As if a bolt from the blue, I remembered today that Rexona's advertising tagline was always, ""won't let you down". Funny, really, because I use it, and it lets me down every single day.

The advertising for deodorant always features some terribly buff person being highly energetic in an athletic manner. The inference is that even THEY don't smell after all this exertion!

I walk across the city to work, and when I arrive I'm almost always a lather of sweat, and heading towards a bit niffy (the walk home finishes me off). Admittedly, I do it quite quickly, because beautiful as this city is, I am quite familiar with my route and rarely have cause to gawp (for exceptions to this rule, please see under "Krishna, Hare" and "conga lines, costumed"). Admittedly, also, I drink quite a bit of coffee, however I also drink enough water to float a beached whale, so there will be no finger-pointing at me for this issue.

The short version of this post is: fuck Rexona, I'm trying a different deoderant.

I've spent this evening painting my nails black while listening to futurepop and playing computer games.

I may not win at goth, but at least I'm represented in the event.

A moment of poor proof-reading in the book Anfy's reading - to whit: "The 1840s of the last century..." - led to considerable hilarity last night.

"A confused and feckless period in history, the 1840s occurred at random and without commitment from 1725 until roughly 1918, though sightings continue right up to the present..."

Fixed the computer/printer problem at work.

\o/

You may address me as "Dee the all-powerful Mac-conquering GOD". Or "Dee Mac's-bane" for short. Cheers.

Of course, it was a pissant simple multiple-headdesk solution, but this will be BLITHELY IGNORED in the name of narrative drama and not making our heroine look like a blithering idiot.

Despite the awesome power of our yuppie-fu (and it is awesome, you'd best respect), we have taken more than four years to work our way through the bottle of balsamic we bought as "emergency rations" when we first moved in. And we've only accelerated consumption recently with a sudden spate of rocket-related salad things. (Insalade de Chez Dee: rocket, shaved parmesan, thinly sliced pear, balsamic and olive oil. Combine, consume. Yuppie-fu represent.)

In any case, we were somewhat alarmed to discover a big wad of sludge in the bottom of the balsamic. There was a lot of holding the bottle up and making it goop around the inside of the glass. Which was clearly vastly entertaining. But then we needed to recycle it, which meant emptying it out.

Anfy prised the top off the bottle (in the process spraying pretty much the entire kitchen with balsamic... tasty) and tipped it down the sink. Except the sludge did not want to go down the drain, so he scooped it out, watched it quiver for a bit, and then slung it in the bin.

The resemblance the sludge bears to the mutant alien space creature from Cowboy Bebop: Toys in the Attic is far too great for my liking. If it comes out and bites us in our sleep, there will be a whole world of I-told-you-so going on in this house.

There's an RMIT computer lab next to our office. I walk past it on my way to the amenities. Right beside the door, there's a big multi-coloured sign that says, "Mobile phones are not to be used in this lab!"

I'm not quite sure why they're so vehement about it. Possibly because they interfere with the delicate navigational instruments of modern-day Macs. Maybe because computer-fumes are highly flammable. Perhaps it's to ensure that no one's just in there googling facts for their friend on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire - this is a serious lab for serious academia!

I'm missing the most obvious point, of course. Because clearly this little RMIT building with a hideous '70s chandelier in the foyer is a blatant terrorist target, but they can't blow up their clever mobile phone bombs if we forbid phones, can they? Foiled again!

Tabs open on my work browser:
- Gmail (DULL! We can do better than that, Diana's-work!)
- Ballad of Kubla Khan (Now we're getting somewhere!)
- Reductio ad Hitlerum (Hitler! Being milked for the random value since 1939 last week!)
- Malleefowl Preservation Society (whose charming motto is "It's Gnow or Never" for reasons known only to them and God)
- bright red knickers (OK, OK, that one's a plant.)

Him: Cicadas are X-Men.
Me: What?
Him: They have Xs on their backs. Beetles are Transformers; they have Ts.
Me: So they turn into little cars?
Him: They sort of look like little cars to start with.
Me: Good point. So they turn into little people?
Him: You turn into little people.
Me: I do! I do!
Him: Hal and Frank and Judy. I don't like Judy much.
Me: She doesn't like you either, bitch.