There are some days when my love of shiny gets the better of me and I end up searching the internet for items on which to impose my consumer lust. I admit it. I’m a total capitalist baby, addicted to the new and sparkly. I’m the person companies go to great lengths to design beautiful packaging for. I’m the person they spend millions to develop a phoney-baloney “philosophy” for. I hate myself for it sometimes, but my greedy, magpie eye is always wandering from one bit of shiny to another. Here are some of the latest bits of retail loveliness that have crossed my radar.

 After Dinner Sweets

Linda Barker kind of appeared from nowhere as a self proclaimed “famous style consultant”. In my opinion, she should be sent back to the abyss from which she came. (At night, I’m sure she sheds her skin to feed on the blood of virgins) However, her home catalogue should be allowed to stay due to the excessive cuteness of some of the accessories.

I’m going through a kind of kitchen phase at the moment; ironic as my kitchen is about the size of a postage stamp, but after purchasing some fun Typhoon oven gloves and enamelled colander, I can’t seem to stop. These liqueur glasses will have to become mine sometime in the near future. They look like boiled sweets; yummy enough to suck on.

 Flower Phones 

The Rock Star despairs of my phone fetish. Every year, on the first possible day I can trade in my phone for a new one, I do. And I’m NEVER satisfied with my choice. This is sheer lunacy, because I literally only use it for texting and the occasional call. My bill comes to round about 15 quid a month; no joke. So why am I so hung up on what the hell my mobile looks like?

Any of these new offerings from Nokia would be a sheer extravagance. These new little beauties have just come out and they’re really calling to me. (how many phone metaphors can I squeeze into this, I wonder?) I’m in kind of digging on interesting floral designs at the moment, which is stoking the fires of want.

 Kicking Butt 

The boot trend these last few years has made me happy. What DOESN’T make me happy is that I have to try VERY hard to find ones that fit me.

I am Bigfoot, to begin with. Size 9 US, size 7.5-8 UK. Designers despise women with large feet, apparently. My larger problem is my thunderous calves. The rest of me may not be fit, but I swear I could most likely kick someone to death if my life depended on it. Swimming in high school exponentially inflated the lower halves of my legs to the point where most “knock me down and fuck me” boots (Moot’s expression, not mine) refuse to straddle their girth.

These in particular look like they might be accommodating as they have buckles at several points along the length of the boot. Plus, they look pretty rock and roll. Always an important quality.

 Henna Mats 

Most normal people eat dinner at a table of some description, even if it’s of the fold out variety in front of the television. The Rock Star and I have no such luxury and spend pretty much every evening feeding our faces from plates balanced precariously on our laps or sofa cushions, which run the risk of staining.

Joseph Joseph is a little design firm based in the OXO complex in London. They make dangerously appealing kitchen and home products including my wonderful swirly clock. When I checked their site this morning, I fell in love with these place mats and in the hope that someday I will have a table to put them on, purchased 2 sets. They weren’t silly money, so I’m filled with “squee” (as the Attractive Nuisance would say) at the prospect of these coming to my mailbox.

Boling Desire  

When I got married, my bridesmaids thoughtfully gave me a lovely tea-kettle. A traditional shape, but with a golden dragon on the spout that blows steam out of his mouth when the water boils. I have treasured this kettle and used it faithfully for years, to the point that the dragon no longer sits flush over the mouth of the spout, eliminating the noise, causing explosive boil-overs and much grumbly scrubbing of the stove top.

This is going to be my new kettle as I have hinted strongly to The Rock Star that this is what I want for my birthday.

Me: I want this kettle for my birthday. Remember my 30th last year and how you were going to take me to Rome as a present but we didn’t end up going because it was full of a lot of very upset Catholics at the time?

The Rock Star: Yes.

Me: I want this kettle for my birthday.

The Rock Star: Understood.

I am completely enamoured of the little white bird on the spout. If I cannot have my dragon, I will have the little white bird. In this life or the next.

Depending on your source, the average cost of a “traditional” wedding in the UK is anywhere from 11,000 to 15,000 pounds. Naturally, there are all manner of folk who want to get in on that white, foofy action, so the wedding fair was born.

The Mis-spelled Band aren’t any different. They’re all about getting their piece of the wedding cake. Especially in the last few months since they decided they enjoy playing places where they get paid very well and don’t need huge men with disfiguring facial scars to keep people from throwing drinks at them. Plus, there are bridesmaids and free beer; big plusses in the books of The Nudist and The Cheerful Idiot.

So yesterday, the Rock Star, the rest of the Mis-spelled Band and I spent the day at the Aylesbury wedding fair, in the hopes of attracting some business. Well, they were hoping to attract business, I just really wanted a smoothie from the stand across the square.

When planning my own wedding, I never got to attend a wedding fair. (although roughly 5 seconds after the Rock Star proposed, 6 copies of “Modern Bride” mysteriously appeared in my mailbox) But I think I would have enjoyed it; the sense of anticipation in the air, the sparkles, sequins, flowers and cakes. It totally would have been my scene. I enjoyed myself yesterday wandering around the stalls, smiling at vendors when I admired their products and then crushed their fragile hopes by saying I was already married. (Naturally, this didn’t stop me from stealing samples of cake.)

The stand garnering the most attention was the one sporting the chocolate fountain. I imagine, that in this world, there have not been a whole lot of inventors who spend an inordinate amount of time getting laid. But the guy who invented this marvellous little beauty…I guarantee you he is knee deep in booty. Imagine him, sitting over his little drawing board in his one bedroom apartment and suddenly being struck with an idea that would make every woman in the world swoon with delight. A FOUNTAIN. THAT SPEWS OUT CHOCOLATE. OH MY GOD, I WILL NEVER HAVE TO SLEEP ALONE AGAIN.

Guy Who Invented the Chocolate Fountain: Hey baby.

Uninterested Woman at a Party: Do I know you?

Guy Who Invented the Chocolate Fountain: Not yet. I’m an inventor.

Uninterested Woman at a Party: (walking away) Is that so?

Guy Who Invented the Chocolate Fountain: I invented the chocolate fountain.

Suddenly Very Interested Woman at a Party: Here’s my room key.

Now a firm fixture at weddings everywhere, these little devils spew out loads of hot chocolate fondue in which you can dip any number of things. (and at particularly raucous weddings, people) Prospective brides flocked to the stand to look longingly at the sweet, melty goodness. IMHO, these things are great at other people’s weddings, but I wouldn’t go near one at my own. Big white dress + dribbly, staining chocolate = A Very Bad Day.

Another show highlight is the fashion parade. Two local wedding specialists enlist the help of their friends and other inappropriate people to flounce down a runway in ill-fitting bridal wear. It’s hard not to see the desperate pride these young (and not so young) women have at being afforded the chance to do those sweeping turns down the Aylesbury Civic Centre runway, trying to imagine themselves in Milan, Rome, Paris or anywhere else but somewhere where the zipper has come undone at back, leaving everyone in no doubt as to what color bra they’re wearing. It never happens to Kate Moss.(and even if it did, she likely doesn’t wear bras anyway.)

The final nail in the fashion show coffin was the outdated club music provided by a local DJ who’s a long time sufferer of cancer of the personality. An unusual affliction; never fatal for the carrier, but harmful to the lives of those around them.

The Mis-spelled Band made out fairly well. One confirmed booking, which paid for the entry fee for the show, and several maybes. Their stand has been vastly improved since the last of these events by an almost life sized poster of the boys, looking serious. (The Rock Star is the only one in the photo who doesn’t seem to be brooding. He looks more concerned about being eaten by the rest of the band) These are the professional shots they’ve invested in recently, even going as far as to hiring a “dummy” female singer to pose with them, in the hopes of getting higher paying gigs at both weddings and corporate events booked by young, male events managers who think with their trousers. (They are actually GETTING a female singer, but since she is as yet unknown, she was unavailable for photos)

The Idiot: (referring to the phoney vocalist in the photo) So, if anyone asks, right, she’s at Uni and isn’t available until April.

Captain Hairy: If anyone asks, we should say she’s in jail.

The Rock Star: If anyone asks, we should say that the Idiot got her pregnant and she left.

The Nudist: Yeah, she stood too close to him for too long.

The Idiot: I hate all of you.

It’s a shame that weddings are once in a lifetime events, unless of course you’re Donald Trump or Liz Taylor. I’d love to have a do-over with the Rock Star, dressed in scarlet. All the better to hide the chocolate stains.

It figures. I’m 20.31558% Geek. I must say that I was slightly disappointed not to make it into the “Total” category, but maybe wishing that puts me over the edge anyhow.

This is a little bit of cheating.

 The Rock Star and I were in Waitrose in Berkhamsted, haunt of the upper middle class mum. On my way to the toilets, I heard the following exchange.

Woman- Well, Henry! There’s someone in the bathroom already! I guess you’re just going to have to sit in your poo poo for a minute!

The child is unresponsive.

Woman- Yes! Yes they are! There’s someone in the bathroom so you’re just going to sit in poo poo!

Henry: (translated) Yes, yes, woman, the whole shop heard you. Though I may be continance challenged, at least I am not a moron. You shame us both.

In the interest of preserving some sort of normality during a time of crisis, I thought I’d jot a few things down.

It’s strange what goes through your head when confronted with a challenging emotional situation. My first thoughts, I’ll keep to myself. But my second thoughts, LITERALLY, my second thoughts were, “I have no fucking idea about how to stuff a chicken.”

It’s very unlikely this is an expectation that anyone has of me at the moment, but for some reason, Sunday dinner became an overriding concern. It’s normal. It’s traditional and since I’ve become defacto cook for the time being in my little universe, it seemed to me that I was going to be unable to keep up my end of the bargain unless I could, come Sunday evening, produce a full roast dinner, complete with Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and 11 different kinds of vegetables.

Fortunately, this was not the case and the six eating persons in the house were tremendously grateful for sausage, mash and only 3 kinds of veg. No doubt any attempts at an entire chicken might have lead to a household outbreak of salmonella (it is just me, or does that particular bacteria sound like the name of a gangster? “Hey Vinnie, the boss wants us to go an’ make sure Sal Monella sleeps with the fishes.”) which is really the last thing that any of us need.

The cooking apparatus in this house is challenging in its own right, even without having to worry about actual culinary knowledge. I’d never encountered an Aga before coming to England for the first time, and indeed have never seen one on the Western side of the pond at any time since. (Although I met an Aga sales lady while living in Minneapolis, so one can only assume they are sold there. If anywhere in the US is a good test market for Agas, it’s the Midwest in January) In actual fact, Agas probably make for more intuitive cooks, seeing as how any normal recipe book’s cooking times are utterly useless and the unfortunate soul in charge of food has to get used to guesswork.

Pros:

-On all the time; ready to cook
-Heats the kitchen in cold weather
-Lovely for toasted sandwiches
-Put your pants on top of one of the plates on a winter morning and you’ll have a nice, toasty bum to look forward to when you get out of the shower.

Cons:

-On all the time; ready to cook
-Heats the kitchen in hot weather
-VERY tricky for baking
-In a normal oven, if you stuck a loaf of bread in to heat it up for lunch and left it too long, you’d smell smoke and rescue it. Not so with the Aga. Put a loaf of bread in and suddenly get called away on a phone call, round about the time you go to make dinner, you find an unrecogisable lump of carbon.

But at any rate, me and the Aga have been getting on ok. I’m leafing through books. And I’m going to learn how to stuff a chicken.

Due to some fairly world beating bad news on the family front, Blogapotmus might go quiet for a few days.

Thanks to everybody for your support.

Found in “The Scoop” section of MSNBC today:

Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas told Blender mag that the Lord told her to perform. “I, uh, I had a conversation with God, basically. I don’t know how to interpret this, but he said, ‘I’ve given you this beautiful gift and you’re throwing it away.”

Somehow, I’m doubting that The Lord Almighty will want the blame for “My Humps” laid on his doorstep.

We have a dog. Well, to be precise, The Rock Star’s family have a dog. He’s a pedigree black Labrador called Dougal, although he responds to Dougie, Dogleg, Doofus, Boogie, and Plums. Any living thing that comes into this house for long enough will acquire a substantial nickname collection. One of the last family dogs was saddled with the moniker “Rotum McScrotum.” (The Holiday Romance was just gifted with her first sobriquet, which is “Trumpet” This came about when BoyRacer had a linguistic 7 car pile up while trying to simultaneously call her “trouble” and “crumpet”. We think it’s probably going to stick.)

I’ve never really understood the whole world of pedigree animals personally. My parents-in-law have always owned Labradors. If fact, Moot even went as far as showing one of their old labs, Pyrate, but he was not gifted with a show personality. (i.e. he weed on her leg) Dougal comes from a kennel called Ballyduff, which, according to many reputable dog related publications that Moot bought to decide which breeder to go for, is an extremely reputable producer of lots of dogs that pretty much look the same. I like to think that in a crowd of black Labradors I’d be able to pick Dougal out, but the truth is, I probably couldn’t. (Until he sat down with his weird accordion legs, his todger out and a big stupid grin on his face, that is. For a finely bred animal, he’s pretty common, really.)

Although Gregor Mendel is considered the Father of Genetics, breeding animals for certain characteristics certainly stretches back further than the 1800’s. We precluded natural selection long before that. I wonder what Mendel would have made of the modern “designer” phenomenon in the animal world that produces Frankenpets like these seen at the Westminster shows:

Honestly, would you want any of these things in your HOUSE? The first cat is obviously prized for its permanently startled/”I’m being strangled” look. The dog would need to be kept clean with the aid of an industrial strength carpet shampooer. The prize for hideous breeding has to go to the hairless Sphinx, however, who not only LOOKS like the wrath of god, but WHO ACTUALLY LEAVES OILY MARKS ON YOUR FURNITURE. WHO NEEDS THAT?

Bugging me even MORE lately has been all the talk of “designer dogs”. Where I come from, if one kind of dog is crossbred with another, we call it a “mutt.” But someone out there got the bright idea to call them “hybrid”; undoubtedly to cash in on the success of the cars. (For my money, a Prius would probably be more of a bargain.) A Labrador crossed with a poodle? A Labradoodle. A pug and a beagle? A Puggle. MUTTS.

I suppose we can’t blame Dougal for being a big, inbred sissy. He brings us joy, amusement and the occasional dislocated kneecap from his kamikaze charges around the garden. (The doctor calls it “Labrador Leg”. It’s pretty common, apparently.) We don’t expect any more than that. He certainly won’t be doing our tax returns.

The Rock Star helped me move one of the house’s many small televisions into the office yesterday so that I could watch the Olympics while I worked. There was some good natured grumbling from my boss, PPD,(“Grumble grumble…counter productive…grumble…bloody tv…grumble.”) but in the afternoon, I caught him looking over my shoulder during the men’s slalom, so he’s had to put a sock in it ever since.

I’m a total Olympic goober, especially when it comes to the winter games. They offer slightly more excitement for my money; lots of sliding down fuckoff great mountains on cafeteria trays and thin, highly waxed planks of wood. In the summer games, when an athlete falls, they kind of lie on the track despondently, waiting for marshals to drag them away. A fall in the winter games can mean a two mile slide down one of the Alps on your ass before you get to think about feeling sorry for yourself. Plus, if I want to be honest, I’m a total girl for figure skating as well. Beautiful people, shiny costumes, unparalleled grace….and a cracked skull if you put a foot wrong. I told the Rock Star last night that it’s one of the only sports in the world that, even if you’re totally the best in the whole universe, you still have a pretty good chance of screwing up.

Like loads of people, we watched the opening ceremonies with a mixture of “Wow!” and “What?”. Kudos for the big skier and the albino Spiderman impersonators who made the big dove, but the women in the big dresses (representing the renaissance, I can only imagine) were rather too Main Street Electrical Parade for me. We enjoyed watching nonetheless and, like everyone else, went to make tea at the point during the parade of nations where Germany turned up dressed in lime green and orange windbreakers.

Notice the seamless conversational transition………NOW.

The nearly endless line of countries adorned in often humorous winter wear (this is inevitable when some of the countries competing are completely lacking in snow) inspired me to look up, in its entirety, the lyrics to Britain’s national anthem. (When I say I was inspired, what I actually mean was, I went to the toilet and was leafing though Schott’s Miscellany and came across, in its entirety, the lyrics to Britain’s national anthem.) Most people are fairly well acquainted with the first verse, as it’s sung at every major international sporting event that England participates in, albeit badly, by legions of drunk sporting fans:

God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen!
Send her victorious,
Happy and Glorious,
Long to reign over us;
God save the Queen!

Anyone who’s actually seen the Queen will know that at least the “long to reign over us” part is likely to be true if her mother was anything to go by. Charles will most likely have had his free bus pass for a number of years by the time he ascends the throne.

If a second verse is sung, it’s generally the third, which is another basically showering HRH with heavenly blessings:

Thy choicest gifts in store
On her be pleased to pour;
Long may she reign;
May she defend our laws,
And ever give us cause
To sing with heart and voice,
God save the Queen!

The verse that is unceremoniously skipped over has a slightly more martial tone:

O Lord our God arise,
Scatter her enemies
And make them fall;
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix,
O, save us all!

You have to love any national anthem that uses both the words “confound” and “knavish” and exhorts the help of the Almighty to smite your enemies. I also rather like the pantomine-ishness of the last, desperate, “O save us all!”

However, after this plea for smiting, comes this verse:

Not in this land alone,
But be God’s mercies known,
From shore to shore!
Lord make the nations see,
That men should brothers be,
And form one family,
The wide world over

One could imagine the Lord sitting in heaven, hands on hips going, “MAKE UP YOUR BLOODY MINDS, BRITAIN, DO YOU WANT YOUR ENEMIES SMOTEN OR TO INVITE THEM TO A PETER, PAUL AND MARY CONCERT? I’VE GOT NO TIME FOR INDECISIVENESS AS I’VE GOT TO ARRANGE AN APPEARANCE IN SOME AIR CONDITIONER CONDENSATION IN MEXICO IN 15 MINUTES, SO WHAT’S IT GOING TO BE?”

The American national anthem, on the other hand, displays no such contradictions. Although its four interminably long verses are too boring to be displayed, the general gist of it seems to be. “Wow, the British have been bombing the crap out of us all night long, and while I, Francis Scott Key, feel that I might be suffering from seasickness or smoke inhalation or both, the sight of our flag still flying fills me with an amazing sense of patriotism. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to lose my breakfast down the privy.”

Awe inspiring stuff.

February 14th. The one day of the year when the whole world gets VD.

The cynical part of me would like to get my hate on over the whole Valentine’s Day phenomenon; especially when perusing articles on news websites reporting 13.7 billion in spending on Valentine’s related products. It’s become the second largest cash cow for the greeting card industry after Christmas. Psychotically, a love therapist (obviously in the employ of Hallmark) made the assertion that:

“Jewelry wears thin. Flowers die. But cards get kept and gestures remembered.”

I don’t know about her, but I’m generally not in a hurry to take my jewelry collection to Tescos on January 2 to drop it in the recycling centre, but that’s beside the point. The retail industry has taken a lovely sentimental little holiday in which we take time out to appreciate our loved ones, imbued it with 1001 unfulfillable expectations and turned it into a money making juggernaut.

But if I’m honest, I like Valentine’s Day, stuffed fluffy toys, corporate whores and all.

I remember looking forward to Valentine’s parties at school (favourite memory: making Stephen VanHoose shoot red fruit punch out his nose in the 4th grade) and our on family dinners at home. We’d have spaghetti and exchange little gifts and handmade cards and generally feel warm and fuzzy and familial. Even before the advent of boyfriends, and the realization that I was probably never going to wake up in a room full of rose petals, diamonds, champagne and red balloons, February 14th always rolled around in a pleasing pink haze, year after year.

The Rock Star and I are going low key this year, as we’re both skint. We bought some nice food from Tesco (including white chocolate chip cookies which should be outlawed and some bubbly) to have a cozy night in, perhaps watching our wedding DVD, as we missed out watching it on our anniversary since we were on a plane. The Rock Star reckons we should have asked the stewardess to put it on the entertainment system so EVERYONE could watch me knock over the flowers, BoyRacer miming the words to the Lord’s Prayer and the Rock Star drop cake down the most expensive dress I’m ever likely to own.

At any rate, wherever you are today, feel the love from blog.