best possible taste

Yesterday I had an interview at Real Groovy for a job at their mag. I was hoping maybe I could fake being a finger-on-the-pulse hipster for long enough to secure the job. Instead, I was blah. I'd fibbed so much on my CV, I couldn't be arsed fibbin' no more. Not to worry - it was good to get the first interview hurdle over and done with. And besides, the job I really want (as opposed to the SPCA job I really *really* want) is at Amnesty. Man, that'd be cool.

'Twas a good day. This morning, I got the artists formerly known as the Post Office to send me an application form for Postiehood. The HR woman I spoke to said she had 59 phone messages from other hopefuls to wade through. Still, the amount of interest isn't really surprising: being a postie always seemed like a pretty good ticket to me. You get to ride a bike around for a few hours a day, your shift is over by early afternoon, and everybody loves getting mail, so you're doing people good. The fact that the majority of your burden apart from at Christmas isn't real mail but bills is not so great, but still. Besides: I like to think I look good in red :)

Then it was into town to meet Mum, who's up for a few days, staying with the lovely Torrances. Mum and Charm have been gardening like madwomen, for they like that sort of thing.

Mum caught me up over lunch with all the doings at Wairakei and nearby, and then we headed into the strange and wonderful world of the Queen St Hoyts at Aotea square, which was built in conjunction with the (I believe now defunct) Planet Hollywood cafe. Very space-age - lots of that kind of crisscrossy (and other) metal everywhere, nausea-inducing spiral staircases and a very cool rocketship lift. And there's a Mr Whippy shop in the food court, which seems wrong somehow, because Mr Whippy is a van thing, you know? But their cream freeze is still pretty good.

So anyway: the movie.
We went to see 'Under the Tuscan Sun', based on the book of the same name by Frances Mayes. American writer finds out hubby is having an affair. They get divorced. She mopes a lot. She goes to Tuscany on a gay tour (as you do), and buys a run-down villa (ditto.) Rural spendour, colourful locals, beautiful scenery, romance, blahblah. Nice enough. Diane Lane is gorgeous but underutilised. (Fer some real acting, see her stint with the very yummo Olivier Martinez in 'Unfaithful'.) But god, it's great to see a middle-aged woman looking middle-aged in the entertainment biz. Exceptionally beautiful, yes - but undeniably no longer youthful. Unlike Mads , who looks like somebody's grabbed her face and pinned the loose bits back somewhere in that lovely hair.

Having ensured Mum got on t'bus back to Laingholm safely, I sampled Mr Whippy's white wares, then proceeded to wander about on Q St, wending my way wus stop-wards. (Worry.) Had one of those really angry bus drivers, which is always fun and keeps one alert on the way home, wot? Despite the weaving and tooting we didn't actually hit anything, so hurrah. It's not as if your seatbelt's going to save you on the bloody bus, is it now?

Time for Pratchett now. I do love books that can stand up to repeated readings. With my memory being what it is, every time's mostly like the first anyway :D

Wish me luck, for today I applied for an admin assistant job at the SPCA!
If I don't get it, and who knows how many other gooey fluffy bunny lovers there are out there dying to be paid what I imagine is not very much, there's also a part-time filing job going at the Auckland branch at Mangere, which is a fair hike, but what the hey.

There are oodles of Call Centre jobs going here, but I'll try for more me-ish stuff first. Still, if I do end up going down that road, I know my DialAmerica Marketing experience in Texas will serve me well: "Hi, Mrs Blah! How's the weather down there in Alabama? It's bright and sunny? Well could you bottle me up some of that sunshine and send it to me here in Austin, because it's cold here today. And while you're at it, how'sabout buying some more magazines you don't want? No? Well I understand that it's hard to find the time to read when you're nursing your husband who's dying of cancer, but wouldn't another dozen copies of the Ladies' Home Companion be just the thing to take your mind off your troubles?" etc etc. We were supposed to keep going until we got two refusals, if we hadn't been hung up on by then, and you'd be surprised how many people are polite way above and beyond. What a job.

On the phone to our energy company, who shall remain winged of foot and nameless. I don't know whether or not to be grateful that there's no musak to entertain me while I wait. It's almost disconcerting. Give me Pan Pipe Easy Listening Favourites, damnit!

I must away to the magical Town of Food, for the tea supplies are grimly low. Wouldn't Grimley Lowe be a great name for a character in a Victorian novel?

(Or possibly monolith.)

GlANTSlZE PumpingPoleOfPenilePower

What kindly people these spammers are! If only I had a penis of any size - just think what a behemoth it could become with their help.

Oh, the Bananity!

Thanks be to Alison Holst! Her African bean recipe turned out very tastily. It was nice to be the cook rather than the cookee for once. (Stephen's ability to consistently whip up gourmet meals astounds and delights me, and he actually *enjoys* cooking!) As I prefer to focus on the eating side of the culinary arts, my repertoire in the kitchen until recently has been restricted to toast, grated cheese, and tea. But then Sean and Yoshiko gave me 'Meals without Meat' for my birthday, and I've been reminded that I can follow a recipe with the best of 'em. Things are going to change (very slightly) around here.

On a further food note: I have two bananas in my freezer. I read or heard somewhere that once they've gone all dotty and sickly-sweet, they can be saved from further ickiness by freezing, and can then be thawed happily and made into delicious baked goods. They look kind of alarming though - I'm wondering whether it mightn't have been a good idea to peel them first? Perhaps later I'll take a photo so you can all share in the glory.

Spilling the Beans

Yea, though I walk through the valley of bulk foods, I shall fear no evil. The milkbottle lollies may tempt me, but I will not succumb! Not this time, anyway. Instead I bought black-eyed beans, and while transferring them from bag to cup managed to, (and it was one of those slo-mo I know it's going to happen but darned if I can stop it moments) well, spill them. But what the hey - they're going to have the bejeezus boiled out of them, so what's a little floor flavour?

Aaargh! So much for the easy peasy insta-htmlage! Whether it just doesn't like me, or the Penguin's not playing, I can't use the built-in linker thing. Ok, so I'll try the hard way:

For fun and excitement, there's nowt better than a snazzy welding helmet!

(via Making Light , which has a heap of other brilliant links, and some damn fine writing from the resident editrix/authoress.)

Ok, so now I've got the hang of this, for my fellow 'will it creep me out? - good!' peoples, try Neil Gaiman's blog, which I came to via this charming London underground blog.
Should bring back memories for anyone who's had fun and games in the labyrinth under The City, as Londoners are so charmingly wont to call it. My bestest adventure there involved lugging a roughly 20 kilo backpack down several flights of crowded stairs only to find I was meant to be on the platform on the other side of the tracks (and back up those stairs.) How I laughed! That'll teach me to eschew modern bagware (and maps.)

Thank gods the Daleks didn't have to rely on public transport.

(addendum - Stephen has pointed out that the low-floor ARC buses might be just the job, should Davros' darlings ever make it this far. )

So this is Christmas
And what have we done
Etc.

But of course it isn't Christmas at all, or at least not in this universe (or sector of the multiverse, as Terry Pratchett would have it, and I like to think he might have a point.)

That small wotsit aside, even if it *were* Chrissy in these parts, another year wouldn't actually be over (nor would a new one have just begun.) For lo! we have to wait until New Year's Day for that to be true. I know - lyrics that make no sense? Outrageous! Next you'll be telling me that 'No one heard at all - not even the chair' is a bunch of bollocks, and that the moon is actually made of rocks and other hard substances, with nary a whiff of the tasty yellow stuff to be seen (or sniffed), Wallace and Gromit's adventures notwithstanding.

Some might say that I have no control over my sentence structure. To them I might well reply: you're only saying that because, as the great channelled spirit Ramtha might himself say (if allegedly (and some might say impossibly) planting your thoughts into some slightly-to-very unbalanced fruitloopian could be said to be 'saying' anything at all): 'we are all brothers here, so relax, and let the sentences run free, lest you sentence yourself to a life of judgement and clenched buttocks...'

Speaking of which: once, in an attempt to maximise gluteal firmness, I set out to walk down our (very long) driveway, clenching my buttocks firmly with each step. At about the halfway mark, I fell down in agony, having clenched my way to a pinched nerve in my lower back. Let that be a lesson to all of us.

'Tis customary (she imagines fondly) to christen one's blog with either a great dollop of hilarity or something a little bit profound. As neither seems forthcoming I'll just say this: welcome to a slice of me. Take a nibble - and if you must spit me out, please do so as discreetly (and with as few loud bleurchhing noises) as is humanly possible. Wouldn't want to lower the tone of this Interweb thingie.