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Monday, September 14, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Bone wars
It has been a long-established rule of the backyard that Pep gets first go at the best bones.
And in true little sister style, no matter if we now have to buy her the smaller flanky ones (because she can no longer carry the large ones, they are too heavy for our old girl) and Jazz still gets the big, "get this in yer gob if ye can, Dog," gigantaur bones with the big hocks on either end, Pepper will still get her bone stolen at some point before sunset of that first day in joyous bony heaven. Bloody Jazz and her bloody need to take whatever is Pep's. And now, Peppy doesn't even realise. It breaks my heart a little bit!
The thing that really fascinates me is, this dance around the bones that they both do seems to work in both their favours. They have it worked out, even though there is a bit of a cold war going on between them. See, Jazz cannot work a good bone to save herself. But Pep can. So even if Jazz gets the "good" bone, at some point in the week I'll see Pepper working at it (Jazz isn't an idjit, she knows that what Pepper wants, Pepper gets and there is no challenge from the young dog anytime). This means that Pep does get the good stuff. And Jazz gets the rest. Which is still far more than she'd ever have reached because she doesn't have the patience like Pepper to work hard to break off the bone and get the marrow.
Pepper and bones have a long history. She is, after all, past 16 now. And I have never seen a dog go at marrow like she can. These days, she works herself into a pant in hardly any time at all. And she drinks copious buckets of water when she's on the job too.
She doesn't attempt to bury her bones anymore. It's as if this is an immature thing that other young doggies do, and not something an elderly canine matron does. But in her younger years, Pep used to make me and Steve belly laugh at the somewhat challenged way she chose to hide her bones.
Instead of digging a hole, either with the bone in her mouth or by her side on the ground (as is the usual custom of every other dog I've ever known), Pepper would wander around for aaaages - not unheard of, granted - just looking for that perfect spot. This was no easy task for the girl. Our backyard for much of her entire life with us had barely 10m squared of earth bare for her (atrocious, really) so her only spots were under bushes, pretty much. She always had this habit, though, of gently placing her stash on the ground and then, instead of digging the hole and putting the bone inside it, she'd dig a hole next to her bone and push the dirt from that hole up onto her bone.
It wasn't too hard, then, to see where Peppy had put her latest treasure. And we would bend over double giggling at her (how rude of us, laughing at her) and asking out loud, "Oh Pep-pee, what's this!" We'd point and she'd get all funny and a bit gruff. We even used to get barked at on occasion, kind of like "Shudduuuuup, you'll give my hiding spot away. To the cat." Like the cat cared. Or couldn't tell where Pepper had hidden her bone. I mean, the thing was almost always sticking out the top of a mound of dirt the size of a small mountain. Next to a deep, doggy-clawed hole.
Oh my dear old girl. I looked at her yesterday and we locked gazes. For ages and absolute ages. Every day now, I catch myself thinking, "Is today going to be the day I find her lying peacefully somewhere in the sun, not breathing?" She's been around so long now (we have had her since 1995) that I can't bear for the day to come and yet, I know it must.
And in true little sister style, no matter if we now have to buy her the smaller flanky ones (because she can no longer carry the large ones, they are too heavy for our old girl) and Jazz still gets the big, "get this in yer gob if ye can, Dog," gigantaur bones with the big hocks on either end, Pepper will still get her bone stolen at some point before sunset of that first day in joyous bony heaven. Bloody Jazz and her bloody need to take whatever is Pep's. And now, Peppy doesn't even realise. It breaks my heart a little bit!
The thing that really fascinates me is, this dance around the bones that they both do seems to work in both their favours. They have it worked out, even though there is a bit of a cold war going on between them. See, Jazz cannot work a good bone to save herself. But Pep can. So even if Jazz gets the "good" bone, at some point in the week I'll see Pepper working at it (Jazz isn't an idjit, she knows that what Pepper wants, Pepper gets and there is no challenge from the young dog anytime). This means that Pep does get the good stuff. And Jazz gets the rest. Which is still far more than she'd ever have reached because she doesn't have the patience like Pepper to work hard to break off the bone and get the marrow.
Pepper and bones have a long history. She is, after all, past 16 now. And I have never seen a dog go at marrow like she can. These days, she works herself into a pant in hardly any time at all. And she drinks copious buckets of water when she's on the job too.
She doesn't attempt to bury her bones anymore. It's as if this is an immature thing that other young doggies do, and not something an elderly canine matron does. But in her younger years, Pep used to make me and Steve belly laugh at the somewhat challenged way she chose to hide her bones.
Instead of digging a hole, either with the bone in her mouth or by her side on the ground (as is the usual custom of every other dog I've ever known), Pepper would wander around for aaaages - not unheard of, granted - just looking for that perfect spot. This was no easy task for the girl. Our backyard for much of her entire life with us had barely 10m squared of earth bare for her (atrocious, really) so her only spots were under bushes, pretty much. She always had this habit, though, of gently placing her stash on the ground and then, instead of digging the hole and putting the bone inside it, she'd dig a hole next to her bone and push the dirt from that hole up onto her bone.
It wasn't too hard, then, to see where Peppy had put her latest treasure. And we would bend over double giggling at her (how rude of us, laughing at her) and asking out loud, "Oh Pep-pee, what's this!" We'd point and she'd get all funny and a bit gruff. We even used to get barked at on occasion, kind of like "Shudduuuuup, you'll give my hiding spot away. To the cat." Like the cat cared. Or couldn't tell where Pepper had hidden her bone. I mean, the thing was almost always sticking out the top of a mound of dirt the size of a small mountain. Next to a deep, doggy-clawed hole.
Oh my dear old girl. I looked at her yesterday and we locked gazes. For ages and absolute ages. Every day now, I catch myself thinking, "Is today going to be the day I find her lying peacefully somewhere in the sun, not breathing?" She's been around so long now (we have had her since 1995) that I can't bear for the day to come and yet, I know it must.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Hey, Hey It's Back
And I'm scared. Vewy, vewy scared.
I used to love the show, don't get me wrong. And not to sound like a nanna, but... times were different! Innuendo jokes were the done thing.
I'm just cringing to imagine it will all look fairly much like it used to, just 2009 style (and less cable-knit jumpers). There is still going to be the soundless laughter from Daryl and his shaking shoulders while he listens to the jokes from John Blackman upstairs, the very ones that I used to laugh along with because I didn't really get them and which are probably going to still be pretty similar. And maybe tired. Oh no, and they're going to roll out all the 'regular' characters like the fairy and the boom mic and Daryl's impersonation of Khamal. And footage of Ricky May. And Daryl playing the drums. And.... make it stopppp!
Dear oh dear. But I won't be able to look away either. I'm too weak.
I used to love the show, don't get me wrong. And not to sound like a nanna, but... times were different! Innuendo jokes were the done thing.
I'm just cringing to imagine it will all look fairly much like it used to, just 2009 style (and less cable-knit jumpers). There is still going to be the soundless laughter from Daryl and his shaking shoulders while he listens to the jokes from John Blackman upstairs, the very ones that I used to laugh along with because I didn't really get them and which are probably going to still be pretty similar. And maybe tired. Oh no, and they're going to roll out all the 'regular' characters like the fairy and the boom mic and Daryl's impersonation of Khamal. And footage of Ricky May. And Daryl playing the drums. And.... make it stopppp!
Dear oh dear. But I won't be able to look away either. I'm too weak.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Oh the humanity!
I love when I trawl back through my old blog and can still laugh at entries like this. The look on Pepper's face..... Priceless.
Happy Flying Kite Day
Fathers Day? There is no Fathers Day. Just ask the LGBB. It's called Happy Flying Kite Day. Didn't you know?
The LGBB was insistent that Daddy get a kite for Fathers Day. So insistent that I took her to the shops and let her choose one herself. Daddy received two presents from Lolly. The other was a laminated placemat with her hand prints, a cute poem about said hand prints and a photo of her making the hand prints, all proud-like and an unsure "see what I'm doing here? I have no real idea of the final outcome but I trust ya when you say he'll love it..." look on her face.
He did love it. So much so that he was reduced to tears. The last time he saw any hand prints of his daughter were when we received Ella's in a booklet the NICU nurses at the hospital made for us, amongst the shoe box of things that amounted to the evidence of her existence on Earth. We've not been able to really make the LGBB's hand prints after that. I wanted to do it. But I was superstitious about it at the time, as if I was making the hand prints of our second newborn "just in case" that was all we'd end up knowing her by.
On Saturday night before bed, the LGBB turned her hand to splatting Clag on a piece of black card and then sprinkling glitter all over it. A finer decorated Happy Flying Kite Day card there never was. I asked her what she wanted me to write inside, as "a message for Daddy", I told her.
"I love playing kites with you."
Simple. I liked her pre-emptive knowing, given that she hadn't yet experienced the joy that is, apparently, playing kites with Dad. I'd like to thank the movie, Mary Poppins, at this point for planting the idea in the LGBB's head in the first place - not that Steve resembles the grumbly Mr Banks at all, in any way.
The morning came and we snuggled into bed, the three of us and Ellanor weighing very heavily on her parents' minds and hearts. When Daddy opened his first present, oh, well, he could hardly believe his luck at receiving something he never knew he'd always wanted. A Dora The Friggen Explorer kite. Sigh. I did let her choose, after all.* He then opened his card that told him how much he loved using said kite. With the LGBB. In the card were also some family passes to various fun things around the state, including the penguins at Phillip Island and a trip up the Eureka sky tower in the city.
But Daddy's favourite present was obvious. I don't see Steve's tears too often, but it somehow also doesn't take much. They are always there, often fleeting, but always there just below the surface (somewhat stereotypically, I guess).
Ella wasn't mentioned yesterday by anyone. We are used to this now. On Mothers and Fathers Days each year, right from that first year in 2004, we learned the hard way that it was our job, just his and mine, to honour our rightful place in the world as mother and father, respectively. It was obvious that the acknowledgement was not going to come from our own mothers and/or fathers, who inadvertently or otherwise have always managed to skirt the "issue". Phoning them, therefore, on those two days each year has been one of the most bitter, jagged little pills to swallow. It was quite difficult in the first years (before we had Lolly) to call up and wish them a "happy" fathers day, for instance, when a) it wasn't terribly happy for us and b) the very reason we were calling was to appreciate and thank and honour them for being our fathers.... when I would have expected part of that was to accept that they were now fathers of parents - bereft parents - themselves. What an alien and confronting place for them to be in, I have no doubt and would never envy them their position, especially given the era they grew up in.
But I digress.
Yesterday was not about trespasses past. It was a happy flying kite day. Not that we did. D'oh. Unfortunately, we were all quite ill here. Happy but poorly, therefore. We crawled out at slow pace together to watch a movie on the big screen and, stupidly I suppose in hindsight, I even determined to brave it knowing that the LGBB (sans nappy for about a month now) had the runs.... We made it through the movie with just one toilet break, she was such a champion about it all and had no accidents.
Today is recovery day. And speaking of which, I must now tend to my sleeping beauty who appears to still be under the weather, as well as the covers.
I hope, in whatever form it took for you, that yesterday was an equally Happy Flying Kite Day for your fathers, your partners, your family and you.
* I haven't confessed until now, but the LGBB has had a very short-lived love affair with Dora. I say "short-lived" because when she realised that Dora chick doesn't answer her back when the LGBB tells her stuff, it's pretty rude of her. So Lolly doesn't hold her in nearly as high regard anymore, her and her Map and Backpack and... ugh just slays me, that show. Sorry, fans.
The LGBB was insistent that Daddy get a kite for Fathers Day. So insistent that I took her to the shops and let her choose one herself. Daddy received two presents from Lolly. The other was a laminated placemat with her hand prints, a cute poem about said hand prints and a photo of her making the hand prints, all proud-like and an unsure "see what I'm doing here? I have no real idea of the final outcome but I trust ya when you say he'll love it..." look on her face.
He did love it. So much so that he was reduced to tears. The last time he saw any hand prints of his daughter were when we received Ella's in a booklet the NICU nurses at the hospital made for us, amongst the shoe box of things that amounted to the evidence of her existence on Earth. We've not been able to really make the LGBB's hand prints after that. I wanted to do it. But I was superstitious about it at the time, as if I was making the hand prints of our second newborn "just in case" that was all we'd end up knowing her by.
On Saturday night before bed, the LGBB turned her hand to splatting Clag on a piece of black card and then sprinkling glitter all over it. A finer decorated Happy Flying Kite Day card there never was. I asked her what she wanted me to write inside, as "a message for Daddy", I told her.
"I love playing kites with you."
Simple. I liked her pre-emptive knowing, given that she hadn't yet experienced the joy that is, apparently, playing kites with Dad. I'd like to thank the movie, Mary Poppins, at this point for planting the idea in the LGBB's head in the first place - not that Steve resembles the grumbly Mr Banks at all, in any way.
The morning came and we snuggled into bed, the three of us and Ellanor weighing very heavily on her parents' minds and hearts. When Daddy opened his first present, oh, well, he could hardly believe his luck at receiving something he never knew he'd always wanted. A Dora The Friggen Explorer kite. Sigh. I did let her choose, after all.* He then opened his card that told him how much he loved using said kite. With the LGBB. In the card were also some family passes to various fun things around the state, including the penguins at Phillip Island and a trip up the Eureka sky tower in the city.
But Daddy's favourite present was obvious. I don't see Steve's tears too often, but it somehow also doesn't take much. They are always there, often fleeting, but always there just below the surface (somewhat stereotypically, I guess).
Ella wasn't mentioned yesterday by anyone. We are used to this now. On Mothers and Fathers Days each year, right from that first year in 2004, we learned the hard way that it was our job, just his and mine, to honour our rightful place in the world as mother and father, respectively. It was obvious that the acknowledgement was not going to come from our own mothers and/or fathers, who inadvertently or otherwise have always managed to skirt the "issue". Phoning them, therefore, on those two days each year has been one of the most bitter, jagged little pills to swallow. It was quite difficult in the first years (before we had Lolly) to call up and wish them a "happy" fathers day, for instance, when a) it wasn't terribly happy for us and b) the very reason we were calling was to appreciate and thank and honour them for being our fathers.... when I would have expected part of that was to accept that they were now fathers of parents - bereft parents - themselves. What an alien and confronting place for them to be in, I have no doubt and would never envy them their position, especially given the era they grew up in.
But I digress.
Yesterday was not about trespasses past. It was a happy flying kite day. Not that we did. D'oh. Unfortunately, we were all quite ill here. Happy but poorly, therefore. We crawled out at slow pace together to watch a movie on the big screen and, stupidly I suppose in hindsight, I even determined to brave it knowing that the LGBB (sans nappy for about a month now) had the runs.... We made it through the movie with just one toilet break, she was such a champion about it all and had no accidents.
Today is recovery day. And speaking of which, I must now tend to my sleeping beauty who appears to still be under the weather, as well as the covers.
I hope, in whatever form it took for you, that yesterday was an equally Happy Flying Kite Day for your fathers, your partners, your family and you.
* I haven't confessed until now, but the LGBB has had a very short-lived love affair with Dora. I say "short-lived" because when she realised that Dora chick doesn't answer her back when the LGBB tells her stuff, it's pretty rude of her. So Lolly doesn't hold her in nearly as high regard anymore, her and her Map and Backpack and... ugh just slays me, that show. Sorry, fans.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Boulevard of broken wings and heads and things
In a corner of our kitchen is a very sad and sorry pile.
So far in Toy Triage, we have a giraffe 'skittle' with his head lopped, a decapitated ballerina whose head is still dangling from the necklace like some grisly token and a forlorn looking fairy with her wing chopped off.
Do you have a similar spot with things you have to get around to sticking or sewing back on? Is it as sad as this sorry lot?
The Toys Waiting For Fixing.
So far in Toy Triage, we have a giraffe 'skittle' with his head lopped, a decapitated ballerina whose head is still dangling from the necklace like some grisly token and a forlorn looking fairy with her wing chopped off.
Do you have a similar spot with things you have to get around to sticking or sewing back on? Is it as sad as this sorry lot?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
My stash of sweet pot
In my haste to make this as painless and fast a process as possible, I steam, mash and purée several batches' worth of cauliflower, pumpkin, beetroot, sweet potato and whatever other vegies I can get my hands on (like spinach, etc.). These then go into 1/2 cup serving sized bags, left to cool and go into the freezer for easy adding to pasta sauces, lasagne, soups, casseroles.... anywhere that a whole vegie sticking out, at this stage of her life, would send the LGBB into conniptions and render the entire meal inedible in her eyes.
So to avoid that situation, I've resorted to dastardly deceptive techniques. Sure, I still serve whole vegetables on the side and these are eaten with disdain in small bites. She thinks she's "winning" by leaving some of them uneaten, siding with the rest of the meal.... mwaaahahaha *dastardly rubbing of hands*
The funniest part about all this is that for some unknown reason (I think it's Lolly's eye for style), the kid thinks it's her recipe book. Ok, fine, what-EVURR, take the book, I say, snickering into my sleeve that she's been so fooled by the art of cramming mashed vegetables and fruits into her meals that she has even fallen in love with the bible itself.
So. Back to the mash night.
It's fun, it feels really good, knowing all this is going to be used (I would go through a whole head of cauliflower, a couple of sweet potatoes, half a dozen or more squash and a decent sized pumpkin every couple of weeks or so). But by the time I get to labelling, well... my Martha-ness just cannot be stuffed putting the effort into writing neatly. Or even whole words.
Hence, the absent-minded Ooops that resulted in The Good Husband coming in to find me writing "Sweet Pot" on all the sweet potato bags. Of course, we turned it into a TV quote. Are you serious? This is us we're talking about here. Lenny and Lenny (shit, I forgot to ever tell you that story about how the Two Lennys came about, didn't I, dear single solitary reader who asked ever so long ago just out of interest....).
He: Is your name Ott-o?
Me: *in stoner voice* Yezz. An' I looove to get Blott-o.
Life is pretty grim if you can't make at least one thing you say each day into a line from a movie or The Simpsons. That's my motto. And I do, very much, love to get blotto.
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