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Our resident fox was here early enough the other night for me to grab a few photographs.
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He’s naturally skittish of human presence so I have to shoot through the window. If I get too close, or move too quickly… he’ll scamper off. And when he’s had enough of the paparazzi disturbing his snack?
He lets me know in a none too subtle way.
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💩
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Dogs of the world? Unite and bite your owners… at least the ones who invented and sell this nonsense.
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And if you think that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve seen today, hang on. It gets worse.
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While the chihuahua dog umbrella might seem cute, let’s visualize the Great Dane sized version and move on.
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I didn’t click on this oddity so I can’t relay any details. I get enough weirdo advertisements as it is, exploring canine penile wraps would take me down a dark tunnel I’d just as soon not visit.
🤣
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You can’t use it, but it’s news all the same.
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Wait a minute… they’re growing brains in laboratories? Can we please send a few to the nation’s capitol, they seem to have run out.
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Gee, I never saw that coming.
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I can think of a few uses myself. Boat anchor, fire starter, brick mortar, roof sealant… the list is endless.
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Because admit it, you’ve been wondering.
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There. Mystery solved.
You’re welcome.
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A warning the Brontë sisters clearly never received.
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Today we think of water as a pure and healthy drink, but there’s a reason many 19th century inhabitants consumed alcohol instead.
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An 1850 investigation by Benjamin Hershel Babbage—which was instigated by Patrick Brontë, the novelists’ father and the parish priest, shortly after the deaths of Emily (1848; she was 30), Branwell (1848; he was 31), and Anne (1849; she was 29)—showed that the small town of Haworth, where the Brontës lived, had much higher mortality rates than other nearby towns of similar size. 41.6% of Haworth’s inhabitants died before the age of 6; the average age of death was 25.8. (Charlotte would die in 1855 at the age of 38—of what would have been a treatable condition today; Patrick would outlive all of his children.)
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Average death age of 25.8? I have whiskey older than that…
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Babbage, seeking to get to the bottom of these statistics, found, among other things, that there were not enough privies for the population, and those they had were filthy, not properly drained, and—bizarrely—much too public. “Two of the privies used, by a dozen families each, are in the public street,” he wrote, “not only within view of the houses, but exposed to the gaze of passers by, whilst a third, as though even such a situation were too private, is perched upon an eminence, commanding the whole length of the main street.” The cesspit beneath this privy would sometimes overflow into the street; a water tap was two yards away from its door.
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That is equal parts astounding and atrocious. To all those who long for the simple days of old? I have two words – flushing toilet.
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Then there was the graveyard—which sat on a hill, right in front of the parsonage where the Brontës lived—which Babbage found to be overstuffed, badly laid out, and poorly oxygenated, so much so that the decomposing material from the graves had filtered into the town’s water supply. The long-term exposure to harmful bacteria would have made the Brontës weaker, shorter, and more susceptible to other diseases.
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Drinking great uncle Rupert is a hard pass from me.
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Well . . . it’s still romantic in theory I suppose—a family of young, brilliant novelists dies from drinking graveyard water, has anything been more Gothic—but in practice, I will spend today being grateful for modern plumbing.
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Sanitation is a wonderful thing.
Long may it flush!
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Retrieving our two boxes from the husband’s uncle’s attic last week resulted in a few tears from yours truly. Bittersweet memories overwhelmed me as I unpacked a few of my favorite childhood books.
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I’m not sure how I managed to hold on to these over the years, but flipping through Moldy Warp the Mole immediately transported me back to my father’s lap, listening to that story being read in his marvelously deep and melodic Scottish voice … and I admit my eyes started to leak. No matter how old I am, I’ll always be a daddy’s girl at heart.
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The other books in the box were all over the place subject wise. Civil War buff? Yup. Sap for everything James Herriot wrote? Most definitely.
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As evidenced by another childhood book…Man, Myth and Magic…. I was a strange child. This was a 24 volume series of the supernatural that came out in the ‘70’s. My mother refused to let me have it, so naturally I found book #1 and hid it under my bed.
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Judging from the current listing on eBay, I should have smuggled in the whole set.
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I’ll go first..
Slept in my Pink Floyd T-shirt and woke up Comfortably Numb.
*It’s happened, I can’t lie.*
Slept in my Neil Young T-shirt and woke up on Sugar Mountain.
*I once slept alongside a box of Dunkin Donuts, so that’s close enough.*
Slept in my Rolling Stones T-shirt and woke up with my 19th Nervous Breakdown.
*Not yet, but there’s still time.*
Slept in my Grateful Dead T-shirt and woke up with Uncle John’s Band.
*No comment!*
( Extra points if you actually own the T-shirts as I do. )
So what did you wake up with?
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A quick look at what’s happening in my corner of the world.
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That’s just… wrong.
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Alpaca Black Gold. Come and get it!
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I buy grain and seed from this store and must say the welcoming committee is quite friendly.
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If you ever see this beer? Drink it. Weird and wonderful… it’s tart with a hint of citrusy sweetness and you actually get a graham cracker crust after note. It’s bizarre, but awesome.
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They’re everywhere and I always wonder… does anyone really buy these things?
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Because absolutely nothing could wrong with installing a swing set/jungle gym for the kids on your bedroom door frame. Nope. Not a thing.
Though physics will tell you that child is in for a rude awakening quite soon.
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You want to teach your children to walk on turtle steps? Good grief people, you know the next thing the little hooligans will be doing is looking for actual turtles to step on.
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And then there’s this, lipstick for mature women.
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Coincidence that the packaging is covered in crazy cat lady graphics?
I think not.
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Because my life is a never ending series of nothing important.
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A 48 inch pike. While this man looks proud, they’re actually an invasive species that are destroying our lake’s natural ecosystems. People catch and release because no one wants to eat them.
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A blackberry lime sour from Mast Landing brewery. Pink, tart and strangely creamy. Yum!
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Our local pub has started serving Naan flatbreads. Sweet potato, bacon, caramelized onions, blue cheese with a honey maple drizzle. Double yum!
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Our resident fox is coming earlier in the evening to beat the skunks and raccoons to the buffet.
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We’ve had nothing but rain all month and our lawn is really getting torn up by the deer herd. Going to be a lot of yard work in our future.
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Warning:
This book will be not be for everyone. Graphic (and often sarcastic) excerpts dealing with human sexuality will follow. Nothing is off limits. If that’s not your cup of tea, there’s no shame in bowing out now and exiting stage left. But if you stay and are insulted by the content? Kindly keep your moral outrage to yourself… I did warn you.
Still here?
Then buckle up and let’s begin.
The first thing that struck me while reading this book was how many people have actively researched sex. Scientifically, psychologically and oddly enough physically. Masters and Johnson were among the most famous….
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Of course he did.
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If you’re still here, I warn you that’s far from the weirdest thing you’ll read in this series.
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Pyrex butt plugs. You’ll never look at your casserole dish the same way again, I know.
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Corn dogs are forever dead to me now. Not a huge loss in my culinary catalog, but still.
🤣
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River's world..... 