Category Archives: WTF

Cartoon Craziness Challenge – Self Portrait with Spots

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My contribution to the Cartoon Craziness Challenge – this week’s theme is a self portrait. I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t making fun of myself, so the original post is about talking in my sleep, Lokii being evil, and finally my getting yet another zit, or spot, at the age of 40. Yes I’m fucking well older than that now and I still get them, so I repeat: what the hell?
Anyhoo, I’ve re-read it, and it’s kinda funny so please do have a look!

So I’m kinda cheating on the challenge, as I already had this drawn years ago. Tough noogies.

Moi, for real (I drew my features from a photo) with a Giant Irish Talking Spot/Zit from Hell.

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My Slimy Nemesis!

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I rarely dislike any critter. Be it vertebrate or invertebrate, warm- or cold-blooded, furred or scaled, no legs at all or a hundred legs.

However. Since I’ve lived in Ireland and discovered my love of plants, I now have an extreme dislike for a certain invertebrate.

The filthy nasty disgusting destroying slug!

Holes in my hostas, strawberries with caverns eaten into the lovely red pulp, seedlings arbitrarily chewed off at the base of the stem. Augh!!!

I have an Irish Wildlife book. It has exactly six pages of mammals for a total of 43, which includes whales (and the bastard American mink an ecological group released from a fur farm and now has overrun the country, due to well-meaning dammed idiots). Rather an astoundingly tiny number of mammals, but it is a small island after all.

The ‘Terrestrial molluscs’ section, on the other hand, has 21 types of slugs and snails. What the HELL, Ireland?!? I know it’s wet and green, but really?

I’m not squeamish when it comes to easily-squished things. I have been known to flail about like a Whirling Dervish when I’ve walked into a large spiderweb in the dark, but who wouldn’t? I have a dislike of ants when they surprise me, and maggots are just disgusting. I have stories to explain both the ants and the maggots. Not today. Today is when I admit to a shudder, a step back and maybe an involuntary sound of horror when a giant-ass-slug surprises me.

They do, they do. After nine years here I still can’t get used to seeing slugs the size of my thumb in my compost bin. Yeeuch! Even better, at the bottom of a pot I want to use. Which is where I found monsters.

I had an olive tree that didn’t survive (not surprised) but I kept it as I could grow snow peas up its dead trunk. Well, I’ve not done that in a few years, so I moved the dead tree, soil and all, into another pot it didn’t quite fit into. It was a nice pot and I wanted it for a more permanent planting. Anyhoo, the tree has been in the temporary pot for a year, and I decided to move it. Picked it up by the trunk, and damn if it didn’t just pull right out of the pot, dirt and all.

And there were huge slugs in the gap at the bottom.

I put the tree back in the pot and moved the whole thing from the bottom, leaving it alone until I could face the slimy suckers.

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That’s them. One big sumbitch and one younger version, both Limax flavus, or yellow slug. They look more green to me. It must be because of all the lovely tender plants I feed them! Just look. Nasty nasty nasty.

Me being me, I got over myself and knocked them onto cardboard so I could take pictures. I also wanted to know just how big they are, so I got out the tape measure.

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That’s the smaller one – the juvenile. It woke up first and tried to get away as fast as slug-ly possible. I didn’t let it, of course.

While trying to get the older one to wake up and stretch out, I found something even more disgusting. Slugs have mites. My camera wasn’t good enough to get them, but both yellow slugs had tiny cream-coloured mites running over them. Ewwwwwwwwwwwww. They must be pretty specific to slugs, these mites, because how the hell didn’t they get stuck in the slime? I know more about slugs than I ever wanted to know.

Swift had it right:
“The vermin only teaze and pinch
Their foes superior by an inch.
So, naturalists observe, a flea
Has smaller fleas that on him prey;
And these have smaller still to bite ‘em,
And so proceed ad infinitum.”

I don’t feel that superior. These slugs are unstoppable!

I finally got the older one to unfurl, and it gave me a perfect measure.

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An inch, Mr Swift? How about four? Gaaaah!

The book says that is maximum size for this species. But. There is another one that can get up to 25mm in length – almost ten inches long. The ashy-grey slug, Limax cinereoniger. At least this Limax doesn’t come into gardens, otherwise I might actually faint away if I am surprised by one of those.

Oh: I killed them all. With glee, and table salt.

Boys and Girls, Guys and Gals, Men and Women

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Well. Isn’t that a broad topic? Gender and gender issues have been on my mind a lot lately. Always a big thing for me, actually, but I get outraged and angry so very quickly that I rarely get a chance to think rationally.

Anger is an energy, according to most of the former members of the Sex Pistols, otherwise known as PIL. Yes, it is, and if I could harness my own I could power a small city. (Great song by the way)

My family will confirm that I have always been prone to rage. “Temper tantrums” they said when I was little. “She’ll grow out of it.”

The thing is: I have never grown out of having temper tantrums. I have never seen the reason why I can’t be loudly outraged, to the point of kicking or throwing things, when shit is just that dammed stupid and I’ve had enough, enough, enough!

I can explain, or excuse, a good bit of my ability (or inclination, or sheer desire) towards letting loose and having physical expressions of rage by seeing my father lose his shit, and taking him as a role model. But my mom never did that, and my sister never did either: so why did I?

The only reason anyone has ever given me to not lose my shit, too, as an adult, is that women just don’t do that. So, is it a gender thing? is my first question. I have always been taught, by example, that women aren’t allowed to show anger. Or, god forbid, outright rage. Why the hell not? I certainly feel it, why do I have to hold it in? Isn’t that the same as holding in the tears when they want to come? Emotion is emotion, right?

Maybe not so much. Why is it that I refuse to shed tears unless I’ve really lost it, and only when I feel safe with the one I’m crying in front of. Or I do it secretly, which just makes me feel so alone and pathetic. I fucking hate it, and that’s a fact. Why did I choose the stereotypical male way of dealing with stuff that makes anyone want to cry?

Why is it that I have seemingly, unknowingly, chosen the male way of dealing with extreme frustration? Why do I react this way when my sister doesn’t? It can’t be nurture, it has to be nature. I had two older female role models, but what felt right to me was to be like dad.

So. Does that mean I’m a boy in my secret heart? Well. If it does, I’m a gay boy. Or a bisexual boy with a preference to other boys. My dad and my sister both read my blog, and while they don’t need details, I rather expect that they already know I’ve been adventurous with my sexuality. And I also know they both don’t judge me for whatever they think I’ve done. I love them both very much for that. (It’s not ever been as weird as you might think, guys! Or it didn’t seem weird to me…)

As usual, I’ve rambled.

I recently got quietly angry over a comment that I literally walked into at work. Some shit about how one fella’s wife has no ‘spacial awareness.’ I come through with a pallet full of boxes – that I personally didn’t put on that pallet, and the squeeze is tight and two of my boxes fall off. “Perfect example, women have no spacial awareness!”

Me: “you mean whoever loaded this pallet did a shit job of it, right?”

“Nope, women are shit at spacial awareness! Hahahahhahahahhaha!”

Didn’t say a dammed word at the time, because I was furious. I grumped about that for hours, really annoyed. I couldn’t decide if they were having fun with me as a member of the crew, or if I’d actually been slighted, hard. Truly, it was meant in fun. However. It put me in a shitty mindset, and that helped me make the decision: that was fuckin’ sexist and I had a right to be annoyed.

I never want to be the annoying asshole, but I also think I can, and should, speak up when it sucks to be the butt of a joke just because I’m female. I am sooo tired of that old joke. How do I respond, however, in a way that I can not only show that I’m not getting really angry (I’m not) but that it isn’t fuckin funny, either – so next time maybe don’t, okay?

All the over-sharing background just leads up to the last question. Is is me? Is who I am and what I feel based on my genitalia? I didn’t have a choice about what I was born with, but I’ve been dealing with people badly, awkwardly, my whole life. I never seem to quite understand anything other people say or do, confidently. I’m rather more comfortable at the moment with my interactions with the guys, and have a lot more fun with the boys than I ever did with the girls. It’s nice to take an insult as a joke, and a compliment with ‘shut up you’re distracting me!’

I’ve gone nowhere with this, and I’ve been writing for hours now. What do I tie this up with? I guess this: most of my followers appear to be CIS women – so how do you feel? Did anything I’ve said hit a chord in your heart-strings?

*sorry, dad, if I’ve upset you in any way. I know you aren’t the same person I knew as a kid. It’s still my history, upbringing, and the things I took on board when that was what kids do.

Red Dwarf Season 11!!!

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I am inordinately happy about this. Yes, I’m a giant geek.

http://www.giantfreakinrobot.com/scifi/red-dwarf-blasts-eleventh-season.html

Some of the text from the website GiantFreakinRobot:

“Fans of deep space wackiness, robots, amazing absurdity, and a creature descended from the common house cat, have a lot to be grateful today. Once thought long dead, the venerable British sci-fi sitcom Red Dwarf is coming back to life one more time. Co-creator Doug Naylor has signed on to write an eleventh season, one which is already scheduled to shoot later this year.

For the uninitiated, Red Dwarf is the story of Dave Lister (Craig Charles). Through a series of unfortunate events he is the last living human in the known universe, and is stranded on a mining ship lost three million years in deep space. His only companions are the hologramatic recreation of his former bunkmate, a twit named Arnold Judas Rimmer (Chris Barrie); Kryten (Robert Llewellyn), a neurotic maintenance droid with a head that looks like a pencil eraser; and Cat (Danny John-Jules), a vain, ditzy humanoid that evolved from Lister’s cat Frankenstein. There’s also a time-addled computer, who has gender reassignment surgery part of the way through the series. The crew has all sorts of crazy adventures, meet all manner of space creatures, robots, and half-mad killer cyborgs, and even travel through time on occasion.”

Let’s hope this works: YouTube link to a really good top ten best of clips. I’m grinning like crazy still.
http://youtu.be/UVmKeisK2cU

Arachnophobes, Look Away Now

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Did some gardening clean-up on Sunday, as it was actually a sun-day. We had a wooden coal bunker (recycled shipping crate) that had rotted completely away. I’d been given a new crate by one of the truck drivers that comes in to load up daily, and it was finally a nice enough day to do the big swap.

It was messy as hell, and when we finally got to the bottom and hubby was pulling out chunks of rotten wood, he gave a little screech and kinda…threw a chunk of wood toward me.

“What is that?!? Ahhhh, it’s huge! What is it?!?” He danced away from the remains of the box.

Me being me, I turn the chunk of wood over and immediately let it go again when I see the biggest spider I have ever, ever seen in Ireland. This gal was Florida-sized. Cool, but I didn’t want to be bitten by a scared spider any more than he did.

“I need a jar, quick!” I tell iDJ – and he gets me one but asks what I am going to do with it.

“I’m going to catch her, of course! We can’t leave her in here, and I want a close up look.”

So I did, and later transferred her to a plastic container so I could see her better. She was a little weak but after some time in the warm house (in the container) she’d perked up again and was spinning webs.

I have a ‘complete Irish wildlife’ book which consistently fails to identify anything I can’t figure out myself. It’s frustrating. Two pages of spiders, really? I have more species than that in my own garden. Sheesh. Anyway, I took a photo with a measuring tape for scale, and let her go last night. Her new home is a nice old stone wall where no one walks and there are lots of nooks and crannies to hide in.

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Isn’t she a stunner?

So, I Have to do This Now at Work…

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Some jackass has stolen two of my drinks out of the work fridge. Yes, I get made fun of for my slightly passive-aggressive note. But I still have my drink at the end of the day since I started doing this.

Asshole never copped to doing it, either. I wouldn’t fuck with me either when I’m thirsty.

Who the Hell Puns in their Sleep?!?!

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Me.

I do.

I’ve not been sleeping well lately. More accurately, I’ve not been sleeping for long periods in the morning but I do have loads of REM sleep, complete with weird dreams.

Last week I again dreamt that I was a man, and it was perfectly normal in the dream. Forget the details now, as you do, but I remember noting that I wasn’t even me in the dream.

This morning, I was the interviewer for a TV documentary on a famous person. I wish it was someone real, but I don’t think it was. It was a man, and rather heavy-set and intelligent. I think he was an actor. Much like the amazing Stephen Fry, but it wasn’t him. I was there to document his unusual hobby, which was candle-making.

In dream space, there was lots of time doing camera angles, set up, questions, etc. It went on for a while, perfectly normal – as if I have a clue what being a TV interviewer entails.

Eventually, cameras rolling, a young man walks in. The star stops and says, “Oh, I’d like you to meet my assistant. He’s been invaluable. This is Chandler.”

I woke up immediately, laughing out loud.

Ugh.

Sigh.

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Leaving work tonight, I had to put a few things in the trunk/boot of the Mini. Opened it up, leaned forward to toss in the stuff. WHACK. I bounced my forehead off the thin edge of the deck, shouted an appropriate word, staggered back a few steps… my lovely work lads walked with me over to the light to see if I was bleeding (nope). I do have quite a sore lump there. Looks like I’m trying to grow just one horn. It’s not even in the damn middle of my quite expansive forehead.

My guess is that the cold temps tonight kept the hydraulic hinges from opening all the way. It’s never done that before, and it is very dark behind the building, so I didn’t even look.

Won’t trust the boot again. Especially in the dark. Ow.

Help needed from Ireland and England!

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What the HELL is tearing up my garden?

All along the walls in our back garden, something has been digging. This was a month ago:

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This was two weeks ago:

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It’s much, much worse now. What the hell could it be? It’s not birds, or cats, or our dog. I doubt a fox or badger would come in our wee space – the gate is very low and the space is small and reeks of dog.

Could we have a resident hedgehog? What the hell else could be doing this? Helppppp :)

Smelly Sunday Morning

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This wasn’t this past Sunday, but the one before. I woke up to find Spot had his arse right in my face, so I nudged hubby and got him to take pictures.

Please forgive my weird bedroom paint job – I was testing out colours and hated all of them. Maybe now that a few years have gone by, I’ll do something about it… HA!

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What’s that I smell?

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I think it might be…

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Cattbutt! Oh how lovely of Spot to share his distinctive aroma, eau de feces, with me!