Pissing off Christie Blatchford since 2011

iclysdale is in Madison.

iclysdale: But I'm not necessarily the best advice on this.
iclysdale: Not really being any equity-seeking groups myself.
commodorified: straight boy ;-)
iclysdale: ;-)
iclysdale: I AM SO OPPRESSED TOO MARNA OMG.
commodorified: Are you?
commodorified: who by?
iclysdale: THE PATRIARCHY. IT HURTS ME TOOOOOOOOOOOO.

commodorified: I need a favour.
fairestcat: yes?
commodorified: Can you a) go thwap ian, b) yell THE PATRIARCHY HURTS MEN TOOOOOO! and c) run away? ;-)
commodorified: he says he is oppressed
fairestcat: possibly not with the running, so I don't fall on the slick floors
commodorified: point!

iclysdale: Second-hand abuse? That's not love, y'awl.
commodorified: NO IT IS THER PATRIARCHY
commodorified: see? it hurts men TOOOOOOO!
iclysdale: ouch.
commodorified: poor patriarchal iclysdale
iclysdale: fairestcat says she is not the patriarchy.

commodorified: FALSE CONSCIOUSNESS
WE ARE ALL THE PATRIARCHY
commodorified: :-)
fairestcat: THAT'S WHAT I TOLD HIM
commodorified: HAH!

fairestcat: I suppose I might be a tool OF the patriarchy
fairestcat: as are we all
fairestcat: in our own ways
commodorified: come here, my little adjustable wench...

iclysdale: damn your perpetuating systems of oppression anyways.
iclysdale: hrmph.
commodorified: It's not MY system.
commodorified: I AM OPPRESSED. fairestcat IS OPPRESSED. YOU ARE COMPLICIT.
iclysdale: riiiiiight.

commodorified: this is so ending up on lj :-)
fairestcat: *thwaps*
commodorified: NOW YOU SEE THE VIOLENCE INHERENT IN THE SYSTEM!

iclysdale has FOUND MY TRICORNE!

I DIDN'T leave it out somewhere after all; it had gotten itself stored up on top of the wardrobe in the living room.

As invented by and used in my family.

Lapso-Ovo Vegetarian: eats vegetables, dairy, bacon, and that really incredible salami from the farmer's market.

NOMnivore: eats everything, as long as it's good.

Non Compos Mantis: The state of (temporarily) having the attention span of a grasshopper.

Agenda Dysphoria: The inability to distinguish between what is good for oneself and what is good for other people.

What are your family's, or your own personal "found words"?

1) Pizza.

My microwave died. My microwave, which is ALMOST AS OLD AS MY GIRLFRIEND, died!

*weeps*

My mother bought that thing when we moved to Ontario. I took it with me when I left home, as she was moving in with my grandparents, and I've been dragging it around Ontario with me ever since.

It was 600 Watts. You set it with a DIAL. It had hideous fake mac-tac woodgrain on it. Almost everyone I've ever lived with has made me keep it in the basement at first; they always had newer, prettier, more sophisticated microwaves. They refused to use mine, and in some cases predicted that it would blow up and KILL US ALL.

I would smile, and put it in the basement, and wait. When their cheap little white plastic microwave died, I would bring it up, clean it off, and plug it in, and life would once more be as it ought. It wasn't funky, but it WORKED.

It always worked. Until yesterday. Ian put a cup of coffee in it to heat it up and pushed the start button and it just turned its little dial-face to the wall and died.

So Ian went out to get us new microwave yesterday, and we sort of figured that since I haven't ever actually spent money on a microwave in all my adult life there was justification for getting a really good one, and we did some research and discovered the miracles of convection and multi use microwave/convection ovens, and suddenly here I am in the space age.

Hopefully it'll last us another 23 years.

Meanwhile the old one is sort of lying in state in the kitchen. Eventually it'll go to the recycle, I guess, but I'm NOT READY YET.

The new one makes AMAZING pizza on the oven setting. Except Ian forgot that it's NOT a microwave, and things inside it get HOT, and burnt himself on the rack. If it hadn't been him it would have been me, I suspect. One of those adjustment things.

So that was the pizza.

2) Beer.

Meanwhile, there were 50 beer bottles in the tub, floating in bleach solution. Yes, Ian's homebrewing again. They'd been there... a while. Long enough that I wanted a bath.

And him with a burnt hand.

So I chiseled labels off of bottles, cursing and swearing and muttering, and he scrubbed glue left handed, and it was, once again, Nothing Like A Romantic Evening at Home.

But now the bottles are done. For this batch. He's got another it ready to go, and I'm sorely tempted not to tell him that his cider's in, to be honest. Except that would be Mean.

Meanwhile, at Ian's suggestion, I've been reading William Mares' Making Beer, which is about half funny and interesting autobiography and half obscure mutterings about barley, and at some point last night as the chisel was menacing my knuckles again and I was excoriating Alexander Keith for using such obnoxious adhesive and Ian was scrubbing away at bottles and, as usual, snickering at my emergency vocabulary, I told him I was going to have to post the illustration on page 44:



Which he had shown me the day before.

"That facial expression," I said, "Is like the Platonic Ideal of 'Reader, I married him.' It's perfect."

And he agreed.