1. Thelma and Bleu Cheese An unhappily-married woman gets fed up with, well, everything, so she hops in a car and decides to just drive places and see what happens. All of her girlfriends have mani-pedi appointments that they don’t dare break, so Thelma is forced to take along a bottle of salad dressing to […]
I found this in my search terms: narcissist piano. I did the mental equivalent of shifting from one foot to the other while I mulled that over. What does it mean??? Is it a typo? Is the searcher wondering if pianists are narcissists? Is that an actual type of piano?
I mean, this is the sort of thing that keeps me up at night.
So I did what anyone would do and googled it. At first, google stared stupidly at me. Then it coughed up narcissistic jazz, narcissistic piano bench and Ryan O’Neal.
Does Ryan O’Neal play narcissistic jazz while sitting on a narcissistic piano bench? Is Ryan O’Neal a narcissist? Or is it just his piano? Nope. I think that might be Billy Joel. (Get it? Nudge nudge. Just me and my old piano?)
This is so confusing. Is it an alien piano? It grew up on Mars eating Matt Damon’s poop potatoes?
Oh – I know! It’s a zombie piano. The lid opens and it takes a big drooly bite out of your sheet music.
And I couldn’t find my blog on that google search either so I have no idea why the narcissistic piano wound up in my terms.
The word piano means soft.
And narcissists aren’t soft. Not unless it gets them something. And then they’re hard.
Could the searcher have been looking for something like “narcissists who are soft” and since his first language is Italian, and he’s just learning English, it came out as narcissist piano?
Maybe I’m going a little far with that one …
My ex-narcissist played the piano.
Apparently he would have been Mozart’s doppelganger if he’d had the right breaks in life.
Or something pretentious like that.
I arranged for the piano tuner to come by and spiff up my piano so that the narcissist could play it. It had been in storage but I got it out for him because naturally, the narcissist didn’t have a piano of his own. Most doppelganger Mozarts don’t have their own pianos. True. It’s a fact.
When I came home from work, the narcissist told me that the piano was done. As in finished. Kaput. Toast. Ready for the big dirt nap.
The tuner had told him that the sound board was crumbling to bits. The carpenter ants were coming to take it away.
Then, a few months later, the narcissist asked me for a new piano. I briefly considered it but then decided not to. My financials were feeling the strain of being married to a doppelganger Mozart.
Later, after I had divorced him, I checked the piano myself. It has some little cracks, but everything I’ve read says that this is not a big issue. It sounds okay.
Hummm. I think the narcissist just wanted a new piano.
So there you have it. If someone else googles narcissist piano, there will be an answer.
And a cute picture of Justin Trudeau.
What do you think it means?
At this time of year, there’s always a fight with the fruitcake gods … or whatever, so I dug up this old piece 😉 from three years ago.
I have an uneasy relationship with fruitcakes.
You know, the stuff you eat. Well, I suppose you eat it. I mean, from what I’ve heard, no one eats it. It gets shoved into the back of some cupboard, or into the corner of a freezer, and there it stays until is discovered, like an Indiana Jones artifact. You have to dig it out with a pick.
And by then, it will have acquired the density of a hockey puck.
But my questions is, if so many people hate it, why does it keep showing up on store shelves? Somebody must be buying this dreck.
And what about the people who make them?
If you stop and think about it, there’s an awful lot of fruitcake around at this time of the year, and if you can find one person who says he or she likes it, then you’re farther…
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In July, we sold our house in preparation for a move next year. We packed up all our stuff and trucked it to a rental. I whined about that a couple of posts ago.
However, life is not always orderly nor predictable (nor should it be). In late August, the opportunity for a great job came up. I interviewed, and a couple of days later I accepted their offer.
The job was 1000 km. away in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia. Wine country. Some of the best wine in the world.
I was on my way west (even though I’m not a young man) inside of a week with my car packed to the rafters, my poor Rudy dog parked in a kennel and my dear M left on the prairies to finish up a work contract.
Now I live near all those wine grape vines you see in the top photo.
After finding a long-stay motel to reside in and starting my new job on August 31, I immediately got sick. Go figure.
There was sniffing, snorting, blowing and wheezing. A cough that came out of my bootlaces. A jackhammer headache that doubled in intensity every time I coughed. Aches and pains in my muscles that could have been caused by digging the equivalent of the English Channel tunnel but weren’t. I sounded like a four-pack-a-day, 60-year smoker. If I laughed, I broke into a cough. Sneezing turned into a chain of mini-eruptions with attendant lava flow. I was feverishly hot and cold at the same time.
And through it all, I kept working. New job and all that. I was the queen of hand sanitizer, giant tissues and elbow coughing.
Then it started to go away.
I started to feel better.
I started to get cocky. I’m like that.
Then I started to feel really, really bad. I woke up one morning feeling like I needed to get the bolt in my neck tightened.
Which would have been all fine if my name had been Frankenstein.
But it’s not.
I decided to investigate by taking a look in the bathroom mirror.
I looked like I was wearing a turtleneck sweater with an inflation device inserted into the neck part.
The side of my neck was swollen from my ear to my shoulder and the pain that accompanied it was intense. My tonsils were swollen. My ear ached and crackled. I could hear everything inside my mouth but nothing outside.
A secondary infection had taken up residence. Yum.
It’s still not gone but I’m about to start my second round of antibiotics, for which I am eternally (and internally) grateful.
Nevertheless Continue reading Changing, Moving, Growing
I’m not a morning person, but even if I was, I would still love coffee. Strong coffee. Turkish coffee. Arabic coffee. Cafe mocha. To me, coffee has all the nuance and complexity of a good wine.
Unless it’s plonk coffee.
And I know that this is some sort of national heresy, but when I think plonk, Tim Horton’s springs to mind. Well, it doesn’t spring. Their coffee has all the kick of grandpa’s walker.
Coffee is one of the best times of the day, even if it does mean that I’m propped up somewhere instead of sleeping.
Coffee has done a lot for me, too. For one thing, it has kept me awake enough to be employed. For another, it’s probably saved me from countless charges of road rage and the like.
Without coffee, I’d be unemployed and in jail. It’s amazing what coffee can do.
But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become sensitive to it. Which is weird, because it seems like everything else is desensitizing. I don’t see as well. I don’t hear as well. Calories arrive and take up permanent residence anywhere they can find a squat. I consider it to be a good day if I don’t wake up to another sag.
It used to be that coffee would never keep me awake, no matter what time I drank it. Then I couldn’t drink it in the evenings. Then I noticed that the afternoons were problematic. Then I noticed that it could make me a little shaky. Drinking coffee all day became a thing of the past.
Mornings, though. Those were sacrosanct.
So this morning while sitting at work, I noticed a slight tremor in my hands. I also felt a little jittery. As I reached for my coffee, I realized that I was consuming my fourth large cup. Could my hands and the coffee be related???
My cup holds a quarter of a litre.
Oh oh. Was I on my way to drinking a litre of coffee a morning??? Oi.
I thought about it. I thought, I don’t usually drink this much coffee.
Then I thought, yes I do.
And no, I don’t mean poo-poop-de-do civet coffee, either.
I’m not giving up coffee. I’ll cut back, but I’m not giving it up.
While I was thinking about it, I decided that there’s some other stuff I’m not giving up.
Maybe the odd cigar.
You’ll have to pry this stuff from my cold shaking hands.
Well okay, okay. Maybe I will have to sort of give it up at some time.
But never completely.
What will you never give up?
So I found this in my search terms, along with “narcissist bullshitter” and “the narcissist cookbook.” Could be something funny here – do you think?
Are narcissists bullshitters? Do they bullshit about cooking? Or are they busy cooking up bullshit? With Yop yogourt? Yuck. Now there’s an unattractive visual. Maybe the searcher was looking for Gordon Ramsay’s cookbook.
My ex-narcissist was the biggest bullshitter when it came to his cooking abilities. And everything else. But when it came to recipes for the narcissistic line, he was yops, er, tops.
What recipes would The Narcissist Cookbook contain? Let’s take a quick stroll through a potential table of contents.
1. Appetiser – The “I love you because you’re perfect” Smoked Oysters.
2. Pasta – The “I can’t live without you, precious” Farfalle with Creamy Truffles.
3. Meat – The “I really need a quick loan and will pay you right back” well done flank steak.
4. Fish – The “will you marry me” Cedar-Planked Salmon with Arugula Salad.
5. Palate Cleanser – The “you’re such an annoying person but anyway will you buy this suit for me” Eye-Watering Lemon Sorbet.
6. Dessert – The “I’ve fallen out of love with you but you still need to buy these tires for my car” Curdled Creme Brulee.
7. Cheese Plate – The “I know you want a divorce but you’re gonna have to pay me” Squishy Grape and Smelly Rotten Cheese Platter.
8. Very Expensive Civet Coffee with Petit fours.
9. Free-at-last Digestive (recipe not included in cookbook but necessary in order to recover from meal-induced heartburn. Don’t worry. It goes away.)
10. (Next day) Tummy-soothing Oatmeal with Brown Sugar, best consumed with good friend.
Do you have any recipes to add? 🙂
This post has been prompted by the wonderful Aussa Lorens who in turn got this idea from the equally wonderful Samara. Check out the 21 things that they irrationally love as well as their funny, irreverent, witty and flat-out amazing posts about all sorts of things.
So, without further ado, the 21 things that I irrationally love:
1. Red. I love red. Red shoes. Red pillows. Red cars. Red scarves. Red jackets. Red airplanes. Fun red is always good red.
2. Chocolate (and Nutella!). Whither thou goest, chocolate. When I do without it for a while I appreciate it even more. 🙂
3. Star Trek, et. al. Crazy about it, ever since I was a child. But not the last series, the one with Scott Bakula in it. With that crew, it sort of went from being deliberately campy/cheesy to just being kind of dumb.
4. Fast cars. I would love to own a Mustang. Sigh.
5. Pasta. With almost any kind of sauce. I sometimes dream about pasta. The ultimate comfort food.
6. Red wine. And not because it’s red, because I like white wines, too. But red wine – well, what can I say? Yum! Especially the wines of British Columbia’s Okanagan valley.
7. Steak. Especially with red wine. With a side of pasta. And a brownie for dessert? Yesss! (Have you noticed how a lot of this is about food?)
8. Airplanes. Love those, too. In fact, am completely passionate about them. Which works out really well because I’m a pilot.
9. Ocean beaches. Love ’em. Love walking on them. Sitting on them. Digging in them … and also love the
10. Ocean. Make that any ocean.
11. Cigars. I used to occasionally smoke them, but not any more. Still love the smell, though.
12. Laughing like a mad fool at stuff that other people think is rather lame.
13. Original Craftsman houses. Especially the red brick ones. They have character, they have personality, they have charm.
14. Fine line pens. Black. I really dislike having to use anything else.
15. Jacuzzi tubs. Not the outdoor hot tubs. The indoor ones.
16. Scarves. I’m not very talented at tying them, but I love them!
17. Italy. I adore all things Italian, not just their pasta and red wine. 🙂
18. Ireland. What a great country!
19. Countries that start with “I.” (Just kidding.) 🙂 Handmade pottery. I’m actually a little potty about pottery.
20. Museums. I love ’em.
21. Art galleries. Love these, too.
What are some of your irrational loves? Are you willing to do a post? Would love to read other “21” lists!