“He looks like a Bob.” Apparently scientists have determined that certain names are associated with certain facial characteristics. Huh. I wonder if it only works for guys. (I’m reminded of The Breakfast Club and the bit about “Claire” being a fat girl’s name.) I guess if you have an obscure name like the Snook, the benefit is that nobody has a preconceived notion of what you’re going to look like!

Pass the Tums
Sale preparations continue and I’m starting to feel a little stressed. Plus I keep remembering that this is about the time last year when I developed my stomach problems. Must stay relaxed. Things always work out in the end, right?

(Pssst. Word on the street is: minimum 20% off everything, with some big discounts on some “supreme” packets of wool. You didn’t hear it here.)

I’ve been listening to the Kimchi Girls podcast lately. It’s two adorable girls teaching you to speak Korean. And they use K-pop to bookend the show! Very awesome.

While stumbling blearily towards the bus stop this morning, the Snook hissed at me: “Hey, it’s the Idol guy!” I looked up and made direct eye contact with Mark Holden. The Devil himself. Standing less than 100 yards outside my house. *shudder*

Chocolate Dog Goes Mexican by Night
The Snook and I spent a couple hours this afternoon starting to implement the Getting Things Done system, and we thought we’d reward ourselves by going out to dinner. But where to go? We were feeling like Mexican, but our previous experiences in Sydney haven’t been great. Suddenly, I remembered something. “Hey, you know that random cafe ‘Chocolate Dog’ down King Street in Newtown? I saw on Grab Your Fork that they turn Mexican at night.” Isn’t that the wackiest idea? (It reminds me of “Swallows” from Arrested Development.) So we headed down there. Interestingly, the place was PACKED. On a Sunday night! There were even tables reserved. I was amused to see the sombreros dangling from the doorway (put up every night?), and our server greeted us with a hearty “Buenos noches!” We shared the ceviche appetizer, which was chunks of raw barramundi marinated in lime juice, onion, salsa, and (loads of) coriander. It was great. Seriously, put enough coriander in it and I’ll eat anything. (I’m sure my sister just threw up in her mouth a little bit there. Americans get so weird about cilantro.) Then the Snook had the beef enchilada, while I had the mole poblano: chicken breast with a thick, curry-like sauce made from Mexican chocolate and chilies. Everything was fantastic. It was without a doubt the most authentic Mexican food I’ve had in this entire hemisphere. Amy and Rob, you gotta try this place…

Well, I just spoke to my brother Anthony and he gave me the go-ahead… so I can announce that he and his girlfriend Kara are officially HAVING A BABY. Woohoo! Congrats, Ant. Now I just have to see if I can find a cheap airline ticket so I can attend the shotgun wedding. 🙂

As Paris Hilton would say, crochet is HOT. Apparently another journalist wants to talk to you hookers about your craft. Me, I’ll pass on this one.

Mary-Helen has posted the pictures from SSK last weekend, including a blurry one of me with my sock (I actually rather like it though) and another one with me and Miss Fee where I have ginormous boobs. (For those who thought I was exaggerating the weight I gained in the US, the boobs don’t lie.)

I think I’ve told all the knitters I see on a regular basis, but in case I missed you, here’s the Hot Tip of the Week: the Tapestry Craft Annual Sale starts Saturday the 26th.

Stupid Customer
Sometimes it’s very difficult to keep a note of frustration out of your voice when dealing with an exceptionally stupid customer. Say, for instance, a woman who demands a child’s dress pattern she saw in a book “last week,” yet can’t remember which book it was (or even what colour the cover was). People, if you see something in a shop that you want to buy later, especially in a shop with lots and lots of products, WRITE IT DOWN. Because sometimes things sell out, or get moved around, or even get shoplifted, and god knows I’M NOT A MINDREADER. Expecting me to be one only marks you out as a big idiot. (And lastly, no, your status as a prominent Sydney radio personality doesn’t mean I remember your every move.)