Mice 7, Michele 1

It's not every day you find two mouse turds stuck to the side of your HP Sauce bottle and for that I'm extremely grateful (although I can't help having a grudging admiration for something that can crap and scale a vertical surface simultaneously).
I had an inkling it was mouse season when I was painting the shed because one of the little critters poked it's head out from between two bricks and watched what I was doing for a while.
This proximity to David Attenborough-type reality didn't bother me much because since a mouse ran down my arm last year and took ten years off my life (it was hiding in a jacket), I've toughened up a bit.
The one that poked its head out from between the bricks was only a baby and as cute as a button and if I'd had a shovel handy I would've walloped it, because before you could say "Mickey and Minnie" it would've grown into a big ugly sucker and started crapping all over my pantry.
As it turns out, its bigger friends have been doing just that, so at the moment I'm waging a war on mice and have discovered, courtesy of the back of the mouse-trap packet, that there is indeed a mouse season and it's NOW.
Unfortunately, of the eight traps I set, only one was visited by a mouse that was dumb enough to get caught. The other seven had the bait removed (peanut butter and bacon) but hadn't been sprung.
I suspect I'm baiting the traps not only with the equivalent of Nigella-type mouse food but also with far too much.
I don't want to resort to poison (to my mind, traps are pretty instant therefore less cruel), but I'm so sick of the little bastards my resolve is beginning to waver.
Maybe standing guard with a shovel isn't such a bad idea after all.

Poxy lady? Let's hope not.

Spotted in a supermarket carpark last week, one of those Wicked rental camper vans with the following slogan painted on the back: "If God were a woman would sperm taste like chocolate?"
As an atheist, this is a hard one to answer but I'd like to think that if there was a God and she was female, she'd have the imagination to go seasonal.
Beer and seafood in summer, roast chook in winter, chocolate on birthdays (and let's not forget special catering for those who have allergies, gluten intolerances etc).
Unfortunately, all of that wouldn't fit on the back of a van so I can see why whoever wrote it just went with chocolate.
But while we're on the subject of spotted, it's one of the reasons I haven't been around lately.
Son, who lives on his own, came down with chicken pox, big time, as in really ill.
He's now better and my husband and I are waiting to see if the pox will be passed on to us.
We both think we had it when we were kids but my husband can't check because he's an only child and both his parents are dead.
My mum says she doesn't remember me having it but then my mum's reached an age where one in 10 conversations start like this:
Mum: "I read that book you were telling me about, what was it called, you know, the one that was made into a film with...what's his name?...I saw him on TV last week with that woman who was married to Xavier Cugat...Ron! What was the name of Xavier Cugat's third wife?...it's on the tip of my tongue..."
Suffice to say, every time we itch, we panic.
And in case you're wondering, Xavier Cugat's third wife was Abbe Lane.

Why my husband has a paint stirrer sticking out of his chest

I know it's not next week but I needed to share.
This is because I finished painting the shed, which is actually a brick garage.
The bricks are those awful 1960s salmon-coloured ones, the sort of salmon colur that owes more to Kit-e-Kat than John West.
I painted them dark grey to match the big Colorbond shed alongside and while they'll never make Home Beautiful, the whole garage/shed combo looks a lot better.
It's a bastard of a job, painting brick walls: fiddly, takes ages and makes you ache in muscles you didn't know you had.
So I was really pleased when I finished and it looked great and I couldn't wait for my husband to get home from work so I could show him.
So he arrived home and he looked at it and he pointed to the top right-hand corner and he said, "You've missed a bit."

Leg of Sven

Actually, I don't know the name of the leg's owner. I just know that the publishers of Swedish magazine, Tare Lugnt, decided to release their third edition as a tattoo.
You'll find more pics, plus a Youtube video, if you click here.
The thing I find most shocking is that this human mag didn't bother to buy new undies for the photo shoot.
All that pilling around the crotch is so not a good look.
It raises some interesting possibilities, though, in these times of dwindling magazine and newspaper circulation.
I mean, who wouldn't be interested in an edition of Inside Out tattooed all over Orlando or Brad or George, if only to find out where they placed that retro lamp?
And that's all from me this week because the weather down here has been unbelievably good and is threatening to stay that way until Sunday.
I've already backfilled a retaining wall with sand (which was as exciting as it sounds) and today I'm finishing painting the shed.
See you next week.

Rust as a lifestyle statement

One of these days I'm going to learn how to scan magazine pages but until then you'll have to bear with me and put up with the dodgy photos.
This pic (along with the other pictures in this post) is from the May-June edition of Inside Out magazine. It's one of dozens of house/garden-type mags I've bought in the last 16 months, because when you're faced with an overwhelming house reno it's far easier to sit down with a drink and a glossy magazine rather than actually do any renovating.
As a result of all this magazine browsing I'm now quite well-versed in the art of design wank. And if you ask me, this pic is right up there with the best.
As in, it's fine if you don't mind grass seeds burrowing into the crotch of your undies while you sip your lemon barley water and nibble on a chunk of baguette (which I sincerely hope is made from organic, hand-milled flour or I want the cover price back).
And it's definitely not a problem if you don't mind being at one with the less cuddly of nature's offerings (snakes, bull ants, centipedes, ticks, feral pigs, escaped serial killers etc).
But otherwise it's bullshit, isn't it? I mean, when was the last time you said, "Darl, how about we have a picnic in the middle of a field of really long grass? Go on, dare ya!"
Worse: Those rusty old French cafe chairs, which are a fiver a pop in their homeland, cost $160 each. The folding metal table is $1000. The skinny little cushions tied to the top of the chairs are $40 (yes, each).
Now for pic number 2, which provided a much-needed laugh-out-loud moment after a morning of digging holes with a pick axe:

It may look like a giant toilet-brush holder but it's actually a bathroom sink. It doesn't say in the ad if council-approved sink fencing is required, but considering the way little kids like to stick their heads in things, it's probably a good idea.
In the meantime you could always use it for your home brew or to bathe your pet rabbits.

Finally there's this picture, which is attached to a story about Patti Southern (the lady wearing the table cloth), who owns a retro furniture store in Sydney (as in, it's all original vintage stuff).
I know I've said it before but what is it with this retro thing? Why does only the really ugly stuff seem to survive?
I lived through the 60s and 70s and I know for a fact that if anyone had bought my Mum that hideous red and blue lamp, she would have beaten them to pulp with it.
Or dumped it in a field of really long grass. Now there's a thought.