The Last Man Standing

My last remaining grandparent died last night.

It seems unreal. I've always thought of my grandfather as a grumpy but well-meaning giant. A Giant.

And he was old and so far as I can tell he's had a good life but all the same it means goodbye.

And what does goodbye really mean when there won't ever be a next time?

Quote #42

The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found.

Calvin Trillin (1935 - )

Gelukkige Verjaardag Mama!

Merry Christmas

I fear that may have reached the age at which all festive activities become obligatory circus acts predictable from beginning to the end. From this not necessarily follows that the occasion is an unpleasant one, merely that I could think of activities as pleasant with the added bonus of being cost-and frustrationless.

Have I become to critical of family traditions? Or am I just grumpy for the lack of snow? Or am I longing for a childhood when christmas was something magical? I'll deny any charges whenever they are launched at me and take this opportunity to wish everyone a pleasant Yule-Tide.

Gift Basket

A little present from Mom and Paps. Includes:

Gift Certificate for my most hated bookshop chain.
Bottle of Home Brew Port
Bottle of Home Brew Coffee Schnapps
Bottle of Home Brew Mint liqueur
Home Made Chocolate Spread
Home Made Jam in the flavours: melon, pear-lemon, pumpkin, apple.
Pot of Honey flavoured with walnuts.

Editorial note: Simply because I now have a bottle of port doesn't mean you have to be at mu doorstep around 8pm for a drink and after dinner chat, but should you be so you'd be welcome.

A sign of the times

And grave they may be.


Either I or the world must have gone mad, if the least blogative of my friends manage a higher post-per-week score than me. But what have I to say?

There are of course the occasional sex fantasies starring alternatingly Mr. Gorgeous and Fishstick and sometimes both.
My younger sister has landed herself a new boyfriend, who though not my type may find little resistance in getting my approval for the match; he looks decent, he looks forward to meeting us (a sure sign of madness, which I cannot but like) and will soon enter the army (read: will soon be a man in uniform).
And last but not least it's the holiday season, if nothing else I should be wishing every single reader joy and uhm merriness.

Lasagne or ...

I was very very tempted only yesterday to claim a computer and rant rant rant on the lack of consideration so often professed by my closest relations. Alas, I was already late for a friendly gathering with mucho food and liquor. As I walked there on hardly adequate shoes and downright angry (as some passers by might have concluded from my muffled mutterings)my feelings were by no means improving, all of which melted however once I was seated near a not unhandsome dark-haired man- though it might also have been the lasagne.

Today, I have been, despite still inadequately shoed in windy rainy circumstances, felt well. Quite well. Untill the utterings of blonde drove me in the direction of my usual MHM*.Which only goes to show that, though a man might make me happy, he probably won't.

*Man Hating Modus

Parents and the ventilation of your bedroom

It is 30 something degrees, I open my bedroom window as to ensure the merest bit of fresh air and go downstairs in search of shade. Later that day my parents ask me to accompany them to the pick-up of some new furniture. As it here concerns my furniture I agree, run upstairs to get my handbag and we're off.

Or so I think. By the time my dad starts the car my mom spots the open window. She so tells me. I reply 'It's not going to rain, is it?' Which is of course not good enough to convince either parent that in the period of absence of tops 1,5 hour a clear blue sky, a very hot sun and a less than 20% humidity could change into a hailstorm.

As a result I ran up the stairs, closed my window and came back home to find my room at the comfortable temperature of 52°C. A good thing being boiled alive slowly is one of my lesser known hobbies.

Crocs

Only just have I and the white princess plotted the end of the vile things, or I'm back home to find my mother wearing them and my father seriously contemplating buying a pair for himself. What have I done to deserve this.

Parents and Your Mail

Imagine having 99% of your regular mail delivered at home. Home as in 'the place where your parents live'. They open all the mail that doesn't explicitly state on the front '100% confidential'- they will leave you to open these few but try to read over you shoulders or wink and nudge over dinner until you practically shove it under their noses to prove you DON'T have a secret lover. Then they phone you tell you, you received mail and what was the content. Then when you go home for the weekend they tell you here is you mail with all the envelopes (not even carefully) opened and filling you in with the details while you are trying to read it for yourselves. The following day after you have put your letters back in 'your' wooden incoming mail-box, they will ask 'Did you read all of those?'. *sigh*

Could be that I'm overly criticizing but my bet is on it that I could tolerate my parents a lot better if they stopped trying to know everything about me. It might for example inspire me to trust them and make me feel comfortable about telling things that they now try to find out in ways that are rather invasive towards my privacy.