Tag Archives: humour

Nov14

Cats and zombies go bump in the night

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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!

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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

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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.

Nov5

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

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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:

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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.

Nov4

Socks has a (large) Raspberry!

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Howdy! Oirish Tirsday was back on Thursday again, so another marathon phone call took place.

After we got my job-interview sagas out of the way, I asked how Halloween went at her place, as this is the first one she’s had there. She was tired, but manned the door for the eve.

Best Costume was won by a dad who was dressed as Bob Ross. Ya gotta love a man who picks Ross as a costume! She’d love to know, are they artists? Or was he just a quick thinker with an Afro and a palette sitting around?

Second prize went to a small boy dressed as Mario of SuperMario fame. She offered him the candy bowl and his response, said in the manner of Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons, was: “Oh. Skittles. I have not seen those for a very long time.” Poor little geek-kid. You just know he’s not going to grow out of that voice.

We also talked about how neither of us ever did a trick to anyone. Except, she said, once on her birthday she and her friends toilet-papered a house. But that doesn’t really count, because her dad drove the getaway car, and bought the TP for them to use.

So, on to the baby-growing update! She’s still in fruit stages of development, and this week BabySocks is a large raspberry. I can’t help wonder what the book is going to say when she is further along…will they be brave enough to say cantaloupe? Watermelon? Don’t tell me, Socks, I love the giggle every week when you tell me the new fruit.

Raspberry now has a head bigger than the body and looks less like a lizard. It is growing hands, knees, elbows, lips, nose, and eyelids. There’s some twitching movement, too, but nothing she can feel.

Speaking of feel, the container BabySocks is growing in is now the size of a grapefruit, but she can’t feel any bump or lump yet. Seems like you would, doesn’t it? I asked if she is in the habit of sleeping face-down, because that would probably have to change. But she doesn’t, so sleeping will still be comfy.

Socks is still nauseated, and/or has a sour stomach. Food is becoming an annoyance – not a big deal, but eating has to be thought out in advance. Things that sound really, really, good turn out to be ‘meh’ when on the plate; the happiness of mealtime is a bit lacking. Even her home-cooked mac n cheese was “Not as awesome as it sounded on paper.”

She’s still tired, too, and can see a difference when she doesn’t get enough iron in a day. Zzzzz. Bear took her on a drive through the country to look at the autumn leaves, and she slept through them all. She was hungry, out of snacks and feeling ill from lack of food. But the restaurant he had planned on stopping at was closed. She said she felt terrible that she was spoiling the day by feeling sick and sleepy and didn’t want to tell him. As usual, more worried about others than herself.

All in all, not too bad, really! When she told Bear that she felt pretty good, and was surprised given her family’s pukey history, he leaned back, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and said, “I’m a cattleman. I can pick out a good breeder.”

And she not only let him live, she laughed.

Nov2

Job hunting in the wild, wild whest of Ireland

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Wow, total panic there for a bit! My WordPress app crashed on opening my blog. Restart the iPad, no. Check for updates, yes there was one, update, crash. Update a lot of other shite since I’d already entered my iTunes password, restart, WordPress crash. Check forums, nothing. Panic. Will I lose all my crap if I delete the app and reinstall? Bite the bullet and delete and reinstall, restart.

Working! All my crap is still smelling as rosy as it ever did. Whew. An iPad shouldn’t need restarting so much, but I live with an IT manager so I’ve learned good habits. Hell, I need a nap every now and again, too. I drive this thing hard, poor Shiny Happy (from the engraving iDJ had put on the back).

Interesting, though, to find myself actually worried and jonesing for my writing fix. Am I showing my age and slightly dodgy history with the term ‘jonesing?’ I can explain it. Really. Anyhoo, I’m pleased to learn that when I want to write, nothing else will do. I considered giving up and doing a Brushes painting instead, but I’ve not had a good subject since Usyaka, so I’m less than inspired. Despite doing a post earlier today, I really felt a need to blurt out my random thoughts and the schtuff that happened today.

So! Job interview! It went really well, I think. I liked yer man, and I think he took me seriously. When I said things that might come off ‘wrong,’ he understood and agreed with me. He wasn’t up his own hole, he was a real person and even cursed a few times. He mentioned doing so later, so an ‘oh yes, I’ve a potty-mouth, too’ bonding occasion was born. I think I’m in – but I felt that about the last job and was way wrong. That interview was about 10 minutes long and felt like 20, this one was 45 and felt like 10. I do take the length of the interview as a good sign, too.

Unfortunately, I won’t know for a while if I’m hired. Fortunately, he explained why it will take time, and it is a valid reason.

I also did another interview, of a sort, today. Go, me! This one is for a call centre customer support job at a company that makes computer and platform games. A possible nightmare for me, as I’m not good at bending over and taking one for the team. At least the customers are all nerds and I totally speak nerd. I decided to apply because I’m a Yank, and we Yanks know the customer service rules, don’t we? I might hate myself at the end of every shift, but I’d give good CS nonetheless.

The fun part about the application process is that it has been entirely on-line so far. I registered, uploaded my CV (résumé), and my ‘first interview’ was also online, in the form of a questionnaire.

Not so much fun. I could tell they are US-based when The Dreaded Question popped up: Where Do You See Yourself In Five Years?

Really?

Really?

I’d even joked in my ‘real’ interview about that very question, and the one where they ask If You Were A Vegetable, What Would You Be? So, I might have been a little sarcastic in my response. But not nearly as sarcastic as I’d have liked to be. I did say “I’m not as young as I was yesterday” which is a thickly-veiled hint that I’m too fucking old to answer stupid questions. Or perhaps they are too up their own arses to see that?

Maybe I was just trying to say that I’d kiss the customer’s arse, but not theirs. I donno. The pay starts higher than the ‘real’ interview, but it is much further away (if you think gas in the US is expensive, I’ll tell you what we pay) and would be nights and weekends, oh joy. I’m also too old for that shit, and have been for a while. I’ll suck it up, though, to not lose my house.

Sheeeeit, I feel like I’m on a downer note now! I’m not, really. I’m over the moon to have had not one but two chances at employment today, after so long without a response or even anything I could apply for. Yay!

Right, I should wrap this up as dinner is almost ready. I still feel like I’m leaving on a low note, so here is my dawg being adorable:

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That’s my foot she’s holding on to, and still is:

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What I like best about this is that she lay down, then reached out and grabbed me. It reminds me of my Bengal, Spot, who has to, has to, touch my face if he can reach it. I have successfully created a dog-cat. Or a cat-dog… Love my furry kids.

Nov1

Cucurbita maximas in flight!

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My hands are all smelly and prune-y from cooking two massive pumpkins this afternoon. I have a lot of pumpkin now. I also have very little freezer space. Dammit. Because they weren’t pie pumpkins, they are really watery. I’m letting the massive clump of mush drain, but I have no idea where to put it all. If I have time tomorrow, I’ll blitz it in the food processor in the hopes of reducing the sheer volume of gourd guts.

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I might not have time because, drum roll please, I have a job interview tomorrow! Woot! It sounds like a good one, too – in other words, not retail. Although I’m not turning down retail at this point, uh-uh. However, I’ll take the higher pay that (hopefully) comes with an office job.

I used to have a doctor appointment tomorrow, finally, for my back. When the potential employer rang I said ‘yes I am free’ without even thinking about the damn orthopaedist. So I had to ring the hospital today and reschedule (they were closed yesterday for the holiday). I’ve been waiting for this appointment since June 2010, yes. But I’ve been unemployed since February 2010, so the bad back has to wait until the 16th now. They were very nice on the phone at least – I was totally honest and maybe that’s why it is only another 2 weeks instead of months. I know damn well not to call up and reschedule a job interview because I made a stupid mistake.

Oh dear. iDJ strikes again. He made a fire for me, and it isn’t staying lit.
Me: “Your fire went out again. The damn thing is useless.”
iDJ: “It loves you!”
Me: “Go away. Go away now.”

Earlier, I had to point out to him that he was talking to the fancy cheese he was nibbling on. I wonder about that man.

I bet I did something today that none of the rest of you did! I am totally willing to put money on it. Because I have none. I’d bet something really valuable, but on the tiny chance I lost, I doubt my cats would like you as much as they like me. I can stake a husband that talks to cheese? No takers? Okay then, you’d lose anyhow.

I watched someone try to start a helicopter while I was stark-ass naked.

Told you I’d win that one! I will, however, offer a consolation prize to the best guess of how I managed to view a failed aviation attempt whilst in the buff.

Oct31

Socks has a blueberry!

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I’m behind on my Baby-Socks update. Halloween got in the way!

We didn’t have our phone call until Friday, and it was short as I needed to get our Halloween costumes together. So, my update will be a bit short this week.

Socks had another ultrasound done, and got to bring home another photo. Due date is confirmed at June 14-15. Currently, the wee one is the size of a blueberry! I love the way her baby books give her fruit similes.

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She was shopping for a ‘pregnancy journal’ but they weren’t very good, nothing like what she wanted. So, she bought a new Moleskine and started her own. She works on it when watching TV, until she falls asleep… she did say she’s not as tired as she was, but still much sleepier than pre-Booberry. Nausea isn’t too bad, but she gets grossed out easily – even at cartoons. No cravings, really, but she not very interested in food right now. Except bacon. Mmmm, bacon! That in itself is a bit strange as she doesn’t eat bad things like bacon very often.

Her mom is finally reacting the way she was expected to all along – going bananas! Mr Socks (Bear), who is normally very shy, is telling people about their pregnancy all the time now. He’s even having conversations with male friends about “birthing plans.” I wish I could have eavesdropped on that conversation! Bear is also making sure she gets enough iron, because she can’t take those ginormous iron horse-pills right now.

So, over all – everything is fine, baby is perfect, she feels great, and her boobs have gotten 15 years younger. Yay for perky boobies! Enjoy ’em while they last 🙂

Oct28

Gearing up for Halloween!

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I’m sitting here with a smile on my face. It’s such a nice feeling. This is why I love Halloween!

iDJ and I spent about an hour this eve when he got home from work sorting through clothes for his costume. It got a little stressful, as nothing was working right. His stonewash jeans were too tight, and he needed something 80’s on his legs. What to do? Ah, trust in the resources of the SpiderQueen.

I found a pair of leggings in fabulous colors, and made him try them on. Oh, perfect! His legs look fantastic. He put on the boots he wanted to wear, and I quickly sorted out a shirt and the accessories to make a perfect 80’s costume. It says a lot about me that I actually still own clothes from 1985. Says even more that I can recreate the ‘look’ we wanted so easily. So he’s sorted, except for his hair and makeup tomorrow.

Except… for his junk.

He’s wearing tight leggings. Men are not meant to wear leggings. Especially not with just a t-shirt to cover their ‘bits.’ I told him that he was in charge of figuring out what undies to wear – he’s a boxers man – how? I don’t know. Nor do I want to see the experiments.

But! He posts this on FB:

Note: he always carries a man bag for his gear – another gender stereotype shattering difference I forgot yesterday! He has a ‘murse’; I hate handbags and refuse to carry one.

iDJ: My good lady had me play dress up earlier so my costume is sorted. Now if only I can figure out where to stash my junk…
Me: Oh my god. I can not believe you said that! Right, I’m going to have to buy you something that doesn’t show off your junk so well!
iDJ: Camera, phone, wallet with no money, hip flask, bible – that junk!
Me: Oh. Right.

Of course the facebook feed has gotten worse from there. We all knew he wasn’t talking about his iPhone! Braggart. I have no idea how to keep my pictures of tomorrow from being nearly pornographic.

To get our collective brains back into happy-land, here’s Dogzilla dressed as Spider-Man:

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I spent nearly two hours working with my mask today. It doesn’t fit well, and I have to wear a wig, too. The mask has to be glued into place, and I’ll need to blend makeup to cover the bare skin. I’m not a fan of masks, but this one is in two parts with the chin separate so my mouth will work as loudly as normal. The functional mouth was very important because I refuse to drink Guinness out of a straw. So, there was trimming, and fitting, and more trimming… and I found out that my liquid latex has gone hard and mostly unusable, so the edges of the mask will be really obvious, dammit. Also, I have clown white but no black, and I need to blend in grey makeup to match the mask. Bummer. A shopping trip that includes me is scheduled for tomorrow, but I can’t get proper professional quality makeup locally.

I’ve not even sorted my clothing yet. Uuuurgh. But really, I love Halloween!

A final note, if you’ll permit. I’m a terrible self-promoter, I couldn’t sell heaters to Eskimos. However, in keeping with the Halloween theme, I’d like to give you directions to the MP3 podcast of iDJ’s Halloween radio show. It is 2 hours, recorded live last night, and really, really, good. You’ll get my references to Glen Campbell yesterday better, too. Go here: http://bit.ly/vJS8fD and, if you want the playlist first or after listening, go here: http://bit.ly/ts8gXY

You’ll hear himself talking every half hour or so, getting progressively drunker and happier as he goes. That’s normal for his show 🙂

Oct27

Halloween costumes and gender stereotypes, with random BS

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Hi, and welcome back to another instalment of the continuing saga, “….

Nope, I got nothing. My blogging friend Michael could come up with something, I’m sure.

I’m a bit at loose ends tonight, as my BFF Socks has family over and isn’t available for our usual phone call. I know she’s having a great time, though, and not even I can begrudge her that. We’ve planned a conversation tomorrow, but it must needs be cut short due to my needing to assemble Halloween costumes.

My costume is mostly make up – well, actually, glue-on, good quality prostheses I bought in the US last year- and those terrifying New Rock boots I mention in my ‘about’ page. But iDJ – well. I am gonna have soooo much fun with him. I refuse to give it away, but we came up with a costume that utilises his beautiful, arse-length blonde hair. It also involves make up, but more like lipstick and eyeshadow rather than greys and blacks.

Despite us being married for over 6 years, he still gets called gay because of the hair. The hair I love. The hair that suits him. When they see him in costume (called ‘fancy dress’ here) on Saturday, they will say it even more. The thing is: only a man secure in his gender preference is comfortable enough to dress so oddly (and no, he’s not going to be in drag). So, you small town, insecure, gender-preference-repressed name callers – eat it and weep. He’ll be awesome, and he gets to come home with me.

I will post pictures. I know I’ll be unrecognisable, and he will likely be, too. I say that, because I’m still debating on keeping the blog anonymous. I think I have four out of 11 followers who don’t know me in ‘real life.’ However, I’ve not said the horrible things I thought I might say when I first started the blog. I was in such a dark place, I figured it would be non-stop bitching about everything. Instead, it turns out this thing helps me see the humor in my life, and makes me appreciate the little things more.

I also think I appreciate the bigger small things more, like my KIBIS nights. We did have one this week, not at my house but at MrsMMC’s apartment. We voted to include another member, but we didn’t say who was going to invite her… oops. Is that my job? I’m not going to detail the evening, but some things we talked about are things I want to ramble on about here, and I’ll give a KIBIS-mention when I get a round tuit.

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Yes, I know that is an old, bad joke. It makes me think of my dad, though. He had one of these, and he loves an old, bad joke as much as I do. Hell, my whole family loves stupid jokes. Would you like two that came from my great-grandmother, on my mother’s side? No? Tough. Please note, these jokes have to be over 150 years old, passed down over the generations.

What are the three dirty parts of the stove? Lifter leg and poker.

What are the three naughty vegetables in the garden? Lettuce turnip and pea.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Right, what next? If I hadn’t segued into bad jokes and KIBIS, I might have said some things about the seeming gender confusion in my household. That is completely the wrong term, of course. Stereotype shattering is a better term.

An example from right now! He is live on the air, playing his Internet radio show. Tonight is Halloween themed. He was playing a song that is new to me, and I like it a lot (a rarity, I’m picky). Afterward, he (was) is playing Glen Campbell, Ghost on a Canvas. He told me that he’s snuffling back tears because Glen has Alzheimer’s, and his memory only comes back for his songs, not his family or friends. So, Glen is now a ghost himself. Aw. (iDJ also said the two songs before the one I like made him weepy.)

Me? I’m considering deleting the part of my post yesterday where I admitted to feeling anything.

Okay, back to fun examples of why we are so good, and so odd, together.

He loves to shop for clothes. He knows labels, what is hot, what is classic, what isn’t worth the trouble and why. He always has, and spent hundreds on a single jacket or pair of jeans back in the day of the Irish Punt.

I don’t know, nor do I care, about labels or what is in fashion or cool, except to avoid what is trendy. I buy based on three things:
Is it an acceptable price for what it is?
Is it ‘classic’? Meaning, it better not be a trend and I’ll look like a twat next year because I’m not doing this shopping shit again any time soon if I can help it.
Does it look good on me?
Sometimes there is a no. four: is it so totally awesomely tacky that I cannot live without it?

iDJ is a shoe freak. Sneakers, trainers, whatever you want to call them. His passion is to re-buy all the trainers he had as a kid; sadly thwarted due to me not having any income. The good part about this is that he shops well. TK Maxx, aka TJ Maxx, is the best for inexpensive cool shoes. Even better is that after he checks the selection in his size he looks at my size, and has gotten me some really cool rare kicks. Oh lordy, he’s rubbing off on me.

Enough about clothing, it’s boring.

Next is, of course, that his hair is loooooooong. He’s not a metalhead, and doesn’t want to be taken for one. Hipster is more his style. Yes, he even wears cardigans. But, he has no piercings or tattoos and doesn’t want any. I have 3 tats, want another, and my ears are punctured 4 times left, once right. All my tats are on my left, too, it’s a thing with me. No, I don’t know why.

Last one, then I’m done, honey, I promise.

He drives a MINI Cooper. I drive a Harley-Davidson Sportster.

Because this has gone on long enough and I have to end on a high note, don’t I? A thing i am very happy indeed about: He isn’t threatened, is indeed relieved, to let me do most of the mechanical repairs and assembly around the house. I love putting together flat-pack!