totally corrupted by NASA

A crazy politician, who has been able to enter the Australia senate with just 77 votes due to the Prime Minister calling a double dissolution of both houses of parliament, was on a televised panel discussion show. Pollie is a climate denier who says he will only believe when the “empirical evidence” proves it. Professor Brian Cox was on the panel also and produced the empirical evidence, but Pollie said he couldn’t believe it as all climate science has been “corrupted by NASA”. Good one NASA. Power to ya!

I love the “corrupted by NASA” claim. It has become my new go-to excuse. My day is ruined because it was corrupted by NASA. The dinner is late because my cooking was corrupted by NASA. I am late because I was corrupted by NASA. I love NASA. I think they should have their budget increased.

Actually, they should increase their budget, and then put Pollie and the other closed minded, racist, fear mongering, deniers of everything, into a space ship and shoot it to the moon. No, not the moon, into the sun. Trump can go too. It’s the least NASA can do after corrupting my day.


And how a pollie gets in with just 77 votes is also a mystery to most of the voting Australian public too. The good old Westminster system; irritating one day, completely baffling the next.

batter up

man ray 1936

Some poor surfer guy has died after being mauled by a shark, and the usual platitude one hears “oh but at least he died doing what he loved!” has been uttered again. As if!

Do you really think he is standing outside the pearly gates, thanking the Big Whatever for cutting his life short by at least 7 decades but at least letting him go while do something he really enjoyed? Do you think he enjoyed the moment the shark ate his leg? I am not thinking his last thoughts were that he was really glad he got out of bed that morning and went down to the water.

Mr FD used to have this annoying habit when he heard some old person died he would say “Well, at least he had a good innings.” I beg your pardon? I let it go by for a decade or two, but one day I turned to Mr FD and I said that if he didn’t stop saying that pathetic and inadequate phrase that I would make sure that the day he is told his days are numbered that I was going to pat him on the hand and utter “well, you’ve had a good innings, dear” Now push off.

Then I added that I would feed him to the dog.

Now his stock comment is “Oh dear, that is too young to die.”

He is obviously hoping I don’t kill anytime soon.

you know what I mean

nothing new

I’ve got to that stage in life when I look at some little upstart who has schmoozed his way into a position of power and when he looks at me, waiting for me to gush over him, all I can think is “I wear pyjamas older than you.”

And those pyjamas are kind and gentle, and empathetic. You, you little bottom dweller who have risen from the detritus of life, are only in that position because of ambition and because you spawned children and now need a larger income to send them to ballet classes and tennis lessons and to buy saxophones that they will hurrumph into three times before that saxophone is abandoned in the laundry until a cat gives birth to six kittens inside it and that reminds you that you meant to list it on ebay and now wonder if you will get extra for if you included cat placenta as a value added enticement. “Get you cat placenta and pucker up for the blow!”

Anyway, I am over playing the game. Leadership is not a position, it is something that you do. Lead me, show me the goods and then maybe you might get some interest. In the meantime, I will be over here in my pyjamas, filling my glass.

fish sticks and evilosity


A student of Torres Strait Islander descent was explaining to the assembly that each Torres Strait family is given a totem. A totem is a natural element that they must respect and care for in their culture. Her family, she shared, were given the shark as their totem.

All I could think was that she had better not eat fish fingers (fish sticks) then, as they are reputed to be really shark fish.

I know, evil. I am evil.


Grandma’s special sausages


Petite Fille was walking through our large garden with Grandpa Mr FD and I.  Pausing by the fire pit that the previous owners had built and Grandpa Mr FD explained to Petite Fille what is was.

“That’s a fire pit.”

I should have known better, but I flippantly added to Mr FD, “That’s where I will burn your body.”

My little echo, 3 year old, Petite Fille, “What’s a burn your body? What’s a burn your body?”

“Grandma meant sausages. That’s where we can cook sausages.”

Back in the house I told Petite Fille’s Daddy of my misdemeanour.

“It’s where we cook sausages, isn’t it Petite Fille?”I added as she appeared again.

Daddy mischievously adds, “Shhh that’s a family secret. We don’t tell people about our sausages.”

Poor child doesn’t stand a hope of being normal.

Cookies and milk

dancing housewife

My mission for the day, which I chose to accept, was to bake lactation cookies. I had never heard of them either, but apparently they assist in mother’s milk supplies.

The secret ingredient is brewers yeast. Once upon a time this could be purchased at the local supermarket, but our failure to source it yesterday confirmed that the supermarket chain no longer stocked home brew supplies now that they owned a  liquor chain outlet. Wonder why?

Mr Daughter2, the new Daddy, went out on a hunting excursion and was almost lost to the wildes of the Home Brew Store until he remembered his quest and returned with sachets of brewers yeast. The store owner had gifted them to him when she had heard the reason for his quest.

So Grandma, that’s me in this tale, sallied forth into the kitchen and created lactation cookies. Oh, it was a jolly time, with many a joke about  “we mustn’t allow the men folk to eat our cookies, or heavens knows what might happen to them!”

Daughter2 wondered aloud what might happen to her if they were wildly successful. I said we would make a podcast for YouTube and create a lactation cookie empire.

Three trays of cookies were baking in the oven when for amusement I reread the recipe and realised that one ingredient was missing. The super duper secret ingredient – the brewer’s yeast.  Too late to whip the trays from the oven and add the ingredient, I thought of saying nothing and hoping the placebo effect would do its task, but my sharp intake of breath informed Mr D2 standing nearby, that something was amiss. I could have lied, but had to confess. He manfully offered to eat the evidence. What a hero!

I set too and made a second batch. Trays cooling from the oven, I started to clean the kitchen after admitting my error to Daughter2, who was not surprised at her mother’s antics, and to be honest would probably have been surprised had I indeed read the recipe correctly first time around. She remembered too well the great mustard fiasco of year 12.

As evidence that the brewers yeast was now ensconced within the cookie, I wafted the 5g sachet under her nose.

“Wow, how convenient that it was exactly one sachet that the cookies needed,” she declared, impressed.


Close inspection of the recipe stated that 2 TABLESPOONS of brewer’s yeast was required. I had used a mere 1 teaspoon.

We are still relying on the placebo effect.