Because Secondborn decided she wanted to be a vet at the age of, oh... about 2 months, as soon as she was old enough to get a job, she scored herself an after-school position at the local vet hospital as the Kennel Hand (ephemism for poop collector, really).

Naturally, being the supportive parental unit that I am, I put only one inviolate condition on her working there. Don't start bringing home the merchadise.

Being the obedient child that she was, Secondborn adhered to this rule for all of 10 days before she came home with a ginger and white kitten which she had saved from certain death.

I went off my nut, lectured her on responsibility, honour, and probably the evils of communism, not to mention reminding her of the unbreakable rule about merchandise  samples and insisted she return the animal forthwith. The cat just turned 12, in case you're wondering. I'm still waiting for her to take it back.

Six years at university (while I fed, loved and paid the bills for the last free sample) taught her some restraint. She was all of six whole months into her first job as a proper vet before someone bought in a litter of puppies to be vaccinated, one of them climbed into her lap and she decided to take it home.

That free sample [pictured - at 6 months] now eats 15 kgs (33lbs) of food a week, weighs 46 kgs (101lbs) and hasn't finished growing yet. He also lives at my house. I have the scratches on my bedroom door - at eye level - to prove it.

So imagine how I felt when Dace starts rearanging the house yesterday for "the puppy" his beloved aunty had told him (but not me) that she was bringing home from work.

What puppy?

Turns out someone handed in a dumped day-old puppy a couple of weeks ago and the staff at the clinic have been hand-raring it, giving it four hourly feeds with a bottle and arguing about a name*.

For reasons that remain distrubingly vague, it was Secondborn's turn to bring it home. On a night Dace was sleeping over!

And it slept in my room.

I smell an evil plot. One involving free samples.


*I suggested calling it Security. I mean, at 2 weeks old it's obvious it will be a large dog. I think it would be cool to warn annoying sales people at the front door off, by telling them that if they don't take a hike, you'll call Security...LOL.**

**Apparently, I am the only one who thinks this is funny.

Someone has posted a review for Stargate SG1: Roswell on Amazon which contains the following backhanded compliment:


So... despite our best efforts, the typos sneak in. But at least you have to read the book to find them.

Right now, I'm wondering what the editors of news.com.au are doing. Having their morning coffee? In a staff meeting discussing quality control?

You see, I was doing my daily glance through the headlines when I logged onto their site and noticed the following:


Ooops... I'm assuming they meant Packer Snr wanted to ban son.

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UPDATE!!!

The following appeared on the news.com.au site about 15 minutes after I loaded the above entry...

Took Dace to see Transformers this morning, along with Caden, the 10 year old son of my garden minion self-employed gardening contractor. My review is here, if you're interested.

The podcast of today's show should fun too, because after the movie, I took the boys down to the station and Barry pre-recorded a couple of sound grabs from the boys, giving their opinion of the movie. I haven't heard them yet, but hopefully he got something he can use that involves more than Caden saying... yeah, good, in a monotone or Dace yelling cowabunga!

Anyway, on the way home, Dace decides I need a math test. Don't know why. Didn't get a chance to ask.

It went like this...

Dace: What's one plus one?
Me: Two
Dace: What's two plus two?
Me: Four
Dace: What's one car plus one car?
Me: Two cars
Dace: What's one tree plus one tree?
Me: Two trees
Dace: OK... What's a thousand trees plus a thousand trees?
Me: Two thousand trees
Dace: No, Nana, it's a forest... geez...

Dace had his friend, Monique, over today, which resulted in me getting several walls painted because the two of them entertained each other by playing soccer, building cubby houses and playing doctor.

Being my house, where Secondborn enjoys the status of demi-god in the eyes of her nephew, they were playing vets, not human doctors. The difference? Well, the bit I heard involved Monique ringing Dace to tell him her imaginary dog had to go to the vet because he had diarrhea. Seriously.

But the best bit overheard all day between Mr 7 and Miss 5 was during the construction of the cubby house that took up half my lounge...

Monique: I see I'm doing all the work again.
Dace: I'm working!
Monique. No you're not. You're just standing there telling me what to do.
Well... says Dace, that's work....

Secondborn frequently jokes that she can't date good-looking guys, because she has to be the pretty one in the relationship, which is fair enough, I suppose. And it's true, you know. Beauty is relative.

So, the trick is, unless you're born with a bone structure like Morena Baccarin or Tyra Banks, the fastest way to look fabulous is to hang out with people who aren't as pretty as you are.

How does that old saying go? In a world where everyone is blind, the one eyed man is king?

Which brings me to the slight problem I now have to deal with. Sonny Whitelaw* and I and will be appearing at a function where we'll be standing on stage, next to Christina Hendricks (Mrs Reynolds) and the drop-dead gorgeous Inara, herself,  Morena Baccarin!

I am going to look like a toxic waste dump next to that woman. She is stunning. And thin. With a flawless complexion... and Brazilian supermodel for a mother...

*sigh* I wonder if Extreme Makeover has a vacancy before September?

*Sonny's doing Brisbane, I'm doing Melbourne.