Category Archives: Humour

Nov26

Fun on the Internets

Posted on by
Standard

I had a busy night over on the FaceBook last night. I put up my seahorse drawing, and by the time we were done talking shite, me and two friends racked up 190 comments.

Only four were about the actual drawing.

The rest, well. Bird started it by offering up embarrassing stories. She put up three then asked if I had any. I said I couldn’t think of anything, not like hers, anyway! I suggested that another friend (who had commented on the actual drawing first and was, of course, being notified of these new comments) might remember some dirt on me, as we’ve been friends since I was 12 or 13.
Well, she didn’t have anything on me either. I’m sure I had to have something, but just couldn’t come up with anything I did publically that I found embarrassing.

I have a private, in my own house story, but only one other person ever knew about that one.

Not to say that my history has been boring, oh no. I did things on purpose to mess with people, though. I pierced my ear in class with a huge safety pin, and bled everywhere. More disturbingly, I once sat in class and pricked holes in a finger, then spattered blood all over my desk in pretty patterns. I think I was trying to creep out the only kid in the class that was stranger than I was. I guess I was goth before there was goth. I wasn’t embarrassed, and I didn’t get in trouble for either incident.

I did get in trouble for painting one eye – just one – in heavy black and white professional clown makeup. I can’t recall if they made me wipe it off or not, but I do know I irritated the powers that be.

20111126-205440.jpg
It was a bit like that.

Once I borrowed a dress from a friend and put it on before school. Maybe I was way taller than my friend and therefore showed too much leg, but the school administration stopped me cold and wouldn’t let me go to class. They called my mother to bring me ‘proper’ clothes. While I was waiting for her, I could hear the women in the office talking about me. They called me a whore, and made nasty comments about what I probably had been doing with my boyfriend before school started. It was the first and last time I ever wore a dress to school.

Still, I was ANGRY, not embarrassed. Sorry that my mom had to leave work and bring me clothes, too. Ya know what? I’m still a bit pissed off.

My sister told me recently that when I was very young, I would hiss and growl like an angry cat. At other kids who picked on me on the schoolbus. Yeah, a bit odd.

I just went back to the FB comments; we spent three hours talking! Too funny. Two of us in Ireland and one in Florida, and what great craic. The best part of it all was how much it helped them both. Bird because she’s had it really rough lately, and has had huge life changes to deal with. But, a listing of embarrassing moments made her remember what a free spirit she is at heart, and that she doesn’t need a ‘bucket list’ because she has lived. My other friend because she’s a bit lonely and isolated out in the sticks of Florida; her son is grown and gone and her family lets her down too often (but she keeps trying, what a massive heart she has). She said she laughed and snorted through the whole three hours.

You never know what will come from a simple post on the ‘net, do you? I think I’ll save the rest of my thoughts on that topic for another time, though – too much to tack on to the end of this one!

So, go on, what’s your embarrassing story?

Nov23

Bengal games

Posted on by
Standard

My Bengal Spot is trying to train me, again. I’m fighting it, but it is sooo hard…

He is nine- I think? -I’m not good at keeping track of these things. But he doesn’t act like it, he’s very playful and healthy. It’s just that he gets bored easily. When that happens, he plays games with his humans.

The easy game is ‘I want to sit with you, but I’m going to make you beg me to do it.’ It’s a long game, so he likes it a lot. It has two parts: in round one he stands on the coffee table and stares at the prime lap position he wants. Human talks to him, pats couch, makes kissy-noises, offers the best place under the blanket. He leans in, looks like he’ll come and lie down…then turns tail and walks away. Repeat 2-3 times. Round two of the game involves circling the living room doing bad things in order to get yelled at. He always goes clockwise and hits the same forbidden places in the same order: going behind the TV where the wire soup is dangerous, standing on the rickety DVD tower trying to push it over and/or reach my Peace lily, then back to the coffee table or the arm of the couch where he can leap onto the top of the bookshelf. He does these things deliberately to get our full attention. All we do is shout no at him, but that’s enough for him to be very happy and come trotting back with a smile on his face to sit on the coffee table and repeat round one. This goes on until I get sick of having to pay so much attention to him and not what I’m trying to watch on TV, and I grab him. Ah, the win goes to Spot every time. I’m rough with him; I grab him, shove him under my elbow, and pretty much sit on him to keep him there. Which is what he wanted all along. He loves being squished. The purring is deafening. Weird cat.

I recently tried grabbing him right away instead of letting him have the full game. At first, it seemed a brilliant solution. He was sooooo happy. So very happy that he got up and left within a few minutes so I would do it again. And later that night he was unbearable, wanting the new game over and over. Sigh.

He’s added in a new part to round two lately, and it is even more annoying. It consists simply of going into the kitchen and howling at the sliding glass door. Repeatedly. I am not amused. He sounds like he is in pain! It’s the most pathetic, woeful sound. The only time he sounds worse is when he has a nightmare – that is terrifying. I’m only guessing about the nightmares, actually. We did catch him twice waking up from a sound sleep and immediately screaming, so that’s our best guess. He never acted as if anything hurt, or ran to the toilet or any other indication of physical pain. But wow, it was scary – he only did it a few times in the space of a few months then stopped.

But the one that I’m fighting so hard against is the 2am ‘come play with me’ caterwaul. He wakes up, his cat-brother and dog-sister and both humans are asleep, and he’s bored. What to do? Wake ’em all up, of course!

Mwow? Mrrwow. Mrrwow. Mrrwow! Mrrwow. Mrrwow? Mrrwow. Mrrwow. Mrrwow? MMMMWOW! MMMRRROW! MMM-GURGLE-ROW!

By now, we are all awake, staring unmoving at the ceiling, and hoping against hope he’ll stop on his own.

He won’t.

My solution is to go downstairs, shut the living room door, go into the kitchen, shut that door, fill the nearest receptacle with water and then trap him in the living room to throw the water all over him. He never tries to get upstairs, and lets himself be trapped. He appears to enjoy it when I chase him around trying to corner him in a place I don’t mind getting wet. He doesn’t even really mind the water, but he has to shut up for a while to dry himself off.

I’m really hoping I’m training him this time, and not the other way around. He does it less and less, but I have a harder and harder time getting back to sleep.

20111123-210950.jpg
Look at him there, all innocent as he tries to smother his brother to death in his sleep. I’m not falling for that one, either.

Nov21

I feel like I’ve been in a car wreck…

Posted on by
Standard

Oh what a night. Saturday, that is. iDJ and I had to go out to meet a friend. He doesn’t live here all the time, so when he’s home we can’t tell him no. It’s a little hard because we shouldn’t be spending the money we don’t have in the pub. However, it’s such a huge part of Irish culture that not going is an insult.

Luckily, we spent a good few hours at our friend’s place before the pub. We also went back there after closing hours to continue the session. It was the same as the night I turned 40 – everybody dancing in the house, making a mess, having a great time and eating caviar. It was black caviar this time, which I found out I like a lot more than the red. His house is a great place for a house party: no close neighbours to complain, and last winter the house flooded so there’s no carpet to worry about, just concrete.

It was (again) a great mix of people, different ages and different lives. I tell ya, we 40+ ers can really par-tay. It’s almost as if the booze is a stimulant, and we go bonkers when the music starts.

It’s not just us old farts that get down n boogie, though. One of my friends is 24, and she and I were hamming it up in the kitchen. The way I remember it is that she jumped into my arms… I held up for about .0003 seconds, and then down I went. Knees first. On the concrete. Carrying my weight and hers (thank goodness she’s a little thing). She snapped forward and smashed my nose, then backward and smashed her head on the dishwasher.

I was more worried about her. I can be very protective… Once we confirmed that we were both okay, we carried on. I didn’t look at my knees, but my nose was bleeding out of both barrels. Pretty. I’m glad I bothered to put on mascara before we went out.

Having loads of liquid painkiller in me, I didn’t think much of it at the time. Probably didn’t even check to see if I had blood all over my face or not – I don’t think about my looks often. The walk home hurt a lot, though. My knees weren’t happy…

So yeah, I have a blue and red nose, and some gorgeously colourful knees. Especially the left one, it looks like a sunset and is rather swollen. I can’t go down the stairs unless I go backward, it hurts too much the normal way.

My back is fine, though. Lift with your knees, not your back…land on your knees, not your crooked tailbone.

Here’s the gore:

20111121-195714.jpg

Nov19

Socks has a… prune?

Posted on by
Standard

Right, so it has come to my attention that new readers have no idea why on earth I’m talking about socks that have olives and prunes, and heartbeats!

Short version: Socks is the nickname of my best friend, and she is having her first baby. Since I can’t be there with her, I’m chronicling her journey on my blog.

Long story: go here, then here, and the rest are my weekly updates: one, two, three, and four. That will catch you up to now!

***

Socks had another doctor appointment this week. Doc couldn’t hear the heartbeat at first so did another ultrasound, all is good. Baby Prune had…

Ok, no, I can’t call it a prune. I just can’t. Instead, I’m going to share the nickname Socks has started using in her head: Button. I love it! When she told me her secret baby name, I sang a little bit of ‘Button, button, who’s got the button’ and made myself cry. Keerist, I’m not even the pregnant one.

Baby Button (oh, that’s better, isn’t it?) had its back to the ‘camera’ so the picture wasn’t clear. The heartbeat was visible, though, and then it did a little jump! “How awesome!”

She’s officially due June 15th. She liked the 14th better, because every older person they told immediately said, ‘Oh, Flag Day.’ Socks conjectures that Flag Day used to be a big deal at one time, because we youngins wouldn’t have a clue when it is.

You’ll be glad to know Socks is HIV and STD free, and she doesn’t have the gene for Cystic Fibrosis, so Bear doesn’t even need to be tested for it; it’s one of those diseases that needs two carriers to be passed on. Oh, she’s also not anaemic, and doesn’t have to take an iron supplement. We think it is because she eats so well and would rather get her vitamins the natural way than in a pill.

She has switched from oatmeal and yoghurt in the mornings to Wheat Chex. I found this interesting as a few weeks ago she was talking about something called ‘muddy buddies‘ on FB. It was a craving thing, and that got her started on Wheat Chex for brekky. She knows what she needs! She says that since she has always listened to her body, eating now may be easier for her. She’s still not very pukey, unlike her whole family…

…which brings me to The Quote Of The Week, a new feature in my Socks update. (Those of you who watch Harry Hill’s TV Burp, please read this new title in his voice, complete with background singers.)

“I don’t know what all you pregnant women are bitching about. This pregnancy thing is a breeeeeeeze!”

After I got done laughing my hole off, she asked that I make sure the sarcasm was clear.

She’s only gained one pound (.45 kilos), but Bear told her that she’s ‘pooched out a little.’ Button is about 1.5 inches (3.81cm) and looks more baby-shaped. “A little like an alien, but not lizardy.” Button is growing tooth-buds, knees and ankles. Socks said the book tells her that every body part and organ are pretty much formed, and from here on Button nearly doubles in size every week. Important juices are being made in the stomach and kidneys, and if it is going to be a boy, this is when the testosterone starts flowing.

Bear still hasn’t come to grips with what is going on inside his wife. She mentioned fingernails to him and he started fanning himself as if he was going to faint. Then he got all panicky over trying to figure out how he was going to teach his child ‘life lessons.’ He wants to teach the important things, without screwing the kid up. Good luck, Bear!

Oh! I nearly forgot. The doc’s office gave her her first bag of free ‘new baby!’ samples and coupons. It was a culture-shock moment for Socks. Coupons, adverts for portraits, samples of … nursing pads? Bottle inserts specifically for storing breast milk? An itty-bitty diaper with Pooh Bear on it? She is “rallying against the typical baby bullshit” and doesn’t want this rubbish. The sheer amount of strollers for sale blows her away. There’s a ‘micro movement monitor’ that will let you know if the kid so much as farts in its sleep. Why would anyone want that? When are you supposed to sleep yourself??? Bear thinks the kid just needs a rag for its face and one for its arse, which is a bit naive, but apparently it is just crazy-mad the amount of marketing that is being directed their way now.

The worst, by far, are the breast pumps. There is a version called a double pump. Yes, that’s right, a milking machine. Just walk into your stall and stand there with both tits in it until Farmer John lets you out to pasture. Fuck off! She says one at a time is okay, but both? Hell no, she’s not a damn cow. There’s even a double pump you can walk around in while wearing it. Good lord, just what you want to see in Wal-mart. (I’m freaked out by the whole idea of breast feeding, BTW. Fine for you, but the idea of me doing that makes me want to scream.)

Okay! Long one today, no wonder I put it off so long. Oh, I’ve also been asked why I named her Socks. I came up with the name years ago, because she loves long, colourful socks – striped socks, argyle socks, even toe socks – and she always, always, wore peep-toe shoes to show them off. She doesn’t always wear peep-toe anymore, but she’s made herself sleeves out of socks to wear with short-sleeve shirts. The obstetric nurse loved them, too. So there’s why she is Socks. (She promised me pics of her in the sock-sleeves. Hint hint)

Oh. I’m totally, utterly, jealous of her new Vibram FiveFingers toe shoes. In red.

Nov14

Cats and zombies go bump in the night

Posted on by
Standard

Uuuurgh. It’s not quite seven am and I’ve been up since 6:20 after a sleepless night ending in Spot starting his screeching nonsense and hubby getting up to inflict the cure. I’ll have to explain that another time. In any case, the cats think it is great fun that I’m downstairs and they are rampaging through the house to show their pleasure. Fog, my arse. It’s thunder little cat feet reminds me of.

I have had a weird half-head headache that comes and goes in short blasts behind and above my right ear. It’s probably sinus related, but may be an ear thing. I’m going with sinuses. I’m not particularly congested, but the right side of my nose is a bloody mess inside. Don’t think I’ve had something like this go on for so long without getting better or turn into an infection. I avoid the doctor as long as possible; until it turns into an infection I’d rather not have antibiotics. Even if I wanted to see the doc, I’ve got a 10 am job interview.

So of course, I’ve had very little sleep. Right before bed I read a good short story about zombies that inspired some great dreams. I mean that – not scary but very exciting. It takes some serious gore before I get scared in a dream. It did wake me up, or perhaps I just woke up naturally at a point where I could remember part of the dream. I tried to keep it going when I went back to sleep but only succeeded a little bit. I was zombie hunting!

One of my thoughts on reading the story was my continuing disappointment in how the women never, or rarely, kick ass in zombie tales. Seen The Walking Dead? The women in that show are skinnier and weaker than the animated corpses. I’d rather look at a rotting shambling dead thing than see the female lead in shorts and a tank top. She is so thin she makes me feel sick to my stomach. But that’s beside the point. The point is that even though I enjoyed the story I read, the only female character was a computer whiz hidden away from the action.

The guys, of course, are running around blowing the heads off zombies with accuracy and alacrity, and a good dose of stupidity. How can you not smell a damn zombie?

There’s these yahoos running around inside buildings, looking for the undead. They get surprised a lot. Of course that’s exciting in a book, it would get old fast if no one ever was in any real danger. But where are the women? The most prissy girly-girl in the world would be a great addition to a zombie hunting team! Much better than some hardened career soldier, a fashion junkie will notice disgusting things. Put Barbie in a room full of furniture and one tiny spider, and she’ll find it. Loudly.

Well, the loud part isn’t good for zombie hunting. Maybe an earbud sensor that beeps for the rest of the team when she pisses herself would be more efficient. Not very dignified, but since she’s insisting on full makeup and heels in the apocalypse, she doesn’t get to refuse.

And I wonder why I can’t sleep.

(The story was an excerpt from Orpheus by Dan DeWitt, released this year, his first full-length novel apparently)

Nov13

Socks has a medium green olive!

Posted on by
Standard

I know, what happened to the fruit? The similes are getting stranger and stranger.

I have to admit in advance that I somehow drank quite a bit on Oirish Tirsday. So my notes are pretty illegible, by page…four? If i wrote down that much, it seems I thought everything was funny as hell, too. But I’m going to start off with something that really shocked me.

It seems US schools are no longer teaching kids how to write in cursive: just printing. Socks learned this about three years ago, I learned it on Tirsday. WTF? Why on earth not? I suppose there’s an argument that we type more than print, and print more than write, but to not even teach it anymore seems a bit premature. And as Socks pointed out, silly. How does someone have a signature without cursive? How do you teach someone that bit of originality that says that you are you, if they can’t even hook their letters together? Are we moving into thumbprints or retinal scans? Will the postal delivery or UPS/FedEx person have a filthy, beaten up eyeball scanner instead of those disgusting electronic signature pads? Seriously, I’ve never seen one that didn’t look encrusted in other people’s hand sweat and coffee that the driver spilled. I really don’t like the idea of sticking my face onto something similar. And I’m not even germ-phobic. Or has the US moved on in the last 6 years and those pads are already obsolete?

I still remember learning to write ‘properly.’ I remember because I got really frustrated, to the point of tears, over the fact I couldn’t make a capital ‘O’ perfectly. Yes, I was an anal-retentive, perfectionist little smart ass even then. I also remember learning metric and thinking it made a lot more sense, another teaching they stopped ages ago. Y’all must really think kids are stupid over there. Anyhow; no cursive. We’re doomed.

Socks and I talked about holidays, because she’s got family back home that want her to come. This has stirred up a shitstorm of conflict for her: she’s starting a family, and the holidays are all about family, and since she’s awash in hormones she wants to have her own, relaxing holidays – and also have a big soppy family thing with all those she loves. Except family things have their own quirks, don’t they? Some good, some bad. I don’t envy her, I’ve only ever had a few around me for holidays and it’s no different here. I’d get completely weirded out by dozens of cousins and baskets of babies and oodles of elderly.

She likes Thanksgiving best anyway, and is doing that at her place this year. Yay!

Which brings me neatly into talking about food. We talked about how she will make a new recipe, love it, write it out and put it into her book…and never cook it again. Makes me ask now: what about Thanksgiving? Isn’t it a comfort to have the same meal every year, with perhaps a new dessert or two? Or is it only the spinach dip in the pumpernickel bowl that gets a repeat performance? I know Bear has made the turkey recently and I forget the secret… brined? This week she made gnocchi with kale and butternut squash. Unfortunately the sight of the packaged gnocchi slumping into the pan inspired a bout of yarking, so it was a no-go. Bear whipped up spaetzle and cabbage for her, aw. Apparently for the next day’s lunch, replacing the slimy gnocchi with cous-cous worked. I should offer them a guest spot on the blog to tell about what they cook. I can’t write about these things because a) I’m a picky eater b) they don’t sell most of the interesting ingredients here c) if they did sell it, I couldn’t afford it.

Oh, we learned about kale chips. If I can find kale, I’ll make them and let ya know. But they get massive thumbs up from Socks, Bear, and Miss Fierce.

So let’s see, the Olive Garden inside Socks has fully developed eyes, but they are fused shut like a kitten’s. There’s fingers and toes, too – but the special part of this week is that it is Gonad Week! That’s right, the bits are becoming bits. But at this point, Baby Olive can still go either direction. Bear apparently gets a little ‘grossed out by what’s happening inside his wife,’ the poor dear, so I’ll talk about it for her.

Otherwise, she’s eating more and better, not as exhausted or even simply tired. The hormones, however, are taking over. She says she’d slap herself if she wasn’t so happy, the way she feels about Christmas nostalgia makes her want to take a foot and shove it right up her own ass, and that she knows that she isn’t herself anymore, but it’s funny as hell.

Best quote: “Pre-baby Socks is watching pregnant Socks, and is constantly saying WTF while laughing and rolling her eyes.”

I think I’ll leave you with that one!

Nov11

I embarrassed myself with two words

Posted on by
Standard

I love words, and the origins of words and phrases are an endless source of entertainment. I save the most interesting ones in long term memory, even – a place that barely keeps names or which light switch turns on what light.

I got in trouble over on FB yesterday by congratulating someone on their new job in a large retail establishment. I said that it had to be better than slinging hash, because the last job this person had was in a restaurant.

What else could I possibly have meant? Oops. Yes, hash does have other meanings, doesn’t it? I never thought! Would anyone even call drug dealing ‘slinging’? The phrase ‘slinging hash’ means only one thing to me; a colourful way of saying working, especially cooking, in a cheap restaurant, like a diner. I can’t remember if the restaurant was a cheap one, but I figured it’s a former job, so it couldn’t have been that much fun to work at and a little insult to it would be okay. I actually thought of all that before I used the phrase – and never once thought of anyone not knowing what it meant.

The offended party is early twenties, and maybe never heard ‘slinging hash’ before. It does seem like a 1940’s sort of phrase. Can you even get hash in a restaurant anymore? I don’t eat it, I wouldn’t know. Or perhaps the phrase has grown a whole new meaning in the six years I’ve been over here.

Maybe it’s because I was speaking to an American and I expect all Americans to know the strictly Yank turns of phrase. This is one of the ones I wouldn’t use here, because here ‘hash’ really only has one meaning, and it isn’t corned beef. I’m more likely to use American slang when I can, because I’m quite aware of when I can’t. I think in three versions of English: American, English, and Irish. Like knowing that I can never say ‘ride’ in Ireland, but it is fine in the UK and the US.

In any case, I’m sorry if I freaked anyone out, I was innocently trying to say congrats on a better job.

Nov8

Camouflage and cooking

Posted on by
Standard

iDJ is off work this week. We’d rather he wasn’t, but as a reward for his company doing the best out of a large group of companies, everyone is forced to take one week a month off. This means unemployment also known as the dole, or in Cockney rhyming slang: the rock and roll. He’s been taking his week as holiday pay so he gets a full pay check. Sorry, cheque. Ugh, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that spelling. It’s not like we are going anywhere on holidays, after all.

Last time he was off, he learned just how little gets done in a full day at home. Made me feel a bit better. This week, he’s trying to be more productive. It didn’t hurt that he found me already hard at it when he woke up yesterday. I think it put him into work-mode.

He cut the grass. It looks worse now than it did before. Hacked, wet, and uneven. Bare patches of mud that had been covered by the blowing blades are now uncovered by the mowing blades. Even the mower itself was embarrassed by the job it did, and tried to hide at the scene of the crime.

20111108-115939.jpg
Yuck. I cleaned it off and tried to console it: the grass was too wet, you did your best, not your fault. Then I repeated my platitudes to iDJ, but I think I felt more sorry for the mower.

Then, since it was nice out, he decided to grill. Out came the Weber for pre-cleaning.

Oh dear lord, what in the hell happened here? It’s been so damp this year that fuzzy grey mold was growing inside the grill. Not just on the grate, but on the unused charcoal. Barfola, as we said in the eighties. I’m very happy this is his toy and I didn’t have to help, other than fetching a bucket of hot water and a scrubber, and to bitch when he spilled filthy muck on the concrete instead of into the drain.

I think he got it going by five, and by then it was getting pretty dark. I hid inside next to the fire while he cooked. Sorry, dear, I’m not freezing my tookus off just to give moral support. It was cold enough that he put on fingerless gloves, and dark enough that he couldn’t see the smoke drifting up. He smoked his eyes. Repeatedly. Until they were blood-red.

Which meant funtime for me, as I had to administer the eyedrops. He gets freaky when you go near his eyes. It was easier to give the dog eyedrops when she needed them. She didn’t struggle or whine nearly as much.

Nov6

Portrait of a jealous dog

Posted on by
Standard

It was cold last night. So cold that Spot didn’t budge all night from his place on the couch documented in the first pic of the previous post. He didn’t get up until about a half hour ago. Of course, he’s now full of stored energy and takes it out on us by going into what I call ‘Super Love-Me Mode.’ This involves lots of head butting, leg rubbing, dog annoying, lap jumping, and purring that can be heard from the next room. Only two things satisfy him when he’s this wound up – a good brushing, or a car trip.

I asked iDJ to take him for a drive, as I needed smokes. He grumbled but agreed, as long as I gave him the last of the coffee. Deal! Spot had to be carried around the house as iDJ got dressed, because otherwise, he leaps into iDJ’s arms or stands on his hind legs and paws at tender places…neither action one that makes it easy to get anything done. Spot knew well he was going for a drive! (I should explain something to my US readers. I carefully avoid the word ‘ride’ because that word has a totally different meaning in Ireland. I’ve been conditioned not to use it due to the snickers and giggles I heard when I first moved here.)

Off they went. Lokii couldn’t care less, for him the world on the other side of window glass doesn’t even exist. Neko, however, was jealous. She watched them leave, and then waited at the front window for their return.

20111106-121023.jpg
How…why…I wanted to go, too…

20111106-121128.jpg
They’re home! Why aren’t they coming in? Why wasn’t I invited?

20111106-121204.jpg
Hurry UP!

20111106-121234.jpg
Hi! You’re home! Now come inside. Is that bacon in your pocket?

20111106-121347.jpg
Poor dogeen. We torture her so.

Nov5

I have more legs than usual, or, My blog is named appropriately today

Posted on by
Standard

Two days in a row it has been lovely enough to sit outside for hours. It’s chilly, so I’m not in shorts and sports bra like I would like to be, but I have my sleeves pushed up and my sweatpants pulled up over my knees. At least my shins are getting some sun. It feels fantastic. I’m a sunshine junkie and I follow it around the garden from March until the winds drive me inside for the winter.

This will be my sixth winter in Ireland, and the angle of the sun this time of year still surprises me. We are so much higher in latitude than anywhere I’ve ever lived before. At 9 am, the sun was glorious coming through the windows of the house – but only the upstairs windows. The neighbouring houses block the sunshine from the ground floor. The sun just wasn’t high enough yet. Currently it is almost noon, and the length a shadow cast is twice the height of the object casting it. Weird for someone who grew up in Florida, where noon means no shadow at all.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, either, which is very unusual. Here, I’ll prove it:

20111105-115806.jpg
That’s the sun! Funny warm yellow thing in my sky, please stay a while.

I’m surrounded by happy bees and wasps and bluebottles, all recharging themselves after the cold night. They are all trying to drink my coffee and sample my pumpkin seeds, too. I don’t mind until I have to fish a corpse out of my cup.

I’m also grateful that I actually do like spiders, because I am covered in them. The sun has brought out all the tiny baby spiders to send their parachute lines up into the breeze and carry them off to a new home. Which is me, quite often. I’ve picked three off me since I started writing this, and my shins are ticklish with the webs stuck to my stubble. My beloved Coleman folding camp chair (beloved because it has two cupholders) is covered in fine webs, and I just took a break to watch a spider the size of a full stop tilt her bottom into the air, spin, and launch from the arm. Amazing wee things.

One of my blueberry bushes looks like a Christmas tree sparkling in the sun: green and red leaves bedecked with silvery webs. I’m glad the berries are done, it is a bitch to clean the webs off berries, especially when dog hair sticks to the webs. Beware my blueberry pancakes, they might have extra keratin.

If I shade my eyes, the whole back garden is adrift in spidersilk. I can catch an aviator or two in action if I watch for a while.

Oh, that was a good one – I assisted another spiderling to launch, she was on my thumbnail and I expected her to spin. Instead she started crawling straight up in the air on a web I couldn’t see. I raised my arm, but she was still climbing straight up. I brushed the web free of my thumb and woosh! up, up and away!

Just had another land on my iPad as I was going to get up to see if I can photograph the blueberry bush. Probably was in my hair.
No picture. The crappy iPad camera can’t do it justice. And I had to check my seat before I planted my arse back down.

Sorry if I’ve freaked out any arachnophobes. I like just about all critters, with a few exceptions. I can’t hate anything without a reason, and spiders never gave me a reason. Quite the opposite, in fact, I’m having a great morning sitting here watching a free airshow.