No more soup for you!

Daniel, Megs (see earlier post about sheep husbandry) and myself have a standing Thursday night date. Uni finishes, that wonderful husband of mine comes to collect us, and we head to our favourite Pho place for (you guessed it) a Pho. Nothing compares to winding down after a long day at work and uni where we eat pho very late into the evening and solve the problems of the world one spoonful at a time. This ritual may end soon (with the end of uni), but I suspect that maybe we’ll still end up at Pho at the same time, but we’ll have a couple of beers under our belts, not a uni lecture about blah blah blah.

So the night begins with the aforementioned Meg’s good parking karma. We have a theory that because Megs is sans-car all of her good parking karma is actually stored up for other people that she is with. There is something in the universe that connects Megs with a great parking spot, exactly when we need one! I have considered asking her to hang around with me during major holidays just to ensure I get a good parking spot – but maybe that is stretching the friendship! Sidetracked again! Back to our pho...as usual I am the last to finish as I have been talking all night. Don’t get me wrong, I was with two chatterboxes, so I really working hard at getting my words in! As I am enjoying the last two spoonfuls of pho, having already spotted my blouse with multiple splashes from the evil rice noodle flopping around trying to escape my spoon, and realising that I put too much chilli in my soup and that I was sphitzing (but then we all know about my addiction to chilli!), the three of us stopped mid sentence to watch the horror unfold.

It was falling as if in slow motion. This thing caught our attention and we watched it fall so gracefully from the ceiling, gliding through the air like an acrobat at the prison camp (oops I mean the Cirque de Soleil). This thing was aiming for my slippery spoon. He wanted that last drop of pho and who was I to stop him? The acrobat landed so gracefully on the spoon as if it were on a ride at Wet’n’Wild and spun like a Russian gymnast contorting for a perfect 10, right into my soup. Splash! There it was, like crunchy manna from heaven – a cockroach had infiltrated our Thursday night date and we were introduced to our newest member, Clem the Cocky. Needless to say – I never got that last sip of my soup and the horror that this happened at our favourite Pho place devastates us, but the rule is three strikes and you’re out, isn’t it?

No more soup for me...

They are conspiring against me!

It has been a while….

I didn’t imagine that after only 4 posts I would have slightly lost the momentum to continue. Don’t stress, that’s not the case. I have just been swamped with life, uni and work. Over the next four weeks, yes the last four weeks of my Master degree (yay! fingers crossed) I will be trying to keep myself motivated to make it to the end. My best intensions are there, its just not working out in practice.

Which brings me to my biggest distraction, no its not shoe shopping (I am sure some of you are shocked to hear that), no its not the shopping channel (but I am close to buying a Tobi steam iron), but its daytime TV! I know, I know, I too, am shocked at this realisation! How hard was it to admit it to myself, but that’s the first step to curbing the addiction. Yes, my name is Romina and I am addicted to daytime television. A chorus of accepting and non-judgemental voices now says “Welcome Romina”.

So it starts with a quick sit-down in front of Ellen with my lunch, then it continues to a quick lie down (I was up early making Daniel’s breakky and lunch – don’t judge me J) during The View. Then suddenly the afternoon has past and I realise that M*A*S*H is on and that I should have started dinner. Where did my afternoon go? There used to be a slump in ‘quality’ programming between about 2pm and 5.30pm. This, I thought, was to make sure that all the mum’s remember to pick their kids up from school and to start dinner. But now the TV channels are conspiring against us, if it’s not continuous CSI Miami with that Ginge on every channel, it’s some stupid cooking show trying to tell me that lamb and garlic go well together... don’t you tell me what to do!

Better get back to...repeats of Ellen!

I fell into the washing machine...so what?

For all those reading this blog of who know me personally (which I assume are the only people reading this blog, because I have been shamelessly plugging my blog to anyone who’ll listen!) you’ll know that I am short. No, no, I can hear you all now with the common clichés: good things come in small packages; you’re not short, you’re just vertically challenged; why have you been standing in a hole all your life. Its endless...

So in my everyday duties of washing our clothes, and trust me we seem to go through a lot of clothes each week, I have my encounters with the torturous washing machine. Let’s be honest, the laundry is not a serene place in general and I admit I may have my way in the kitchen, but the laundry has always been to me how Yoko was to the Beatles. Take socks for example, they must be terrified when they are pulled out of their happy, smelly, moist home (like a mushroom) and thrown unceremoniously onto the floor for sorting. They are then scooped up and I can hear them screaming as I walk those few steps into the laundry where they have no assurance of their fate. They know that their friends, Terry the T’shirt and Hank the Hanky will survive, they’re big and strong (but in Hank’s case, no one wants to go near him!), but those in the sock genus (including close relations like invisible sockettes and knee-hi stockings) have no guarantee that they’ll return from the trip to sudsville and back! How many socks have been lost in battle, do they ever return? How many of us have one lonely dark blue sock, waiting for its life-partner to return to the draw, only to realise that they will never be reunited when they too are faced with the inevitable...the Salvo’s bag!

So back to me and my antics in the laundry, I am going about my business taking the wet washing out of the machine and quite often I have to lean into the machine to get Ursula the Undie from the bottom of the barrel. When this time, my little arms aren’t quite getting a grip on Ursula and suddenly I fall into the machine. In the process I have accidently pressed some buttons and the machine pipes up with its little song saying ‘I’m ready to fill, tell me the load size or I’ll tell you’. So not only are my legs upright in the air and my head in the barrel of the washing machine I am facing the possibility of having my head and hair soaked! (oh the humanity!). Needless to say after I was rescued by that dashing husband of mine, we had a great laugh – nearly as good as when the bucket fell on my head in the laundry no less (I knew that room has dark forces!)!

Till next time peeps...