Cracking the Mousey Browns

So we're just sitting here watching the box the other night and out of the corner of my eye, I see a farking mouse!  Well, I'm hoping it's a mouse and not a rat ... but Fark!  A Farking mouse!

Now I don't wanna say I was born with a silver spoon up my arse, but I have managed to get through the first 36 years of my life without having had to deal with mice!  Sure, I've had possums, snakes, massive cockroaches and ridiculous, steal-your-baby-sized tropical spiders ... but never mice!

Makes me feel like I've failed 'cause my place is now so dirty that vermin wanna live here.  Gross man.  It's always the way; you finally give-in and get a cleaner every 2 weeks 'cause you don't have tome to live and clean, so instead of actually cleaning  a bit here and there every few days, you do absolutely nothing and let the place turn into a cesspit for 2 weeks until the cleaner comes, just so that you get your money's worth ... well, that's what we do, anyway.

So my first step in 'Operation Eliminate Jerry' was to ignore it all and hope it went away.  The next day, I find the end of an open banana gone.  Mr Belfast tells me that traps work, and that yes, they really do go for cheese, so against all my innate, animal rights sensibilities, I went and bought some traps and set 'em up with cheese.

The next day, the bastards had eaten through a plum, another banana-end and a tomato (which they carried half-way across the room in a parody of one of those old-school Disney, ants-at-the-picnic cartoons.  The cheese was untouched.

So I bite the bullet and decide that if they don't like cheese, but they eat bananas and tomatoes, I'll set the traps with that.  I also vacuumed the Begeezus out of the space behind the oven.  Since then, nothing on the traps has been touched, so I'm tipping they're either US Military-prototype Cyborg Mice with enhanced intelligence, or they've farked-off somewhere else.

Not sure which I'd prefer.  But I still feel dirty.

Cute, my arse!  This little, smug bastard was the nastiest piece of work going.  That big, fat, black lady in the stripey socks just couldn't ever see it.  Pic: http://4photos.net

Give me strength

Hit the 'Next Blog' button and odds are you'll end up staring at one of the following;

1. Horses and dressage,

2. Gay sex tourists in Asia,

3. US-based Eastern European immigrants showcasing a series of big-breasted sports models, or

4. A new mother coming to terms with full-time parenting, and sharing her new little bundle's daily developmental milestones with the world.

Now I don't know much about what options 1-3 mean in real-time, but I can tell you that after only 3 days of single-parenting, I can't for the life of me work out how these new Mums have enough energy to blog.  I'm knackered!  And I've still got 2 weeks to go!

Surely gay, Asian, big-breasted horses with plaited tails would be an easier option than this?

Just wait 'till your MOTHER get home, Young Man!  Pic: http://www.flyfmkingston.com

Starrs in his eyes

Ringo sighs as he stares out across the street through the foggy murk.  He sucks deeply on his rolley and lets the burning air fill his lungs to near-bursting, enjoying the unbearable pressure before slowly exhaling.  The frigid, opaque air mirrors his dank mood; fifty years ago, he, George, Paul and John had been chased down this very sidewalk (admittedly in reverse order) by fifty screaming, lust-crazed nymphs in miniskirts, go-go boots and all gagging for some hardcore Mersey Beat.

Today, the odd passer-by neither recognises him, nor cares.  It's the last throw of the dice for Ringo; his solo career and hit-and-miss studio collaborations have not kept pace with the party scene he has well and truly over-stayed, and now he's back where it all started.  Back at the office of his Darren Lamb-type manager, begging for a job.  He's desperate; he'll take anything.  He flicks his butt into the mist, flips his collar up over his neck, and heads inside.

Ten minutes later, Ringo's sitting next to a wooden desk, doubled-over with his face in his hands, sobbing.  "This is really all you've got?  A children's TV series about a model train set is all you've got for Ringo Starr, one of the most famous musicians of all time?"

The tall manager nods somberly, "Afraid so".

He sighs, thinking of his maxed-out MasterCards.  "Alright, I'll take it".

Thomas throws Ringo a bone ... a very large bone, as it transpires.  Nine lives, Ringo.  Pic: http://ttte.wikia.com/wiki/Ringo_Starr

Ikea – it's Swedish for "Get me the f@rk outta here!"

The only thing worse than going to Ikea on a Saturday morning, is going to Ikea on a Saturday morning ... with a mission ... with a two year old!  Throw-in a red wine induced, slightly fluffy mental capacity, and needless to say my Saturday morning was like being in labour*.

It's hell!  One spends the first 20 minutes trying to drag Hambones through the one-way-maze of display lounge rooms (which not even a tradie named Sven would have been able to produce with Ikea products alone) in an attempt to get to the bed section before he goes completely bananas and rips one of the flat screen TV's off the flimsy, artificial walls.  But all your efforts are in vain as you dive to save some Swedish, faux designer vase which has been launched off a plush display couch by your talented offspring.  This, of course, releases him from your impatience- and alcohol-induced, rigor mortis grip, amd within a heartbeat, he's halfway up a towering stack of cheap wine glasses.

By the time we did make it to the beds, we were completely shagged and more or less passed-out on the Kings while the darling cherub disappears into the bathroom section to the crash and bang of falling implements. 

I've always known that Ikea on a Saturday morning was hell – it's because irresponsible, hungover parents with kids let their monsters go berserk ... now I get it.  Have a little sympathy, will ya?

Looks bad enough with a hangover – add to it a thousand screaming children, straight in from AusKick, and see how much your $3.99 Swedish meatballs are hardly suitable compensation.  Pic: http://thecuriositiesofacollegekid.blogspot.com

  

* I know, I know – I just throw it in there to get a reaction!

Drag queens for the kiddies

Oh yeah – I do very much love a provocative title.

Hambones was going nuts this morning, demanding to watch a DVD of his new obsession, Thomas the Tank Engine (urgh – there really is an argument for Warner Bros-type cartoon violence, and that’s it right there).  But because we are fantastic, attentive and engaged parents, I opted for a book instead … well, actually, I opted for the audio CD which tends to come with any children’s book worth its salt these days.  So while I flew ‘round the house packing bags, scoffing toast and scrubbing armpits (don’t worry, I always wash my hands before scrubbing my armpits), I powered-up the hi-fi for the wee one to listen to Margaret Atwood reading her illustrated children’s book, Up in the Tree.

Yes, THE Margaret Atwood; doyen of fine, feminist-leaning literature (I always get into trouble when I go with that description at our book club - I thought this site could use some provocativeness).  Normally she’s writing about the poor plight of women in North America, or about post-apocalyptic mutant freaks and their interactive politics.

But here, she’s released a hand-drawn, minimal colour, illustrated kids’ book that she wrote years ago, while a student.  Whatever your opinion of Ms Atwood’s work (and I’ll admit that mine is not particularly high), this book is a very pleasant, stripped-back piece of honest literature, and I love it.  So does Hambones, as it happens, so we both sat and waited for ‘Aters’ to crank-up and provide us with a whole, new, loving perspective of the story we had been reading for a year or so.

But what do we get?  Some deep-voiced, heavy-breathing drag queen in a hurry to get to her next Abba Tribute Show such that she’s through each page quicker than Hambones and I can even follow them.  Of all people who I thought might have taken the time to inflect surprise, emotion and drama into the tale, it might have been the author.  We’re really sorry to have taken-up so much of your precious time in the studio, Margaret … selfish cow!

Pic: http://www.bloomsbury.com/Up-in-the-Tree/Margaret-Atwood/books/details/9780747594178