Just do it!

We have a veranda attached to the outhouse which, for a lot of the year, is a nice place to sit and watch and listen to nature in all it’s glory.  It’s also where the Hub spends most of his quiet time.  Now that the wall is finished, I’ve been nagging encouraging him to build the veranda wall he’s wanted for ages that will shield him from the weather, especially as he’ll be recovering from major surgery in a few months and I’m not having him moaning piteously in the house.  He can do that outside where I can’t hear him.

But he’s been dragging the chain. Getting distracted and bouncing from one thing to anoth – ooh!  Fish! – er and assuring me that’s there’s plenty of time and it won’t take long to build, and he’s just off to take care of some secret men’s business.


Yesterday was quite windy and rainy and in the back of my mind was ‘he needs to get onto the veranda’ but I said nothing, because I’m a good wife. And I think I had already nagged reminded him yesterday. Not sure but it is definitely within the realm of Possibility.

This morning I was woken by the sounds of construction.  Apparently, last night he got smacked in the face by wet leaves.  Bless you, Mother Nature.  Us girls have to stick together.  Sisters unite!  And guess what?

Yup.  It’s finished.


“When anger spreads through the breath, guard thy tongue from barking idly.” – Sappho

I’m so bad at it, remembering first brain and then mouth. But I shall try.

Why can’t I sleep like a normal person?

I mean, it’s not hard.  At least, it doesn’t look hard.  The Hub puts his head down and then 2 minutes later I’m fighting the urge to give him some Tontine therapy (ie, smother him with his pillow.  Tontine is a well-known brand of pillows and I shouldn’t be needing to explain this.  Damn.  I’ve lost the flow.  Ignore this bit).  *clears throat*  Sorry.

I’ve heard the ‘head-down-go-to-sleep’ phenomenon is quite common, if you’re not an insomniac or stressed, or under the age of 5 but I’ve never been able to get the hang of it.  At night.

During the day it’s a completely different story.  On any form of transport it’s a completely different story.  Head down and 5 minutes later I’m looking all sweet and angelic in my blissful sleep but at night?  Nup.

My natural diurnal cycle involves falling asleep 2-3 hours later each night until it’s suddenly 1000 and I’m ready for bed.  That’s AM people.  In the morning.  24 hour clock.  And that’s when I try to reset my clock by staying up all day and lurching around like a zombie until I can’t take it any more and crawl into bed at 1800 to wake up at 0100 and think fuck!  Then the next day/night it’ll be 1930 ’til 0400 and I’ll still weep a little weep in frustration but then the next night I’ll fall asleep 2200 to wake at 0600 and it’ll be happy dancing all over the shop.  If I was a morning person.  But I’m not, soooo . . . disregard?

Yup.  Disregard.

So I’ll go to bed like normal people for a few days, able to look them in the eye, smug with the secret knowledge that I’m one of them and all will be well.  Until I start to need taking a nap during the day because I’m so damned tired or some stressor/trigger pushes me into bed to hide and then it all starts again.


That’s when I have people in the house.  If I’m alone for long stretches it’s not a problem.  I’ll sleep whenever I like (always during the day) and I don’t have to feel bad about it, like some kind of loser or freak, and revel in the knowledge that there’s just a handful of us awake at this time, this magical, mysterious time that only the fortunate few can share in.  I like being awake during the night when all is quiet.  Social convention doesn’t.

Social convention blows.

But when I’m not alone I have to try to conform and it sucks.  I had a sleep study done and all the wiggly lines were as they should be and I came away with proof that I don’t snore so pfthbthfpb to Hub and I don’t care what he says, 2.5% snoring time = I don’t snore because that’s almost 0% and that’s just maths.

So I’ll continue to shove pills down my throat at night in order to try and be normal and not throw the boogerman’s schedule off.  He’s got a lot of uncovered feet to eat.

I got me a care package!

So.  I go outside to remind the Hub what I look like and he’s walking toward me holding out a package.  He says it’s for me.  I panic.  I haven’t bought anything, honest!  I don’t know anyone here. WHY HAVE I GOT A PACKAGE!?!  He puts it on the table but I can’t touch it.  I’m pathetic.  It’s just a standard postal parcel and it’s making me as anxious as all buggery.  He opens it a little bit and tells me to open the rest.  I can’t so he does.  And what comes out is manna from heaven.

This, people, is what an Aussie care package looks like.  3 of the major food groups are represented here and it’s all stuff you can’t get here.  Oh, you can get poor, sad, hollow imitations but they are a shadow of the real thing and so you don’t buy them because they mock you with each bite.  Better to go without.

But now I don’t have to.  Now I can make fairy bread!

And cheese and vegemite sandwiches!  And vegemite on toast!   Image result for cheese and vegemite sandwich

*sigh*  My cup runneth over.

For those of you who are completely ignorant of the appropriate dosage of vegemite, I found this users’ guide for you:

Image result for cheese and vegemite sandwich

The Hub was working in Australia for the first time and saw everyone hooking into the vegemite so he thought he’d try it.  He thought it was like Nutella where you spread it good and thick.  He was wrong.  So very, very, screamingly funny wrong.  I haven’t been able to get it near him since, even though I explain it’s really just like beer.  Even the smell will make him shy away.

He has no taste although he was pretty bloody quick in dibbing a packet of Tim Tams.  Bastard.  If my giving up a packet of Tim Tams isn’t a demonstration of true love then I don’t know what is.

He’s going to take his packet to a mate’s where they’ll experiment with all the different ways of ruining a perfectly good Tim Tam in coffee.  Idiots.  I’m going to eat mine the way God and nature intended.


Aaaand . . . the winter stockpiling of wood has begun

It’s October.  Still fairly mild at around 8ºC but we’re occasionally firing up the wood-burner to help warm the living area.  And as getting the wood into the house is a complete pain in the arse, we bring in as much as we can be arsed to before we really need it so on those days when you’re sick or tired or sick AND tired then you don’t have to go out to get it.

For those of us who had a romantic vision of stacking firewood inside the house in artistic arrangements like so . . .



. . . your dreams are quickly shattered when you realise the reality is that’s actually bugger-all wood and will last sod-all and you’ll be spending all your time re-stocking and then sweeping up afterwards because wood sheds.  It’s messy stuff.  Sure you’ll invest in a funky and seemingly appropriate metal tub that looks fabulous when filled and all the wood is artistically stacked and you’ll use it and give yourself a warm little hug at how cosy you’ve made it all look.

But it doesn’t last.

Before you know it you’ll be sick of having bits of wood and dust and lichen scattered everywhere and end up using really ugly plastic bags like those from Ikea which are cleaner and more convenient and you’ll save your display woodpile for visitors who will ooh and aah in jealously admiration unless they’re your friends who are so completely onto you because they know you’re an apathetic sod.


But to get the wood . . .

The Hub cuts the wood from friends’ properties and then hauls it home.  We store it for drying at the top of the outhouse which means that in order to get some you have to climb up these rickety, broken, narrow, steep  and dimly-lit stairs to bring down 2 large and heavy bags of wood that you then have to carry around the house on iced paths.  I would pray for snow so that at least I had something soft to fall into when I lost my footing.  Then you have to take the bags up another, more civilised flight of stairs which, by that point, might as well be Mt bloody Everest.  It is exhausting and those 2 bags will last 2 days.  Maybe.

But then the genius Hub built a chute that we now use to send the wood downstairs when the woodpile is empty and we now have a back door so the icy paths can no longer bite my lily-white bottom.  And which means we can now bring more wood in with fewer trips and fewer heart attacks.

Yay Hub!

So as of this morning our indoor cup-of-wood runneth over.  We can come down with ebola or bubonic plague secure in the knowledge that we’ll die warm and toasty.  If we survive then it’s just a matter of remembering to take out the empties and keep on top of it in readiness for the next epidemic, episode of shitty weather or near-fatal case of can’t-be-arsed.

I love my fireplace, especially when the power goes out and it’s warm and quiet and all you can hear is the crackle of wood burning and the wind whistling through the trees outside but God it’s hard work!

Someone clicked on my blog? No way!

Way!  I’m so new to this that I’m still exploring the pages and options and whatnot that I went to the stats page to have a play and saw that someone had visited me and I’m like “You are shitting me?” and the stats are all like “No, no we’re not.  It happened.” so I have a look and it’s a referral from my current hero The Bloggess.

No.  Way.

My first thought was that it was someone from her office being responsible and making sure that a link to her wasn’t from some deranged stalker who shared her zest for necrophilia (oh that doesn’t sound good).  Necrophiliac?  No.  Deranged stalker?  Open to interpretation. But I followed the referral back and I think it’s because of a comment I made to one of her posts and someone has clicked on my name.  It could be anyone but hey! I am totally cool with the seven degrees of separation.

I don’t even care if they left the moment they realised I wasn’t who they thought I was, or if what they saw was so mindbogglingly tedious their brain shut down in self-defence.

I got me a click.

Typical conversation in this house

The Hub: (on a Thursday)  Okay, I’m off.  I’ll see you Monday or Tuesday, maybe.

Me: ?  Where are you going?

The Hub:  To that party E* was telling you about.  (months ago; brief mention, greatly lacking in detail)

Me:  What party?

The Hub:  The weekend music party, remember?  I said I was going and how much I was looking forward to it.

Me:  No you didn’t.  You’ve been having conversations in your head again, haven’t you.  We’ve talked about this.

The Hub:  I’m sure I told you . . .

Me:  *sigh*  Go in peace, have fun, don’t touch the girls who look nasty and buy your drugs only from reputable drug dealers.

The Hub:  Love you!

Me:  As you should.

*People’s identities shall be kept anonymous for my their safety because I don’t want their getting into trouble for misuse of a household appliance just because they came after me with a chainsaw.  I’m thoughtful that way.  Seriously, almost everyone in these parts has a chainsaw.  It’s like “Honey?  Have you seen my chainsaw?”  “Yes, sweetums.  It’s under the kitchen sink where you left it.”  “Found it!”