Fire, Wind and Wasps

And so, yesterday Neil’s toasting bagels. And then we smell something burning. And then I hear, ‘Babe, the toaster’s on fire.’ And I look up from my non-blog writing to see flames. Flames in the middle of my toaster.

Neil runs over and unplugs the toaster. Throws a damp cloth over it. My ‘Oh shit!’ was very helpful, in case you’re wondering.

And our smoke detector works. There’s that, too.

The toaster is now downstairs waiting to be taken to The Island Of Burnt Out Appliances. And we’ll be grilling bagels for a while.

We hang around the house, waiting for something else to spontaneously combust. When nothing happens, we go to The Edinburgh Mela to eat curry and see friends. And eat curry.

Here’s something else you may not know about me, if I’m not driving, I’m an easy target for leafleters. If my hand is up in front of my face, they think I’m really interested in their bits of dead tree. But really I’m just trying to block paper-cuts. In my eye. Yes, that has happened before, in case you’re wondering.

I’m perusing my pile of free crap. ‘Do I look depressed?’ I’ve discovered that post-wedding blues is a real thing, and I need a new project. But no, I am not depressed.

‘Do I look like I’d be interested in t’ai chi?’ Unless it’s in Central Park, or adapted for a seated position, then no, I’m not. Maybe that could be my new project, though?

Anyway. We eat. And then I eat some more.

Neil and I go home, after saying we’ll come back to see The Orb perform. I not-so-secretly am only interested in hearing Little Fluffy Clouds. No, I have never lived in Arizona. In case you’re wondering,

On the way home, it would seem that summer has disappeared. That’s OK, I like autumn. That morning, I liberated a turtle-neck sweater from the back of my dresser. Because it was cold, and if I say it’s cold, then it’s cold. And so windy that the trip home felt downhill all the way.

Neil and I have curry for dinner. Because we’re really not creative when it comes to food.

There’s a text saying the Mela’s closed because of the wind situation. No Orb. But it might re-open, so we leave our green paper wristbands on. Maybe Orb.

What I really want to do is stay home and light candles that smell like autumn and apple pie. But there was a wasp buzzing around the lights, and pretty soon the buzzing was all I heard. And so, we go out again. The tents are all ripped and windblown. No Orb.

We meet up with more friends and suddenly need a place to go that is kid-friendly, beagle-friendly and accessible. And so, we go home again.

The wasp welcomes us back. We don’t give him a name.

‘This will always be the day we nearly set fire to the kitchen and didn’t get to see The Orb,’ Neil says.

Popcorn is made. We listen to The Orb. In our house.  It’s all very quaint. Until.

‘Yo! Ow. Dude.’ I’m clawing at my turtle-neck/doing interpretative dance/practising t’ai chi. And I don’t know why. But it hurts.

Neil pulls me backwards through the hallway and into the bedroom. And I’m laughing, because it hurts.

‘What?’ Neil says.

‘Wasp! Boob! Shit!’ It’s all I can manage.


And then we pull the stinger out. Of my bra.

‘We’ll have to watch and see if it swells,’ Neil says. And I just kinda look at him.

‘How will we know? Because, y’know, it’s my boob.’

We go back to our friends. ‘Yeah, so. The wasp is gone.’

Later, I’m in bed with some ice. And Neil says, ‘So, fire, wind and a wasp.’

‘Memories are made of this.’

I fell asleep and dreamt of this song:


You’re welcome.  And I’m sorry, in case you’re wondering.  Maybe.

Is This Real Life?

I pride myself on the fact that I’m not really a Bridezilla.  I’ve been quite laid-back about this whole wedding thing, and actually more into the whole being married thing.  Bring that on.

A few months ago, I did have a blip about envelopes, of all things.  And then I got over myself.

Other than matching paper goods, the only stipulation I’ve made is that the bridesmaids’ outfits don’t go all the way to lavender on the purple spectrum.  And then there’s the hat thing.  But that was a joint decision.

OK so, other than matching paper goods, no lavender and no hats, I just want to party.

When I chose my dress, I wondered if my two ‘requirements’ meant that I was too picky.  I was later deemed to be one of the easiest brides the shop has ever dealt with.  We shall see if that lasts through my fittings.

My point is this.  I’m cool.  I’m calm.  Everything is (really) fine.  On the outside.

I used to be really into dream interpretation.  Obsessed with ‘symbols’ and ‘themes’.    Did dreaming about a bakery mean I wanted my own business?  Well, I kinda do.  But it also meant I was hungry and needed a doughnut.

I’ve been thinking more about what dreams mean.  Because on Monday, I had my first wedding disaster dream.

My bridal crew is already down the aisle and I can’t find my shoes.  I’m searching in my old room, and find my favourite purple boots, which I put on.  (That part might not be far from the truth.)  On the way to the door, which is locked, the chair splits in half.  And I end up having to knee-walk down the aisle, with my Dad carrying the wheels behind me.  Did I mention the back of my dress is tucked into my underwear?  Yep.

And the processional music has been switched to Ecuador by Sash!:

I don’t know why.  But after seeing the video, maybe it’s because we toyed with the idea of having the best man’s hawk fly the rings in.  That won’t be happening, either.  (Even though I’ve heard that it’s good luck if a bird shits on you.  Don’t ask me how I know).

Anyway, and then I woke up.

I’m cool.  I’m calm.  It’s funny now.

However.  If on the day, the actual processional music is somehow mixed up with Eurodance from the 90’s, I will go all Bridezilla.

I Blame Texas. But Not Really.

I like music.  I love music.  I greatly esteem music.  The first site I crank up on any given morning is  (Spotify has too many ads.)  Even before facebook.  Or real-life coffee.  That’s big.

While my musical taste is kind of eclectic, my first music-love is country.  I love it down to the ground.  Or the red dirt road.

I know it isn’t cool to admit to liking country.  At least for me, growing halfway up on Long Island, New York.  I’ve heard all the country music jokes.  And I actually think this one is funny:

What happens if you play country music backwards?

Your wife returns to you, your dog comes back to life, and you get out of prison.

But that’s the difference between laughing with and laughing at.

I blame Texas.  But not really.  Because I’m not ashamed to say I like country.  And anyway, it’s not my fault.    I was born in Dallas, and according to my father, country music was all that was played at the hospital during my stay.  Funny, that.

After they sprung me, the first song I actively remember was You Are My Sunshine, as sung by my Grandparents.  To this day the Johnny Cash version makes me cry.

As I got older, I remember the local country station blasting out of the windows of my father’s Blazer.  I am a Garth fan from way back.  And I got a standing ovation after lip-syncing Kathy Mattea’s Eighteen Wheels and A Dozen Roses for my third-grade talent show.  Complete with suede-tasseled cowboy boots.

The best love songs are country love songs.  As a teenager, I would listen to a bunch on repeat, wondering what it would feel like when the lyrics to the happy ones actually meant something to me.  I’ve since figured that one out.

When I left for Uni, it was The Dixie Chicks blasting out of my Dad’s car windows.  When I got there, I’m kind of ashamed to say I began to use my CDs as coasters.  A bunch of them don’t play anymore.  I blame myself.  And Peach Schnapps.

These days, Sarge keeps his CDs well away from me, and that’s OK.  He doesn’t like country and I don’t like most of his music.  It’s healthy for couples to have different interests.

If my music is on when he gets home from work, he might greet me by saying:

‘Is it raining?’

‘No honey, that’s the song.’

Take last week for example, I had shut down the computer for the day and the house was too quiet.  The silence drove me to download a song on my phone.  It’s the first song to live in my phone.  (I don’t have an ipod/earbuds for the same reason I don’t wear contacts.  Because why would you voluntarily poke yourself in the face?)

Anyway, I might have been playing my downloaded song when Sarge got home from work.

‘The hell is that?’

‘I downloaded a song.  I’m working on my wedding music choices.  The .69 is a wedding expense.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Hey, country has Celtic roots.  Be nice or I’ll play it again.’

This was the song.  Kinda my new favourite:

Do you like country music?  It’s OK if you don’t.  Bless your heart.

PS.  This is my 200th post.  If you’ve ever wondered why I ramble on here, I blame Texas.  But not really.

PPS.  This post does not imply that if you are from Texas, you must love country music.  But if you are, and you do, hi.

Apparently, You Can Go Home Again

I haven’t had a lot of screen time recently.  This is what I’ve been doing while not staring at a computer screen:

Collecting train tickets and using them as bookmarks.

Eating pizza while watching my Dad attempt to play jump rope with an extension cord.  The morphine is working!

Meditating/crying while in a church.

Reading Naked on the train, while wearing clothes.

Drinking cider at The Scottish Real Ale Festival.  I’m such a rebel.

Getting a free copy of Rebecca from Sarge and World Book Night.

Having lunch with some of the bridal crew/maids of awesome.

Listening to Low while writing on envelopes until two whole pens are out of ink.  Mostly it’s this one on repeat:

Possibly the best cover ever.  John Denver makes me cry, but this one makes me infinitely happy.


What have you been up to?

Weekend Wanderings

My weekend begins on Friday, so we’ll start there.

I woke up and asked Sarge to make me a coffee. I did so nicely.

‘Can’t (the PA) do it?’

‘She doesn’t make coffee,’ I said. ‘She pours water into ugliness.’

‘Fair enough’, he said, turning on the coffee machine.

For the rest of the day I scribbled and read, scribbled some more and thought about organising my dresser-drawers. I opened them, and quickly shut them again. A story for another day, I thought. And then I chased the cat out of the bedroom not long before Sarge got home from work.

‘What should we do for dinner, be good or get take-away?’

‘The diet starts Monday. I vote for curry.’

And forty-five minutes later, we had pakora and Futurama in front of us. Futurama is one of those shows I didn’t realise I liked until I watched a few episodes. Either that, or Sarge won the coin-toss many, many nights ago and now I’m the one who says, ‘Let’s watch Futurama!’ Ours may be the only household where ‘bite my shiny metal ass’ just means it’s time to turn on the television. Most of the time.

On Saturday, we had salmon and eggs with soy sauce for brunch. Almost everything Sarge makes has soy sauce on it. Or in it. Or around it. I don’t complain because for one thing, I like soy sauce and b, I don’t cook.

Then we wandered up to the cinema to see Midnight in Paris.

‘What’s this actually about?’ I asked on the way.

‘It’s a Woody Allen film. So, Woody Allen.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said.

I love Woody Allen films. I liked this one because it had Hemingway in it. No, not my computer. The real one. Well, not the real one. That would have been really special. Yeah, I liked it. But as I watched Owen Wilson, I kept wanting to shout two words. ‘Blond’, and ‘Nose’. I didn’t. That would have been really special.

We went home and watched some more of the Northern Exposure Box set. I won the coin-toss. No, we don’t actually make decisions by tossing coins. Ever. Well, there was that one time.

And today, I’m scribbling and reading and scribbling some more. All while obsessively listening to this song:

Where has your weekend taken you?