This is Relevant to my Interests

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Full site here – historical thesaurus of drinking words – but I’m going to take screen shots in case you can’t be arsed to follow the link. Perhaps you might be half-shaved, toxic, poggled, shickery, or peloothered yourself right now. Why not, it is a Monday, after all!

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I love language. And I love drinking. We still do use a lot of these terms commonly, of course.

In Ireland we have quite a few that may or may not be on the list. I’ve had a few cans and I’m not going back to look!

Rotten (usually preceded by absolutely), rat-arsed, baloobud (likely regional to my town), steamboats, mashed, pished, totalled, poleaxed, writ off (also regional, apparently is said ‘rit aff’), buckled, spannered, slaughtered, wankered (sounds like a really good night, that), pissed as a fart (I love that one), langered or langers, locked, off yer head… it does go on!

Did you find favourites in the list, or have any new ones for the class?

Conversation With a Siamese Cat.

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That’s the face. The face I get before he starts talking…

Mraaahhhh
Yes.
Mraaahhhh
Uh-huh.
Mraaahhhh
Okay.
Mraaahhhh
Yep.
Mraaahhhh
I know.
Mraaahhhh.
I know.
Mraaahhhh
I KNOW.
Mraaahhhh
I heard you!
Mraaahhhh
Enough!
Mraaahhhh
Stop.
Mraaahhhh
Stoooppppp.
Mraaahhhh
Oh god shut up.
Mraaahhhh
What? What do you want?
Mraaahhhh
Anything, anything to make you shut up…
Mraaahhhh
What do you want from meeeeee?!?
Mraaahhhh

Mraaaaahhhhhhhh!

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Provenance

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Right, so. I’m behind on posting, on writing, on interacting with all my lovely blog-friends. My brain just hasn’t wanted to share. It’s been months actually since I’ve made an effort. So, I have very little today.

I have a lot of followers from the USA, and I wanted to talk about the differences between the meat I buy in Ireland, and what you all get in the US.

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First of all, we have a national quality standard.

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Secondly – dude! I can go to this farm and meet your man, if I want to. His name, his address, is right there on the package of steaks.

The provenance is always listed on non-processed food – not only meat, but fruits and vegetables. It makes me wonder why the US can’t, or won’t, do the same for their food. Wouldn’t you like to know that you are buying potatoes from Israel when you live in Idaho?

New…Art?

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It’s been yonks since I did anything creative.

Oh: yonks is Irish slang around here for ‘a long time, probably too long.’

Recently – okay a month ago, or longer – I had the time, and the iPad, and a strange enviro men in which to play. Probably about 15 minutes.

I need to play more often, I miss it.

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Spot Has a New Dirty Trick

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If you have cats, you probably have experienced what we call ‘Now, where the hell am I supposed to sit?’ wherein said cat(s) immediately curl up in the space your warm butt has just vacated. Spot is a master at this, taking only seconds to claim as His the butt-heated chair/cushion/couch/bed.

So. A few months ago, I obtained a slightly ripped, slightly dirty but still brand-new duvet. As I had no real need for it myself, I folded it up and put it into Neko’s bed, because it is an old dog bed and rather thin on the padding.

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(round one of seasonal “blowing the coat”. No freakin clue why she does this in the middle of winter)

Considering how much fur she has, Neko still likes a nice warm and soft bed to sleep in. Until she gets too hot and lies on the wood floor, of course.

How do these two stories become one evil cat-habit?

Spot has learned that if he tries to sleep with (or on) Neko, she gets irritated and gets up out of her bed. I’m sure at first, Spottie just wanted doggie cuddles. Once she left the bed, he suddenly had kitty-acres of warmth all to himself. After a few days, Spot had realised he could make Neko leave her own bed, and he now does it every night. Several times a night. Neko got so disgusted she actually left our bedroom and slept downstairs, the poor thing!

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(before Spot copped on and they were “sharing” the bed)

I’m still trying to figure out a way of breaking this habit without having to wake up several times…

New Beer! Winter Holidays Edition

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Since I introduced iDJ to the concept of Christmas ale/beer, he has embraced it wholeheartedly. He bought us two boxes of imported beer, plus whatever we find at Aldi or Lidl or Tesco.

Shall I do most to least favourite, or vice-versa? Oh, I think worst to best, as I’m probably funnier when complaining than when I’m happy.

Worst:

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Rogue Yellow Snow IPA, 6.5%. Oregon, USA. It’s meant to be bitter and it sure is. This I could not drink at all. Every sip left me making a horrible noise at the aftertaste. It felt like I was drinking poison. I’m sorry we have two more of these to drink, because I’m not touching it.

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Sierra Nevada Celebration, 6.8%. California, USA. I drank it, but again it was awfully bitter and didn’t taste of much else: not very Christmassy at all. I think it is safe to say that as a general rule, I do not like IPA.

Middling: From here on it gets tough, as I’d have all of these again!

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Bateman’s Rosey Nosey, 4.7%. From Lincolnshire, England, UK. Very easy to drink, and as we found it in Aldi, we have had more of this than any of the others so far. Not very much like a Holiday ale, but still a nice find, so try it if you can.

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Brewdog’s Santa Paws, 4.5%. Aberdeenshire, Scotland, UK. Tasty, but not a holiday ale. Will never be made again, and I hope their next effort is better.

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Wychwood’s Bah Humbug, 5%. Oxfordshire, England, UK. Found in Aldi, yay! Very warming on fist taste, despite the relatively low alcohol content. They did a good job on the spices. They are famous for their Hobgoblin beer, which is probably also found in the USA. Maybe.

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Sierra Nevada Snow Wit IPA, 5.7%. This is a Belgian-style IPA, and as such an odd combination I loved it. Like drinking a Mandarin orange. Fabulous.

Best: The last three are a tie, I think…

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Anderson Valley Winter Solstice Seasonal Ale, 6.9%, again from California (seeing a trend here?). Had this last year but it is still just lovely. The smell of milk chocolate very time you take a sip is just wonderful.

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Anchor Brewing’s 2014 Christmas ale, California, USA. They have been doing this for 40 years and certainly excel at it. Very very sad the label is torn, as we are saving any labels we can to make tree ornaments. They change the tree species every year, so it is doubly sad to have it be torn on import to us in Ireland. Always always drink this on the holidays if you can.

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Eight Degrees’ Belgian Dubbel, 7.2%, and from Cork, Ireland! We were surprised how much we like this beer, and it seems to be our favourite. They say ‘Christmas pudding in a glass’ and they aren’t wrong. So tasty and very very much the spirit of the season in a glass. Very well done – especially considering the decades of experience other breweries have had – keep it up, lads!

New Stop-Smoking Method for Certain Phobics?

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I had something unusual happen to me this afternoon. Something that’s never happened before, something I have never even heard of in my over-40 years on this planet…

When I went for my usual 12:30 smoke break, my lighter wouldn’t light. It’s a disposable one, and it was sparking just fine so the flint wasn’t gone. I could see their was still fluid in it, too. Sometimes a cheapo lighter won’t light when it is too cold, but it was 10 C out, so that wasn’t the problem either.

I kept trying, as you do, while looking around for a fellow smoker to bum a light from if my lighter was truly dead. One two three four five six… suddenly there was a glob of something sticky and wet on my sparking-thumb. It looked like a bloody blackened booger (bogey).

“What the fuck?” said I, as I wiped it off on the wall. On further inspection, there was something slimy and brown on the roller wheel of my lighter. I had a tissue in my pocket and wiped the goop off, and as I did so I saw something inside my lighter.

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In there. (Chapstick tube for scale)

Now, I’ve found pocket-lint in that little space, but I have never seen legs before.

Legs that once belonged to a spider that got sucked up into the wheel and smushed onto my thumb.

I have to wonder how it got in there, and when. Overnight seems most plausible, which means it may or may not have survived a lot of small fires before I sparked it to death. But I suppose it could have crawled inside in the hour since my last cig. Wee spidereen could have fallen into my hi-vis vest pocket, and decided to hide in the smallest place possible.

But in any case: I had a spider just inches from my eyes, nose and mouth that could have – should have! – jumped out to safety onto my face.

If that won’t make any arachnophobic smokers quit, I don’t know what will!

Sadly, I’m rather fond of spiders, and my smokey-treats.

Ruined Aromas

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I’m hoping this will be a comment-heavy post. I think we’ve all experienced what I want to talk about, but I can’t remember anyone discussing it before. So off we go!

‘Ruined aromas.’ By that, I mean when a favourite (or at least pleasant) scent has been destroyed in your heart/mind/nose forever by an association that you just can’t break.

My examples that made me write this:

Back in my mid-twenties, I used to really like a certain spray air freshener. Forget what it was, something totally artificial and weird. Cranberry-mulberry or some shit like that. Thankfully, nothing that is found in nature after what happened to ruin it forever for me. In any case, I liked it, and bought it for light use at home – to cover smoking stink, dirty cat litter wafts, and various and numerable dog-smells.

Until…. someone bought it for use in the bathrooms at work. Now, while our own poo doesn’t smell of roses (if it does, you should see your doctor or change your diet), the smell of a stranger’s shit is just plain disgusting. The smell of a stranger’s shit with half a can of air freshener sprayed on top is worse. Oh so very much worse when that spray is familiar and a scent you used to) like. I tried to enjoy it again at home, and the smell-memory just wouldn’t leave me. Tossed in the bin – and you all know I hate wasting anything.

More recently, we got some lemon-scented antibacterial cleaning spray. It smelled nice; a light lemon scent.

Then the dog shit all over the spare room for two days and our only cleaner had a nice, light lemon scent. Let me say that the two odours didn’t combine well, and now I can’t use the stuff at all anymore without imagining that I also smell dog diarrhoea. You can also thank me for not describing in detail the visuals I also recall on smelling this particular cleaning product.

My disgust seems to center around poo. Hmmm.

While I probably border on being a super-taster, and super-smeller, I am sure that this has happened to you, too. Let’s hear it, and remember you can tell me all the really gross stuff and it will be fabulous!

If You Give a Cat a Lollipop…

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I still have leftover Halloween sweets/candy. Last night I was sitting in front of the fireplace, my Siamese boy Lokii on my lap (as always when fire is nearby), and I had a rare hankering for sugar. I displaced Lokii long enough to grab a Chupa Chup lollipop (or sucker, whatever you call ‘em) from the kitchen, and returned to warm our mutual arses in front of the lovely fire.

Lokii – being a feline stomach on legs – wanted to know what I kept sticking into my mouth. So I let him have a sniff.

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He was interested. The flavour was strawberries and cream, after all.

Most of us have heard that cats cannot taste sweet. So I wonder what, exactly, made him want my sucker so badly? What did he think it tasted like?

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Because he loved it.

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He looks like a demented Orc from the Lord of the Rings films.

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Nom nom nom!

The Man Who Talks to Cheese.

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Hubby has been cooking this evening. He’s now making dinner, but earlier it was a low-carb pumpkin bake thingie.

After his earlier effort, he is now well into his habit of talking to things that aren’t able to answer.

Shall I type up some of the nonsense he is saying? Yes, yes I will:

O M G, W T F, B B Q! (Yes he said each letter)

Well, I’m talking to chicken now, brilliant! (This is because I was teasing him about being the Man Who Talks to Cheese)

Nothing for cats! (He’s cutting up raw chicken; we give the good bits to the cats and whatever is left to the dog)

Spotty, watch your little paw, fucking hell cat! Spotty! Fucking hell dog-cat-whatever-your-name-is.

Not much for kitties but I’m working on it.

Shhh, I’m coming (whispered to Lokii who also never shuts up) shhh, bits for kitties… Shhh

Oh it’s gonna be less than…oh (garbled) seven minutes…it’s okay. Shhh, coming. (I think this means he heard me light a smoke, which takes me 7 minutes to finish. It was oddly silent so he could hear the lighter spark)

Just wait, alright? Coming. (To Lokii, again) shhh.

Spotty watch your little paw, I’m cutting stuff. Heeeeeeeeee. (Very unmanly giggle)

Fuk fuckit.

That’s my fucking hand, you idiot! Sure didn’t the baby Jesus tell you not to bite the hand that feeds you? Sure no he didn’t.

More for cats, nearly gone…

Alright Spotty that’s it, I’m not going through all this goop. A little more. Oh, Spotty! You want more? That’s it, that’s it. (Calling for the dog) Neko! Oh Spotty you want more? There is no more! Here take that, for fuck’s sake cat! Here.

I’m not spending the evening cutting up human food for cats! Okay Mrs (me), any time you are ready! (Because I’m in charge of the sauce part)

Hope you enjoyed a little glimpse into what it is like to live with a man who talks CONSTANTLY.

Love you anyway, iDJ!