Category Archives: People I love

Jan18

I am definitely 18mos +

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Amongst his other lovely habits, Spot likes to drink water out of cups. We humans also like to drink out of cups, and we both have a glass by the bedside for quenching our middle-of-the-night thirsties. These used to be just a regular kinda glass, until I discovered at 3am that my glass not only contained water, but a skin of cat fur and a chunk of cat litter marinating at the bottom. After I was done gagging, I changed our water containers to ones with lids.

These were plastic Rubbermaid containers that I had brought over from the States, and they just couldn’t keep up with years of nightly use. They have died, one by one, over the last eight years. The most recent and final death was my cup, dammit.

And we had nothing to replace it. I couldn’t find anything suitable for sale around here, either. You see, essential to my 3am thirsties is being able to open the container without waking up fully. Screw tops are too hard for me. If I think that have to wake up that much, I’ll choose to go back to sleep. No matter how parched I am.

For a while I had a regular glass with a post-it sitting on top as a Spot-blocker. But I got lazy about putting the paper back on, and Spot found it, and I ended up drinking cat hair again. Nothing extra, thankfully.

iDJ knew well of my tribulations. He also does all the grocery-shopping. Without making an announcement, he had been looking for a replacement water-glass for me! That alone is pretty impressive (the no-announcement bit).

He brought me home this.

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It’s a sippy-cup. For babies.

Um.

Thanks?

Actually, as he explained to my bemused face as I unpacked the shopping bag, he spent a lot of mental effort on picking out my sippy-cup. He wanted to get me the one with cats on it, but the cat one was meant for babies below 18 months. He had to at least get my age range right, even if it meant no kitties. This one is robots, which he knows are also acceptable to me. Better, it’s no-spill, so I won’t have a recurrence of the time I spilled water all over myself, my pillow, my side of the bed, and – of course – Spottie. I can drink from this thing while flat on my back! Even better than that, it’s insulated so my water might still be cold by the unreasonable time I want some. That’s a massive plus in my book, I hate water. I hate warm water even more.

I don’t think I have ever owned a sippy-cup. Pretty sure these didn’t exist in any form back in the early 70’s. Prove me wrong if I’m wrong, I’m kinda interested to know for sure.

I haven’t quite figured out the mechanics of the thing; it seems you have to bite it to get the water flowing, and there’s a vacuum problem that prevents a really good draught. But if an 18-month-old can figure it out, I might have a chance.

Jan16

Professor Spot

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I can’t do the dishes unless iDJ is home, too. This is because when I would get home first I would immediately try to do some cleaning up. The sound of rattling silverware became a cue that ‘daddy’ would be home soon, and Spot would start in with the caterwauling. So I wait, now, to save me from murdering his little furry ass.

He finds other things to get over-excited about, however. The church is close enough to us that the 6pm Angelus bells are very audible. ‘Daddy’ also gets out of work at 6. Both Spot and Neko get a bit crazy and a lot annoying when the bells start to chime; they know when the bells are about to play, too, and get wound up in anticipation. I hate hate hate this behaviour.

But I’m helpless. No matter what I say and how many times I repeat it, I have never been able to convince hubby that this excitement is bad. Bad for me, bad for him, and bad for the furry kids. I’m totally ignored: every day when he comes home he greets Spot and Neko at the door and gives them tons of attention, and then feeds the cats their special wet food after giving them massive love and affection – as they SCREAM THEIR HEADS OFF for both. And the dog bounces around the house, and drools, and whines, and brings innumerable toys to him, and then also gets a food treat.

Makes me want to vomit.

Nevertheless, I think at least some of my long experience and expertise with animals (that has now become constant bitching) has rubbed off on himself. He noticed tonight that Spot is trying to train him to do a new trick.

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This is Spot, sitting in the sink after I’ve finally managed to do the damn dishes. Or as many as I can because the damn dish drainer fills up before I’m done – hence all the crap still sitting around my sink. Anyhoo, Spot did this for the first time ever last night. I was not in the room. I got to hear about it in detail, however, as iDJ narrates everything. Everything.

“Hey, Spottie, whatcha doing? Whatcha doing in the sink? Hey, hon, guess where Spotty is? He’s sitting in the sink! Awww, how cute is that? Hey Spottie! What do you want, buddy? You want me to turn the water on for ya? Do you want a drink? Here you go, Spottie-Pants! Now, I need to put my headphones back on, so I won’t hear you when you’re done… Hon, he’s drinking from the tap! Awwww, how cute is that? I love it when he drinks from the tap!” (giggling sounds more suited to a 4-year-old)

Tonight, Spot got in the sink again. And right away hubby realised he was being trained! And told me so in great detail. Of course.

As he turned the tap on.

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Who, me? Bwah ha ha ha haaaa!

Dec31

Happy New Year!

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I raise a glass to you: to all of you who are fabulous, funny, fur-covered, intelligent, photographic, creative, lovely, loving, sarcastic, punning, gourmets and gourmands at once, giving, colourful, kind, artistic, and wordsmiths every one.

Thank you all so much for being a part of my life in 2012. Here’s to 2013!

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Dec18

Let’s talk about…Pee!

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I am SO going to bring the overall mood of my blog back down into the childish, scatological range. It must be done. Come along, if you dare!

I’m sure most if not all of my extremely intelligent readers know of the phenomenon known as ‘asparagus pee.’ I like to call it “asparapee”. This amazingly unique scent isn’t produced by everyone, however. I have understood for years that there’s a genetically inherited enzyme that lets you excrete this special odor after eating asparagus (I call it ‘special.’ I really don’t find it offensive, just pretty damn identifiable).

But…that’s not true. We all have asparagus pee! It turns out that only some of us can actually smell it. I have a super-sniffer so I am not surprised to know I am one of the supposed tiny fraction of 22% who can tease this odour out of the air. My challenge to those of you who know that you have the smell in your own pee, and have a partner who swears that they don’t: smell their pee. It won’t take much effort! It might take some bravery on the part of those (Socks, I’m looking at you) who keep their bathroom habits very private. You don’t have to look or observe, just sniff!

I don’t have the option of keeping private potty-time habits. Not in my own house with one tiny bathroom for two people. My guts are “not right” so when I gotta go, I gotta go and right now. I can’t afford to wait until he’s done with his shower. Or his shave. Or sometimes, horribly, his tooth-brushing. Disgusting but unavoidable. So! Being already accustomed to way too much personal intimacy, we agreed years ago to a green way of toileting; one used on ships, and probably a lot of other places where water is a premium: If it’s brown, flush it down – if it’s yellow, let it mellow. Hence my theory that hubby (who has no sense of smell whatsoever compared to me) only learned to recognise the scent of asparapee after he was informed in advance, by me, loudly and gleefully, that I had asparapee and he had a potty visit shortly afterward. It only takes about 15 minutes to come out: how cool is that? A science experiment right in my own bladder!

Moving on from asparagus. I have noticed for a while that my pee occasionally smells exactly like coffee. Not pee at all. Fresh-brewed coffee. I don’t drink that much coffee either. Just in the morning, maybe the equivalent of a cup and a half, and I use sugar and cream. But it is pretty damn strong coffee. It doesn’t happen every day – but when it does? whoooo, stanky! I’ve remarked on this to hubby but he seems unimpressed, uninterested, or unbelieving.

Last week, iDJ asked me if you can pee garlic. This was after he told me that a co-worker could smell garlic on him, the morning after the night we had split a bulb of roast garlic that was cooked with our Sunday chicken (if you haven’t had roast garlic, do it, do it now). My response, “Well, not in my experience so far, but I suppose it is possible?” I was rather unimpressed, uninterested and unbelieving. Until tonight when I opened the bathroom door to a mellow yellow and the reek of garlic about knocked me down. Wow. Took two flushes to clear the room (it’s very, very small). So how come he can pee garlic and I can pee coffee and neither of us does the other? I’d love to sign us both up for experimentation. I wouldn’t mind peeing in a cup for the answer to this question!

Dec15

Why iDJ shouldn’t be allowed to shop alone

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I let the hubby go shopping alone today. He face-timed me at least a dozen times to ask my opinion of possible presents for family. But he didn’t ask me about a present he brought home for me.

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Aww, it’s a Santy lighter. No big deal, right?

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…until you get some size perspective.

I might have trouble fitting that in my jeans pocket.

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I couldn’t light it with just my thumb! It takes two hands!

Dec8

Poked in the what?

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We have our tree! Bought last Sunday and left to drip water, needles and dirt on the floor for two days. Oh lawsy it was filthy! Looked great when propped sideways in the pile of lesser trees, in the pitch-black gas-station parking lot where we bought it. Not so lovely when it left smears of dirt on the door frames and walls as we dragged it inside.

After it dried off, we wanted to put the lights on first, as you do.

When it was time to do the lights, I sort of “forgot” that putting the lights on the tree is my job. Ok, I tried to pretend that I forgot. iDJ is always so happy and, um, proactive, about putting the lights in our windows. I pretty much attempted to make him think that all of the lights are his job. He copped on right away but decided he would still give it a try. Win! Sort of.

I was in the room when he started. For moral support. Because when he does anything new, he requires an audience, and everything he does must be narrated. As you do. Of course, I got to hear a few complaints/comments on how I wrapped up the lights for storage the year before (well, yah, I wrapped them up in a way that made sense to me. I do the damn lights, after all). And I had to give tips on where to start (leave a bit extra so you can poke it up into the tree-topper, don’t forget). Par for the course – I’m used to his foibles by now. And I had beer. Nothing could perturb me.

A little bit of back story now. Just to set the scene, and give you an idea of how very brave iDJ was in offering to put the lights on the tree.

For the last two years we’ve bought a short-needled tree, of a totally unknown genus, because I don’t like the long-needled pines they have here. They are too soft and droopy for all my heavy ‘Merican ornaments, and, well, I just prefer a tree with shorter needles. For me a Christmas tree is not any variety of pine. It took me five years to convince my hubby that a short-needle tree wouldn’t kill him.

You see, he has told me that about ten years ago, a tree did try to kill him. He was putting lights on a tree at his workplace and got poked by the needles. Apparently he had a very bad reaction to this. I’m a very unsympathetic person and while I remember the story, I didn’t take it seriously at all.

However, when he started to put the lights up, he only got this far:

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Yeah, it’s hard to see. It’s my only photographic evidence, however. He wrapped a tiny bit of the string of lights around the very top of the tree and then he had to stop. Immediately, and quite vocally.

Because he got poked in the dick.

Yep.

He got pricked in the prick. Lanced in the langer. Skewered in the sausage. Needled in the…well, I’ll stop with the comparisons there, I think.

Needless to say, that was the end of him putting lights on our tree that evening.

Being the unsympathetic person that I am, I said that it was no problem, I would finish the job the next day. And then I bit my lip until Oirish Tirsday when I could giggle over the story with Socks.

Socks got to laughing so hard over the idea of iDJ wussing out and running away from a tree that it became contagious and I forgot to be grumpy and realised there was indeed something funny in my life after all.

But it gets better. Socks loved this story so much that she told her hubby, Bear. Today, I got this photo in my inbox (face changed to protect the sarcastic):

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This is Bear, making fun of my hubby from 3,000 miles away. I love this man!

And yes, when putting the ornaments on the tree tonight, iDJ got poked in the dick again. Sigh.

Nov23

Socks and Button update!

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I’ve had some requests to know how Socks and Button are doing. My blogging about Socks was meant to only be me following her pregnancy from a long-distance viewpoint, along with our initially shared view of ‘babies? no way!’

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What? You want to hear about meee!?!?

If you want to read along from the start, go to the links below. I did them in order from oldest to newest. Please do read a few: it was a lotta damn work. The first two links talk about why I love her, how I felt about my best friend’s decision to have a baby, and some things that were hard to write, especially about her miscarriage. The rest are my somewhat weekly pregnancy updates. With those, I tried to be both funny and informative, because I know sweet fuck all about this sort of thing, but I like funny and science.

Back story: go here, then here, and the updates: one, two (sweet pea), three (blueberry), four (raspberry), five (olive), six (prune), seven (lime) (the next post freaked her out, it was a bit of fun inspired by the drawing in seven: HAHAHAHAHHA), and eight (pick a fruit, any fruit). Nine (avocado) (I still get weekly searches for this photo. Y’all are weird). Ten (mango). Now we know! Eleven (melon/banana). Twelve (pomegranate), thirteen (eggplant), fourteen (rutabaga), fifteen (jicama), sixteen (melon, for sure this time!), seventeen (pumpkin), eighteen (WATERMELON!!!), twenty (a bigger damn watermelon!)

Then my massive freak out when she was in labour…

I love that gal to bits!

Sheeeeit, I’m almost too tired after all that to write anything new. Well, I did spend a lot of time writing all those posts…but not nearly as long as making all those links, so I need to ‘woman up’ and continue! (Don’t you just hate the term ‘man up’? As if one gender has a monopoly on getting shit done?)

So! Everyone is healthy and happy and growing and learning (Socks is about to embark on reverse-growing, however, as she’s tired of the leftover baby-bellah). There was a pretty bad health scare at first, involving way too much time spent in the natal intensive care unit, but it was a problem entirely able to be solved, and Button is no worse for the experience. Socks won’t forget it anytime soon, but she’s doing great at not being over-protective.

Button is not called Button any more, however. ‘Monkey’ is a common endearment that I hear. Along with ‘Little Squirrel’! But her real name, which I’ve been given permission to share, is one we talked about for months. Let me introduce, at the age of almost five months, Saige! Isn’t that just beautiful?

Saige sleeps well, eats well (they are just beginning to experiment with solid food – apparently the new idea of ‘flavour’ shocks her quite a bit still). She’s very active and wants nothing more than to walk, the sooner the better. Socks has been telling me for months that her daughter seems clearly frustrated that she can’t make her limbs do what she intends them to do, and she is fascinated to see Saige’s progress.

Saige has already given her first neck-hug combined with a sloppy kiss, and this was verified by Bear who just happened to be there at the time. ‘ Did she just…?’ ‘yeee-eee-sss…’ Mommy=melting, of course.

My darling niece (by love rather than by blood) seems very, very interested in technology, too:

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And I’m dead impressed how a child under six months can attend to an iPad so well. As an aside, my sister’s daughter can use an iPhone quite well and she’s just a few months over two years old. Interesting! Why is it so easy for someone so young, even really, really, young – to grasp but older folks have difficulties? Is the software so very user-friendly and intuitive that we older folk over-think it and cause our own problems?

Ah, that’s another thought for another day. Here’s Saige trying to nom Socks’s first baby, Beanie, instead.

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Oct31

Happy Halloween!

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I’m blogging in the candlelight in front of the fireplace. Warming up after freezing my patootie off outside as it got dark out. There are candles lit everywhere, and one of iDJ’s disco lights is flashing swirls of colour across the big front window.

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We have lights up, and styrofoam headstones, and cemetery fencing, and other stuff…

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SomaFM is playing on the house stereo; Doomed channel, special Halloween mix. It’s good, have a listen.

I’m worn out after carving all seven pumpkins today. Yep, seven. iDJ found four tiny ones, then two middle sized ones, then one more middle sized one (all at different shops) and he bought every one he found. Glad he did, as they didn’t last long as they are hard to find in Ireland!

Only one small one went rotten in the weeks before today, much better than last year when two went bad, and very bad they were.

Here’s my store-bought crop:

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Huh. I just realised that I can’t count. Eight pumpkins! No wonder I’m so damn tired. Glad I took the day off! Where the hell did the fourth medium sized one come from?

Oh, sweet. While I was typing this, iDJ posted the pics of my finished carvings on FB. Now I get to go rob them for here!

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My owl. He’s got lovely red leaves stuck on like feathers. It didn’t turn out exactly as I imagined.

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Cranky baby pumpkin. Shoulda put the single snaggle-tooth on the other side.

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Skull pumpkin. I was already running low on ideas.

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Stitched-up pumpkin. Not enough oxygen gets in to keep the candle lit so his lid has to be wonky.

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Ya got me. Sort of like a pig or a bull. * shrug *

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Probably my favourite. Pretty scary!

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And, of course, a spider!

You might realise there are only seven pics. Pumpkin no. 8 was a mutant inside and I couldn’t carve it in a way that would allow a candle to light it up. I saved it to last, dithering, and what I did to it is too crappy to share!

Happy Halloween!

Oct24

Stephen King has a webcomic!

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Okay I’m a bit late in, but you have plenty of time to catch up!

My writer-hero, Mr King, has a webcomic in the works right now. It’s called The Little Green God of Agony.

Drawn by Dennis Calero and adapted from a twice-published short story, Little Green God will update Monday, Wednesday and Friday for eight weeks. We’re still barely into week two, so if you love King, jump on board!

I just leave the page open in Safari and check it daily, as I barely know what day it is anymore…

Sep18

My Elvis Sighting

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I’ve been reminded of a story from my life that is fun to tell – I hope I can do it justice in writing – this tale, up until today, has only been an oral story.

When I was 30, I was engaged to someone. I also worked in an office, doing distinctly non-officey things. I was a diamond and precious-gem sorter. The work was interesting and educational, but the atmosphere and the owners were terrible. I met the wonderful Socks at at that job, so I would never choose to delete it from my history. The fiancée was a horrible mistake that thankfully never necessitated extraction by legal means.

Short story: I got fired, and I left him. I’d be glad to tell the long stories if you want me to.

Before I left the man, and after I lost the job, I decided I was entirely sick to death of working in an office. Also, with a big ol’ track record of two firings in a row, I didn’t figure I had much hope in the land of phones and desks and computers for a while. So, as I was scouring the adverts in the paper I expanded my usual search parameters. I’d do just about anything; but as you do, I kept an eye open for the things that actually sounded good.

So, I rang to apply for a job at a horse farm. Mucking out stalls, cutting the pastures, etc.

I had at that point maybe five months cumulative lifetime experience with taking care of horses. And I was 30, not too out of shape, but not physically fit either. Not a chance, thinks I.

Somehow I got phone-approval by the owner of the farm and I was told to come out and meet the barn manager for an on-site interview.

Just ask for Elvis, the Barn Manager, he told me.

Whoo, boy, thinks I. No way am I going to pull one over on a professional horse-guy named Elvis who actually manages a barn full of what I had been told were very, very, valuable racehorses. Not a chance. I’m not experienced, I’m not terribly young anymore, and I’ve sat behind a desk most of my life. Fuck it, says I, all I can do is try, right?

So I show up, on time of course (all those office interviews drill that into you quite well). And… Oh my. It’s 20 acres of private property, with an electric buzz-in gate, and a house I that I soon learned was worth 2 million and a barn worth 1mil, and an artificial stream that started near the house and ran gently down to a Koi pond and then a lake. It was beautiful, and perfect, and I was so out of my league!

I wasn’t backing out, but my hopes had totally gone when I saw the fancy gate and the perfectly fenced pastures. Still, I was going to meet someone actually named Elvis! At least I’d have a good story about failed job hunting.

Five seconds after parking and walking up to the barn, my possible story got way more interesting. Elvis came out to meet me; complete with cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans, proper cowboy hat, and a blue bandanna around his throat.

Elvis was a black man.

I blinked back my presuppositions based on his name – it never occurred to me that anyone who wasn’t white and from Nashville would name a child Elvis – and I smiled and said I was there to interview for the job of Farm Hand.

Elvis asked a few questions which I answered honestly – nope, I had no clue how to train horses for anything. Nope, never driven a tractor. Nope, no experience with horses injured on the track, or ones about to give birth, or weanlings or yearlings. Nope, nope, nope.

Oh well, thinks I. It was worth it, I tried, and I really like this guy – he’s the real deal, the first cowboy I ever met (he told me he was a former bare-back rodeo rider!), and I’m glad I had a stereotype I didn’t even know that I owned broken so completely and utterly.

Then he told me to go and meet some of the horses, who were still in their stalls awaiting the morning turn-out. Hell, ya! I am so not getting the job, but at least I get to meet some horsies!

He directed me to the first stall in the barn by the door and asked me what I thought of the young filly inside. She came up, stuck her head out, and we had a good old conversation. Me being a bit shy with her, as I really didn’t know where horses liked to be touched, scratched, etc. She was really sweet and put up with my fumbling, however.

When I turned away, Elvis told me I was hired. My jaw must have hit the straw, because he explained why. It seems that this particular horse had a huge fear of everyone, and no one could approach her at all, at all! She was way too old for that attitude, and now she would be ‘my horse’ to gentle for the track.

I spoke Horse, apparently! It was a dream come true, and I worked there all that year and the next summer, too.

But that’s another story.