I do a lot of sitting around.

At work, I find myself chair bound most of the day except for when I summon up the courage to venture to the petrol station next door which is owned by a surly Pakistani who I inevitably interrupt during a mobile phone conversation with my unreasonable desire for a Diet Coke. At home, I obviously find myself a little more active what with a 17 month old grabbing machine powering all over the house, but my craft undertakings usually require some degree of stillness for hours at a time.

Fed up somewhat by this sedentary life-style, the Rock Star and I used some cash that wasn’t lying around to get ourselves a little motivation in the form of a Wii and Wii Fit after spending a week with a system belonging to Duff and Trumpet.

The Wii Fit wasn’t easy to find. I imagine that Nintendo wasn’t quite expecting the volume of interest in a fitness program in this age of couch to ass ratios. However, I am rarely defeated when I get a mad impulse, so in a fit of musthaveitnows, I found a Wii Fit board for sale in one of the Amazon Z shops for about 30 pounds over the retail price and bought it.

Judge not. I’m not sitting around anymore.

Well, actually, I AM at the moment due to a bout of lurghy, but for the first 10 days after our impulsive purchase, I spent an hour each day engaging in yoga, muscle exercises and cardio worthy of a trip to the gym. And, like a 3 year old, I was motivated because IT LOOKED LIKE A GAME.

I’d be hard pressed to register any complaints about the Wii. Nintendo knew what it was doing when it designed the system. What’s the one major complaint of parents about video games besides the mind bending violence? Kids, spending hours a day sitting on their rapidly expanding backsides, eyes becomes big and nocturnal like bush babies. So what did they do? Came out with the Wii. Not only would kids PLAY these games, but they’d BEG for them. BEG TO EXERCISE. Not only that, but THE WHOLE FAMILY WOULD WANT TO PLAY THE GAMES TOO. Major video games coup.

The Fit balance board is a fairly impressive piece of kit. Although the technology to measure BMI is available in the common bathroom scale nowadays, the level of sensitivity when it comes to balance is really quite astonishing. The yoga program has definitely made me more aware of my centre of gravity as well as my posture during the times that I AM forced to sit on my rear. The cardio program can be quite punishing as well. One wouldn’t expect that being forced to hula hoop for 6 minutes would make you want to collapse into a panting heap, but I would suggest that anyone give it a go. (I have been tempted to secretly film the Rock Star engaging in this exercise and publish it on the web, but I am afraid of being served with divorce papers.) I’m also quite enamored of the rhythm boxing as well as jogging for fat burning. One of my main motivations of late is to defend my records from the Rock Star, who has a natural gaming gene that enables him to go cruising past every high score ever set, infuriating gamers that have been carefully cultivating their successes over a much longer period of time. The only achievements that I believe to be out of his reach are my yoga scores; a discipline that he finds difficult due to the fact that he is built like a long triangle with broad shoulder and narrow hips. Me? I got a whole heaping helping of ballast around the middle.

But I’m working on it.

My daughter rocks.

Just a little news from the crafty side of Blogapotamus…

I’ve been thinking ahead.

In November and December, I’ll be doing my first craft fairs; the H@ndmade fair in Oxford and WeMake in London. I’m pretty excited about the prospect, having attended many fairs in the past, but never exhibited.

During my childhood, my mother was a rabid craft fair junkie. I know that my father probably grimaced every time she informed him where she was spending the coming Saturday. She is quite the crafty sort herself; while I was growing up, she made and sold wooden ornaments and fracturs (Pennsylvania Dutch folk art) as well as baked wedding cakes to supplement our income while she waited for me to be old enough for her to return to teaching, so the impulse to surround herself with crafts was well-nigh inescapable.

The particular crafty monkey on her back took the form of dried flower wreaths. As you can see from the example, they could often run into the hundreds of dollars. Beautiful as they were, their arrival in our home was always heralded by a chorus of “Now, where the hell is THAT going to go??” from my dad. My father is the most patient and lovely man on the face of the planet and he DID have a point. These enormous wreaths took up a lot of wall space and with every new one that came in the door, that space rapidly diminished. Perhaps this explains the seemingly endless need for household renovations: to come up with new, virgin wallspace.

To bring this long-winded diatribe back to the subject of the above photo, I wanted to make sure that I had some smaller items available for impulse buying. (Which is basically the kind of buying that goes on at a craft fair unless, like my mother, you have a particular kind of geegaw in mind when you set out.) So I knocked out these five little colorful beauties that will hopefully go to fantastic homes.

Can I just say how much I love pre-made bezel cups? While they don’t work for higher set cabs, (the stones would be too likely to fall out) the lower set ones fit perfectly and safely and it means that I don’t have to spend time swearing at my bezel wire for not doing exactly what I want it to. Out of the five necklaces, I was able to use bezel cups for 3, which saved a lot of time. While the vast majority of my pieces are entirely handmade, I DO like to to make things easier for myself occasionally!

If you feel the urge to feed your need for silver jewelry, check out the goodness in my shop!

Back in 2005, I posted about a vaguely humorous piece of junk mail that I found in my mailbox from a self proclaimed psychic called Karina Natalia.

The web had remarkably little to say of Ms. Natalia. There is slightly more information now, but my post seems to be number 5 on the Google search list under her moniker. I can always tell when she’s done another mailshot due to a flurry of comments and emails that I receive. I have to admit that I’ve heard nothing from my psychic “friend” since the original mailing and assume that she has gone on to plow more fertile pastures of utter bullshit.

Here begins the Public Service announcement:

While I don’t claim to know everything there is to know about the working of the human mind, someone who sends you a letter out of the blue claiming to know that you’re in need of healing (and who isn’t, really?) is probably a crook who’s yanking your crank. No one, I repeat, NO ONE is EVER going to send you an unsolicited email offering you something for nothing. It just doesn’t happen. Never, ever, EVER send money to someone offering such a dubious service.

While I’m not religious, I can’t dispute evidence that leans in the direction that prayer has positive benefits. Someone directing positive energy your way certainly can’t be a bad thing. If you feel that you could benefit from prayer, join a church prayer circle. Join an INTERNET prayer circle. Try meditation. You don’t need to pay for prayer because there’s an awful lot of people out there who will be more than happy to direct good vibes your way TOTALLY FREE.

In other words, NO PAY FOR PRAY.

Karina Natalia, if you’re reading this, please tell me……

Just WHAT am I thinking?

So, we have chicken pox.

By we, I mean the Prawn, as illnesses of children tend to tip the whole family into chaos. We noticed one or two quite revolting spots on her back during her bath a few night ago which have since bloomed into a rather magnificent crop of pox that cover her entire body, concentrating most heavily and cruelly on her ladybits, which seems most grossly unfair. Strangely enough, The Prawn seems less than bothered by the repulsive boils all over her that I have to spend every waking second fighting the urge to pop. (I’m kind of a monkey that way.) In fact, she is in great spirits and takes tremendous pleasure in cuddling the both of us despite the fact that she looks like the creature from the Zit Lagoon.

We have discovered a few things about the Prawn in the last few days. One of those things is that she has a deep and abiding fear of doctors. Strangely, none of them have ever done anything heinous to her;  like sticking something up her butt for example. If this were the case, I could totally understand the unrestrained screamfest that accompanies every visit, but so far, none of the doctors she’s ever seen has done anything worse than attempt to listen to her heart or look in her ear, both of which are near impossible when the subject in question is wailing like a banshee and squirming like an angry squid. The nurse, however, who, every time we see her, gives the Prawn a jab….she has no fear of whatsoever. Go figure.

We have a really lovely GP who actually gave us a diagnosis at first of hand/foot/mouth, but who, when consulted today with the Prawn’s multitude of spots, was like, “WHOA! Sorry about that. That’s DEFINITELY chicken pox.” He probably couldn’t get a good enough look due to the extreme wigglage of my offspring.

I’m pleased that she’s got them now, to be honest. Better now than in October, in time for Trumpet an BoyRacer’s wedding. Better now than if I get pregnant again in the future, forcing me to abandon her and the Rock Star until the pestilance subsides. But….did I mention that I’ve never had them?

Despite being exposed numerous times as a kid, I never came down with the dreaded poultry lurghy, so I suppose now is the time to test my theory that I have a natural immunity.

If my theory should prove incorrect, I am in for some VERY unpleasant times indeed.

Occasionally, I like to have a toot for small business. My long term pipe dream is to be a small business owner myself, but my coffeehouse/performance studio/craft centre/unicorn breeding model doesn’t seem to be the most viable business strategy in this current economic climate of recession, so I may just have to be content to dream a while longer.

I’ve always been rather a fan of the worst kind of sweets; the ones with blindingly bright packaging and more e-numbers than a bottle of Fruit Shoot. Candy for second graders, really. Things that make your cheeks turn inside out with their sheer sourness and turn your tongue every unnatural color of the rainbow. I have many happy memories of lounging poolside with a friend on a scorching summer day, burning lobster red and gleefully chewing sour strawberry taffy that would slip between our wet, chlorinated fingers like sticky serpents. It’s as much a memory thing as a taste experience, so I can be forgiven for occasionally indulging in the most childish of gastronomic experiences.

The Rock Star and I spend last Saturday morning with some of my long lost Western cousins who I’ve not seen since I was 12. After a joyous reunion in Covent Garden, said cousins hurried off to catch a train to Paris and seeing as how we don’t get into the city as often as we like, we decided just to have a mooch around. Of course, a mooch with the Prawn is slightly more of a slog than mooches used to be, so we kept to back streets around the Covent Garden/ Leicester Square area and this is where we ran into two rather fabulous sweet emporiums.

Hope and Greenwood sits directly opposite the Royal Drury Lane Theatre and although the street is quieter during the day, the shop is almost assured “Which way was Leicester Square again?” traffic. It’s lovely 1930’s “jolly good fun” seaside atmosphere is tremendously welcoming and when walking in, it’s hard to know which way to look for all the brightly colored confectionary and beautiful packaging. The piece de resistance, however, is the old fashioned wall of sweet jars brimming full of childhood remembrances. At least, this is what The Rock Star told me, because all of the sweets were rather unfamiliar to my American palette. The Rock Star gleefully asked for a quarter of aniseed balls; one of his favourites. (I can always count on him to finish black, green and yellow candies that I leave behind. Aniseed makes me feel vaguely nauseous due to an encounter with Pernod in college.) I chose a quarter of candy necklaces; another throwback from childhood that I’ve never outgrown a taste for.

After a brief trip into Leicester Square, (“Why did we come here again?”) we headed back down Garrick Street, which we trusted would lead us eventually to our parking garage and came across Cyber Candy.

Being an ex-pat, some of my most favorite sweets are obviously unavailable to me, so when we came across a store that seemed to be stocked to the brim with all of my favourites, it took all of my will not to begin squealing with delight. Tootsie Roll pops. Twizzlers, Some of the sourest candies known to man. They were all there. And all pretty freaking expensive, but to my mind, worth it for the nostalgia. (If I lived in the US, I’d probably not be so excited by a packet of Sweet Tarts, but when you can’t get a hold of things, they suddenly become VERY APPEALING.) The Rock Star was beside himself at the prospect of Twizzlers, which we always bring home from our US sojourns in enormous quantities, only to see them disappear much more rapidly than we hoped. (The same thing happened this time. They didn’t last a week.) I personally am still working on my roll of Sweet Tart Shockers which are delightfully puckery.

I’d encourage those of you that are possessed of a sweet tooth to check out both of their sites on the web from which you can order all manner of satisfying treats!

Right, you guys. We’re all tuned in to the fact that you LURVE to whip us proles until a state of pant-wetting hysteria over things that are a) relatively minor or b) simply not true, but my plea to you today is to please try to reign yourself in while engaging in headline writing and concentrate on, you know, WHAT THE ARTICLE IS ACTUALLY ABOUT.

Exhibit A: “Toddlers who dislike spicy food ‘racist’”

Right. So no one is going to argue that racism is not a societal problem, but picking this particular throw-away comment from the report and plastering it across the top of the page is really quite obviously headline whoring. The article describes a study that’s been made available to primary school teachers that points out possible manifestations of racism in children including name calling, peer group relationships and yes, an adverse reaction to unfamiliar foods. If the headline was to be believed, toddlers the world over would be budding racists by refusing all manner of culinary delights. Is this to say that my daughter, upon refusing a hot chilli, has a bias against Texans? No, this header’s only function is to mislead and worry parents.

So, strike one, media. This headline? BOGUS. Shame on you! I thwack you with the Newspaper of Literary Correction.

Exhibit B: “Teen Decapitated by Ride at Six Flags Georgia”

Okay, NEVER a nice story. But the header would IMMEDIATELY cause the more worry prone among us to cancel that outing to roller coaster land. However, if one reads on, one would discover that this hapless, and now headless teenager climbed over about 10 fences with signs stuck to them that read, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT CLIMB OVER THIS FUCKING FENCE at which point he was struck by a roller coaster.

The media loves a good gristly death story, but perhaps a more suitable headline would be, “Local Dumbass Dies Doing Something Unbelievably Stupid” or “Darwin At Work”? Or, if not wishing to incur lawsuits from the young unfortunate’s family, then simply, “Death At Six Flags the Result of Ignored Safety Warnings”?

Bad Media! Bad!

Suck it up and try to show some objective behavior.

Or I’m getting the water bottle.

An HM Customs and Revenue audit.

What with all the talk of belt tightening, The Rock Star and I knew it wasn’t going to be possible for a winter or summer get-away this year, so instead opted to spend a day in the company of our favorite musicians and crossed our fingers that the weather might cooperate; not like last year.

Our trips down to London in the last year or so have rarely EVER gone off without a hitch, so after dropping the Prawn off with the Barmaid*, The Rock Star, myself, BoyRacer and Trumpet headed off in the right direction and waited for the Map of Damocles to descend at any moment.

And descend it did, in the middle of the A40 which was apparently closed due to a “demon”**, which lead us all to speculate about which minion from the Seventh Circle had decided to manifest on the outskirts of London and for what purpose. (We could only assume it had been inadvertently summoned by Boris Johnson while trying to find his keys or something.) Luckily, we were equipped with our trusty Thomas Thomas who, while still in doghouse for all manner of stupidity in regards to navigation in the city, managed to get us where we were going while avoiding all Satanic traffic problems.

Our destination was our favorite secret parking garage near Hyde Park which leaves us feeling like a poor relation in the automotive department, but smug and righteous post-concert. We were happy to see our old friend the orange Lamborghini Gallardo parked just where we’d encountered it the year before; at the entrance of the garage. We found ourselves a space several down from a twin pair of Ferraris and a Rolls Royce.

All being full of bladder, and not wishing to use a port-a-loo any more than humanly necessary, we were force to all pile into the gents in the garage due to the fact that the women’s restroom was conveniently locked. Obviously nothing deviant has EVER happened in a men’s room.

The weather for the previous year’s concert was totally diabolical. Cold and drizzly. We were woefully underdressed and by the time the headliners appeared, we were wet, freezing, miserable and surrounded by a lot of people who were a LOT more intoxicated than we were and didn’t seem all that bothered. The Gods of Rawk must have been moved by our perseverance, however, because we were rewarded with an unbelievably perfect day in which to enjoy the sunshine and great tunes this time around. (Of course, I had packed in my bag a change of clothes, bin bags and a new pair of shoes just in case. This probably had something to do with it.) Since none of the acts were ones that we desperately wanted to get up to the front for, we were able to relax on a blanket further back into the crowd and bask in the sun with drinks rather than being jostled with the fervered masses near the stage.

Trumpet and I were engaged in collective knicker-wetting at the prospect of seeing John Mayer live. This is not surprising if you watch his concert videos; the crowd is largely that of the oestrogen producing variety accompanied by reluctant partners who have to endure two hours of potent lust emanating from their other halves and being directed squarely on the stage. However, being a bit of a guitar/songwriting fangirl, the fact that Mayer is attractive is the visual icing on the cake as far as I’m concerned. Not only is it refreshing to see someone truly gifted at playing an instrument, (with seriously amazing tone, I might add) but the quality of his writing is totally top notch. It was gratifying, judging by the crowd’s reaction, to see that he has a large fan base here in the UK. Maybe people are finally catching on to the fact that people who sound the same when they play live as they do on their records ARE BETTER ARTISTS. His voice is equally suited for his folk/funk/soft rock numbers as it is for more raucous blues. The Rock Star observed that his singing style is Stevie Ray Vaughn meets Dave Mathews and I think that’s pretty much spot on. His set was spotless and tight and really the highlight of the show for me.

The turnaround between acts was really incredibly quick, as less than 40 minutes and a bottle of pear cider later, Sheryl Crow took to the stage. I’ve wanted to see her in concert since 1995, so it was a treat to catch her live. Crow is another performer that seems totally at ease with herself on stage and totally puts others in the shadows when it comes to singing live. Her vocals are honest and powerful and she makes performing look incredibly easy. She started out with 3 tunes from her newest album “Detours” which was a refreshing change after the previously self-indulgent “Wildflowers”. (off which I don’t know a single song) After that, it was a string of crowd pleasing favourites such as “All I Wanna Do”, “My Favorite Mistake” and “Every Day is a Winding Road.”

The Rock Star says that listening to Eric Clapton is kind of like going to church. It might not be your favorite part of the day, but you have to pay your respects. Clapton, being the musical legend that he is, is NOT in the business of crowd pleasing and tends to stick with a lot of old and obscure blues favourites that are more known to a small core of admirers. Heading down the home stretch of the set though, he pulled out the big guns; “Layla”, “Wonderful Tonight” and “Cocaine” to remind everyone why there were standing there watching him instead of down the pub somewhere. However, the topper of the set was the Mayer/Crow/Clapton collaboration on seminal favorite, “Crossroads”. (also present was slide legend Robert Randolph) There’s not a whole lot I can say about it that this video doesn’t say better.***

After having judiciously gravitating toward the exit during the last number while still enjoying it’s bluesy goodness, we shot out the nearest available exit, managed to elbow our way past the paparazzi congregating like flies on shit outside of the Dorchester hotel hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the 20 famous faces staying there over the week, stopped off in the same men’s room we’d started out in and were away into the London twilight before most concert goers had managed to stagger past the kebab stand and into Park Lane traffic.

We were satiated, satisfied and gorged on rock and roll.****

*We received a text roughly half an hour later that said, “There are now hula hoops floating in my fish tank. Lol!” I didn’t know whether to be more worried that the Prawn was eating Hula Hoops or that there was a fish tank low enough for her to throw them in.

**As the sign flicked round to the second page, we learned it was in fact a “demon” “stration”, which was much less exciting.

***When we showed the Prawn our video of Crossroads the next day, she focused intently on John Mayer after declaring him to be a “babe”. And then promptly fast forwarded through Clapton’s entire solo. The Rock Star nearly wet his pants. Old Slowhand might be married to a 32 year old, but he might be losing his touch with the youth market.

****And Pear Cider, beer, doughnuts and foot long sausages. And soon after, some Zantac.