(Piratey) Arr, I'm back. After I finally remembered the network key to my connection.

So what have I been up to for the past week (besides collecting ang pows and gorging myself silly on Chinese New Year cookies)?

//Btw, Happy (Belated) Chinese New Year!//

I've been agonising over a lump on Pukeyface. It's not really all that big, but on a Pukeyface-sized dog, it’s worrying enough. Because it's fugly and it might be a tumour.

But mainly because it's fugly.

So it was off to the vet again. (Speaking of which, I honestly don't understand the dog. The only reason she ever gets a car ride is for a trip to the vet. And yet she constantly just about dribbles herself with sheer excitement when I open the car door for her. But I suppose allowances have to be made – after all, there can only be so much brain in that tiny a head.)

Back to the vet. Who took cell samples from the lump with a massive needle and analysed it while I entertained myself with the uber-cool weighing scale out front. Very fun things those, just like the ones at the airport’s baggage check-in counter. Though I have to say, airport personnel aren’t as nice as they used to be. When I was a kid, no one ever told me off for hopping onto a conveyer belt.

But yes, Pukeyface’s lump. Well, the vet thinks that it might not be a tumour after all. In fact, it’s most likely a Fat Lump. Which is just as disgusting as it sounds. It’s not in the least bit dangerous, but it will never disappear.

My dog will be hideous forever.

If it was just a tumour, at least I could have it surgically-removed. But the vet doesn’t advise putting her through surgery just for cosmetic reasons.

“Hah.” I muttered later. “She's not the one who has to go to sleep every night knowing that there’s a Fat Lump barely five inches away from her.” But I suppose she’s right. I’d look a real bitch if I let my dog die on an operating table just so I can sleep better.

Besides really, I love my Pukeyface, Fat Lump and all.

Just as long as the FL doesn’t grow any bigger.

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I had an x-ray done today. I've been x-rayed before, but today was the first time in my entire life that I was confronted with one of the more terrifying aspects of the medical world.

The hospital gown.

A deceptively simple garment. Loose enough to be a one-size-fits-most, yet without the potential embarrassment of poking your head through a sleeve that usually accompanies other clothes of this fit.

It started off well enough:

      Take clothes off. Check

      Take bits of metal jewellery off. Check

      Stuff everything into little basket. Check

      Admire self in mirror. Check

      Choose a (prettier-coloured) gown. Check

      Poke arm through sleeve. Check

      Poke other arm through other sleeve. Check

      And finally, tie...hang on a minute...tie...ummm...TIE...

WTF? And then I realised that the stupid ties for the gown had been strategically placed right down the spine, where I'd have to dislocate shoulders, elbows, and fingers just to lace them up. Knotting the first pair itself took me a good ten minutes of protesting muscles and agonising contorting. But with a lot of painful stretching and impatient encouraging door-hammering from the radiologist, I finally managed to get everything done up.

Right. To the x-ray machine.

      Open door and smile apologetically. Check

      Pick up basket with belongings inside. Check

      Walk ahead of radiologist. Check

      Accidentally let necklace fall out of basket. Check

      Bend over to pick it up. Check

And that was when I discovered that the knots weren't quite as secure as I had thought.

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Yes, me luvlies, I've been tagged. By the recently grasshopping Pelf.

Much as I'd love to roll my eyes and scoff at this meme that's been going around for far too long (and by doing so, prove myself the blogger eqivalent of the arty loner sneering at the trend-following sheep), there's a little part of this zebra that once wished that she was just that little bit woolier.

Besides, I almost peed myself with excitement just now.

*Tinkle*

Oh, bitchcakes.

5 weird habits of mine

• I constantly fall in lust love with people who always die onscreen. Not because they die so beautifully, but it just so happens that their characters are killed off all the time. Or so I keep telling myself.
  
• I order food that I hate just to make my meals more colourful.
  
• In free-seating exam halls, I have to sit at the sixth (from the front) seat, or I'll feel off-balanced throughout the whole paper.
• I don't drink room-temperature or warmer water.
  
• I absolutely detest shaking hands. So if we ever meet, be a friend and keep your hand to yourself.

Right, and since I'm being wooly, I might as well do the thing properly. The next 5 people to be tagged are:

• Jay - because even Oriental Flowers have their moments
  
• Uber Bitchy Jason - even though he'll definitely need more than five
  
• Spanky McWanker - just because she loves Little Britain (I admit to doing "we ladies LOVE ballet" pirouettes)
  
• Annabelle-molesting Ian - another one who'll need ten or more
  
• dave - because he loves his elephants, yes he does.

Come on, darlings. Baa with me.

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Scissors, paper, stone. The age-old decider of who has to eat the mouldy chip or who gets to be the designated driver. A classic game played by many.

But not anymore.

It's time to get with it. Did you not watch the episode of That '70s Show featuring Hyde's brainchild? Cuz short of being trapped in an underground bomb shelter for the last 10 years, there's really no excuse.

That's right. Now it's "Cockroach, Foot, Nuclear Bomb". And it's been this way for the past two years or so. So forgive me for sneering at you for starting the count with "Sciiiisors..."

And because I'm frankly quite sick of having to explain it over and over again to the cableless uninitiated, I'll do it just one last time. Here. With pictures. So let no one say that I care nothing for my readers.

Right. Pay attention, my hatchlings.

The three elements (courtesy of Laura):

COCKROACH


FOOT


NUCLEAR BOMB


The rest is pure logic. Foot stomps on Cockroach, Nuclear Bomb destroys Foot, and Cockroach survives Nuclear Bomb.



It's really not rocket science.

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Letter to Graham Henry, All Blacks coach:

Dear Sir,

It has now been a week since the All Blacks (ex-)captain, Jonathan Falefasa (Tana) Umaga, retired from International Test rugby. Since then, rumours have been circulating that Richie McCaw is almost certain to be selected as the new AB skipper.

In my opinion, this is a grave mistake. As a great fan of Mr. McCaw, I am in no doubt of his abilities as both a rugby player and a captain. After all, he has demonstrated these same abilities countless times during his captaincy of the Crusaders. However, I believe that in your consideration of the next AB captain, you have overlooked one very important candidate.

Me.


I KEEL YOU!!!

Consider the following points:

• I am a great leader with experience.
  At the tender age of 10, I was selected as Project Leader by my class teacher. With hard work and discipline, I led my team to secure the award for Best Poster (Under-10's) in the school's Recycling Campaign 1995. Needless to say, with me as their captain, the team is sure to emerge victorious in the 2007 World Cup.
  
  
  
• I have been trained as a touch judge.
  With such in-depth knowledge of the rules, I will be able to push the team to take every advantage on the field without giving away careless penalties.
  
  
  
• I am a girl.
  But so is George Gregan.
  
  
  
• I do not have a bunny nickname like "Fluffy" McCaw.
  'Nuff said.
  
  
  
• I am not a citizen of New Zealand.
  A problem easily solved by granting me instant citizenship.
  
  
  
• I have excellent ideas on how to improve team performance.
  One such idea is to have the team run with the bulls. With such motivation present in these training sessions, agility and speed will increase in no time at all.

These are but a few reasons why I should be the next captain of the All Blacks. And I shall be glad to discuss the rest of my qualities with the panel at a convenient time.

Yours faithfully,
Jamie

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Only about three weeks (+2 days) now till I leave for Perth.

So that's 23 days to:

• Learn how to cook without setting fire to the kitchen.
  Not that I don't know how already. But it's probably a good idea to be able to whip up something that's actually edible. *Flashes back to the time she tried making Fettucine Carbonara and how it ended up looking, smelling, and tasting like a volleyball-sized chunk of burnt bacon, disintegrated noodles, and white gunk, mainly because it was.*

• Learn how to use a fire extinguisher.
  See above.

• Make sense of the different settings on a washing machine.
  They do have different settings, I assume?

• Ditto for an iron.
  But this ought to be as easy as a teenage slut. After all, I did manage to iron two shirts last month. Without incident. *Preens*

• Eat.
  To think I'll be forced to part with my favourite foods for a whole year. The thought is so upsetting that I cried tears of sorrow into my pan mee this afternoon.

• Download enough tv shows and films to keep me occupied when the shops close at FRIGGIN' 5PM(!).
  It's inhumane the way Australia limits monthly downloads. I'll need care packages sent in somehow from KL's dvd shops.

• Spend as much time with Pukeyface as possible.
  Being the old-ish fart that she is, I wouldn't put it past her to bite it while I'm away. I'm not sure what I'd do then. Probably get a new dachshund. But tears will be shed. For the first two minutes anyway.

• Sort out what to pack.
  I honestly don't know what the hell they're trying to prove by setting just a 30kg limit. Packing for a week alone takes up 27.5kg. And it wasn't like I needed jackets to go to the beach.

Maybe I should just get a live-in boyfriend to handle the first four items.

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I was so proud of my ninja zebra.

Until I saw this.

Curses.

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It's been about a day since my last pool game, and I'm still preening over pocketing three shots in a row. Yes, I think I'm entitled to considering that this is the same person who once brought the cue down to line up a shot, but missed her hand completely, hitting the table instead and sinking an enemy ball on the rebound.

This warm glow of pride reminds me of another pool session:

//cue rapid rewind-action flashback effect//

I'm playing against Hustler Michael and I'm doing alright. He's leading by a bit, but he's a MUCH better player (not that that says a lot) and he's already had two beers to my lonely one.

It's a Sunday night, so the pub's practically empty. And that's good because I don't like an audience. A peanut gallery is very, very welcome when I'm doing something I'm spectacular at, like colouring within the lines or performing open heart surgery. Not when I'm playing pool, dancing, or opening a packet of peanuts.

So with a signifcantly lower number of potential screwup witnesses, I'm pretty relaxed. Shoot. Sip. (Accidentally) Nudge Hustler Michael's cue. Shoot.. Yeah, everything's good. Especially since I'm not betting anything on this round.

And then it happens. A watching friend (an audience of one is tolerable) leans over to whisper confidentially, "I just bet 200 bucks on you to win." Hustler Michael is on the job tonight after all.

I turn around and blink at her. Then blink at the table. There're three stripes and one solid left. I'm stripes (naturally).

"When?"

"Just."

Blink.

"How MUCH have you had to drink?!"

"Some. No pressure, yeah."

I answer by promptly sinking the cue ball.

Her jaw hits the ground so hard that my beer takes a suicide leap off the table.

In hindsight, my comment could probably have been a bit more sensitive. "Glad it's not my money."

Five minutes and (-)200 bucks later, I'm playing around with the leftover two balls (POOL balls, just so we're clear). I sink one, then line up the last one. And it must be something in the beer because Hustler Michael suddenly drawls, "Tell you what, we'll call it even if she puts this one in."

I cringe. It's at a weird angle, and any little confidence I ever had in my pool abilities has been shot down and stamped out by my earlier performance. I sigh in exasparation and shoot.

And fuck me, it DOES go in. I am a goddess. People must worship me. My back-in-the-clear friend agrees whole-heartedly.

"You are a goddess. I worship you."

Quite naturally.

And the bartender lets me pull my own beer from the tap.

It doesn't get any better than this.

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