Absence Makes The Blog Grow Longer

I haven’t commented much this week on your blogs* and I’ll probably comment even less next week (should that be, I’ll probably comment even fewer?), but I’m sure you’ll forgive me (should that be, I’m shore ewe’ll forgive me?) when you hear/here/ear/her my excuse: I’ve been busy.

*Here’s a funny thing: why would the spellchecker on a blog not recognise the word ‘blog’?  Or ‘spellchecker’?

I was busy all this week and I’m going to be busy all next week, but next week’s busyness promises to be more fun than this week’s busy/iness.  I am (we are) expecting visitors tomorrow (hence the business – cleaning prep).

Not just any visitors: blogging friends as visitors!  From not wan blog, but too:

Janet:

And Ben:

Artwork on a window On a blacked out sash and case window of a house at the junction of Traquair Road and Angle Park in Innerleithen. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is not Ben and bears no relationship to him at all, unless he’s one-dimensional by nature, which I seriously doubt; but I forgot to ask Janet’s permission to post a photo of him, though there is one on his blog.  You’ll find him here.  I don’t want to begin our visit by upsetting her (which, when she meets me, may still happen; I have no tact, you know).

They are mother and son (I’ll let you guess which is which/whom is whom/who is witch)* and they both have interesting blogs.  Ben is an Epic Dude with an epic interest in history; Janet makes the most exquisite origami, some of which I now possess.  I am really looking forward to our five days together…yes, even though they have never met me, they are willing to stay here for five days.  Brave or foolhardy?  Depends on how they like stodgy cooking and dodgy puns.

*Tactlessness in action

I will post the joke-a-day but I may not post much about the visit until after they’ve gone (though it may be on the news if it doesn’t go well…say, Janet doesn’t like my left leg or something.  Not that I’m not easily offended or anything).

I’m pretty addled from the week I’ve had, hence the garbled post (and you thought it was you…); I decided not to write about anything much until I have the time to devote  to it.  Not that Janet and Ben’s visit isn’t much; it is; I meant that I…oh, forget it.  I’ll explain tomorrow, if they don’t take one look at me on the platform and decide to stay on the train.

To whet your appetite, here are some stimulating topics which I will be discussing when normal service is resumed:

• Cleaning
• Our local town hall
• The contents of my nasal passage

See you on the other side!

Time To Change The Beds

We have a guest arriving tomorrow:

Our Christmas nephew: large, jolly, fun.  

He’ll be here for a week.

I’ll still get some blogging done.  

I will clean the house today.

At least there is no sun:

I can’t clean on sunny days;

I enjoy them till they’re gone.

No cream teas (Photo credit: fisserman)

A Comment On Comments

My readers are so funny and interesting, they deserve a post of their own.

Blogging Heroes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Here is a sample of comments from just one post, I Don’t Like My New Desk Any More.

You may recall that what I thought was my plaited long hair was, in fact, a spider who jumped out on me – or, more accurately, jumped out off me, from my chin to my laptop.

Here is what you had to say about that:

We’ll start with Viv, who was pragmatic:

But think of all the dirty flies it has protected you from. I’d rather see a spider any day than a picture of hair loss!

If that last bit seems bizarre, I remind you that I showed a picture of balding Roger, rather than a hairy arachnid.

Then we’ll turn to the abusive:

mad cow disease (Photo credit: Garrette)

Pseu called me a ‘wimp’ (correct), Viveka called me ‘mad as a cow’ (probably correct) and Miss Whiplash called me a ‘twerp’ (definitely correct), asserting that it was

…only Mummy spider going out to find breakfast for her own little ”Spud’ and ‘Tory Boy’….I am sure that she was just as frightened as you were…

Many of you offered supportive comments along the lines of, ‘can I join you, standing on that chair?’  Ron, the lucky man, 

considered moving to the North Pole to escape the little buggers. Instead, my doctor injected me with a special serum, and my fear disappeared overnight. Cool, eh?

Definitely cool!  Unless Ron was telling me a little pork pie…?

Faydanamyjake implored me to

be brave it only has 6 legs more than you

But Wee Scoops made the very reasonable point that there is

nothing scarier than an eight foot spider

Sharechair pretended to ‘understand completely’ but disproved that by the cruellest comment of the day:

I seem to remember hearing once that where ever you are, there is a spider within 5 feet. So… may as well sit at the desk.

Al made the inevitable but still amusing point that

World-wide-web illustration (Photo credit: HikingArtist.com)

it’s just looking for the World Wide Web.

Slpmartin delighted me with a poem:

Now this may sound silly
But Little Miss Tilly
Sitting and Writing
With her Morning Tea
Suddenly said ‘No Way!”
For Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Tilly away.

Julie freaked me out more than I already was by threatening

skinks…in the ceiling!

I don’t know what a skink is and I don’t want to know.  And that promised visit to Australia the minute I win the lottery is off.

Mairedubhtx suggested that

The spider is probably long gone and is now living in your kitchen.

I have to clean the kitchen first, to disturb it; so I reckon I’m safe.

Lanceleuven made my day:

Perhaps he’s just a massive Laughing Housewife fan and wanted a sneak preview of your next post! (If that is true he’s gonna be so psyched when he finds out it’s about him!)

Rorybore asserted that

I married my hubby because he kills spiders for me. true story.

I replied,

I married mine because he won’t kill spiders.

Not a true story – if I’d known that beforehand, I might have called it off

Now that I think about it, there’s no ‘might have’ about it.

Katherine Trauger is another pragmatist:

coffee break (Photo credit: 3EyePanda)

Switch to coffee. Spiders hate coffee breath.

And so is Robin Coyle (who seems strangely eager to see me go):

Nice knowing you…Goodbye, sweet friend and her pet spider.

Aquatom wanted to know

Tilly, did you notice if the spider’s hair was plaited?

And Adinparadise suggested I

Plait its legs next time it appears, then it can’t get away

Grannymar showed me a photo of the spider who shared a bed with her (thanks for that, Grannymar.  Not).  She reminded me of this story:

On my first night visiting [my brother] in Durban, he told me about the time he woke up to find a scorpion tickling his chest. I think it got entangled in the hair.

Threewellbeings was kind enough to do some research on my behalf:

I have looked into what you could bring into your home to get rid of the spider! I’m fairly sure you won’t want the wasps or scorpions, and birds could present other problems with your long hair. I suggest a lizard and I think you already have a cat? The best answer, though, was “varying kinds of humans.” That answer seemed a little odd, but after thinking about it, if we eliminate you from the list, I think that leaves three males who should come to your rescue! I’d hate to see you separated from your new desk! 

My favourite comment of the day, however, came from BlueBee, who begged me to

Be brave, for our sake.

And so I am.  Still here, at my desk, pretending there’s no hidden spider and blogging my little heart out because I can’t wait to read your comments.

“Blogging: Never Before Have So Many People With So Little To Say Said So Much To So Few” via despair.com (Photo credit: dullhunk)

I bet not one of you is like me, and has better comments than the posts which inspire them.  Do yourself a favour next time you visit here, and read the comments; they’re usually more amusing than the posts.  And then read the commenters’ blogs; you’ll enjoy them, I promise.

Thank you for putting me out of a job.  I can’t stop laughing about it.

Blog Visits

Blogging Readiness (Photo credit: cambodia4kidsorg)

Another blogger is coming to lunch today!  It took some delicate negotiating, given my self-confessed stalking tendencies. She agreed to come here only after I assured her we have a back door through which she can escape if my self-absorbed monopolising of the conversation becomes too much for her.  She doesn’t know the back gate is locked and she’ll have to climb up onto the roof of the new shed and over the fence.  I have warned her not to wear heels, just in case.

Excluding Viv, who I count as my OU friend who also blogs, not as my blogging friend who I met through the OU, she will be the first friend I have made through blogging who I will have met in person.   She will be pleased to learn that my everyday conversation is not as convoluted as that last sentence.

I have almost met one other blogger – Sarah, she of the blog named after a disease (Sarsm).  Sarah regularly phones me from Germany and I love our chats. We know each other well, without having met.  I love the internet.   And her cheap rate telephone contract.

Don’t expect any photos of today.  My Mystery Guest doesn’t post any of herself or her family on her own blog, so I have to respect that, no matter how much I sulk.

I’ll ask her if I can at least take one like this:

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Or this:

 (Mariana Ruiz Villarreal). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ll tell you all about it over the weekend, if she hasn’t sworn me to secrecy; or taken out the inevitable restraining order.

Have you ever met any of your blogging friends?  Were the police involved?

Five Word Saturday Evening

We got the house back!

All of our visitors, young and old,  have gone; lunch was successfully provided; the house is ours once more.

Hooray!

Thanks for the great food advice, everyone.

Now, what shall I serve the two fellas coming to watch the match tomorrow afternoon?

Olive What She’s Having

 

In 2003 I went to Open University summer school: a week of being a ‘real’ student, with lectures and boozing  – you could buy wine at lunch and dinner!  I didn’t, but it was exciting knowing it was available.

I chose Manchester for my summer school – seven minutes by train from Stockport so I could come home if it was all too much for me.  It wasn’t.  I had a fabulous time; it’s in my Top Ten List of Best Experiences Ever.

One of the week’s benefits was that I made lots of new best friends, never to be heard of again once the week was over, except for two: Mangetout, who some of you know via her blog; and Becky.

Becky doesn’t blog because she’s too busy doing real stuff, like earning a living; you can visit her website and if you or your staff need training in something, Becky can provide it.  I know she’s good at what she does because, on the last day of summer school when we all had to present the project we had been working on, not only was she the only person not to mumble and/or overdo it, she actually sounded like she knew what she was talking about.

I was so impressed by Becky that when they let us out midweek to do our own thing, I latched on to her visit to Manchester’s Whitworth Art Gallery because I knew she’d guide me safe home again to the campus.  And she did.  Without her, I might be not-blogging, living homeless in Salford and thinking Man United were a good team because I couldn’t find my way back to civilisation.  Please thank her if you love your Laughing Housewife.

Becky and I supported each other online while completing our degrees.  My support must have been much better than hers because she got a better degree than I did.  I forgave her for that and we remained friends via Facebook.

Becky and her family live darn sarf but we don’t hold that against her.  She makes occasional excursions oop north to visit relatives; she made one such visit this week and she and her lovely husband Tony spent the afternoon with us on Tuesday.  It was delightful.  Spud popped his head in to be polite and stayed several hours, running up the electricity bill because he had left his X-Box on, not expecting to be away from it for too long.

The conversation was excellent:

Tilly Bud: Let’s talk about me and how wonderful I am and all the things I’ve done and how great I am and how great I am and let’s talk about me some more.

Becky: [Laughs in all the right places.  Because she’s lovely like that.]

We talked about summer school, Shakespeare and poetry; politics, religion and family; and why the government are cocking up Olympic security – we had no solutions, but that’s not our department, is it?  We vote; let them sort it out.   I can’t give you chat specifics because I was too engrossed to make my usual notes.

I spent Monday having a massive clear out so we looked reasonably tidy.  My eldest child may never get into his room again; but he hardly visits, so I’m not too worried.

Cleaning on Monday meant I could concentrate on the food on Tuesday morning, for their late-morning arrival.  Preparing food for visitors is hard work and requires a qualification in logistics to be ready/not too warm/not too cold/have time for a brew and catch-up first/edible.  That’s why I did sandwiches.  Aren’t they pretty?

And no reports of food poisoning; always a bonus.

I had to make sure the food was prepared before they arrived: I needed to take photographs for you.  Also, I don’t like to be in the kitchen when I have guests. Or ever.  My guests were too interesting to be left for long with my family. Every time I made tea I missed fascinating conversation and my son laughed at me for spending the day one topic behind.

I had a small hysterical moment when I tried to open these cakes where the packet says, Open Here.  The packet doesn’t say, But you can’t do it with wet hands and if you take a knife to a packet that you’ve been gripping with wet hands you might stab yourself.

I managed to fit in one of my 101/1001 tasks during the visit: Try a new food. Our guests brought goodies, including olives.  I have never eaten olives.  I have never fancied eating olives.  I am game for a small challenge, however, so I wrinkled my nose and popped one in.

Eurgghh!

Becky did warn me they were garlic and chilli olives, but I like garlic and I like chilli.  I don’t like olives.

The Evil Olives (centre)

Burning tongue, watering eyes and roiling stomach aside, thank you, Becky and Tony, for a wonderful afternoon.  Be sure your biscuits found a good home, and we will talk about you behind your backs long after you’ve forgotten us.

 

Share this:

Had a lovely day with visitors from my past so I haven’t had time to blog. I’m re-posting this one because it represents how I feel after a full day laughing and chatting and catching up.

The Laughing Housewife

Two nights of too little sleep = toenails embedded in my skull.

I look like this (but with hair and…ahem…padding):

I could drink tea all day, to keep me functioning:

But that would leave me a little grumpy:

I’m off to bed now, if I can just find the handle on this wall…

For Viewfromtheside‘s prompt: Feet & Weekly Photo Challenge: Faces

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I Get Great Guests

Image via Wikipedia

My visitors have been and gone, back to their home that used to be my home till I didn’t want it to be my home, didn’t miss as my home, wrote reams of poetry about what a sucky home it was, got that home out of my system and then realised I felt homesick for it.

My visitors were good visitors – when you give me a hug with one hand and a packet of Maltesers with the other, you not only please me, you compliment me by subtly letting me know you read my blog.

My visitors insisted on buying us all a traditional fish supper (the end of paragraph 2 refers).  My visitors were warm and funny and never once mentioned how clean my house was, though I know they were thinking it.

I like having visitors.  Visitors bring me gifts, make me laugh, refuse to let me cook, and give me a reason to clean up every three months or so.

Em & Ay, you are welcome back any time.  Don’t forget the Maltesers!

A Breather

House washed; dogs washed; me washed.  Hub’s gone to fetch the visitors from the station.  I have ten minutes to spare and this prompt just arrived:

Pick something you don’t like, and choose to accept it.

I pick my nose.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Sorry, I’m high on cleaning fluids.

5.5.11

Today’s pretty date, and how many things I’ll be doing per second, minute and hour in order to get the house straight for house guests arriving this afternoon.  I really shouldn’t leave things to the last minute.

I’ll be back tomorrow to reply to your comments and visit your blogs (I hope they’re clean).

<a href=”http://www.youtube.com/v/VyWX6Qar8SA?version=3“>390px; width: 640px”>

Dust To Dust

Image by The Library of Congress via Flickr

I have a busy weekend ahead: a visitor today; two more either tomorrow or Saturday; and another couple on Easter Monday.  That’s wonderful; I love receiving visitors.

Here’s the downside…dust.  I have to dust.  I have to show them that the stuff I write in my blog is a fabrication and I am, in fact, a tireless and dedicated housewife. 

The truth, of course, is that I am a tired and intoxicated housewife.  You don’t get to be this funny* without a little dust, a little alcohol and a whole lot of stumbling around in the mind, wondering where you put the duster because you’re pretty sure you bought one once.

A mathematical diagram to explain my dilemma:

VISITORS 🙂

*

*

*

dust 😦

*                                                   

If I was any good at maths, the dust would be higher than the visitors in this diagram – or is that social sciences?  Social ineptitude?  Sorry* housework, probably.

Of course, if I was really good at maths, I’d be earning a living from it and paying someone else to dust.  Wish I’d paid attention in class now.  I knew something didn’t add up.

*

*My adjective of choice; the Hub might have a slightly different one.

How We Treat Our Visitors – Bee Warned

I haven’t written much about the nephew and niece because they haven’t done much except play on the PS3 and sigh at the rain, but it finally cheered up enough for us to take a walk along the Pennine Trail yesterday.  Not much happened that is worth blogging about, unless you want to hear how a horse mistook Spud’s fingers for grass and nipped him; how Spud was freaked out by a slug staring him in the face as he hid in the grass during a game of commando; and the nephew, thinking he was doing a good thing, killed a bumble bee that landed on the friend.  If you don’t want to hear about any of that, it’s too late because I’ve already written it and you’ve already read it.

The nephew was mortified when I told him he was going to jail as it is against the law to kill a bumble bee in this country; furthermore, his valiant act was in vain because bumble bees don’t sting and even if they did, only when attacked, and this one had just mistaken the friend for a flower and it’s a bit mean to kill something because it thinks you’re a flower.  Once he was penitent and contemplating a rush for the Mexican border, I eased off the guilt throttle, satisfied that the nephew would never again kill an innocent bee that’s just doing his bit for the planet; preferring the death of a thousand non-stings to a reproachful look from Auntie Tilly.

I know you are wondering if this photo is evidence of my rage but he actually did this to himself.  Playing football on tarmac in the rain is dangerous enough, but he thought it would be a good idea to take advantage of the three minutes of sunshine that escaped on Wednesday afternoon, and took off his shirt.  Having put it down, he turned, ran for the ball, slipped on the wet tarmac and went head over bee-killing heels before sliding along on his back and messing up the gravel.  He was quite shaken up, and this is a thirteen-year old boy who bats for an adult cricket team, so it must have stung a bit.

A couple of paracetamol, liberal doses of antiseptic and an Auntie Tilly hug and he was all better, but he kept reappearing in my personal space to show me the bruise on the knee, scrape on the ankle, rib lacerating the shoulder that he hadn’t noticed earlier.  It was inevitable that he’d have to pay it forward.  I guess that bee just had bad karma.