which you held at the pilot-light nozzle; (2) presence of mind, at that point, to turn off the gas supply; (3) strong nerves; (4) an unquenchable desire for a hot bath, then, there, and not later or elsewhere: all to be coordinated while appropriately dressed for the bath you hoped to take.
A Senior Moment
I’m handling my minimalised life pretty well, and I even wrote 4000 words of my NaNo novel last night (discovering that my writing rate is now around 2000 words per hour).
The supermarket nearest to me is also very close to a retirement community. I’m constantly running into little old ladies (sometimes literally) when I shop. Every so often, things get a little surreal. On one occasion a busload of seniors had evidently arrived, and the supermarket was fuller than usual. A security guard pulled aside a staff member near me and said (in a low voice), “Check their bags. All of them.”
They didn’t check my bag – but they did thoroughly check the bags of the elderly man in front of me. Old people these days!
Today (same supermarket) I observed a little old lady buying literally twenty packs of garbage bags – some medium, some large, and some extra large. She bought almost nothing else.
Now I know what Dexter’s groceries look like.
And speaking of seniors, in my efforts not to strain myself at all this week I’ve been watching daytime TV. Most fascinating of all is “The View” in which a group of women argue for an hour. I can only handle about 30 seconds before I turn it off. Then I realise there’s nothing else on, so I put it back on for another 30 seconds. And repeat.
One of their topics today was whether cosmetic surgery should be taxed. This led to the quote, “I think it should be, even though my face will be paying more tax than I am.”
Later on they were talking to Zac Efron and Clare Danes. The panelists were making it very clear that Zac Efron was deeply nervous about working with Clare Danes in whatever movie they’ve just done. His comment was, “She has such an amazing body. . . of work.” His pause, hilariously, was unintentional, and the women all around him (excluding Clare, who probably felt a teensy bit uncomfortable) hassled him about it.
Ah, daytime TV. Only an hour and twelve minutes until “Just Shoot Me” comes on.
Mental Moments
Yesterday I went to our mechanic to arrange a time for my partner’s car to FINALLY get fixed (it’s been a saga going on for months – every time we take it in for one thing, they find another thing wrong). It’s a service station where I often get petrol, so people know me and both our cars very well – they’ll actually ask how one car or another is running when I buy petrol.
The main mechanic was serving someone when I arrived, so another one wrote down the appointment for me. “And what type of car is it?” he said.
And I froze. Just couldn’t remember. Was it a Mazda – or was that mine? What on earth was MY car (other than off-white. . .)?
“It’s a mazda wagon,” I said at last. “At least, I THINK it’s a mazda. Definitely a wagon. . . definitely. . .”
I wandered off with, as always, images of praire settler wagons in my head. Does anyone else think it’s wrong to call a car a wagon?
Anyway. . .
That wasn’t as bad as when I foolishly went shopping with my husband in an unfamiliar shopping centre. We only had a few things to buy – bread, milk, fruit, maybe a can of tuna or something. So we walked along the aisles together, looking at the signs so we knew where to go. I spotted a whole aisle for alcohol (unusual, since alcohol normally gets its own little section in a corner somewhere) and said, “Mmmm. . . . booooooze.”
My partner didn’t say anything, but what can one say to that? So I just kept walking, chatting away happily. He still didn’t reply, so I stopped and turned around to ask him a question.
Naturally, my husband had wandered off long ago and was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I faced a security guard wearing that, “Yes, I AM watching you” face.
At which point I stopped talking and went to find my straying husband.
Me? Crazy? My friend Bobby the Invisible Bear says I’m just fine.
Paranoia Girl. . . and fire
It’s early Spring here in Australia, and my feet were cold. I decided to warm them up with five minutes in front of my heater (which glows red-hot – highly innefficient but LOOKS warm). My cat, Ana, was sitting watching me (as she does. I have mentioned previously that she has a brain the size of half a dried pea). I pointedly put my feet very close to the heater. (“MY heater, you overfed fiend.”)
Undeterred, little Ana slid between my feet and the heater. Being soft-hearted, I let her. After a few seconds, I happened to notice smoke rising from the cat’s far side.
Yep. . . my cat had set herself on fire.
I immediately grabbed her (“Prreow?”) and hastily patted out her burning fur. She gave me an offended look, and sauntered away. The house now smells strongly of burnt fur.
I have a feeling there’s some kind of moral here. . .
Mmm. . . NICE and warm. . .
Felicity Banks 