crazybrave

To celebrate the joy that is finding out that Liam can resurrect your neglected blog after you’ve casually deleted it, I present you with my annotated needs, via Pavlov’s Cat, Bernice Balcony and Uncle Google:

Zoe needs To Assert Dominion Over Her Pod
Indeed, the Pod is a malestorm of coughing, deep sookiness and explosive diarrhoea. In fact if anyone fancies swapping pods for a few days, please do leave a comment.

Zoe needs a middle name
Correct. Not only is “Ann” dull as dishwater – lacking even an elevating “e” – I was named for my paternal grandmother, who turned out to really be called Nancy all along. Things could have been worse, as my maternal grandmother’s name was Ethel Mary.

Zoe needs a stylist and food
Correct, but not in that order.

Zoe needs to wear pants.
Oh, pants to that.

Zoe needs (Bristol) is on Facebook.
I don’t need Bristol, especially not if it’s Bristol Palin. And yes, I am on Facebook, but only fleetingly these days.

Zoe needs an intern.
And a dry cleaning account.

Zoe needs a reality check.
Because if I don’t, this kind of shit will happen.

Zoe needs more Space at Zac Posen Fall Winter Fashion Show.
So she can get a good backswing up on her handbag and take a few of these skinny-legged idiots out.

Zoe needs a sister but she’s not getting one.
My 70 year old mother would heartily agree, while pointing out that Zoe already has a perfectly serviceable sister.

Zoe needs a good home.
Housetrained, affectionate, vaccinated and wormed – c’est moi.

Patrick “Bad News” Hughes has a new blog.

woot!

Firstly, I should mention that any comparison between my blogging “career” and Mal Meninga’s football career make it very clear that Mal’s well in the lead achievement-wise.

Anyhoo, I’ve been thinking (for a very long time) about a cookery blog – they’re aren’t really any funny ones*, and I make many culinary errors which I find amusing. So lovely Liam organised some space for me, and I’ve been developing a design, and making notes and thinking about posts a lot. And there it is, almost all ready to go (except that my lovely firefox friendly comment boxes bork out in IE which is driving me a bit mental), and …

I read the cookery blogs and there is EXACTLY the same conversation that has been occurring for the last two or three years in the political blogging world about professionalism//journalists are good/bloggers are teh evil and would never get “properly” published as they have no technical expertise, etc, etc blahdy blah. I can’t be stuffed, you know?

So I start writing a post about recipe substitution and Nigella Lawson’s breakfast bars and the amended ingredient list is so staggeringly wanky I can’t bear it and have to stop. Which is when I remembered Mal’s entry to local ACT politics in 2001. 28 seconds he lasted. In his first interview as a candidate he just folded:

MAL MENINGA: I was … I’m buggered. I’m sorry.

COMPERE, CHRIS UHLMANN: That’s all right.

MAL MENINGA: I have to resign.

COMPERE, CHRIS UHLMANN: Okay. So Mal Meninga is leaving the studio. And he says that he can’t do it.

The more I think about it the more graceful and sensible his approach seems.

* Except, of course, spiceblog, of which one cannot speak too highly. And no doubt there are more – leave a link if you’ve a fave.

Aurelius is planning a blog meet in Canberra, next Friday, the 31st, 7 pm at the Wig and Pen. I’ll be a little late but hope to go if can make all the little people pass out at the correct time.

Details here.

If you haven’t met other bloggers/commenters/lurkers in the flesh before, you’ll find it’s much less nerve racking than you might expect.

Not much going on here. Little tiny man is six months old on Thursday, and only two weeks until his cast comes off. Hoo-fucking-ray.

Sage is still struggling a little with having an attention grabbing sibling, but I have distracted him momentarily by making my Mum knit them matching veggie hats from Suse’s pattern at Pea Soup. I didn’t want to sound ungrateful but really, Mum, what vegetable is grey? Apart from a mouldy eggplant?

I have been wasting time on Facebook, even thought I don’t really get it. It’s alarmingly cold, and O and I keep on saying “Vy is the top down, it’s focking freezing!” to each other, a habit adopted from a very dear friend who used to watch Schindler’s List so she could perve at Ralph Fiennes. I tried to tell her it was Wrong, but that did not stop her for she is a Bad Womans.

Waking up every two and half hours has destroyed my brain and I appear to have got lost in the world of shabby chic blogging, including Shabby goes camping from where I nabbed that marvellous post title.

Round here we just do shabby, which involves a lot less cushions and white terriers.

I knew that leaving lots of Sage’s art stuff in the carport was a great idea – what happiness it is to come home from an outing and find this outside your house:

Soon the whole world will speak lolcat, and peace will reign throughout the kindgom.

lol.

I have to give this computer back tomorrow, and mine remains unfixed and a new one not yet decided upon. I’ll be back eventually, but probably not for a bit as the little guy’s hips are wockier than expected and require a ghastly cast which – due to the excellence of the public health system – needs doing in Sydney.

It’s not so terrible a problem to have in the scheme of things, but he’s my little baby and it makes me a bit sad.

In the meantime, please share with me a picture surreptitiously ripped from a stupid loifstyle magazine in the doctor’s waiting room: