Just stuff.

So. Rachel received her MEGA-EXCALIBUR ACTION FORCE 3000 KUNG-FU POWERED DEHYDRATOR over the weekend, a box of plastic 2 ft x 2 ft x 2ft, that, when activated, slowly drains all the life force from whatever animal, vegetable or mineral you've happened to have boiled, skinned and laid out in small strips as an offering to it's cavernous maw, as though it were some pagan Old Testament god. The process takes anywhere from 8 to 48 hours, depending on what unlucky specimen is being tortured, and for some reason the noise it makes seems to have an exhausting psychological effect on my brain, similar to what happens to Gitmo detainees after they've been subjected to 72 hours of Poison's "Unskinny Bop".

I kid; it's actually only called the Excalibur. It does seem to drive a spike into my brain, for reasons I can only guess at (aural critical mass and the creeping slow-death anesthetic of suburban malaise, or something as such, which in it's entirety is my new math-rock band name...), so we're keeping it in the basement where it can drive the rodents crazy and leave ectoplasmic scorch marks on the walls a la the Ark of the Covenant. It also provides DELICIOUS dried fruits and stuff, for which I am extremely stoked. So far we've done nectarines, peaches, pears, plums and cherries, and in about half an hour I have to go check on the bananas and crabapples, because this is Science, which requires Diligence and Attention and a fair bit of Luck. I say 'we', when what I really mean is 'Rachel did everything while Hazel and I watched and then partook of the literal fruits of her labour', as is usually the case; Hazel enjoys the dried fruit to no end, and has taken to stuffing her cheeks as full as possible, which makes her look like a midget prizefighter after a couple of rounds, although this also leads to our discovery of half-mulched lumps of fruit paste all over the house, which is, well, gross; then again, so are babies.

Hazel has also taken to performing an action that I like to call 'The Flop' anytime that she's prevented from exhibiting adverse behaviour, such as eating the compost, choking herself with her strings of beads (thanks for those, Auntie Mo!) or shoving her doll's head into the toilet like it was a high school initiation; she emits a noise that's half-grunt, half-shriek and then either collapses onto the floor (if she's standing on her own) or arches her back and throws her head back, forcing you to try to catch her and keep her from smacking her head on whatever solid object she's aiming for, despite the fact that she's already in your grasp.

Yay, independence.

She is currently taking her frustrations out on her socks by stretching them around her head; she is doing this because I've steered her away from our new Big Screen Television, a great beast of a machine that Barsky forced upon us (oh, we're victims, it's true...); it's the size of a small horse, which means that it's bigger than any piece of furniture we might want to rest it upon, so now it just sits against the wall, emitting it's hypnotic Orwellian gaze upon all who chance by. This thing is scary. It's hard to watch anything on it without falling into a sort of trance, and I find that if I watch it for too long, I find myself waking up hours later wondering why I'm naked and clutching the remains of a dead cat.

Which happens more often than you'd think.

I could show you pictures of all of these things, except that our camera has a bad habit of staying over at other people's houses; it's currently hiding over at Lindsay & Justan's house (according to the Ladyfriend), which I suppose is okay, because it used to spend all of it's time over at Miss Amy's house, and we'd end up with hundreds of pictures of her nudist Road Warrior child. Which isn't really a bad thing, just a little disturbing.

Now I must go fold diapers. Be good, or I'll make you sit in the basement with the dehydrator.