Unfinished Business

So I'm a really good thinker of new ideas. I've got plenty perfect plans just boiling away in the back waters of my brain. You want a new idea? I've got hundreds. And they're original too! Just don't ask me to implement them, ok?

I've had so many fantastic ideas that bubbled over into novel action that fizzled out somewhere between conception and final product. Implementing is really not my strong point!

And because of this unhappy marriage of excellent ideas and poor application of them, I find myself surrounded by so many unfinished projects, things that got off to a super start, and then faded under the weight of another new and exciting idea.

There's the turquoise roll-neck jersey I started knitting in highschool that is serving as fertile breeding ground for a family of fishmoths in the back of the cupboard.

There's the candy stripe blanky I started crocheting at the start of winter. It was supposed to be my first crochet project adorning one of my daughter's beds. Well, winter is over, and the "blanket" or first third of it anyway, waits patiently in a Mr Price packet behind the bar.

Behind the bar... now those are dangerous words! If you're looking for uncompleted projects, behind the bar is a positively high-yielding area to begin your search.

There's the twin fabric collages, in their virginal state, meant for the children's bedroom walls, untouched. There's a ballerina cross-stitch in demi-pirouette sandwiched between half a penguin mask and an unpacked first-aid kit in mid-replenishment.

There's the cupboard brimming to capacity with sample paints to determine what colour is going to work best on the braai-room wall. The braai-room wall is still the mouldy gray it was the day we arrived in these sacred hallows.

There's an overcrowded bag of CDs waiting to be reclaimed into the CD cupboard or dispensed of - just a couple of moments needed to sort them is all they need.

Let's squeeze our way out of the bar, and head outside, shall we?

There's half a veggy patch that was intended to contribute to our daily salad requirements. Well, I got as far as spinach (that actually took!), and the rest has sort of, I dunno, been offered to the bunnies as a sort of nonchalant peace treaty, ie: here have a green pepper and stop growling at me!

There are several other projects in mid existence that are currently floating between my garden walls. Hmmm, garden walls... well the first half of my garden boundary wall is painted, and, well, then it started raining, and the plants grew in front of the other half, so the rest remains unpainted.

Sigh.

There's a bench dying for new cushions that I keep meaning to get.
There's a sand pit dying for fresh digging tools that I'm in the middle of recycling.
There's a shed that I keep meaning to repaint. I got as far as the fascia board. And then. Um.
I removed half of the crappy old lighting wires stuck all over my patio roofing. Yes, there are two bits of lights and wiring that remain behind. And I don't know why I didn't get to them. I think the kids...I don't know.

As I'm typing this, I'm thinking about the other undertakings that I've undertook, and I realise, ashamedly, that every room in my house holds some suggestion of an unfinished project of mine. Jeez.

Ok, so that's that then. This is my end of year resolution: I'm going to dive head first into all my unfinished projects so that when 2008 breathes it's last, I will be released from as many of them as I can, and all the guilt that goes with that.

So excuse me please. I have a crap load of things to do. (Starting with baking a box of muffins I just found in the pantry. The expiry date is tomorrow. See, these things are just everywhere!)

Couldn't help myself

Mindnumbing Ramblings

I sit drowning my sorrows in a BIG bag of salt and vinegar chips - yip! That ol' MSG craving has struck again!

Not that I have many sorrows today - mostly just thoughts and ideas and questions.

Things like:

* Will my frozen toosh ever have feeling again?

* How the heck did I emerge from yesterday's therapy session with a multiple personality?

* Will the drip in the braai room somehow magically dry up?

* Surely Simba chips should have their own level on the food pyramid? Especially those fresh Salt and Vinegar ones.

* How can I take a long-weekend trip when I have to care for two very soft and fluffy bunnies?

* Is that the Maldives I hear calling my name?  Yip. It must be. The sound of gentle lapping waves on the shore, a coconut falling off a branch, a gentle warm breeze rustling the leaves. Sounds Maldivesy to me!

* Is Wall-E really the best animated film ever, or is Barry Ronge, film critique extraordinaire, just exaggerating?

* If I had to choose between my daughter and my camera, I would have a really perplexing decision on my hands. Does that make me a bad mother? (I could have killed her for dropping it on Saturday - Aaargh!)

* Isn't it time to be more eco-conscious? I mean, I really feel strongly that green is the new black, and all, but I should be far more active in modelling healthy, eco-friendly behaviour for my children.

* How awkward I feel for defending the emotional side, and not the logical side, of last week's tragic suicide. Sure it was wrong, but she really believed that there was not another option for herself. She honestly thought that she would be making things better for her children and her husband. Logic did not play a role in her decision.

* It sort of messes things up in my head a bit when I feel like a good 'ol cuss will do the trick to capture the moment in one four-letter word, when, at the same I just can't bring myself to do it. Why is it so hard to overcome vulgarity for the satisfaction of spitting out those descriptive and colourful phrases? Surely a healthy bit of *&#$@ couldn't hurt?

* Has my honesty frightened off a couple of role players in the bigger picture? Drat!

* Are parabens really that harmful to my hormones? 

* Since when did the STUFF move back into the study? Sure, we had two birthdays, one hospital stay, and three weeks of holidays, but is this STUFF for real?

* Did breastfeeding my children for as long as I did leave an indelible stamp of confidence and security on their wee foundations? Please say yes, please say yes!

* Will I ever again be able to pull in my tummy so that my hip bones stick out? Currently, I can suck it up all I like, and that pot-belly doesn't shift an inch!

Hmm! The crisps are finished and it's time to collect the kids...

Comparing STUFF

So the STUFF in the STUDY is still there, although slightly diminished. (I have been doing my best to curb its alarming procreative abilities.)  I do, however, still pull the door closed when people come to visit, because the room does rather look like an impressionistic rendition of post H-bomb Hiroshima.

A friend commented over the weekend that her study resembled a whore's handbag. I was intrigued. Not only because of my own study woes, but also because I have never had the opportunity of rummaging around in a prostitute's portmanteau. I had to have a peek, of course, to educate myself.

Not knowing much about what hookers keep in their carryalls, I may be wrong about this, but I would dare to venture that, strictly speaking, my study is far more floozy than my friend's. And this is why...

First thing that grabbed my attention was the floor. I could actually see it. And not only that, I could walk a fair distance into the room without standing on anything that wasn't floor. My study floor is carpeted with everything from cycling shoes to Reader's Digests. You wouldn't be far wrong if you suggested that the filing cabinet had stripped itself right there in the middle of the room.

Her bookshelves were neatly stacked with an array of albums, textbooks and manuals. Made me think that bookshelves would be a useful commodity in my own study, if only to provide more space for STUFF-creep, or, and this is a far more reasonable use, to provide any visitor thrust  into that room with something to hold onto and steady themselves against.

The chair at her desk was drawn slightly away from the desk, and a sleeping cat looked quite comfortable, curled up in the middle of it. My office chair, on the other hand, has a box of condoms (blown up are a great visual tool when explaining breast feeding - no, really!), a pack of linen savers and a breast pump (kinky for a concubine, perfectly plausible for a midwife). 

My friend's desk also begged me to acknowledge it. It actually had desk stuff on it, computers, keyboards, a couple of pens, a notepad. My desk is draped with the fine art of my offspring. There are hammers and hooks and a handfuls of keys that belong in long-forgotten locks. There is a childbirth video and a t-shirt that needs mending. Not to mention the scrapbooking paraphenalia, the wad of sheet music and the four cycling helmets carefully balanced in a pink plastic crate that was, ironically, purchased for keeping things tidy. The crowning glory of my desk, (and this, if nothing else, will be what tips the slutty-study scale in my direction) are the anatomically correct childbirth education teaching aids. One is a yellowed plastic pelvis, a little wobbly in the joints (just to be perfectly representational), the other (*blush*) is Doris, my great velvet vagina.

So I guess that settles it then - my study is the harlot of my house. I am now more convinced than ever to rid my home of this scourge before the day is done.

H is for HOUSE

H is for HOUSE. Unfortunately Preparation H is not. And I am left helpless to address my house's very, very, very bad affliction. My house has PILES. (This is so embarrassing!)

The piles of STUFF in the study have been discussed and explored in great depth (ouch). The treatment for study piles, you'll be pleased to know, is underway.

The terribly disturbing thing, however, is that since I have been carefully addressing the study's very sensitive issues, this evil disease has spread, silently through the rest of my house. It would seem that if I take my attention off any open surface for a short space of time (say an afternoon, for instance), the next thing I know, that surface has contracted a nasty case of piles.

There are piles in the KITCHEN. Piles in the LOUNGE. Piles in the GARDEN. Piles in each BEDROOM. And in the PLAYROOM, the piles have piles.

We're talking a really BIG pain in the butt here.

These vulgar irregularities in my home's profile are insiduous. They creep up on me, subtley establishing themselves on any shelf, counter or table-top. It is getting so bad, in fact, that I may have to warn visitors not to sit still for long periods of time for fear of acquiring lap-piles.

Just this morning I discovered, much to my dismay, a new pile on top of the gas heater. The placing of this particular pile does not come as a complete surprise as the appliance has not been in use for the whole summer, and this makes it sort of inconspicuous, fading into the background. And this makes those piles that much sneakier. To lodge themselves on a neatly forgotten spot is really underhanded.

From piles of toys, to piles of documents; piles of washing, to piles of ironing (usually, I've noticed, the one form mutates into the other, and then back again - I have realised that this is possibly the hardest form of piles to get rid of); piles of dishes, to piles of shoes; piles of couch cushions (child generated), to piles of magazine clippings (also child generated); piles of My Little Ponies (ditto), to piles of Disney DVDs (which I won't, for personal reasons, complain about too loudly); piles of garden refuse to piles of plastic bags (I never seem to remember my big green earth shopping bags when I head off to the store); piles of recycled gift wrap to (and, this is the most recent version of piles in my domicile) piles of easter eggs.

What is a housewife to do? (Sticking my hands in my hair didn't seem to help. Neither did growling at any pile or pile-placer.)

Right now I would give a left pinkie, and possibly flash a butt-cheek for a nifty little laser beam to shrink these overwhelming piles into a neat little heap that can be tossed in a box and shoved under a bed. It would be awesome to be able to eradicate my serious pile problem with one quick session with a laser-beam. If I had a way of shrinky-dinking household piles, I could become one super-wealthy super-hero in one quick little blast of my hairdryer. I would embroider a tiny red H on all my underwear and carry my pocket size laser-beam in my (not crammed to overflowing) handbag.  My distress signal would be a bountiful, yet gorgeously curvaceous, buttock-profile shone on grey storm clouds. And anyone rescued by my magnificent little shrink-ray would wake up the next morning to find a little red H tattooed on their flank.

It would be fantastic!

But for now, I hold my breath, take a pain killer, smear myself with local anaesthetic and ease myself (gently) into the tedious, and definitely painful task of tidying up after another day.

The STUFF saga continues

BLOGDATE 30stuDydusTecHocabLes and counting:

Small party sent into the STUDY today. Of the 5 men sent in, only one returned (gratefully, and I mean this with all the sympathy to the families who have suffered terrible losses in this expedition,  it was my husband). Have informed the families of our fallen comerades of their losses. We are now alone in our mission to combat the STUFF.

The STUFF in the STUDY (debris from a recent office clean-out) has been left undisturbed for some time, and the original research party decided it was time to take a closer look at what was going on in there.

From a distance (like, say, from the lounge, or better still, from outside next to the swimming pool, with an ice-cold drink in your hand and someone rubbing suntan cream on your back) the STUFF seems fairly docile and even inconspicuous. On closer inspection, however, the STUFF  is a heaving, breathing, pile-upon-pile of matter with a very definite and diabolical mind of it's own. It has expanded somewhat since it's original relocation to the confines of the STUDY, and has pretty much made any navigation into that area impossible. This is particularly problematic as other crucial equipment located in that room (like the telephone, modem and accounts file) is now completely inaccessible.

The main aim of the scouting troop was to identify if the STUFF has a weakness, what that weakness may be, and while they're there, could they please look for my iPod?

The mission lasted half the morning. Base station 1 (located in the safety of the kitchen, near the kettle and toaster) almost commissioned sniffer dogs to locate the party when one pitiful figure appeared at the door, holding an iPod connector cable, a Barbie doll (sans clothing, hair matted), and looking, for want of a better word, pained.

"Water!" he gasped. I threw my cup of tea over him. It revived him a little.

T-Bird and Air Bear appeared from under the coffee table to argue over the Barbie. She crumbled into a pile of dust on the kitchen counter. A breeze through the open window swept the dust away in a little swirl of caramel coloured glitter.

"It's bewitched," he stammered, "there's something very strange about the STUFF.

"For one, it ate the PC."

The PC has lain, somewhat forlorn and forgotten in the STUDY since long before the STUFF arrived, but not much after the Mac did. Seems like the STUFF cursed the PC, and now the PC has given up its ghost and moved on to the happy motherboard in the sky.

"Also, I found this," he reached into his pocket and withdrew one golden stick about the size and shape of a McDonald's chip.

"What is it?" I asked, holding my breath.

"It's a McDonald's chip," he looked unamused.

"How long has it been there?" No-one has had any form of fast-food in the STUDY since well before the Mac arrived, which would place the arrival of the McD potato sliver at about October 2007.

We glared at the chip. It didn't move. It didn't melt. It didn't turn to dust. Instead it glistened a little in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window and emitted a pleasantly intoxicating deep-fried odour. 

It made me hungry. And then it made me worry. If, and I seriously doubt this, the STUFF has managed to use the telephone and order fast food delivery straight to the STUDY, and then proceeded to devour the ordered meal, leaving one crispy chip as the only clue to its insidious behaviour, then we have a real problem on our hands. But, and this is the more likely explanation, if that chip was a dropped crumb from a grabbed-on-the-go-meal that someone had in (at least) October last year, we have an even bigger problem. The problem is that a 5 month old (at the very least) chip, looks, feels and smells like it just came out from under the golden arches. Has Ronald MacDonald not heard of mould? I mean come on! Shouldn't food that old be slightly discoloured (I'm thinking green-grey), a little mushy maybe, preferrably smelling a bit rancid? I'm not kidding when I say that that one little sliver of vegetable could have easily been on any one of your plates this afternoon (assuming, of course, that you had take-outs for lunch).

Am quite off fast-food for a bit.

And still the STUFF remains, bar a couple of papers that slid out under the door this afternoon which I threw in the trash - can't be tolerating any of that inconspicuous creeping into the main house now, can we?

Oh, STUFF it!

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the amalgamation of these two entities in holy matrimony. 

Today marks the auspicious occasion of the uniting of  LOADS of STUFF with TONS of STUFF in the sacred space of the STUDY. Their union is verified by their exuberant and instantaneous procreation, and so we celebrate the arrival of a HELLUVA LOTTA STUFF into the STUFF family and declare the inner-sanctum of the STUDY holy ground.

The congregation is requested not to disturb the STUFF in the STUDY, as its behaviour is unpredictable and can be fatal at any given second. Also we cannot take any responsibility for geological disturbances, the collapsing of carefully balanced STUFF or  the loss of persons or property within the defined borders of the STUDY. Please do not venture beyond the "safe-zone" as clearly demarcated by the Police-Tape. Also, it seems that STUFF not only has reproductive properties, but it also solemnly abides by the universal laws of entropy. 

Only seasoned veterans experienced in STUFF management may proceed for short distances at a time. We recommend that any person undertaking such an adventure be fully insured as well as to take the necessary precautions (ie rope, hard hat, ear plugs, bug spray, low GI snacks, rehydration solution, collapsible porta-potty, thermal underwear, candles, suitable walking shoes - preferably with a steel toe-cap, abseiling equipment, dart gun, flares, a water resistant  - up to 25mm - one-man tent, satellite tele-communication device, map book, a radiation exposure badge, the names and numbers of 1. a family member not residing at the same address as the explorer 2. the family physician 3. the closest movie rental outlet).

In the unlikely event of the immediate extermination of the STUFF, immediate family members are granted an island holiday. If, and this is a more realistic prediction of the near-future, the STUFF sets up semi-to permanent residence, immediate family members are requested to make the most of it until mom just can't bear it any more, or dad has no more easily located shoes to wear, in which case it is suggested that the house be set on fire and the family move.

Good luck.