Bleck!

Head stuffy.

Throat scratchy.

Nose runny.

Cough hacky.

Head hurty.

Work sucky.

And TheBus left me sitting at the stop for 75 minutes before it deigned to arrive — and then it was full of school kids with more wire coming from their ears then their braces! One kid had an iPod in one ear, a Blue Tooth on the other and was playing a hand-held video game. One of these days a couple of the wrong wires are going to cross and that kid will be sitting there toasted like Wile E. Coyote after using an Acme bomb. I hope I’m not in the seat beside him when he goes.

Of course, the way I’m feeling right now, a thorough toasting might just be an improvement.

Eny body hab a Keenex?

Waffling

OC and I frequently recycle the same conversation. Each time it has a slight variation. It always starts with my apparent curiosity. Today we were discussing maple syrup. The real stuff. OC is a New Englander, you know.

Me: [while pouring syrup on my waffle] My uncle called this, “tree blood.”

OC: Really it’s closer to lymph.

Me: [curious look] Lymphs?

OC: [bunches of scientific techno babble].

Me: Thanks, Hon. Good English. I understood every word.

OC: [laughing] Really?

Me: Oh, yeah. [I roll my eyes.]

OC: Not so much, huh?

Me: [shaking my head] Not so much.

OC: What did you get?

Me: [smiling] You want another waffle?

Our Home

Welcome.  You’ve made it up the stairs to the third floor.

Knock …

Please, come in.

The chintz covered couch?  It was here when we arrived.  I find it is much more comfy for sitting then the floor, though I do agree the floor is prettier.

May I offer you some iced tea?

Would you like a brownie with that?  How about a tour of the rest of the place?

As you can see, it’s laundry day.  All four of my suitable outfits are either in the hamper or on me.  I hope my boxes arrive soon!   What do you want to bet that my blankets — which I don’t need — will arrive before my clothing?

Thank you, our apartment is lovely.  We certainly like it.

I am so glad you stopped by.  Please come again.

Collaborate

COLLABORATE n.

  1. To work together, especially in a joint intellectual effort.
  2. To cooperate treasonably, as with an enemy occupation force in one’s country.
  3. Two or more persons working in unison to achieve the same goal.

I am uncertain which of these definitions best suits OC’s and my efforts in creating our joint post:

  • There was a little cooperation (little being the operative word).
  • There was definately some collaborating with the enemy, though OC and I both seem to be unclear on just who the enemy was.
  • There also seemed to be more then two voices involved in the project, though OC swears it was my imagination.
  • And, I was trying very hard to keep it intellectual, but … well, see for yourself. Check out:

He Said, She Said, an O’Ceallaigh & The Quill collaborative production.

Defenestraphobia – Fear of Windows

My friend, aged 60+, decided to buy a computer. She had been fearfully using them at work and knew she could do a much better job if she gained more expertise. The day her computer arrived via UPS she called me on the telephone. “It has too many parts. How do I hook it together?”

“Everything is color coded,” I told her, but still she asked me to come and help. I went.

After hooking her computer together and making certain her programs were in operating order, I left her to play, search, and discover. I reminded her that I was as close as her phone should she need anything, then I returned home.

Forty-five minutes later my phone rang. I answered. My friend’s voice came across the line — urgent. Seriously stressed. “When will they be here? How long do I have?”

“When will who what?” I felt like I’d walked into the middle of some suspense theater episode. “Slow down and explain.”

She answered, her voice high and tense, “I don’t know what I did. I tried to open Word and a warning came up on my computer. It said I operated something illegally and my computer was shutting down! When will they be here?”

I did not laugh. Instead I asked — very dryly — ” When will who be there? The computer police?”

Several seconds of silence were followed by her rueful query, “I’m over-reacting, huh?”

Then I laughed.

I told OC the above story over breakfast this morning. He responded very formally, “Really, her reaction was perfectly understandable given the unfortunate use of the word illegal.”

I smiled. “You did the same thing, didn’t you?”

He shrugged sheepishly, “Well, pretty close — but I didn’t call anybody.”

I laughed.

“Besides,” he defended, “Windows should be illegal!”