Gathering for celebratory bout of binge drinking on account of BB's Birthday last night proved to be a mini grog-blogging event with the moving stairs of a Harry potter novel included.
Tip: Don't leave the third floor of the three wise monkeys after the band has started unless you are a kung fu master and can kick some serious bouncer butt, or spiderman so you can just climb the outside of the building to get back to your mates.
Why they make it a rule that all main staircases become designated exits, and the one rickety out the back firetrap staircase the only way back up has me buggered, unless it has something to do with people fleeing from the band.
Nice to bump into Misha again too. Were we starting a save the krill campaign or was that just me? Someone has to stop thinking only of the whales. Krill have feelings too dammit.
When I got back to the car park I walked in to find the little automated payment machine looking smug. I inserted my ticket. A little hatch opened, a mechanical arm with a gun extended, a small black mask appeared over it's beady little readout, and it tried to rob me of $25.00. Thing was, I only had $23.00 on me. Half an hour later after finding an ATM and getting out the required amount of extortion money I went back to find that it now wouldn't let me have my car back for less than $32.00.
Avoid the car park opposite the back of Hoyts in Kent st like the plague.
Mrs A. has hit the brutal stage. We live in a two bedroom apartment and like a cheap add for a carpet warehouse everything has to go, we have to make way for a new shipment of baby and all stock is reduced, and will be put in the car and taken to the tip if it's not sold or given away before sometime in February or March. Don't miss out. She really is in full on mode. "What about the fridge, I mean lets face it we could use the room and it only keeps things cold".
I suppose three humans and three cats will be a squeeze. At least we have two bathrooms. Until she removes all the fittings of one and chucks them. The hardest part is watching all my accumulated shit put into piles whilst the two built in wardrobes still house more clothes and shoes belonging to my darling and well dressed wife than the Salvation army gives to the poor in a decade. I have one half of one wardrobe, and that particular half also houses the television in the bedroom. If I buy a new shirt I have to give one away.
But it is good to get rid of stuff like the photo frame that Aunty Mavis gave you on the occasion of the day she thought it was Christmas when she got out of the retirement home and holed up in a lace shop armed with a crochet hook and a years supply of Barbara's House and Garden magazine.
For some reason I still had my first video recorder. It works, but it has no facility to be programmed to record at any future time and eats every third tape just to prove who has the power over the entertainment experience in the household. Between Mrs A. and I we have a few televisions, video recorders, DVD players etc, so keeping the one that still bore the teeth marks of my rabbit in the power lead that the cat then pissed on setting fire to the bookshelf and entertainment unit seems a trifle sentimental.
The other thing we seem to have in quantity is boxes of things that we bought even if we don't have what originally came in the boxes any more. From those cubic ipod boxes to the boxes that computer games come in which are thirty times bigger than the lone CD enclosed. And electrical cables. A spaghetti morass of cables that power I don't know what. Half of them I think have nothing to do with anything I have ever bought, and the other half are replacements I re purchased when I could no longer find the original.
Then you hit the real keepsakes that once every five years you stumble upon and swear that you will take more time with before storing them in the back of the cupboard in your storage space in the garage. Old photo albums that have nothing to do with your current life, and should not be poured over too fondly in the vicinity of current spouses. The vinyl collection. No not the gimp clothes. The, dare I say it, Records. LP's. 45's. I don't even own a record player any more.
To name a few.
Some stuff just needs to be relocated. We have three big bookshelves in what will be the nursery, chocka block full of precious precious books. The entertainment unit in the living room, which is the size of a London bus, houses limited editions and nice hard copies, including the prized originals from our childhoods such as Winnie the Pooh. It also houses around 600 empty CD cases. All the CD's are in those folders with the plastic sleeve doovies. So we need to pack up the CD cases and move the books from shelves in the nursery to the space left so that they are out of reach of our progeny until they reach an age where they can be trusted with them. I'm thinking mid 40's.
Yet as we strive to achieve our new minimalist lifestyle, Mrs A. keeps coming home with this toy or that piece of baby clothing. She spends most of her time putting capsules and prams on lay-by. She was even eyeing off my boot (trunk) yesterday as it's bigger than hers and will hold a pram more easily.
Now where the hell am I supposed to keep my golf clubs?
When you go to the doctor for some sort of physical check up that includes disrobing, you go the nice undies. You shower, shave, wax your shoulders, draw a steel tight six pack on your gut with a marker pen and generally try to make it as nice an experience as possible for all concerned.
The dentist also requires a certain amount of preparation. There's abject fear and gibbering, crying and wailing, and apparently teeth cleaning and maybe a little mouth wash. It seems there is a no garlic rule as well, not that I thought he was a vampire to begin with.
I have a toothache. I need to make a booking at a dentist.
You scored -2 sophistication and 1 scintillation!
You are Islington!
There are two possibilities here.
(1) You are a mild-mannnered middlebrowish kind of person.
Overall, you're probably quite a good human being. About 25-35% of the
time, it's "good" as in being "positively virtuous", and the rest of
the time it's that more insipid form of "good" that comes from a mere
absence of malice. In any case, "nice" is an appropriate adjective for
you. "Quite nice" is an even better description.
(2) You're like Shakespeare's Cleopatra or Hamlet. Your moods
are variegated and mercurial. Your contradictory answers to my test
have cancelled each other out and have left you in this, the "middle"
category. Your life teeters on that tightrope between madrigal and
scream. People mistakenly accuse you of a lack of conviction. Actually,
the reality is that you prefer Truth to Facts, and you're not so much
"indecisive" as "ambidecisive" - you can see the advantages of many
different courses of action. You go, girl! (Even if you're a boy -
heck, especially if you're a boy!)
(Psst! Most people - including the writer of this test - are (1)'s. But you're definitely a (2)!)
My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
I was listening to 702 ABC Sydney the other day when one of those cheapskate segments came on. You know the ones. They get a doctor or a lawyer or a cabinet maker to dispense free advice on air when people call in. This particular segment was with a vet. Listening to the callers I realised that I am nowhere near obsessive enough about my animals well being, nor do I use anywhere near enough cute names or euphemisms to describe what boopsy is doing to daddykins.
One caller did catch my attention as he described in his cat symptoms that are not dissimilar to my boy, Pippin. Apparently cats can get dementia. Suddenly things started to fall into place. He doesn't sit in the ficus pot to relive the feel of grass on his paws satisfying a genetic memory from his ancestors of hunting wildebeest on the Savannah as I had previously assumed. He thinks he's a tree.
I shouldn't have needed the radio show to point it out. I should have picked it up when he started calling me Arthur. Frootloop and Spotty Monsta look at me in a withering fashion as if I've just realised the sky is blue. In their anthropomorphic way they point out that they've known ever since he decided that one of the stuffed animals on the bed was out to kill him, and the best way to ensure his safety was to live in the cereal cupboard. He's not a small cat, and the cereal cupboard is not at ground level.
At night when we are in bed and all the lights are off he starts to wail as if he's not sure where he is or if he is the sole survivor of some apocalyptic nightmare that has wiped out all litter trays in existence. I get up, go out and scoop him up, bringing him back to bed where he sleeps until he realises that the doona is a part of a nefarious scheme to do whatever it is that he thinks we are going to do. Using his super powers he then attempts to leave the apartment via the glass balcony door which is closed. The resulting thunk seems to knock some sense into him, and he comes back to bed, curls up and becomes a pillow for the night.
When I get up in the morning and give them breakfast I call him. He doesn't come. I go and pull the doona back, uncovering him. "Come on mate, breakfast time", I tell him. "There's no one here but us chickens", he says.
I have a new picture on my fridge drawn by my niece. I'm hard to miss
as the majority of my head is moustache. If you had no language but had
to decribe yourself to someone in pictures without actually showing a
picture of yourself, how would you do it? Using Google images, this is
what I came up with.
It's amazing what crap you'll come up with to avoid actually doing the work you brought home with you.