Ducking responsibility

I have an embarrassing confession to make. I read DD's post and thought I was finally getting one of these Rockin' Girl Blogger things that all the crazy kids are winning these days on top of the meme she tagged me for. I then read the post closer and realised that I was tagged for the meme, but I am not in fact, "rockin". I even left a comment about how flattered I was to be an RGB, which is now rather humiliating. Thank god I didn't actually do my own post about being an RGB and thus nominating others as that would have been really bad.

I know meme's are often construed as lazy blogging, but I haven't done one in awhile. Besides, DD told me to, and I always listen to DD. She's very wise you know.

My meme responsibility is to list seven habits/quirks/facts about myself, and there is no shortage of material.

1. I don't like touching my boobs. Self breast exams are a struggle because it totally gives me the heebs. Not in a puritanical, God-will-smite-me way, but more in a rather-eat-dirt way.

2. When I do bother to clean, I do it in the most thorough way imaginable. Fine, right? The problem arises when I then don't want anyone to mess up said cleaning. No usage of the kitchen counters, no dirtying dishes, no walking on the newly vacuumed floors, and certainly no crawling into a just made bed. If there is a sullying of my cleaned space, I can't look at it. I've had to leave the room when someone has stepped on my vacuumed carpet.

3. Just like Suz, I hate surprises. I can imagine no casual fate worse than a surprise party. My fear of the element of surprise extends to walking around corners as well. I take a wide berth because I inadvertantly jump when someone is coming the other way. Even if I hear them coming the jumping still happens. I have told The Dude that P is never having a jack-in-the-box because Mama will poop herself.

4. I have a strong aversion to certain words, the worst offenders being "moist" and "chunk". There have been times when they are used together (usually in reference to cake), and I shudder.

5. I have an innate ability to hook up electrical items. Need a TV/DVD and stereo set up and functioning? Call me.

6. I collect Ewoks. No, really. I don't display them in my house or anything weird like that, in fact, they are in a box in my Mom's attic at the moment.

7. I was the Best Dressed girl in my senior class. I can't possibly expand on how far I am from that person now. Ugh.

I like hearing how other people are freaks too, so it is my job to bestow this meme on 7 others. Who knows, you might even discover some new-to-you blogs. Consider yourselves tagged.

1) Georgia @ A Rocky Place
2) J @ Cheese and Whine
3) Kristi @ Interrupted Wanderlust
4) May @ Nuts in May
5) Rachel @ www.racheldirollzack.com
6) Molly (password protected in a secret location...oooo...)
7) Rockmama @ Prawn Cocktail


Happy days are here again

You know, because I'm back and all. Back from the land of bulk shopping and rude drivers, back to blogging again. I've felt so alienated in the past month - no comments for unwritten posts, very scant blog reading, existing in a world which largely doesn't include blogs. Except, except...

I met my Cheese Wife! Cheese Aunt to my firstborn, Molly, otherwise known as Mollywogger! Owner of a great rack and an even better sense of humour. A tiny, tiny little whirlwind of red hair and may I say rather pleasing personal scent (thanks to her assload of BPAL oils). I was afraid the poor dear probably thought I wanted to eat her, given her cute petite frame and my gargantuan status in comparison. Seriously, in our photos together I look like I might envelop her in a wave of boob and fat rolls, my chubby face looming over her like a satanic moon.

Enough self-deprecating for now, let's talk about the visit. Molly is a bold soul, willing to fly to Pennsylvania to stay in the house which is a known hangout of the Brain Trust. Sadly for her she was only able to meet two members of the Trust, my Mom, and Ralph. Perhaps the most unstable member of the Trust, my Aunt Florence, who I named randomly for blogging purposes and then realised that she is then Aunt Flo, which is quite possibly the dumbest fucking term for a period ever. Anyway, Flo up and had a heart attack and emergency open heart surgery as mentioned in my previous post, thus putting her out of commission for Molly to witness a full meeting of the Brain Trust in person. Shame. Oh, the stories she then could have told...

I was going to approach this chronologically, but as it has been about a month since her visit and I can't even remember what day of the week today is, I'll just stick with some memorable events.

Molly is an archivist in training, or perhaps she considers herself an archivist currently, I'm not quite sure. Either way, she loves old shit, and guess what? So do I. I cannot emphasise how thrilled I was to be in the company of someone who enjoys driving around looking for old houses, designated "house porn" by me since I have to make everything dirty and rude. Poor old P. was stuck in the back of the car on these missions, most likely chewing on her pacifier and hoping that she turns out more like her Dad. We went to Gettysburg, hopping in and out of the car to take random photos of memorials to those from MN and WI to fight in the Civil War. I barely even consider them states now, let alone the years 1861 - 1865. Heh.

Molly mentioned on her blog (password protected now because she lives in shadow) that we sat around one evening looking at a WWII scrapbook I got off eBay and watched PBS. I can testify that this is totally true, as we are quite possibly the biggest nerds alive. We excitedly passed WWII letters back and forth to each other until midnight, giggling at the old-fashioned phrases often used by the writers. It gets even more tragic when you realise that this was an ideal night in for both Molly and myself. We wouldn't have spent it any other way.

On her own blog Molly mentioned a trip to Denny's with The Dude and P, but failed to mention that the waiter was so very warm for her form. I was just waiting for them to swipe the table of its Moons Over My Hammy and Very Very Cherry drinks and just get it on right there in front of all the old gits and young families. The sexual tension was thick and the flirtation rather scandalous. Molly probably hates me right about now for mentioning this experience, as the waiter was not a Clive Owen lookalike, but rather a stumpy, sweaty little cretin with an attitude problem and far too much enthusiasm for waiting tables at Denny's. Seriously people, he gave my husband a high five for being English. The Dude was confused at this outburst of American gusto, but gave in eventually and reluctantly high-fived the poor loser. By this time Molly needed a change of panties so we totally needed to get out of there.

Lest you think that was all the fun we had, oh no! My Mom threw a retirement party for herself at the house, signalling the arrival of a couple dozen menopausal/post-menopausal women. We tried to hide upstairs in the TV room, but the need for sustenance forced us downstairs to the gathering of crones. Confusion abounded, as it is wont to do in a room full of people of a certain age. Molly was referred to as Cheese "Hand" instead of Cheese Aunt, a mix up which will continue to entertain me until I'm too old to remember it. Just thinking of Molly with one hand made of smoked gouda makes me chuckle. Next there was the person who thought she was me, expressing, "Wow, you've really changed since I last saw you". I would guess so. Anyone who has been to Molly's blog and has seen photographic proof of our visit will tell you that we don't look remotely alike.

Another woman in attendance fancied herself a sassy, risque kind of late 40-something, failing to realise that it came off as pathetic and kind of gross, not in fact cool. When told Molly lives in Wisconsin, said woman loudly shrieked, "I had pasta shaped like penises there! Do you know you can get that??" Poor Molly made a quick exit, hand made of cheese and all. I found out later this woman has a habit of trying to shock, regaling my brother with tales of how she used to "fuck" (her words, not mine sensitive readers) one of her professors in college. Note to self, though you may be bold now on your blog when you're still in your 20s, refrain from carrying on such behaviour when you're the very wrong side of 40.

Unfortunately Molly's visit had to come to an end, even if I did want to just pop her in my pocket and take her home to England with me. It was fabulous to finally meet her after all these years of internet flattery and talk of boobage. I was also supposed to meet a handful of other bloggers, but Flo's heart attack scuppered those plans completely, selfish Flo. I have some hilarious post-op stories about Flo (no, really), which will hopefully be relayed in the next post. I got a few harassing emails from Statia, all "what the fuck" and whatnot, even after I relayed the heart attack tale. That girl wants to meet me, and I her, but seriously, keep the adoration within legal stalking parameters will you? I was also supposed to meet up with dear Millie, a blogger whose story I have been reading for ages, but we were never able to connect. We spoke on the phone fleetingly, and her poor husband had to endure a brief nonsensical conversation with me earlier as Millie was driving. Millie's husband, my apologies for my extreme scattiness and general weirdness. You're probably grateful your wife and I never met up after all.

So that's my Central PA and blogger-meeting summary. I wish it had been a bit more diverse, but I can at least thank little baby Jesus that I was able to meet my Cheese Hand, er...Wife.


I've just recently decided that I hate Yahoo like I hated Hotmail before it, and I'm joining this century and moving to gmail. I can now be found at BarrenAlbion at gmail dot com. No need to remember this little tidbit - it's over yonder in the sidebar when you need it. Because, you know, I get so very much email.


Busy doing nothing

Most of my days here in the States are filled with nothing of import, yet somehow time for blogging never presents itself. I'm saving a lot of blog reading for my return, so hopefully I have a spare hour or 20 (exaggeration perhaps) to catch up with the 500 (no exaggeration) feeds I have yet to read.

There are things I want to talk about - The Brain Trust, walking babies, being a stranger in a strange land, my aunt's heart attack and emergency open heart surgery on my birthday, and of course the visit of one Cheese Wife. So much to say, not enough internet time without peering eyes to say it.

It will all be with you shortly, much to your great amusement I'm sure. Guess what? I might not even talk about flat asses.

See you in a week or so when I'm back in the land of people who don't think that 110 years for this most disgusting, appalling crime is excessive. Believe it or not, the local newspaper actually spoke with many people who still maintain that he is just a nice guy caught doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Sigh.