why are Saturdays so hard sometimes? a whingy post
Tonight we are going to the new residence of Venerable and Weatherboi to celebrate the latters birthday. As you would guess, an appropriate token of our esteem needs to be located. So I email Ven and ask him what Weatherboi would like for his birthday. Apparently he would like a 'ho.
While my mind is reeling with the logistics of purchasing a prostitute for Weatherboi (don't you just hire them usually, how the hell do you buy one to keep???), Ven clarifies that he means a garden hoe. Ok, this sounds simple enough -Handsomest is the repository of all garden related nonsense at Casa LG so I didn't panic - I could rely on him to acquire the appropriate implement. Of course I then remember that Handsomest has to work on this particular Saturday.
So, come Saturday morning, off I go to the third level of hell, commonly known to most mortals as Bunnings. And it was hideous. Firstly, I had to get out of bed. And it was fecking freezing. Then I had to make my own cup of tea. Honestly, what is the world coming to? Anyway, I toyed with the idea of wearing my pajamas there, but in the end realised that while bed hair is good look, bed wear isn't. So I got dressed and traipsed off to Bunnings. And Saturday mornings at Bunnings are bad. Really bad. There are, like, loads of people there wearing paint-smeared stonewash jeans and too tight t-shirts. I can tell you that the whole place was an affront to my delicate sensibilities. But I steeled myself and entered.
I found the right aisle (eventually) and there, right between the shovels and the rakes were the garden hoes. A positively bewildering arrangement of them - a swan-neck hoe, a dutch hoe, a double hoe, a combination hoe and rake, one with a foamy grip bit on the handle, one in green, one in a mottled silver, an upside down one that you push instead of pulling. I placed an emergency call to Ven, but he was about as much help as a cart load of monkeys, so I had to make a decision on my own, with no backup, and worse still, no one to blame if it turned out to be the wrong type of hoe. So I purchased the most expensive one (it has to the better one, doesn't it?) and eventually found my car and drove home with the hoe rattling around in the back.
I also promised Ven that I would bring some home-made hommus with us. But with Handsomest working, it was up to me to make it. Now I'm not a bad cook, but Handsomest does do most (ok, all) of the cooking and he has made this hommus many times and it's not that hard. Basically you stick everything in the food processor and press go. So I carefully measure out all the ingredients (which took a lot of control - I so wanted to just tip things in and guesstimate the quantities) and loaded them into the food processor. I am one tablespoon short of tahini, so I drive to the shop to buy a jar. Of course I can't find it and in the end I have to ask a dorky looking 12 year old (where are they hiring these kids from - "Stereo-types R Us Employment Agencies"??) if he knows where the tahini is. So he looks at me like I am deranged and says he has never heard of tahnini and he doesn't think they have it. Of course they fecking have it, Handsomest buys it all the time. I explain that it is a paste made of squished sesame seeds and that I'm sure they do have it. So he asks his 17 year old boss. Finally they locate a jar and I head home to finish making the hommus.
I put the extra tahini in the food processor, put the lid on and turn it on. Nothing. So I move the plug to the next socket and try again. Nada. I take the lid off, I put the lid back on. Still nothing. After five minutes of fecking about, I cave in and ring Handsomest at work. He gives me detailed instructions over the phone and now I can't even get the damn lid on. Finally I figure out that the whirly blade bit isn't pushed down far enough and now the lid fits properly, and the machine whirrs to life.
So the hommus is now made and in the fridge. The hoe has a ribbon around it and the card is written. But please don't leave me to my own devices on a Saturday again - it's bad for my self-esteem.
While my mind is reeling with the logistics of purchasing a prostitute for Weatherboi (don't you just hire them usually, how the hell do you buy one to keep???), Ven clarifies that he means a garden hoe. Ok, this sounds simple enough -Handsomest is the repository of all garden related nonsense at Casa LG so I didn't panic - I could rely on him to acquire the appropriate implement. Of course I then remember that Handsomest has to work on this particular Saturday.
So, come Saturday morning, off I go to the third level of hell, commonly known to most mortals as Bunnings. And it was hideous. Firstly, I had to get out of bed. And it was fecking freezing. Then I had to make my own cup of tea. Honestly, what is the world coming to? Anyway, I toyed with the idea of wearing my pajamas there, but in the end realised that while bed hair is good look, bed wear isn't. So I got dressed and traipsed off to Bunnings. And Saturday mornings at Bunnings are bad. Really bad. There are, like, loads of people there wearing paint-smeared stonewash jeans and too tight t-shirts. I can tell you that the whole place was an affront to my delicate sensibilities. But I steeled myself and entered.
I found the right aisle (eventually) and there, right between the shovels and the rakes were the garden hoes. A positively bewildering arrangement of them - a swan-neck hoe, a dutch hoe, a double hoe, a combination hoe and rake, one with a foamy grip bit on the handle, one in green, one in a mottled silver, an upside down one that you push instead of pulling. I placed an emergency call to Ven, but he was about as much help as a cart load of monkeys, so I had to make a decision on my own, with no backup, and worse still, no one to blame if it turned out to be the wrong type of hoe. So I purchased the most expensive one (it has to the better one, doesn't it?) and eventually found my car and drove home with the hoe rattling around in the back.
I also promised Ven that I would bring some home-made hommus with us. But with Handsomest working, it was up to me to make it. Now I'm not a bad cook, but Handsomest does do most (ok, all) of the cooking and he has made this hommus many times and it's not that hard. Basically you stick everything in the food processor and press go. So I carefully measure out all the ingredients (which took a lot of control - I so wanted to just tip things in and guesstimate the quantities) and loaded them into the food processor. I am one tablespoon short of tahini, so I drive to the shop to buy a jar. Of course I can't find it and in the end I have to ask a dorky looking 12 year old (where are they hiring these kids from - "Stereo-types R Us Employment Agencies"??) if he knows where the tahini is. So he looks at me like I am deranged and says he has never heard of tahnini and he doesn't think they have it. Of course they fecking have it, Handsomest buys it all the time. I explain that it is a paste made of squished sesame seeds and that I'm sure they do have it. So he asks his 17 year old boss. Finally they locate a jar and I head home to finish making the hommus.
I put the extra tahini in the food processor, put the lid on and turn it on. Nothing. So I move the plug to the next socket and try again. Nada. I take the lid off, I put the lid back on. Still nothing. After five minutes of fecking about, I cave in and ring Handsomest at work. He gives me detailed instructions over the phone and now I can't even get the damn lid on. Finally I figure out that the whirly blade bit isn't pushed down far enough and now the lid fits properly, and the machine whirrs to life.
So the hommus is now made and in the fridge. The hoe has a ribbon around it and the card is written. But please don't leave me to my own devices on a Saturday again - it's bad for my self-esteem.
posted by Laziest Girl at 1:03 pm
3 Comments:
It's cool that you stuck with it and got your hommus made in the end!
Mmmn, Hommus! It's been too long since I had some.
I needed a good laugh today, Laziest. Thank you!
A+ for hilarity!
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