Also, maturity.

What's doing?

I'm going to have a shower now you're done.

Cool.
I cleaned my nose.
While I was in the shower.

Did you clean the shower after?

Nah.
There will just be lots of little green dots on the shower curtain that will slowly get hard over time.

I can beat that.

...
Oh yeah.
You're a woman.

I'm a woman.

[mutual guffawing]

Why haven't I been made King of the World yet?

It started, as most things do, with cheese.

I'd run out. This is one of those circle of life type things; you put cheese in sandwich, you eat sandwich, repeat until you run out of cheese/bread/butter/vegemite. My lunches are not complicated things, but I do like a little bit more than just a spread. (Unless it's toast, in which case a wad of peanut butter is just fine.)

So I went to the supermarket, as one does, and I went to the dairy aisle, as one does, and I stood in front of the cheese, as one does, and spent the next twelve minutes struck dumb with indecision.

A wall of cheese, from floor to ceiling. Cheese in different brands, of different types, reduced fat or full, sliced or not. So much cheese, so many cheese, and too much choice.

When the shelf-stacker gave me a funny look on passing me for the third time, I realised what I was doing, grabbed without looking, and walked away.

That is what stress can do, that is what depression can do, that is what not having all your mental resources operating at normal capacity can do. The ability to process and compare information is significantly reduced, and the capacity to commit to a decision is practically nil. That is how cheese can steal twelve minutes of your life.

At the check out, bewildered as I was having passed by soup (Do I need soup? I don't know!) and tea (What about some nice tea? I don't know!) and chocolate-covered honeycomb (Should I get a treat? I DON'T KNOW!), I figured there must be a niche in this anxiety-driven and consumer-based society for a supermarket that caters to the perpetually overwhelmed. A supermarket that stocks milk in milk cartons that say milk and with no options on offer, cheese in a packet labeled cheese and no options on offer, museli in a bag labeled museli and no options on offer.

This is a supermarket I would really appreciate right now. A place at which I will be able to find the basic necessities to feed myself without being confronted with choices.

You could even have levels of the Stressed Supermarket, for those who may be coping a little better but still not ready for a wall of cheese; full cream and skinny milk and only those two to choose from, jarlsberg or chedder cheese and only those two to choose from, swiss museli or natural museli and only those two to choose from. Baby steps. We have to work our way up through the ranks, get practice at processing and streamlining information until we are prepared, at last, to face a wall of cheese, and make a selection in a mere moment.

And not be stricken with indecision.

And not feel weak for the time wasted.

Priorities; Mundane, and Eroded

I saw Karen Healey doing it, and it made me hungry. For the hell of it, I decided to copy her, and photograph my dinners in the last week. There was the vague hope there that it might prompt me to cook.

At the time, I said it would probably amount to five photographs of peanut butter toast.

Gosh but I do have high expectations of myself.

Monday



A promising start! There was actually tomato in the fridge, and so I treated myself to toasted cheese and tomato, with oregano, basil, salt and pepper. Sounds awesome? Is awesome.

Except I wasn't in the mood to wait for the grill to melt the cheese, so I put it in the microwave.

Which melted the cheese alright.

And made the tomatoes somewhat nuclear.

The whole roof of my mouth was burned and is, a week later, still rotting.

Tuesday

Tuesday was a day in which every step I took resulted in the discovery of quicksand, or fire ants, or broken glass, or horseshit.

Tuesday I went home and ate vodka for dinner.



Except while my head was certainly in the mood for vodka, my body wasn't. I poured that glass, looked at it, and then walked away.

Wednesday

Wednesday is not an individual, and since Wednesday saw Tuesday being needlessly callous to me, Wednesday followed suit.

I went home knowing that there was already a pre-poured glass of vodka sitting on the bench and my only goal for the rest of the day was to drink it.

Instead I made a cup of tea.



Thursday

Thursday night is for swing dancing. There was no dinner.

Friday

Friday I ate someone else's dinner. It was actually the only real meal I ate all week, and it was very delicious, and I completely failed to take a photo of it.

Saturday

The glass of vodka was still sitting on the bench come Saturday morning. Purely because it amused me, this failure to make it go away, and because continuing to document its existence seemed appropriate, I took another photo.



Then I looked at my To Do List. Every time I write a To Do List, "write" is at the bottom. After cleaning the toilet.

Every time I realise where I've put it in my priorities, I shake a little.

On Saturday I had vodka for breakfast.

The Universe Made Me Do It

Immediately on returning from travels and before making plans for the next trip (thus locking myself into a saving budget in which there is no room to move) is the only time I can bring myself to throw large lumps of money at things that do not involve me getting on a plane.

I want it noted that I tried to be a responsible, sensible, forward-planning adult and purchase a necessary item of household white goods, and I want it noted that I have been thwarted from doing this by three centimetres.

Permanently.

Guess I'll just have to use that money on a ticket to Europe, right?

Well. Shucks. Damn. And poot.

In light of this failure, I have no alternative but to drink this pear cider and start making vegetable soup under the influence.

The Bachelor

A co-worker asked me what was for dinner tonight. "Probably peanut butter toast," I said, without really thinking. "That's, um...nutritious." She disapproved of my dinner, I think.

Someone completely unrelated told me I was "such a teenager" upon hearing of my dinner practices.

First of all, I live alone. Cooking for one is not worth the hassle. There's no one else to do the dishes either.
Second, dinner isn't my big meal for the day. Lunch is, it makes more sense. After work I get home and sit here, so eating a proper cooked meal seems like a waste of food-converted-into-energy.
Third, I'm not a teenager.

I'm a bachelor, and I shall bloody well live like one.

And I happen to really like peanut butter toast.

Normally I'd have a cup of tea with my peanut butter toast, but tonight I'm having grog. The official definition of grog is watered down rum. I have no mixers nor the motivation to go out and get any.

The cobbler on Lonsdale Street is quite a straight-faced gruff man, and with his rich and abrupt accent from the heart of Eastern Europe he can come across as just plain grumpy. I suspected first impressions were misleading, and my suspicions were rewarded with him gently insisting that my quiet Friday night at home must have one glass of red wine. At least one.

I don't have any red wine, or any wine at all, as I have no palate for the stuff. The grog is a crude bacheloresque substitute, as I always do what I'm told.

Now I'm going to walk around with no pants on and drink milk from the carton.

Due to inane reasons such as my washing machine, bathroom AND laundry being a collective heap of shyte, my washing machine dumps into the bath tub. As a result, I get to see the colour of the grey water.

Just did my first load of travel washing.

I did consider taking a photo, but decided against it. Some things shouldn't be documented.

i'm not too smart, but i'm not too dumb

I have a toaster! AUGH!

Which is not to say I bought a new toaster, or was given a new toaster. My parent's old toaster needed a new home now they have a new shiny toaster, and my home is built on nothing but the family surplus. I'd like to say I was excited to give the toaster a try this morning, but, uh, I've been using this toaster for years and years already.

Regardless, TOASTER. I haven't had a toaster since I moved out, also years ago. It's a small item, yes, a simple and not expensive item that I could have bought for myself many times over, but I did not. It's amazing what you can live without, and a toaster is one of these things.

BUT I LOVE TOAST. AND I TOTALLY JUST HAD TOAST, FRESH TOAST, RIGHT HERE IN MY FLAT. I'd share pictures with you of the lovely crisped golden bread so hot the peanut butter was melting on it, but I ate it. You're damn right I ate it.

A quick heads up - today, and for the next several days, there's going to be pretty heavy bombardment here. Looking at all the many things I want to achieve before the end of the year, knowing I couldn't get them all done, I've decided to concentrate on one fight I know I can win. I still have 31 books to write about, and I want that done and out of the way before I go overseas. Keeps what I read from year to year neat (even if they're shit write ups banged out in ten minutes.)

Right, now I'm off to do something else for 10 minutes. (~, I can't find your email address in my archives, would you mind pinging me? Thanks!)

Sniff Mah Pillow

I made vegetable soup yesterday. My arms and wrists are right buggered from all the chopping and stirring, and my flat smells like soup. My whole flat. Everything. I went to bed last night and mmmm, yes indeedy, my pillow smelt like soup.

If this isn't a compelling argument to never cook again, I don't know what is.

The smell is still hanging around. Possibly if it was, I don't know, something with a tomato base, I wouldn't find having hair that smells like lunch so off putting. But vegetable soup only smells good when it's hot and you're hanging over the bowl. Old, cold, stale vegetable soup is unattractive, to say the least.

My only course of action is to cook bacon.

I'm not even hungry, but dammit, there will be bacon.

Victory ( ) Hollow

It takes a chair, five (5) telephone books, my thick-soled boots, ninja balance, tip-toes and fingertips in order for me to reach the light in the bathroom to change the globe.





Only to discover that I'd bought a screw-in bulb by mistake.

All of you over 5'3", if I ever hear you griping about your height, please know that it will incur my wrath, and the wrath of a short person is not to be incurred.

PSA

The last year broke my inner thermostat. That heat wave in February granted me all sorts of resistance to heat. Before, a thirty degree day would have been utter hell, now, well, that's not that hot, no big deal, barely notice it really.

Last winter really, really, really wrecked my cold immunity. I spent the whole winter without using the heater because of a electricity bill snafu, and it was miserable enough to leave me with a good amount of dread. Now the cold has returned, and I am a) still too scarred by the bill to turn the heater on and b) have a very good idea of how cold it gets in this flat and am just about gibbering in horror at the months ahead.

I hate the cold now. It gives rise to some half-remembered panic that I'd really like to not remember at all.

I shall buy woollen things (actually had four conversations today with people who were desperate to go buy gloves and scarves), new socks that don't have holes in them, another blanket for the bed, even use the heater now and then, but I feel I should warn you appropriately.

From here until spring, the content of this blog will mostly revolve around bitching about the cold.

Remove from your feeds as necessary.

I'm going to put my scarf of +10 cold resistance on now.

BEHOLD! MY DOMINANT CHEEK PADS!

I have assembled this diabolical Ikea product entirely on my own. And I was wearing a "That's right. I'm a gay robot." t-shirt at the time.

What does that make me?

TOTALLY FUCKING OARSUM. I'm a damn superhero furniture god! Constructorsaurus is channeling my SUPREME MAD SKILLZ fu! You marvel at me! MARVEL. Worship unto me as though I were a god! BOOYAH MUTHAFUCKA.

I can't actually stand it up, because despite my cunning devilry superfly Constructorsaurus powers, I'm still trapped in this measly little data entry operator body, and this meatbag has no upper body strength. It's taking up the whole lounge room floor.

And I kinda hurt now.

It would have been a hell of a lot faster just to ask for help, but, you know, the instruction manual issued a challenge, and apparently I have things to prove. Such as my ability to conquer furniture.

For those who may, for some reason, wish to emulate my oarsumness in this matter, the trick is to use your feet. Your heels are the best hammers you have.

Empress Tess, Conqueror of Ikea and All-round Badass Ninja is going to reward herself with food now. Before she falls over.

Advice For Writers*

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, and the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, and indeed you are alone, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, indeed you are alone, and you're tired and brooding, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, indeed you are alone, you're tired and brooding, and you're drunk, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

No, really.

Also the hammering pisses the neighbours off.

Still, partly assembled shelves make good cubby houses.



I expect I'll have to invoke Constructorsaurus for weeks to get this finished.

To add insult to injury, when pouring myself a drink, I ran out of mixer. First run out of drink, now out of mixer. Venture out to buy more? In this cold, wet, miserable night? I'm already doing cold and miserable just fine, no need for a hat trick.

I declare today over.

*by 'writers' I do of course mean 'everyone'.

Ninja Says

What Would Ninja Do?

Ninja really did vanish.

I went to take some more Tour de Tessadomicile photos, and I could not find Ninja. Where was Ninja? Not where I had left him. Ninja vanished. Being as Ninja is about 5 cm tall, Ninja was unlikely to be found. Rotten Ninja. Flash some crappy carpet and they get all "oooh, I feel faint I think I need to go home." I rummaged through my toy box, but there was nothing else that seemed suitable, or at least had an obvious character voice.

This made me very sad.

Until this morning, when I opened my underwear drawer, and found Ninja.

So, for those of you who have ever asked yourselves What Would Ninja Do? The answer is: dive into a pit of undies. That's the only reason anyone becomes a ninja. OBVIOUSLY.

Uhh...

There is mold in my microwave.



First, what the fuck?

I am NOT that grotty, I have never been that grotty, I clean that damn thing because I don't want it looking like the microwave at work. I sprayed it. With stuff that kills things that grow. THERE SHOULD BE NOTHING ALIVE IN THERE.

Second, what the fuck?

It's a MICROWAVE. It's my own personal nuclear reactor it's a bloody damn MICROWAVE. It kills things. It makes dead things deader. THERE SHOULD BE NOTHING ALIVE IN THERE.

Which means it might be undead.

Or mutant.

Do you think I get superhero powers if I lick it?

“After a hard day’s work assassinating political targets and people who talk at the movies, the last thing I want to do when I get home is kill some more. That’s why I use Mortein Surface Spray! It “lures ‘n kills” cockroaches for up to six months, leaving my carpet a noxious killing ground of death and horror. The decomposing chemical orange smell covers even the scent of murder and blood on my hands. For wholesale insect slaughter, I always turn to Mortein! Thanks Mortein!”

- NinjaTess, Melbourne

Me, Great What Hunter?

Part II

There was a giant roach beside my bed. Giant. Fucking huge. The size of my arm, I tell you. I exaggerate. The size of my thumb. Which is huge. Giant, I tell you.

I didn't want a repeat ordeal of roach guts smeared into the carpet, which mean avoiding having to make any spectacular lunges across the room, which meant making sure it wasn't going to run. To do this, I built a wall of toilet paper around it. Then, with another wad of toilet paper in hand, I stood over it, ready to smite the little enormous bugger.

My brain froze.

Beingsillybeingsilly. Roaches aren't poisonous, and they don't charge at you furiously like some spiders do, but AUGH! I freaked out anyway, not unlike Mulder and his girly scream in that episode of the X-Files with Baaaambi.

And then I smote it.

It turned out with was just a husk anyway. Which I nevertheless took great pleasure in flushing down the toilet.

Part III

I could hear it. I COULD HEAR IT. It was bumping around the boxes stacked by the window, and it sounded ENORMOUS. AND IT WAS ENORMOUS. AND IT WAS RUNNING AROUND. The nerve of these creatures! Very well, if that's the way it wants to play, then ninja-fast smushing on the carpet it would be. Armed with toilet paper, again, I set on luring out where I could crush it.

Holy. Fuck. I think it broke the sound barrier. Did you hear a sonic boom as it just zoooooomed straight by me? I did. It dashed to my chair and disappeared.

How does a roach that big just disappear? I kicked the chair. I turned the chair over and poked it. The roach was gone. Vanished. Poof.

I was writing. I'm a sensitive artist you know, and I was in the moment, and I simply can not work under these conditions! I ain't putting my bum on a chair in which a giant roach has hidden in!

Disgruntled, I packed up and went to bed.

AND FOUND THE GIANT ROACH IN THE SHOWER.

It moved so fast I didn't even see it get that far. That's alarming. But it had made a tactical error in its retreat, as it couldn't get out of the shower, and I had no qualms about smushing its guts all over the tiles. And I did. And I took great pleasure in flushing it down the toilet, me, TRIUMPHANT.

AUGH! I'm used to possums. I'm used to mice. But not giant mutant alien super-sonic cockroaches. I'm going to buy some surface spray, right now, and turn my apartment into a seething toxic miasma where roaches fear to tread. Old roaches will hobble around telling the little ones not to go out onto the Charcoal Plains of Tessadom, those poisonous grounds will keeel you, I say, keeeel you, and then the great ogre Tessa will crush you, I say, crush you, and throw your remains in her great porcelain altar, and then pee on your corpse, I say.

Pee. On. Your. Corpse.

Me, Great White Hunter

Cockroaches are fast little devils, and when you don't have any insect spray, there's nothing else to do but hunt them across the bathroom tiles with a wad of toilet paper and ninja-fast reflexes. The trick is the manouver them into a corner, from which they cannot escape mushing.

The other trick is, not to let them get on the carpert, and then mush them, because roach guts are kinda...sticky.