Archive for December, 2010

Tis the season.

I got one, my son got one, then the wife and daughter got one!  And we spread it out over 3-4 days.

A great awesome case of the heave-till-your-nose-bleeds-and-you-see-the-angels.

It must have something to do with all the people-to-people contact right around this time of year.

So that is where I’ve been for the last few days.

Last night was juggling a tired boy, a barfing and groaning wife, and a daughter who would come and announce to me every heave-ho of her own.

And a son who could not understand that when mommy is puking she doesn’t want to see his Legos and to leave her alone, dammit!

I kept the laundry moving, the dishes going, the dinner made, a trip to the store for – peppermint tea, consomme, ginger cookies, chicken noodle soup, 7-up, gator-ade, brie, and tamales.  I am be-awesome.

The tamales were for me.  Cheap-ass canned ones since no one could eat my real ones on account of the gift that keeps on giving.


Can we please dispense with the bullshit and go back to being sane?

Dylan and Klebold were obvious.  There were a million signs that stupid teachers and parents just didn’t pick up on.

But kids who are future leaders and achievers with a paring knife in their lunchbox?  This is as ridiculous as the british law against kitchen knives larger than a certain size.

I was in school waiting to head to the lunchroom and pulled a kleenex out of my coat pocket.  A shotgun shell fell out of my pocket.  You’d have thought I’d shot the pope and was about to do the same to every schoolkid, teacher, and principal.  But they called my dad who was very clear:  We had just been hunting two days ago and it was an honest accident and get over it you candy-assed pansies.


There was a day when the cops would have heard all sides to the story and said “Guess you learned a valuable lesson here, kid.”


That day is no more.

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Merry Catsmus.

Merry Christmas to all.

I’ll flesh this story out a bit more tomorrow but suffice it to say I walked into the pet store looking for one cat and came away with two.

They are Last Chance cats, meaning they’re destined for the Humane Society if they aren’t placed with a family.

Meet Jack and Jill, or as I call them, Jackal and Jilly-boo.  They are three years old and brother and sister.  We took both so they could be kept together – they are fantastic with each other.  Jack has been out and about all evening and you would have thought he was our cat for years the way he’s been with the commotion and kids.  He was calm, cool, and catlike.

I even crashed my helicopter next to him and he barely twitched.  (full-control chopper – yay for me)

Why, someone got a cat for Christmas under the tree... (Jack)

Jilly-boo is a bit more reserved.  She came out and really started scoping the place out after the kids went down.  Shown below is her as she’s scoping the upper back shelves in our closet.

Why, there's ANOTHER one in the closet... (Jilly-boo)

Me and Cruel Wife, we’re tickled to have critters running about and cats are autonomous enough that they’re fitting in very well.


Mitchell, the gift to Cruel Wife was totally freakin’ awesome.  A Girl Genius print, and a great one at that.  I tell you, that Agatha… rowr.   And it has coffee on it, too!    Thank you again for the leather satchel as well.   Yours is in-transit.

More about Christmas and our totally hedonistic materialist binge tomorrow.   I’ve been a miser for years now and this Christmas we’ve been able to splurge a little.  It’s been nice.



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Warm weather can’t possibly be caused by the sun, but freakishly cold and harsh winters can’t be handwaved away and blamed on AGW, so NOW we’ll call it a result of “solar activity”.

Experts are still unsure why this is but suspect it may be related to the EL Nino weather system as well as changes in sea temperatures and solar activity.

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In the interim…

Until tonight’s GrovelBlog, a link to Angry Harry’s site where, apparently, Harry is quite Angry.

See, I was looking for the source of a quote I saw over this babe’s desk years ago (she was a femi-nazi):  A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.

Now.  Isn’t…  That…  Cute?

Actually, no, it was pretty damned snotty and bitchy, but hey.  Like a babe needs my respect?

[That was purposely designed to be offensive.  If you know me you should know that I don’t actually think like that.  I just say that sort of thing to get a rise out of babes.]

So searching in the webiverse, I came across Angry Harry, who we have already determined, is Angry.

Angry Harry goes a bit beyond my threshold.

Oh well, this was a good five-minute diversion for you, wasn’t it?  Stay tuned for tonight’s GrovelBlog!



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Too Much Time on Your Hands.

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The doc said that she has what is called mallet finger.

This is a hand actor shown, not Cruel Wife's actual hand.

It’s been a good thing that it isn’t hurting her all that much but it’s a bad thing that for four to six weeks she can’t bend that sucker or it’s going to undo any healing.

This really screws up any chance of a foot-rub.

Aggie… relax, she knows I don’t mean it about the foot thing.  Back when she was preggers I ran into the room to spritz her with water to “keep her wet until we could get her back in the water”, so it’s not unexpected that she’s not bent out of shape about this, either.

If she thought I meant all the terrible things I say… I’d be a dead man.


Yep, she popped her finger good.

She still can’t straighten the tip of her finger out and there’s a knot about halfway between the last joint and the next.

Told her that she’d “better get down to an urgent care and have it seen to sooner rather than later – you don’t want to be sidelined for very long, because my feet need rubbing.”

So that’s where she’s at now.

Worried that she may have busted a tendon.  When she tries to straighten it out she says there’s none of that tension on the back of the finger that you normally feel.  If I remember it right, ligaments hold bones together and tendons connect muscle to bones, so it’s not a great sign.

This is going to be a real hardship since my mistress doesn’t like to rub feet.

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The Things that I Drink.

Cruel Wife just popped her finger.  It won’t straighten out.  Just the tip of her left ring finger.

It’s not serious in a bad way but it’s serious enough that she can’t rub my feet, and that has me concerned.

If she still can’t rub my feet in a week I’ll insist that she sees a doctor.  It gets serious like that and it’s no laughing matter.

If my feet get all crampy it’ll mess with my sleep.


I am a ‘holic.

Specifically a tonic-aholic.  I love quinine.  I drink a liter a day of tonic water at room temperature.  No lime.  Gets in the way of the flavor.  Midnight every night is the time when I crack the seal slowly and let the overpressure bleed off in little bits.  I savor the moment and my saliva glands go into overdrive like crazed Pavlovian canines.

Another weakness is eggnog.  Now here is another example where the weakness for the flavors started when I was adding booze to them in copious quantities but now I just love them for the taste.

I’m sure that if I had started back when I was drinking vodka I’d now be tossing down highball glasses full of the juice from freshly crushed bunnies or something like that.  But I never started knocking back crushed bunnies back then so it isn’t a habit of mine now.  But I did toss back a fair number of Bloody Mary drinks and so Spicy V-8 is still a favorite.

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