I haven’t darkened the door of my own blog in a while, so I thought I’d pop in and see if the furniture’s where I left it.
So far so good.
I took this test over at Tiff’s, and it’s eerie how accurate it is. I could write a post about the results, but I shan’t; I’m in no mood to analyze myself today. Nonetheless: Friggin’ eerie!
You Are 7: The Enthusiast
You are outgoing and playful – always seeing the happy side to life.
You’re enthusiastic and excitable. You love anything new.
Multi-talented, you do many things well… and find success easy.
You prefer to keep things light with others. Opening up is hard for you.
At Your Best: You are deeply involved in each experience. You appreciate life for what it is, and you take the time to enjoy each moment.
At Your Worst: You are greedy, self centered, impulsive, and insatiable.
Your Fixation: Gluttony
Your Primary Fear: Deprivation and pain
Your Primary Desire: To be satisfied and content
Other Number 7’s: Howard Stern, Cameron Diaz, Robin Williams, Jim Carey, and Jenny McCarthy.
In other news, I’ve picked up a new cuss I’m using at every occasion: Fairy Godmother! I like it because it’s an all-ages swear, and just about as satisfying to belch out as any other motherfuckin’ word.
Today we went to the NC Renn Faire
, and it was a grand olde hoot. It’s in our veritable back yard, only a 3 mile drive from hither to yon at an olde golfe course. The neighbors were aghast, because they bought expensive condos on a golf course. This golf course went kaput, like they do, so it’s been a fallow field of formerly flossy grass until this weekend. THIS weekend, hordes of trinket-selling, 16th-century bedecked vendors descended upon the place and turned it into a colorful tent city. And they brought sword-fighting knights, wandering minstrels, a beer tent bard (and beer wenches, with the requisite impossibly amplified bustiers), smithies, jugglers, fools, and a giant vat of good humor. And horses. The neighbors neighed mightily about the horses, but alas, the permits went through and there went their neighborhood.
Parking was a breeze, as long as you don’t mind walking a mile in the hot sun and the mud that comes after 3 days of torrential rain.
We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly, dressed in our variations on highlander, leper, or American kid themes. A sword cane was purchased, several performances including swordfights and jousts taken in, and traditional faire fare such as funnel cake, sausage onna bun, and lemonade were consumed. The only hiccup was in the gimp department – one of our troupe has suffered a broken foot, and the crutches were torture on the hilly mud. I ran to the nearest Home Depot to get a garden cart for to tow the injured youngster, which extended our stay by 3 hours.
I highly recommend the faire, it’s still going on for another week or so. If you’re passing through, I’d be happy to go again and show you the sights.
And that’s all the news I’m printing for today, as supper is about to be on (hey, it’s only 9:13 PM). Ask me how to make killer hummus, sour cream apple pie, or Chicken Saag if you like, they’re the best recent recipes I have.
PS – Shrinking Piggies
keep on truckin’! If I don’t make halfway to goal by next week, I may be sporting some additional baldness!
PPS – Wordsmiths Unlimited
has a wee writing challenge for you, go write something! You have until Tuesday!
I’ve been waiting around for something to write about, since my daily life isn’t all that newsworthy most days. Of course, this being a blog means I can blather anytime about anything and nobody will arrest me. But today is extra special, and it displaces the rant I was brewing about douchey people. Which is OK, since I have to see some of these people from time to time and perchance they could stumble by here and become even more douchey toward me, which wouldn’t make me happy and lead to more blog posts and further douchieness until eventually my little corner of the world looks like Palestine after the Palestinians got there, and who wants that? Nobody, that’s who.
This humble reporter is writing from a cozy 56 degree office. Why so chilly on a chill rainy day, you ask? Well, pull up a Snuggie and I’ll tell you the story. We were snug as bugs in a duvet, just beginning to stir from a long winter’s nap (went to bed around 9 last night), and it was still dark outside. Which is as you’d expect at 5 or so during Daylight Savings Time. I shuffled out to turn up the heat a bit, brush my teeth, and brew some coffee. Just then, the lovely Tiff came out, wrinkled her nose, and asked if I smelled smoke. Why, yes I did, now that you mention it – something like a fried circuit, which is an aroma I know pretty well. We pointed our noses into every corner of the house and tried to find the source. I felt around the piles of electronic stuff in the teevee rack and the computer desk, checked lights and fans and cell phone chargers and toasters and everything that plugs in. Nothing was hot or particularly smelly. But the odor wasn’t going away.
Finally, after a half hour of searching, including waving flashlights around the roof and crawlspace, I called the fire department’s non-emergency number and described what was going on. “I don’t think it’s an emergency, but we can smell smoke in the kitchen,” I told the operator. She said she’d have someone check it out. Two minutes (!) later, emergency-types were showing up. The first one on the scene was a cop, who couldn’t seem to locate our address and went to the end of the block looking on the wrong side of the street. He didn’t notice my flashlight waving in his window. Moments later, the fire chief pulled up and I told him we’d called, and repeated my message to the dispatcher. Then a flock of sirens rounded the bend and two fire engines whirred up the street, spilling out fully equipped firefighters as they squeaked to a stop. A dozen large men with helmets and SCBA gear and boots and coats were looking intently at the house, while a captain came inside to investigate. The neighbor across the street stood on his porch to shout/ ask if we were alright, and lights came on in another house down the block. By this time the young men o’ the house had been rustled up and watched with bleary eyes while people trouped in and out of the living room.
The captain said he smelled cinnamon. That’s nicer than some smells you could have in a house, but we hadn’t called the fire department because of potpourri. Failing to locate any smoke or fire, he sent a guy to fetch an infrared camera. It didn’t work, so they fetched another one. I peered over the firefighter’s shoulder as he pointed it around, looking for bright spots – indications of fire behind walls. He was very interested in the alarm clock, which Tiff turned on its face so as not to bother her with unimportant things like the time. It wasn’t the problem, but it was lots warmer than the rest of the room. A complete scan of all the rooms and the electrical panel turned up a whole basket of nothing.
They asked if the heat was working, and it had been all night – although we did have 2 outfits come to quote a replacement unit. The last time we had it serviced, the technician said the heat exchanger was getting thin, and our brand of package unit was known for not lasting very long. It’s 10 years old, so he said we could count on having to replace it in the next year or so. The captain asked us to turn up the heat to see if everything was OK, while a few firefighters were outside to see what it did. The furnace fired up, the exhaust fan whooshed to life, but no air was moving in the house. Then the smell came back. Everyone nodded agreement and wrinkled their noses, because now we had a stunning bouquet of electrical smoke. Apparently the blower fan has jammed, causing the motor to burn up.
I apologized for making everyone get all dressed up for nothing, but all I talked to assured us that it was no problem and this is what they are here for. One guy said he’d rather have busy days and quiet nights, but it doesn’t work out like that – and the problem we had is something they’ve seen about 8 times in the last year. Everyone who showed up was very professional and it was evident they took things seriously. Wake Forest’s Finest were happy to go back to the station, and we were happy they didn’t have to use the axes or hoses they brought along.
We get a new furnace on Tuesday. Good thing we have lots of blankets, as it’s not supposed to be 70 degrees again in the next week…