I’ve been a bit slack about submitting photographic evidence recently, sorry.
More apologies, this time for the lack of exposure both clothes and technique-wise. At least this pic gives an idea of scale. Meet: Hulk Dog. I managed to wrestle Jed onto the weighing scales yesterday. It was difficult to get an accurate measurement because he was performing a complex musical number at the time, but he now weighs between 32.6 and 36.1 kg.
He wuves me.
Friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate the brief, yet eventful, yet ultimately terminal life of Chicken. Although only a stuffed toy, Chicken was always the life and soul of any party. His life ended tragically, when he ran into a savage puppy’s teeth. Chicken, we will miss you. Rest in peace.
Yes, it’s pretentiously arty and just a bit farty, but I like it! Ok? I LIKE IT!
A futile exercise – on the same scale as trying to teach Jed to bark ‘Happy Birthday’ – is keeping the house clean with a dog. Approximately three seconds after hoovering/mopping, the floor is covered in shredded twigs, earth-sculptures of paw-prints, half-chewed pig’s ears and the entrails of various stuffed toys and electronic items.
I had not vacuumed since Husband left, but eventually succumbed when I was ankle-deep in small, fine, curly brown hairs. The house looked like the set of a hobbit porn film after shooting the orgy scene.
It is possible that, in common with many dog owners, Husband and I are immune to the distinct aroma that accompanies a dog: a delicate blend of slobber, swamp mud, rancid meat and canine pheromones. Regardless whether I am susceptible or not, I am paranoid about our house smelling like a giant den – particularly the upper stair landing which was Jed’s favourite bathroom spot until he realized it resulted in being fired out the door at mach speeds.
Back in the eighties, our TV screens were pillaged with a brutal advert for Shake ‘n’ Vac carpet freshener. In case you weren’t around in the eighties, or spent that decade in a submarine, the advert featured a disproportionately happy woman frenziedly shake ‘n’ vaccing, singing and wriggling around with a circa 1960 vacuum cleaner which apparently didn’t have to be plugged in to work.
I suspect Jenny Logan was sprinkling around cocaine rather than carpet freshener. I mean, who vacuums in high heels? With clothes on? Who gets that chuffed about doing the hoovering? I could understand if she was advertising, say, ice-cream or condoms. But where vacuuming is concerned, the only time I wriggle is when trying to get out of it. It is a tedious chore that should be approached with a spareness of movement and economy of verbalization to minimize the risk of death.
I was never sure what angle Glade’s advertising agency was pitching. That hoovering will fulfill you? That using Shake n Vac gives you a slightly hysterical singing voice? That having a fragrant house is what you have always secretly dreamed of but never realised?
Yet I still remember the jingle in all its macabre glory:-
It’s all you. Have. To. Do.
Do the shake n vac n put the freshness back!
Do the shake n vac n put the freshness back!
When your carpet smells fresh, your room does too!
Every time you vacuum, REMEMBER WHAT TO DO!
Nearly thirty years later, I finally allowed myself to be seduced by Glade’s advert and bought a tub of Shake ‘n’ Vac. This morning, I sprinkled toxic yet delicious smelling powder all over the carpeted areas of the house, with a concentrated application on the upper stairs landing. Then I hoovered.
The house smells like a little preview of spring. And do you know what?
MarkJ*: You know The Bridges of Madison County? The film? Well, there’s this scene-
Me: Shocking movie.
MarkJ: Um, well, I suppose**. Anyway, there’s this scene where- this lovely moment- where Meryl Streep’s† character, she’s on the phone, and she- she rests her hand quietly on Clint Eastwood’s shoulder. It’s the first time they touch††, and it’s- laying your hand on someone’s shoulder, it’s very intimate‡; and it’s a small gesture, but so deep; it speaks volumes about their feelings for one another.
Me: But you know, I think it would have been better- you know, deeper- if she’d STRADDLED him.
** It distresses me to report that the usually discerning MarkJ did not categorically condemn The Bridges of Madison County as a a pus-filled boil on the botoxed face of Hollywood
† God, I can’t stand her
†† It is actually NOT the first time they touch. That would be when Clint – the horny old goat – gropes Meryl’s leg in his pickup
Her heart was breaking, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Her resolve faltered as he took her face in his hands.
“My darling,” he rasped harshly. “I can hardly bear to leave you-”
“Then don’t,” she sobbed.
“You know I have no choice.” A look of pain fleetingly distorted his stern features. “I must go – but I will count the seconds until we are reunited once more.”
“How much counting is that?”
“I don’t know,” he husked. A frown crossed his noble features. “I have not booked my return flight. I may be deceptively unfeeling and ridiculously passionate bordering on volatile, but I am totally disorganized. Do you-” His voice faltered momentarily. “Do you hate me for that?”
Her heart melted in the face of his despair. “How could I hate you when I- I love you?” she breathed helplessly.
“Fair enough,” he muttered thickly. With an inaudible groan, he drew her savagely into his arms and crushed his lips against hers in a bruising kiss.
He thrust her from him abruptly, roughly. As she watched him walk away, she pressed her trembling fingers to her mouth in a futile attempt to keep from crying aloud.
-
He stubbed out his cigarette with the sole of his shoe. How had he ended up in a crime noir? He must have taken a wrong turn along the way. Just the latest in a long line of goddamn wrong turns.
Last thing he remembered, he was in a romance. He vaguely recalled some broad with heaving breasts. Unsettling effect.
He missed his ripped six-pack and savage, cruel good looks. Apart from that, this genre suited him better, he thought. For one thing, the clothes were more comfortable. Those goddamn breeches were tight as hell. Cut off circulation. He had not felt his legs in months.
For another thing, all that husking and rasping played hell with his throat. He lit another cigarette, narrowing his eyes against the smoke.
Something stunk worse than a barrel of dead hoods. If someone had given him a nickel for every barrel of dead hoods he’d seen – wait. It WAS a barrel of dead hoods. His hand reached for his revolver. Crouching, he surveyed the scene of carnage.
Oh, swell.
It was only a pineapple.
Returning his gun to its holster, he thought of the broad with the heaving breasts, felt a pang of regret. He stubbed that out with the sole of his shoe too. Dames like that were a dime a dozen. Any other guy would have smacked her into next Tuesday. If naked emotion was illegal, he’d bust that lousy broad faster than she could say ‘gimme a nickel for the jukebox, Slick’.
He could tell you something for nothing: he would show her his revolver soon as look at her – and use it if he had to.
Me: If you leave me now, you’ll take away the biggest part of me.
Husband: Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide-
Me: Ooh. Baby, please don’t go.
Husband: No escape from reality.
Me: If you leave me now, you’ll take away the very heart of me.
Husband: Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see.
Me: Ooh, Baby. Please don’t go. A love like ours- is love that’s hard to find.
Husband: I’m just a poor boy. I need no sympathy.
Me: How could we let it slip away?
Husband: Because I’m easy come, easy go. Little high, little low. Any way the wind blows? Doesn’t really matter to me.
Me: We’ve come too far-
Husband: To me.
Me: To leave it all behind.
Husband: Mama, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head. Pulled the trigger. Now he’s dead.
Me: How could we end it all this way?
Husband: Mama, life had just begun! But now I’ve gone and thrown it all away!
Me: When tomorrow comes, we’ll both regret things we said today.
Husband: Mama. Ooh. Didn’t mean to make you cry.
Me: A love like ours is love that’s hard to find. How could we let it slip away?
Husband: If I’m not back again this time tomorrow, carry on. Carry on, as if nothing really matters.
Me: We’ve come too far to leave it all behind-
Husband: Too late. My time has come. Sends shivers down my spine, body’s aching all the time. Goodbye, everybody. I’ve got to go. Got to leave you all behind and face the truth. Mama. Ooh. I don’t want to die.
Me: How could we end it all this way?
Husband: I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all.
Me: When tomorrow comes we’ll both regret things we said today.
Husband: I see a little silhouetto of a man: Scaramouche, Scaramouche will you do the fandango? Thunderbolt and lightning; very, very frightening. Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo figaro.
Me: If you leave me now, youll take away the biggest part of me.
Husband: Magnifico.
Me: Ooh, Baby-
Husband: But I’m just a poor boy. Nobody loves me.
Me: Please don’t go.
Husband: Easy come, easy go. Will you let me go?
Me: Bismillah! No.
Husband: No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Mamma mia, mamma mia, mamma mia, let me go. Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me!
Me: Just got to-
Husband: For ME!
Me: Have you-
Husband: FOR ME!
Me: By my side.
Husband: So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye? So you think you can love me and leave me to die? Oh, Baby. Can’t do this to me! Baby! Just got to get out! Just got to get right out of here!
Me: No, Baby, please don’t go.
Husband: Nothing really matters. Anyone can see. Nothing really matters.
Me: Oh mama, I just got to have your lovin’. Yeah. We’ve come to far to leave it all behind.
After all, it took seven years to complete Smart/Casual. That’s a fair apprenticeship. If I had trained as a doctor instead, I could be performing three open-heart surgeries a day by now.
That’s depressing.
Anyway, the second book. Obviously, it was going to be better – much better – than Smart/Casual. After all, I had made my mistakes. Not only that, I had LEARNED from these bitter lessons with detention and corporal punishment and the writing of hundreds of lines. My craft was honed to a fine point.
The key, I now knew, was planning.
Also, writing. (Quite important, that one.)
I would establish a routine. I favoured a Spartan model: austerity, abstinence, light diet. I would be a shining beacon of discipline.
So that went well.
Despite all my best efforts, I still swing between thinking About Time is:
a) so heinously awful it actually results in a net decrease in the amount of meaning present in the universe; or
b) a work of extraordinary literary genius, but for two words. One of which is ‘shinsplints’.
This morning on Muriwai Beach, Jed and I met a woman walking her dog. His owner had the same hairdo as her dog Samson, an Airedale terrier. If you know your dog breeds, you can imagine how terrifying that was: Airedale terriers are exceptionally fluffy.
My dog may also happen to be exceptionally fluffy, but Jed has Serious Fluff: a protective layer that is largely waterproof and keeps him warm, handy when retrieving ducks in snow: SERIOUS Fluff. Let’s overlook the fact that it is lovely and soft and warm and snuggly.
Also, I don’t model my hairstyle on Jed.
ANYWAY, Jed doesn’t get to meet that many dogs, so we stopped to make acquaintance.
“They want to play!” cooed Samson’s owner. “Isn’t that sweet?”
I was not sure whether she was enquiring about her dog humping Jed’s head, which – honestly – I didn’t think was THAT sweet. At least, I could think of several other words that might have been more appropriate.
Now, I’m conflicted about humping. Whereas generally I am not a big fan of the hump – especially when one of my lower limbs is the target – there is no doubt that sometimes a surfeit of pure, joyous canine emotion can only be truly expressed with a major humpfest.
However, I recall the time in South Island some heinous spaniel stoat mix humped my four month old puppy all the way up the beach. His owner finally came over to wag his finger at his randy pooch – still grimly going for it, tongue out, eyes lolling – and said, “I should give you a smack for that!”
I’m not sure what his training method was (Pacifism? Christian charity?), but it had little effect. Personally, I thought a smack would have benefited either the dog or its owner. Also some sand kicked in their faces.
Back on Muriwai Beach, Jed took the humping with tremendous good grace. By that, I mean Samson escaped with his popsicles and hind legs intact and still largely attached to himself.
What I DID think was sweet, was Jed’s ambitious attempts to mount a dog twice his size for some revenge humping. This comprised a flailing leap onto Samson’s back, where he balanced on his nuts and sort of dangled.
Last week I finished the first draft of About Time.
The pressure had been mounting for weeks.
At this point, it is worth bearing in mind that, everything being relative, our lives are comparatively stress-free. Right up there at the top of the Stress Scale is what to eat for breakfast, followed closely by when/where to go biking and whether I will get a flat tyre.
So I was totally unequipped for the extremes of anxiety leading up to The Deadline.
You will be glad to hear I epitomised grace under pressure. I was serene, confident and overflowing with gruntledness.
Regrettably – particularly for Husband – this physically manifested in an unpleasant shrillness of voice.
I am now waiting to hear back from my agent. Some might suggest that Peter does not pull his punches; others that he fights dirty.
I could not comment personally, since he might sue me for slander.
Also, see above.
I am, however, looking forward to his perspective (unfortunately, I misplaced mine). He will no doubt ask me to rewrite vast tracts of About Time – I’m guessing the last third, where I literally lost the plot – and it will be a better book for it.
I decided to take a week off and enjoy not having to write anything more creative than a shopping list. (Note: normally these are models of creativity with footnotes, appendices and surprising application of nouns. However, at the moment my shopping list consists of nothing more imaginative than mushrooms, ginger ale and scouring pads).
I am only just starting to feel half normal again.
Yesterday, Husband took Jed for a run up Mountain Road.
Those of you who enjoy/abhor long acquaintance with Husband will know the run was merely an excuse dressed up as ‘exercise’, an excuse to don the Shorts of Shame a.k.a the Shorts of Terror (depending on whether I wake up in a Docudrama or a Thriller. One way or another, the result is pretty negative.)
You might ask what these shorts have done to earn their own honorary title(s)? Well, from a proactive perspective, not much. BUT by the very act of being worn by Husband, the shorts are guilty of inhumane, indecent, horrifying, sartorially psychopathic crimes against innocent bystanders. Women and children, and me.
When I pointed out that the Shorts of Terror were not even fashionable IN THE EIGHTIES, Husband said: “But they have a built-in jock strap.”
Ladis and Gentlemen: welcome to the House of Horror.
There is little point to this post, mainly because – firstly - I like to be consistent.
Since the Puppy Biscuit Freakshow, I have fed Jed an essentially raw food diet. He’s a big fan of fish, particularly tinned mackerel; loves chicken carcasses, necks and gizzards; savages veal bones and lamb flaps; and will take your arm off if tripe or offal is on the end of it.
I have been purchasing his food from a variety of places. Chicken necks and gizzards, and lamb flaps from Pak ‘N’ Save; lamb bones and chicken mince from Countdown; chicken carcasses and lamb neck chops from The Mad Butcher.
In the meantime, I have been researching more economical sources of dog food, since it costs more to feed my dog than Husband (although this may be because there is no longer any room in the freezer for Husband’s food). Also, Jed eats anything up to 2.5kg of meat a day.
No, that’s not a typo. He now weighs 30kg. I am concerned he is developing love handles.
Last week we purchased an ancient freezer on Trademe for $50. It came with a fridge, so Husband’s food bill is likely to increase significantly now that he has somewhere to store beer. We installed the two appliances in the garage.
Thus equipped, I spent $100 on approximately 60kg of assorted animal carcasses from Bombay Petfoods. The grub arrived this morning.
Here is Jed surveying a months supply of food:-
The weather was not as soggy today, so we pootled around the yard for a while. Here are some more pics:-
Jed stalks a rock from his favourite spot in the yard: on top of the trailer.
So THIS is what a dog’s life looks like: Husband tries out the kennel run.
Husband stalks wife.
Jed and his favourite type of bone: old, manky, preferably rancid.
Me: You mean, apart from the fact that it’s semi-sheer? Let me count the reasons. First of all, I don’t really fancy breaking a fall with my sprained wrist. Secondly, it’s been a while since I mixed it up at Woodhill, so I’m taking it easy. Thirdly, I have a puppy trying to jump through my spokes, which is distracting. Fourthly, I have a husband who stops dead without warning randomly and lethally. Fifthly and sixthly respectively, I am tired and surprisingly cranky. Finally, I urge you to bear in mind that I do not share your cavalier attitude towards life and limb whether mine or anyone elses’, OR your wilful disregard for the laws of gravity.
<note: I did not actually say all that, but I successfully communicated the gist>
Me: I’m here to collect a package, here’s the slip <presents slip>.
Assistant: Are you Mr Husband?
Me: No. I’m his wife.
Assistant: This parcel is registered mail, so Mr Husband Shaw must collect it himself. Unless you have his ID with you?
Me: No. Listen, isn’t there anything you can do? I’ve just driven in specially. It’s a thirty minute drive - closer to an hour, really. Also, if I don’t return home with his package, Husband will beat me.
Assistant: I am very sorry.
Me: Not as sorry as I am. How about I give you my ID?
Assistant: Well . . . Look, we’re not really supposed to do this . . . but maybe I can make an exception just this once-
Me: Oh, you are a wonderful specimen of the human race.
Assistant: What are the contents of the package?
Me: Um. I’m not sure. Probably some deeply geeky computer device, or a motorbike cranky rotor thingy-
Assistant: You don’t know?
Me <watching package slip from grasp, which is still relatively metaphorical at this point>: Oh, COME ON! Husband probably doesn’t know either. In fact, there are most likely only three people in the whole WORLD who could tell you the specific contents of this package-
Assistant: I am very sorry, but you understand, you could be just anyone-
Me: But I’m not just anyone! -hey, I tell you what, how about I CALL Husband, and he’ll tell you who I am.
Assistant: <looks dubious>
Me: Just a- one moment- wait- <dials Husband> Hello, snarfly snugglebuns? It’s me, YOUR WIFE. Listen, I’m at the post office collecting your package. Can you just have a quick word with <examines name tag> Harissa here?
Husband: Er-
Me: <hands mobile to Harissa>
Harissa: Hello, this woman says you are her husband. Is this correct?
Husband: Yes.
Harissa: Ok, that’s fine, bye.
Harissa <returning phone>: Just sign here. Sorry about all that, it’s just that for security reasons-
Me: I understand perfectly. And I, for one, am comforted to know that NZ Post goes to such lengths to ensure the security of not just my mail and my husband’s mail and my husband’s husband’s mail, but the mail of everyone throughout the land
I would like to apologise for the trickle of blog posts lately. The reason for this is a mental cramp at the 80000 word mark on my second book.
People regularly ask how it is coming along. The most accurate response is a kind of hyperventilated scream. I suppose I’m getting there. The end is in sight. It is About Time. Not that I finish it – although I suppose you could say that if you were a particularly brusque sort of character – but the title.
Since there tends to be little creative energy left over for Deadlyjelly, I will steal from About Time and present to you, here, for the very first time, my favourite line from the entire book.
I am very proud of it and I sincerely hope you like it too.
Here it is:-
I took a moment to balance my fucking chi
Speaking of which, I’m going to go and do just that.
Please forgive me if my blog posts are short and sweet – or even short and bitter – for the next couple of weeks.
It was a big weekend: the opening of duck season. There were days of preparation: oiling and polishing guns, stocking ammo, building mai-mais, exhuming camo suits, and applying swear words.
Check out this TVNZ’s Close Up segment to learn more about what The Men got up to over the weekend, although without the extreme bonding, arse footage, loaded coolboxes, pin-up girls, 4WD waterskiing, and nakedness in jacuzzis (The Outlaws do not have a jacuzzi).
Although Husband denies attempting to surf across the creek on a blow-up doll, I noticed some jittery eye-contact between him and Brother-In-Law upon their return.
Thankfully, the males of the family do not subscribe to the theory that alcohol and loaded shotguns are a top idea. At least, they may have a nip before going out, but in fairness whisky is about the only way to kick-start the system at 05:30hrs.
After the main event followed by an artery-nuking barbeque, we brought the puppies Jed and Lottie down to the creek. They are too small to retrieve ducks, but we wanted to accustom them to the sound of gunfire.
At the first volley of shots, Jed and Lottie flattened their ears and charged back to the truck, occasionally stumbling over their tails tucked between their legs.
Brother- Stepfather- and Mother-In-Law stalk their prey. I was reminded of Mother-In-Law’s terrible ability to snuff out a life in an instant.
Husband faces setting sun.
L-R: Jed, duck carcass, my arm
No shotgun required: Ajay scares the ducks to death . . .
Yesterday morning my dog alarm went off at 07:00hrs and, after I had wiped my face, I took Jed outside. It was so cold I would have cried, except I was afraid my eyeballs would freeze.
He was not there but then, suddenly, he was. His strong, masculine form striding unmistakably towards her through the swarming hordes of weary travellers. Her eyes feasted on his manly thighs, the reassuring breadth of his chest, and his firm, jutting jaw. Their eyes locked irrevocably.
Time seemed suspended for an eternity, before he swept her into his strong, firm arms and crushed her brutally to him. The burning flame of his desire ignited her. He branded her tremulous lips with a searing kiss that seemed to go on forever, for another eternity. (Possibly even longer.)
“I missed you so much!” she gasped, tears trembling at the corners of her luminous, green eyes.
“I was a fool to leave you, a damned fool,” he rasped harshly.
“Yes, but let’s forget all that. Just don’t ever leave me again,” she sobbed, wracked in desperate throes of emotion that, remarkably, did not displace her mascara.
-
So, that’s pretty much how Husband’s homecoming went down – although my eyes don’t generally glow.
Jed you are so cute and furry
Fetching sticks in such a hurry
Shredding them across the floor
Scoring scratches down the door
When you slobber, itch and snort
Juggle spiders for the sport
Dismember things because you can
You’re almost like a little man
But when I see you eating faeces
It’s clear you are a different species
Operation Beautification commenced the week before Husband’s triumphant return. General follicle extermination, eyebrow plucking and trimming, intense moisturising, deep conditioning, teeth straightening, moustache waxing.
However, he highlight of the entire campaign was The Hairdo. I have been growing my hair for what feels like several millenia. One of the reasons for this – apart from how long it takes hair to grow – I mean, what is WITH that? – is that hairdressers seem to treat an instruction to trim the ends within a tolerance of half a centimetre like some sort of dare.
Since I did not trust a hairdresser near my voluminous tresses, the long and not-so-short of it is that I had not had a haircut for a good six months.
Mother-In-Law’s hairdresser, Kris, was fully booked and getting married the same day Husband arrived.
“Well, I appreciate that, but this is an emergency,” said Mother-In-Law. Indeed, when she explained the extent of my hairiness including inadvertent cranial topiary, Kris bumped some local celeb to fit me in on Tuesday afternoon.
Bless her, Kris did an awesome job. She thinned it at the ends as per the photo I provided, and funked it up around my face. Now I look like this except without the highlights and self-satisfied pout:-
The day before Husband flew into Christchurch, I decided to test the gorgeousness. Hair straighteners being a relatively new technology for me, it took me half a day to blow-dry and straighten my hair.
Being a responsible dog owner, I still rolled up my jeans and took Jed for his half hour walk across the fields before going into Oamaru to do some work.
Note the walk.
It is relevant.
Because as I sashayed up Oamaru’s main drag tossing my hair around and feeling totally foxy, I attracted a more than fair share of attention. ’By chuff!’ I thought, ‘you may be skidding towards middle age, but obviously you can still work it BABY!’
Around this stage, I even adopted a self-satisfied pout.
Then I noticed a passerby staring intently in the region of my lower leg, which was when I realised one leg of my jeans was still rolled up to the knee
Mother-In-Law has no clothes dryer and only one set of bed linen. Therefore, laundering the sheets is conditional on the weather.
She is specific about her requirements: light south westerly, bright sunshine, little to no cloud cover, 32+degrees, and a cast-iron guarantee that the given conditions will persist to late afternoon. She has to make her decision before 7am, because her washing machine takes about five hours for a cycle due to low water pressure.
I suppose she must wash her sheets about once a year.
In Oamaru yesterday, I passed a shop with a bargain bin full of bedlinen. Standing out amidst a truly startling selection of blood-quickening bedwear, was a set of royal-blue satin queen-sized bedsheets.
Did I mention they were satin?
They were.
Satin.
However, the more I thought about it, the more I realised with a certainty and conviction atypical for me, that royal-blue satin queen-sized bedsheets were the only possible way to express my keen appreciation and gratitude to the Outlaws for putting me up for the last x months weeks.
I took the sheets - secured with a matching satin ribbon – inside to pay.
“Aren’t they LOVELY?” enquired the saleswoman.
“Um,” I mumbled, humbled by her sincerity. “What, the sheets? Er, yes! Yes, indeed.”
“Was it the colour that caught your eye?”
“Oh yes, it really stood out,” I said, grabbing my purchase and making a run for it.
I called into a newsagents a few doors down to see if I could buy some matching wrapping paper. There was nothing bright enough - but I got something else.
“Is there any chance I could wrap this here?” I asked, reluctantly setting the sheets on the counter.
“Oh, my! Aren’t those GORGEOUS?” breathed the saleswoman.
I can only conclude the good denizens of Oamaru all sleep on bright blue satin sheets – or at least aspire to it
For the last couple of months, Deadlyjelly’s stats has averaged around 70 visits per day. I’m not sure why traffic hasn’t increased exponentially since my blog’s inception. Perhaps it’s because I don’t trawl the Internet making comments on other peoples’ websites. Maybe I need to increase the application of swearwords, or include more videos of me taking my clothes off.
Looking on the bright side: had my hits increased exponentially, the Internet would probably have blown up. So from that perspective, it’s a good thing.
Long time lurker but felt moved to comment by this excellent post. Keep up the good work!
Now, I am a total sucker for flattery no matter how deficient of substance, but I was surprised that particular post had moved someone to express themselves. It poked some fun at my mother-in-law, which – although always entertaining although probably more for me than anyone else – is a cheap shot. Really, outside that highlight, the padding was relatively lacklustre. I didn’t feel it was my best effort.
At the same time, there’s no accounting for taste – or, for that matter, freakishness – so I spent considerable time crafting a response that was warm but not gushing, gracious without sounding needy, and grateful whilst editing out hints of desperation.
It was only after I responded that I looked at the poster’s username: ‘used_bobcats’.
Unusual, I thought.
Imaginative?
Maybe.
Then I followed the link and, er, it was a website selling – what d’you know? -used bobcats.
My official reason for deleting both comments is not my ingenuous response, but because Used Bobcats is not getting any referrals from me so there
At New World Supermarket in Oamaru today, I stood in line behind a man emitting a subtle aroma of beer-marinated nicotine. He was attempting to procure two six packs of beer, but appeared confused by the transactionary nature of the exchange.
Him: This <EXPLETIVE RHYMING WITH ‘MUNT’ APPLIED AS AN ACTIVE VERB DELETED> <EXPLETIVE DELETED>ing government.
Me: Um.
Him: I mean, they <EXPLETIVE DELETED> you in the ASS – half of this is <EXPLETIVE DELETED> tax.
Me: Ok then.
I don’t think it’s any secret that I’m a passionate fan of appropriate swearing. However, I was so shocked by this man’s language I dropped a packet of frozen peas.
After he had shambled off to process his beer before dinner:-
Me (to checkout assistant): Oh my god!
Checkout assistant: He wasn’t very happy.
Me: You think? He used words I didn’t know existed. Or maybe I’ve just had a sheltered upbringing-
Checkout assistant, with indulgent chuckle: Ooh, I think you have, dearie.
Oamaru’s Salvation Army ‘opportunity shop’ operates a donation system for toys.
I picked out three stuffed animals for my puppy in various stages of freshness and entirety. When I handed over $10, the volunteer responded as if I’d just given them the deeds to a building. If it’s a ploy to make people feel guilty, well, it worked. However, I didn’t feel good about stinging any more money from Mother-In-Law.
As far as degrees of evilness go, I’m sure scabbing the Salvation Army is several degrees worse than touching up my mother-in-law for $10. But the Salvation Army is unlikely to hunt me down and make me feel EVEN GUILTIER, whereas my mother-in-law by virtue of her proximity has significantly more potential for drowning my lifeforce in cess. Not that she would. I’m just saying.
Jed’s toys from L-R: Ducky, Your Pussy, Robot, McKenzie, and The Scatalogical Performing Artist Formerly Known As Squeak With A Hyphen.
Note: Jed only recognises Your Pussy when underlined with a dirty snigger.
This post is mainly for benefit of Husband, due back any day now (if that day is next Saturday 25th), so that he can acquaint himself with Jed’s toys. Because obviously, unless he says: ‘Jed! Fetch The Scatalogical Performing Artist Formerly Known As Squeak With A Hyphen!’, Jed won’t know what he’s on about
A couple of weeks ago, The Outlaws and I went on a little day-trip to Lake Waitaki. Mother and Stepfather-In-Law, Sister and Boyfriend-In-Law and three brown dogs crammed into the car.
The journey was memorable for two reasons.
The first was meeting The Warrior at a cafe in Kurau, where we stopped for lunch pies. The Warrior punctuates his conversation with intermittent headbutts. Last time I saw him, at Sister-In-Law’s 40th party, he was so inebriated he made serious play (not that someone has to be drunk to put the moves on me – although it undoubtedly helps). The conversation went something like this:-
Warrior: Hi you’re <INDETERMINATE> nice I’m <INDETERMINATE> Warrior but I prefer to be known as <INDETERMINATE>.
Me: Um, yeah, we’ve met.
Warrior: We . . . we have? Oh . . . yeah! You’re the <INDETERMINATE>. From . . . from last night. He-ey! I had <INDETERMINATE> lovely time-
Me: I’m very pleased for you, but I think you have me confused with someone else.
Warrior: You’re . . . not . . . <INDETERMINATE>? From last night?
Me: Er. No. We met at Hampden Pub. New Year’s Eve.
Warrior: Not . . . last night?
Me: No. Oh hey, I’m going to go and talk to my husband.
Warrior: What? YOU HAVE A HUSBAND? I didn’t . . . you never said . . .
Me: Bye now.
In the cafe, I pretended not to notice him: no easy feat in a space the size of your average parking space.
The second reason was that Jed broadcasted nuclear farts the entire journey. By the time we arrived at the lake, my pooch and I were not the most popular members of the family.
I am still blown away (to clarify, I’ve moved on from farting) by how Jed looks at me as if I am the most awesome being in his little universe. I flatter myself this is due to more than just my status as a sophisticated bone delivery system.
My puppy is pretty loyal (although said loyalty is admittedly concentrated by a baggie full of chicken liver). But when it comes down to the wire: a desperate choice beween me and a mouldy old termite-infested stick?
Yeah, it’s the stick.
Every time.
Jed fetching Stick.
Jed’s audience, speechless with admiration at his stick-retrieval abilities.
When I completed Smart/Casual in early 2007, it was 90,443 words long and most comfortably described as ‘Chick Lit’ (or ‘Clit Lit’ as my buddy JohnO likes to call it, the cheeky spank meister).
By that stage, I was sick of the sound of my own voice. If any of my characters had walked through the door, I would have attacked them with a frozen chicken with an unseemly amount of bloody relish.
I nearly did not submit Smart/Casual at all. Whenever I read through it, all I could see were the flaws. And after all, I had learned so much from the process of writing it; and my second book would be better. Yes, definitely.
Also, I was a little bit terrified.
But whenever friends asked how the writing was coming along and I said with as much enthusiasm as I could dredge up: ‘Well, I’ve finished my first book, and – hey! Guess what? I’ve started on the second!’, it proved to be rather a conversation stopper. People didn’t see the point – and after a while, I rather lost sight of it myself.
So I decided to submit. Good experience etc; and I might get some feedback as to the degree of my literary delusion.
One of the greatest leaps for me was to view Smart/Casual as a product and the submission as a pitch, rather than my precious baby and a personal vendetta respectively. I focussed on the first six chapters and, with the assistance of various kind members of Litopia and Bookshed, ensured they were as fabulous as possible without doing serious damage to my brain.
I did a load of reading about the submissions process: recommended layout, what agents look for, what makes them snarl. An invaluable resource was Miss Snark, a blog offering advice from a literary agent’s perspective. I read pretty much every archived entry, took note, and winced at all the mistakes I’d been planning to make.
Then I went through Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook, picking out agents that specialised in chicklit/ humourous fiction/ general fiction. I prioritised agents who accepted email submissions, since I lived in Dubai at the time and organising SASEs was problematic (I actually ordered £300 worth of stamps from Royal Mail, but they got lost in the post
In most instances, the W&A Yearbook provided explicit submission guidelines. I customised each submission EXACTLY. First three chapters? Here they are count ‘em. Font Times New Roman point size 700? One letter per page, coming up. Every fourth word to be ‘ostrich’? Not a problem.
There were only seven agents who accepted email submissions in Smart/Casual’s genre. Over two years later, I am still awaiting a response from two and received form letters from another two. BUT three wrote back and asked to see the full manuscript.
Of these, one never got back to me. Another responded six months later with a rejection. However, she wrote a terrific, thoughtful email on why she passed, and asked me to bear her in mind for my next book.
The agent who offered to represent me was Peter Buckman, of the Ampersand Agency. Within two days of my query, he responded asking to see the full manuscript. Within a week of receiving the manuscript, he offered to represent me.
Although Peter requested a significant overhaul, representation was conditional only on my accepting his revision requests – i.e. he signed me before I completed the revisions. He was proactive, responsive and encouraging throughout the entire process.
I completed the ‘final’ edit in August 2007 and Peter started sending Smart/Casual to publishers. The responses trickled in; first rejection came in November, followed by . . . oh look, it’s still too depressing. One said my voice was ‘angry and caustic’, which I would have accepted as a compliment – except it was a rejection.
Most of the publishers were kind enough to give feedback on why they passed. Whilst all liked my writing/’voice’, most had issues with the plot (could see the twists a mile off when they weren’t focussed on the holes etc).
Before I started Smart/Casual, my greatest literary accomplishment was a Top Tip published by Viz.
I don’t know whether Viz claims copyright on Top Tips, but it’s not as if the bastards paid for it. In fact, all I got for my tip was an empty envelope with a Viz pen-shaped hole in the side. Since the transaction is still incomplete nine years later, one could argue that the following remains the intellectual and creative property of Niamh Shaw:-
Avoid paper cuts by carefully cutting off the sharp edges before handling
After this pinnacle of achievement I considered myself ready to move on to bigger things, so I started writing my first novel. My book was going to have it all: plots, twists, Ming the Merciless style villains, slaveringly handsome heroes, characters with depth and quivering emotion, maybe a dragon or two.
At the time, I was happily ignorant of the fact that I possessed not even half an iota of a clue what I was undertaking. I knew nothing about plot, technique, tension, pace, or the sheer scale of the project.
Smart/Casual started out as a parody of the general romance genre. Despite being a chick-lit fan, I was frustrated by the eroding quality in a market flooded with crap since the success of the original chick-lit queen, Marian Keyes. I could barely read them for all the eye-rolling they inspired. I figured I could do better than these half-dimensional characters, backfiring jokes, and wafer thin plots featuring contrived and/or implausible misunderstandings.
The first five chapters of Smart/Casual came effortlessly, possibly because they had little to no bearing on the plot, which had yet to be conceived.
Five chapters in, it struck me how arrogant it was of me – an unrepresented, unpublished, barely author – to send up the romance genre. Also, I realised there was probably only a small to non-existent market clamouring for that type of work.
At that point, the book morphed into a standard chick-lit style novel until, five years later and roughly halfway through, I felt the plot would benefit from the addition of a habanero chili or two. Whereupon it turned into a kind of comi-tragedy supernatural thriller murder-mystery without the corpses.
Kind of.
Please rest assured that the manuscript has been subjected to NUMEROUS editorial evolutions.
As has the title. It started out as ‘Memos to Self’, but there were no memos in the story. I changed the working title to ‘Plan Z’, but experienced similar issues with that (distinct lack of plans A through Y, never mind Z).
Smart/Casual was one of those 4am revelations inspired by a dinner of beans washed down with margaritas
When I was a little girl, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up:-
A long-distance lorry driver.
That was until I decided to follow a glamorous career as a princess. Then, at the age of 9, I realised my skill set was more suited to professional figure-skating. Unfortunately I never found the right doubles partner, so I set my heart on international espionage specialising in the termination of shady, highly placed political figures. I would have liked to have been a rock star, but I always knew that was more a sideline than a full-time career.
At no point did I consider writing as a way of life - and even less so when reality caught up with me. At school, English was not my best subject – although in fairness, neither was anything else. My annual reports gloomily chronicled my ongoing failure to achieve my potential (NB or anyone else’s). Even though teachers pronounced themselves ’satisfied’ with my work, they never made that sound like a positive thing.
In college, I studied Applied Maths and Computing, mainly because with mathematics the answer is either right or wrong and doesn’t involve a ten page essay discussing the importance of the motive of revenge in calculating an answer.
When my application to the Irish Secret Service was rejected, I became a project manager (or if you don’t mind, I prefer frustrated rock goddess).
I moved to London in 1996 and graduated from letter writing to email, my preferred method for notifying my parents I was still alive. Occasionally I included heavily censored accounts of my life. It seemed pretty action-packed at the time, mainly because I was spectacularly self-centered. (My father had just been ordained as a priest, so it was inevitable bordering on cliche that I would hit a kind of delayed puberty at full throttle, which I celebrated by drinking inhuman amounts of alcohol.)
Two years later, I started sending friends 4000 word accounts of my experiences settling in the Middle East. Many responded suggesting that, if I had never considered writing, I really should. They might have been biased and/or delusional, but I was touched.
It was another year or two before I started taking it seriously.
In 2000, I took some time off between jobs to write. I wasn’t sure WHAT, but I had romantic notions of sitting at an antique desk in a sun-dappled room crafting a great literary work containing inspiring words like ’shinsplints’ and ‘ficus’.
There were a number of reasons my 9 month sabbatical was a dismal failure. Mainly, it was because my writing desk was modern. But also, I underestimated how much I defined myself by my career and earning potential. I struggled with peoples’ assumption that I was dependent on Pre-Husband for financial support, and that I lay around all day snorting grapes and flirting with my muse.
The Outlaws threw a launch party to compensate for Husband not being present to take me out for dinner. Had he been around, Husband would more likely have celebrated the grand occasion by hacking into Amazon’s website to see how many copies had been sold, and maybe agreeing to watch an episode of House instead of Top Gear. However, I was touched by Mother-In-Law’s high opinion of her progeny.
Despite the secret cake, candles and high levels of literary expectation, it was all a bit of an anticlimax. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but the cake was slightly undercooked in the middle.
However, the main reason was the notable absence of the book. The Little Black Dress website stated Smart/Casual was ‘coming next month’, and instead of listing it as ‘This title has not yet been released’, it was ‘out of stock’ on Amazon.
We had to substitute a copy of New Zealand Tractors Weekly, but it was slightly less interesting and not as fictional. I offered to show The Outlaws the 879Kb Word document of the final manuscript on my laptop, but nobody seemed to feel that would really capture the moment
Yesterday I cycled up to Sister and Boyfriend-In-Law’s house to lash myself to a desk and force out a word or two in a manner similar to performing open heart surgery on oneself.
As you can tell, progress on the second novel is going well.
I borrowed Mother-In-Law’s mountain bike for the trip, which comes accessorised with toe clips. I had no choice but to jam my boots in, because otherwise the clips struck sparks off the ground on the down stroke.
I’ve never seen the point of toe clips – although I’m sure someone out there in padded lycra shorts can provide one or several. I suppose toe clips might stop my feet shooting off the pedals and kicking pedestrians or, more damagingly – for me, at any rate – lamp posts or letter boxes.
Because that happens all the time.
Instead, the only effect of the toe clips was that, when I pulled to a stop at Sister and Boyfriend-In-Law’s house, completely forgetting my feet secured to the pedals, I toppled off the bike and applied my face to their flowerbed
Last week, we bought a pet crate from Trademe and I assembled it in the living room. I enticed The Jedster in with half a spider and a mouldy pig’s ear, and he took to napping in it during the day.
Contrary to my expectations, flying to Dunedin yesterday with a crate full of dog turned out to be a complex logistical equation. The ticket specified we be there an hour and a half before the flight – in fact, before the Pacific Blue staff even showed up.
A passerby, watching me coax Jed into his crate, said, “Glad I’m not a dog. Wouldn’t want to be cooped up in there.”
I felt like saying, ‘Yeah, and I exhaust him with long walks and he has to sprawl out on a beanbag to recuperate and only gets fed four times a day and has to chase sticks repeatedly.’
Instead, I planted some drugs in his suitcase when he wasn’t looking.
The Jedster entered his transportation without protest (the pig’s ear again). In fact, there wasn’t a whimper out of him, even when a Pacific Blue assistant dropped him and his crate off the trolley.
(Plonker.)
In Dunedin, I hurried out to baggage reclaim and looked around to see where The Jedster would be delivered. It was difficult to see with the hordes milling around the conveyor belt.
Then, across the far side of baggage reclaim, I heard an unmistakeable and compelling call, a cross between a bark and a howl:-
ROOWROOWROOWOOOWOOO!
Jed had spotted me first; but I guarantee it was the first sound he made since Auckland
Used bobcats
23/04/2009 by deadlyjelly
For the last couple of months, Deadlyjelly’s stats has averaged around 70 visits per day. I’m not sure why traffic hasn’t increased exponentially since my blog’s inception. Perhaps it’s because I don’t trawl the Internet making comments on other peoples’ websites. Maybe I need to increase the application of swearwords, or include more videos of me taking my clothes off.
Looking on the bright side: had my hits increased exponentially, the Internet would probably have blown up. So from that perspective, it’s a good thing.
A couple of days ago, the post Tractors Weekly: poor substitute attracted the following post:-
Now, I am a total sucker for flattery no matter how deficient of substance, but I was surprised that particular post had moved someone to express themselves. It poked some fun at my mother-in-law, which – although always entertaining although probably more for me than anyone else – is a cheap shot. Really, outside that highlight, the padding was relatively lacklustre. I didn’t feel it was my best effort.
At the same time, there’s no accounting for taste – or, for that matter, freakishness – so I spent considerable time crafting a response that was warm but not gushing, gracious without sounding needy, and grateful whilst editing out hints of desperation.
It was only after I responded that I looked at the poster’s username: ‘used_bobcats’.
Unusual, I thought.
Imaginative?
Maybe.
Then I followed the link and, er, it was a website selling – what d’you know? -used bobcats.
My official reason for deleting both comments is not my ingenuous response, but because Used Bobcats is not getting any referrals from me so there
Posted in Outlaws | Tagged blog stats, comment, deadlyjelly, exponential, flattery, ingenuous, lurker, niamh shaw, spam, traffic, used bobcats | 18 Comments »