Yes, still itching and peeling, which makes it tricky when I work with PVA glue like all day yesterday, because at the end of the session I don't know if I'm rubbing off dry glue or skin... but getting much better, no doubt. Skin-wise, anyway.
I discovered that if you do a boring repetitive task (like glueing 50 pieces of paper to other pieces of paper, putting them in the nipping press then out and under light boards) you should listen to Mike Oldfield. His formula of making music is to start slow and gentle and then gradually build up momentum until you get to a Big Ending. It makes each small task seem very exciting, like you're working towards something that will eventually sit up and yell EUREKA! When, of course, the music finishes and you're still beavering away with the gluepot, it's a bit of an anti-climax, but it was fun while it lasted.
I was listening to Mike Oldfield because the CD laser in my studio stereo is borked, and when we were moving I found a few boxes of old cassettes, so I'm working my way through them, falling in love again with my weird music loves of twenty-odd years ago, like Mike Oldfield, Robert Cray, early Billy Joel (before Christie Brinkley messed with his brain) and Ruby among other strange mixes.
Mr Mark, who built the bookshelves and kitchen in our last house, is building us bookshelves as I type - big tall beasties, because the ceiling is very high in this house. They're quite imposing, and I can't wait to see if we have room left over once I unpack the books. Mind you, as much as I'd love to spend this weekend getting the books out, I have to wait. We have to paint the bookshelves and let them cure before the books get to them. Mr M says to leave them a month. A MONTH! Others say at least three weeks. I think last time I waited a week until I lost patience & shelved them, but I will try my best for the sake of the books themselves. The problem is that I can't start preparing and moving my studio until the books are out & up. Sigh.
Happy birthday to Best Beloved, who turned 40 yesterday. We decided that he would do something big for his birthday in the fullness of time (Conversation ranged from buying a piece of art he liked to getting some panniers for his bike. I think he's finally decided upon doing a pizza oven workshop later in the year.) so in the meantime I bought him a few little token presents... and then forgot where they all were! Dammit, senior brain already. So I contented myself with cooking him a nice meal and then bringing out a homemade self-saucing chocolate pudding with a candle in it, only to have (of course!) the candle melt from the pudding end and subside into the pudding as I was putting it in front of him. Sigh. Oh, how we roared.
Bumblebee is mumbling and cranky because on Tuesday he had braces plonked (carefully) on his teeth. Here's the photoessay:
After. Poor lovey, look at his eyes. He'd just been through an hour of hell.
Natty dentist, sorry, orthodontist who wears funny bow ties and vests to amuse teh childrens and then gives you huge heart-stopping bills.
This is the weird bit about the experience. It was like an episode of a reality tv show, with foundation-caked bottle-blonde chickybabes at the Ortho's beck & call. It's the only time I've ever felt that 'Reality' in tv terms merged with 'real life' as I know it. He obviously like to feel that he's in that universe, with these women at his beck & call. Mind you, all the people who actually did the work prepping B's teeth were very nice middle-aged women whom I'm sure would have fixed Mr O with a withering gaze if he'd dared to suggest that they went a bit blonder. Heh.
So, it's been a week of sore teeth and lips and lots of cool Greek yoghurt and soups. Poor thing, the pain will subside, and two years down the track he'll hopefully look even more gorgeous.
byrd and I have been hanging out together a bit lately, with us feeding him and his lovely new ladylove on Monday night and then him helping me to move a letterpress cabinet on Wednesday. Jolly times, except that he has a raging headcold and now I have it. Ta, luv. While we were bringing the cabinet in from Hume, we dropped into the tipshop at the Mugga Lane Tip. It's the most revolting tip shop I've ever been to, no organisation, everything exposed to the weather, and most things completely trashed. I bought a dead remote with a thought for making it into something else, and they charged me $3 for it! Cranky-making.
I'm ignoring the world at large. There's many things to say but I don't want to say them while my braincells are being suffocated by snot.
I'd like to welcome Leonard Elvis Jones into the world, the new resident at Sorrow at Sills Bend. Great name, great parents, most excellent cat uncle, all a child needs for a good start in the world.
Bugger it, I have to get out of bed to go to work. I'm going to skulk in a corner and write my new typography course and try not to snot on anyone. Then hopefully I can come home and paint bookshelves while I can't smell the fumes.