Nice then

nice

Do you ever have one of those days when someone asks you, “How was your day?” and you reply “Nice, it was a nice day.” and you really can’t recall why it was nice, or how it was nice, but it was nice, and then it dawns on you that it was actually the absence of any form of irritation that made it nice?

Well, yesterday was like that.

 

The case of the vacuuming dog and can household appliances feel emotions ?

mother's day advert For years I have been in the forefront of the fight for women not to be given home appliances for Mother’s Day. I mean, really, one day off and here’s your gift and get back to work?

There was the brief relapse the year I thought a bread maker was a good idea. Ideas of mother earth and the bread of my childhood, still warm from the bakery seduced me and my guard slipped. Yes, dear reader, I regressed, but momentarily. It was back to pjs and perfume for this mother the following year.

That is, until this year.

Mr FD was cruising the internet and came across a one day offer for a Robot Vacuum Cleaner that was not only in go faster red, meeting all his requirements, but also promised to be able to cope with all types of pet and animal hair. I guessed that meant shedding man hair too.

No one told me Golden Retrievers shed so much hair! Not that I asked. We owned a white cat a couple years ago, and two daughters who both had hip length hair a few years before that, so I have dealt with my fair share of hair about the house. Nothing compared to Augie Dog! His hair wafts like tumbleweeds across the floors. I have taken to keeping a lint brush with me most of the time, and especially at work, as Augie is in the habit of jumping on me just as I walk out the door for school. The easiest solution is to keep another lint brush on my desk and have Minerva check me over!

To be honest, the advert had me at the mention of animal hair. Then Mr FD said it was half its normal price. SOLD! to the lady who is about to eat all her rants and principles  about Mother’s Day gifts!

It arrived while Mr FD and Son were on their interstate jaunt, so I placed the box on Mr FD’s favourite chair for him to have the joy of opening. My decision had nothing to do with the fact that there were layers of packing to unpack, and the possibility of some kind of electronic programming best left to others with nothing better to do. I like to share my gifts. Honestly.

First morning home, and a flock of Flamingo Dancers could have been viewed standing in a semi circle in the middle of the living room watching magic take place. Intense discussion about what was about to happen, might happen, did happen, could happen, filled the air. It was a small life and we were living it!

The last time we felt such intense joy was when we installed our first dishwasher.

As I write this post, the wonder of the modern ages is currently bobbing in and out from under our bed. I never knew life could be like this.

The only issue is that Augie Dog keeps following it around, shedding new tumbleweeds of hair as he goes. All very chicken and egg, just in this case, vacuum cleaner and dog. I don’t know what level of intelligence a robotic vacuum cleaner may have, but I hope it can’t feel frustration or anger.  I know how I feel when I clean something and someone instantly messes it up. If it does, then  Augie might be a doomed dog! GR3

…where have you been? I’ve been to Australia offending their Flamingo Dancer

fd pink

There has been a bit of a rumble in the kingdom these past couple of days. An element of interference in my universe. A territorial dispute. The “other” royals, those foreign interlopers, William and Kate, and their cutesy wutsey baby boy, George have been round and about the place. They have the temerity to venture within mere miles of Moi this weekend too!

I have chosen to take the moral high ground and have issued no invitations to them.

In fact, I have decided the best course of action, or non action might be more accurate, is to ignore them totally. Well, except for the time I am watching the news and they happen to appear before my eyes, numerous times a day. I am after a a tolerant woman, and they are young and inexperienced. One must understand that they do not know what they are doing, straying within my lands.

The days are pleasant, the sun is shining, the parrots are tweeting, tweet tweet, so what better that a morning in the garden? The basil was taking over the orchard and blocking the bath of the sprinklers and so that was cut back. Then, onto the daisies that line the stairs to the orchard terrace.

This is an area where caution is required. It is a dry stone wall and a favourite place to sun and hide for snakes, so it is with some caution that I venture thus. I always wear knee high wellingtons when I garden as a form of self protection, and have gloves as well, but where there is a will there is a way for woman and reptile. I wonder if it is a female snake? There must be one somewhere hence the spawn. Anyway, that is not my subject too. What is my subject?

Oh yes, gardening. If anyone is wondering what happened to the sweet potato I planted so earnestly some months ago, well nothing happened.  They popped up and started to grow and then they must have become a tasty meal for possum or rat, as GOF predicted. The spot remains empty.The End.

I have plans to plant nasturtium to attract bees for the fruit trees, but I am not expecting my dining companion not to return to make it difficult. The orchard garden is on the edge of our property and backs onto open bushland, home to everything and anything.

Gardening completed on a perfect autumn day, I retired inside to a lovely cup of tea, a yorkshire blend for the gardening goddess, only to be offended anew by William and Kate, sans George, meeting the cheering peoples of New South Wales’ Blue Mountains. There is only so much a goddess can tolerate, and so I called for my stick list.

Home alone though, so no minion came forth. Too comfy after my morning’s efforts to rise, I gave W&K a momentary pardon. Just this once, mind you. Just once.

 

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to look at the Queen.
Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you do there?
I frightened a little mouse, under the chair.

the solo sounds of silence

alone 1

Why is it that as soon as anyone hears that I am to be “home alone” for a few days, they immediately make the assumption that I will be lonely, or make the suggestions that I either visit them, or worse still, they visit me? “You know what you should do…” a statement that under any circumstances is guaranteed to make me bristle is not what I am open to on this occasion for sure!

Do they not realise that I am a woman who is rarely “alone”? I work all day with people and I come home to people. That is in no way a complaint, it is an observation, a fact.

Can they not imagine for a microsecond  that I might enjoy the utter silence of an empty home for a few days? Have they never experienced the relief of not having to plan meals, or accommodate the needs of others, for a short while? The joy of having the entire bed to oneself? To eat without having to share, or hide if it is something special?

Sleep when one wants, rise when one wants, well, when the dog will allow maybe, but at least without guilt.

Lordy, me I have been daydreaming and fantasising about my “home alone” stay cation for the last couple of weeks. Sometimes is it a small life indeed, but oh the small joys it delivers !

So, next time I tell you I am home alone, wish me joy and fun and utter self indulgence, and we will both be fine. In fact, you will continue to live another day.

happiness 1

I ponder upon Flamingo Files

caged woman On my drive home through the city last week I passed a shop that had a pressed letter sign declaring, You will never know how much I love you . All I could think was, well tell him/her stupid! No one should have to guess, it should hit them in the face like a cream pie every day.

A billboard declared that the business could solve “In grown toe nails”, In fact it was branded an “ingrown toe nail clinic”. More ponderings. Does this mean our thong/sandal wearing Australian population is a nation of ingrown nail growers, enough to support an entire clinic, or clinics catering to just that? Or more worrying, does it mean that our literacy levels have dropped so much that few know what the word podiatrist means these days and we have to dumb down the language even more.

[Remember, Australians wear thongs upon their feet, not flip flops. Thongs are not underwear. Well, they are underwear, but they are also footwear. We had the word first, I swear.]

I am thinking of implementing this design feature to my revenge stick. Form, function, but not quite sure about beauty… picnic stick I just don’t want to disturb the balance function as one smites those who have angered me. It would defeat the ants though.

Our dog moped about during my absence last week. He perked up dramatically when I returned. Then Mr FD and Son went away for a few days, and Augie Dog is back to moping, lifting his head at every car noise, sitting by the front door, searching Son’s empty rooms. If he missed me, why aren’t I enough now? I am the one who feeds him most of the time, surely belly love should trump all!

Mr FD and Son left on a day long drive to visit Mr FD’s 90 year old bachelor Uncle. Two hours into the trip I received a phone call. Mr FD had left his wallet at home! This was after I had suggested that he leave said wallet in the car in the locked garage (part of the house) to ensure he not leave it behind. No, he had to bring it inside for no reason… Luckily, Son has his wallet. Obviously, Mr FD needs a wallet that goes ding as well! [See previous post]

If you are a maker of dog toys, there is an untapped market for industrial strength toys for LARGE DOGS. Poor Augie Dog has a rope, a frisbee and a Gorilla Kong on a rope that would snap the neck of a lesser dog. All other toys are for those teeny weeny lap dogs that travel in handbags. Wimps. Augie needs man dog toys. I will be your first order if you take up the challenge – no dings required.

We top dressed the lawn inside Augie’s yard and ever since mushrooms have been popping up. The obvious answer is that there was a lot of mushroom compost in the mix. We think the mushrooms are safe, but don’t trust our mushroom identification skills, so each day we go out and pick the mushrooms before Augie is allowed out. As I rise earliest, this falls to me most mornings. A few times the neighbours have driven out their drive as I do so, and I wonder what they think as they see a bleary eyed Flamingo Dancer with night sleep hair, in her PJs picking mushrooms in the early morning light. Needs must in more ways than one?caged woman 2