www.wryandginger.com

From there you can reach the W&G products, read about my shortcomings, and more.

So what are doing still here? Get your ass over there and bookmark it or whatever the crud it is you kids do these days.

Um, yeah. What he said.

This space is being given a streamlining spruce up by my sister, otherwise known as www.timeontaskva.com

It won’t be a big change except that the domain wryandginger.com will now bring you here, rather than the Etsy shop.  Once here, you will be able to choose from a lovely selection of posts about my various shortcomings, shop at the Etsy store, or even go to the other shop, wherein you will find a selection of W&G gear. Yes….you may wear me on your person.

So some of the links may be a bit spacey for a day or so and then all should be well again.

1. He Can’t Act.

Just saying you are an actor does not make it so. In the same way that Shania Twain can use the phrase “…as an artist…” and then produce masterpieces with lines such as “you’re a fine piece of real estate and I’m gonna get me some land,”  saying it simply doesn’t make it so.  Sean Connery plays Sean Connery in every film, and since he actually is Sean Connery, well… big deal. Please stop awarding him medals and prizes for playing his natural, gobby, misogynistic, two dimensional self.  It’s no stretch. For Christ’s sake, he doesn’t even bother to learn accents. I hear Meryl Streep offered to give him some tips one night at an Oscar gala, and he dealt her a hook punch that sent her ass over tea kettle into the buffet, leaving her visibly stunned. What effect such a punch may have had on her is unknown, but two days later she signed on for Prairie Home Companion. True story.*

2. The Above Mentioned Misogynistic Streak

At repeated points in his adult life, Mr. Connery has mentioned that there are confrontational, bloody-minded women who simply “want a smack.”  Well, if we’re working on the premise that people who annoy us continually should be dealt with physically, may I suggest sir that you keep an eye on the old pound of plums. For under this new system, I will feel free to kick yours back up far enough that they will only compound the difficulties people have in understanding your “Irish” accent, circa The Untouchables.  In deference to your Only Hit Her With An Open Hand policy, I will boot you only with the flat top of my foot, and not a pointy-toed shoe.

3. The Sharks in the Swimming Pools.

I've just wet myself trying to upload this as it is the scariest picture known to man.

I know what you are thinking…shouldn’t I be blaming my sister for this? After all, it was she who, upon noticing my enjoyment of the hotel swimming pool while we were traveling one summer, said “Hey what’s that shadow down there? Do you think it’s a shark?”  YOU KNOW I AM MYOPIC, KATHY! To the near-sighted, sharks are everywhere!  So, yes, on the surface she looks culpable. But  if you dig a little deeper, I think you will find that the very premise of a shark in a swimming pool is ridiculous. If there were a sliding scale of ridiculous, rainbow-flavored magician Doug Henning would be on silly-ridiculous end of the scale, and sharks in the swimming pool would be on the James Bond-ridiculous end of the scale. And as the best loved film version of Bond, Connery is clearly left holding the bag for that crazily intense feeling that can overwhelm a person as they swim toward the ladder which will take them out of the pool and to safety…or will it? Can you swim fast enough Cookie? Can you swim faster than a shark?  DID SOMETHING JUST BRUSH YOUR FOOT? DAMN YOU CONNERY!

4. This:

Zed the Brutal displays his tenuous front-knot.

This is the one exception to my love of hairy chested men. However, it’s also the shining example of exactly how an actor of this man’s caliber should have spent his career: in thigh high boots and a man-kini of bullets. Would that we lived in such a perfect world.

*Patently not true.

I shivered all thru the making of this.

The size of the grape bunch relative to the arachnid should give you some insight into my suspicions that the average person just does not notice a spider in any given situation, though its presence is ever so clear to me.

Fat, tasty tubes of ground meat, stuffed in pig intestines. Oh yeeeah.

Great – all great! It was a great afternoon. Everyone showed a natural aptitude for sausage stuffing. (Well, everyone but me. You don’t have to tell me how surprised you are right now – I was equally shocked.  )

What stopped it from being a stupendous afternoon? We had all the ingredients for a record breaking day of good times: ground meat, casings, machinery, booze, more booze, ribald sausage humor. How did this not end up being a day to end all days?

Pork Death Rays.

As it turns out, one among us (who will remain unnamed) had a lingering paranoia about unwashed hands and pork. I don’t want to belabour just how hung up Greg was about this, but Jesus Henry Rollins he never fucking let up. And it’s not as if we weren’t washing our hands, he just wasn’t there to witness every single scrub. Take two steps toward him and he would shriek at us, like an early pork warning system. Def-pork 4!

But I shouldn’t judge. Everyone has their thing. As some of you may know, I hate spiders like they are Hitler. In fact, I suspect that if I walked into my bathroom and found Hitler  perched on my toilet, copy of Mein Kampf  in hand, I would not jump,  wee a bit, gag and have a full body shiver all at once.   That happens most times I find the tub-spider.  Hang on…did I just say “I shouldn’t judge”? Oh ha ha ha ! Rich! No, I will judge.  The world we live in has become too paranoid about cleanliness. A few germs here or there never hurt anyone. Trichinosis? I laugh in the face of those little flukes that could get all up in my gut causing nausea, heartburn, dyspepsia, and diarrhea from 2–7 days after infection, followed by edema, muscle pain, fever, swelling around the eyes,  and splinter hemorrhages in the nails, not to mention ataxia or respiratory failure and even death. Ha HA! Why when I was a kid, I remember we used to play a game called Lick the Chop. It was much like tag, except no one ran or tagged each other – we just stood at the counter and licked whatever was waiting to be cooked for dinner.

Good times.

We need to consider whether or not we are coddling our digestive tracts these days. Maybe a good spell of salmonella or a hardy parasitic infection is just nature’s way of culling the herd.

Anyway, I tell you all this simply so I could have a venue to post the below doodle. I made it special for Greg Poirier. Feel free to print it off and hang it over your sink.

Le French intellectual.

I say this not to give you the heebie jeebies picturing my rather drawn out and honestly humdrum sexual initiation. I just want to point out that I am not completely devoid of cognitive spark before  I cover the five things that escape me. You may need to pop back up here periodically and gaze into the très smart eyes of M. Foucault. He’s piercing you with les smarts.

Things That Escape Me.

1. Radio Waves.  Before the geeks out there rush to explain this to me, I have had it explained. Repeatedly. I get how simple it is. In fact,  its simplicity is what freaks me out. Continuous waves of information pulsing by, through and near us all the time.  Seriously, get your head around this…a transmitter miles away sends out radio waves which are picked up by the radio by your bed, which converts them into music.   What.    The.   Hell.   Music out of thin air. TV shows out of thin air. Thin air. You can’t see them and they are there all the time. We are drowning in radio waves. They go through walls. RIGHT THROUGH WALLS.  I need to move on to #2 before I give in to my urge to crawl into my closet for a few days.

2. The Backlash Suffered by Jerry Lee Lewis for Marrying Myra Brown. Look, where he was from, and at that time, it was not entirely unusual.  Now if his next wife was thirteen, that would be shocking. Because it should be me. ME! I’ve always dreamt of being the next Mrs Lewis. Yes, yes, I know what you are saying…stay away from the guns and swimming pools. Whatever. You be a dream killer, I’ll be a consort to the Killer. As God intended.

3. Why Can’t Dogs Live Longer? I know science can explain this – metabolism etc.  This question comes from that 5-year old part of the brain that just doesn’t get why some things  that are clearly wrong are tolerated by the universe.  I just wish they could live longer.  I miss him.

4. Why Do People Think Their Child is the Baby Jesus Reborn? They aren’t. They can’t be. If every child that was born was that special, how did we all get to be as dull as we are? Look at you? Built any rockets lately? Yeah. Thought so.

5. What’s Up With Boys and Frogs? Boy are always finding new ways to harass frogs. If it’s not a game of “Stun ‘Em” using hockey sticks (oh yes they do), it’s stupid tricks like hypnotism through belly rubs. Honestly, I do not understand the attraction. We played with tadpoles when I was small. Kept them in buckets and watched them grow. Once they became a frog, the attraction ended. But for boys, it seems to become stronger as the frog matures. The amphibious pull becomes too much for them to resist.  Maybe they are simply angry about unrealistic expectations set up for them in the shape of one kissy-faced frog who talked generations of women into thinking they deserved a prince.  A knight in shining armor who will swoop in and make everything all right. A completely fictional and unachievable standard that women buy into even in this day and age. Oh hell, hang on. I may have a thing or two to contribute to that conversation. I need to borrow a hockey stick.

So there it is. The exhaustive list of things that escape me. And by “exhaustive” I mean “I felt some pressure to post something here.”   Please feel free to contact me with your list of things that escape you. And by “feel free” I mean “unless you are offering a foot massage, don’t call me.”

You heard me right. Hairy chested men…I like ‘em.

It seems these days people want to pretend that one of the most obvious signs of passage to adulthood never happened. They shave, wax, laser, and buff off every bit of hair that is not on the top of their head (or just above the eyes – though the maintenance of that is, apparently, an art form all its own. ) Women have done this for yonks, but  men are now firmly on the bandwagon.  The ‘back, crack and sack’ is offered at many reputable waxing salons, and you can see the denuded results on beaches and in celebrities mags at every turn. Women of the millennial generation don’t even seem to know that men come in varieties other than ‘cleanly plucked’.

So today I am coming out, loud and proud.  I DIG HAIRY CHESTED MEN. In fact, I dig hairy legged men, hairy armed men, men with beards even! What’s that? Hairy backed men? Ahhh..yeah..tough call…  NO, NO, I am including them,too!

I came about my preference honestly, and by this I mean

Perfecto!

YEAHHA! I am a child of the eighties. In my day, men kept themselves just as nature intended. The above specimen (who is, BTW, perfect) was my first huge adolescent crush. He, and other men of the day, shaped my preferences. Yet recently, when around other women, I often find myself defending my love of  men who, frankly, look like men. Real men. Men who know that grooming means a  moustache trim, or quick shave BUT NOT BELOW THE NECK!

Now for a bit of science:

The growth of this luxuriant body hair, ladies, is fueled by testosterone. MmmmMMMMmm testosterone. I swear to Christ you can smell some guys oozing it. How is that possible? The testosterone  becomes trapped in the body hair, thus allowing  it to follow these manly men about in a fug of awesomeness.  If the hair is not present on the  body, the testosterone leaks out messily on the surface of the plucked skin, often causing the hairless men to become a bit addled by it. Because they do not understand the scientific consequences of removing this hair, the begin engaging in compensatory behaviours, subconsciously trying to replace the hair with things such as tribal tattoos and Orange Crush-inspired fake tans. I refer you once again to the specimen of perfection above…see any signs that his skin has become a drawing board for the co-opting of other cultures? No you do not. You just see the rug of virility that Mother Nature put there for him – as a gift to you,  ladies. A gift. And if our mothers taught us anything, it is not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Look him square in the chest.

Chopping scapes with the trusty mezzaluna. Two handed chopping tools are safer for some of us....

Well actually…

1. They are of no use in defending yourself against trendy vampires. It’s just a scape, not a bulb. Stop looking for miracles, tilt your neck and accept that you may be spending eternity sparkling and acting like an angsty, hormonal, pain in the ass 16 yr old. Lucky you.

2. You cannot use them as an adult toy.  I know what you are saying: “Anything, applied with enough vigor and/or repetition can be an adult toy.” Normally that is true, but after exhaustive research and more than a few “focus groups” (at best awkward, at worst involving the authorities*),  I can tell you that is not so.

But you can do many things.  Tonight I got out the mezzaluna (the somewhat frightening instrument in the picture above) and minced some scapes to saute with bacon for an omelette. Pretty marvelous.

Scapes and bacon! Yes, that is a lot of scapes. I live alone, folks.

Scapes are also great for things like soup and pesto, both of which will freeze like a treat – allowing you a little taste of early summer some time later in the year.

Well don’t just sit there…get yourself down to your market and get some scapes!

* And thanks for that Mr. Jorgenson. You could have just taken your $50  and left in a huff, but no we had to go and involve the constabulary.

It was this:

The smock-like  shapeless, patterned blouse.

I understand the covering of the face, but the smiles? Ladies you have nothing to smile about. Those shapeless smock shirts are bringing you down.  They are bringing our whole gender down, robbing us of any semblance of some of the best things that makes us women. They steal away shape,  sensuality,  natural feminine lines.  They replace these with stripey lines in aqua, lavender and ecru. Try as you like to make these look fun in this picture – and as models you are working for a living. I can respect that. But you’re making this appealing to someone – not just someone….a roomful of women apparently. And they are buying it.

The more I looked around the room, the more I realised that all of the smock-shirt wearing ladies were of a similar age. An age not that far off mine, really. That’s when I began to sweat a bit. These are smart women – thinking women. And yet here they sit, in the smock-like stripey blouse.  I am a smart woman, a thinking woman. How did the smock-like stripey shirt get past them?  If it got past them, surely it will be able to steal past me.   Will the day come when I am in a changing room,  running my hand over  the shiny synthetic surface of the dart-free, pleat-free, shape-free front of a blouse that is obscuring the very thought of me having breasts, thinking “This will do”?  Will my will to be a woman ease out of my pores like a final, dying gasp?*

When that day comes – and judging by the numbers in that room it is coming – just put me out to pasture on a cruise ship somewhere, won’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll have picked up a set or two of these:

Christ I just hope I can muster up a smile.

*Yes, I may have slightly overstated the many complex things that constitute being a woman. You may take that as a measure of my fear of the smock-like stripey shirt.

I always wanted to go out in a blaze of guns, or even hurtling off a cliff in a convertible, holding hands with a good but mostly platonic female friend.   Mostly.

Not from an eye bump. I’m scared .  Scared and without medical assistance .

For all the chance I have of getting help, I may as well go live in a ditch in the Sudan or something. Not to pick on the Sudan…I’m just reaching for a place where I feel I could not get  medical attention easily,  and they fit the bill. Unless they have a really friendly universal health policy of which I am unaware. And  I imagine the desert conditions  make the ditches drier and less disgusting than here, not quite so squelchy and full of wet filth.  Hot and parched for sure, but that’s not what I am looking for.

How about a ditch in Poland or somewhere – I think it’s grey, a bit drizzly there.  Some nice drizzle could really pick up a  layer of wet filth. YES POLAND.  I will go to Poland and immerse my eye in ditch water so as to speed my inevitable demise from ocular lumption.

Or , OR, one of my many doctor friends* could hook me up with a decent family physician. Could pull one of their widely lauded connections and help a lumpy-eyed sister out. Boy, it’s times like these when you really find you who your friends are.  (I again refer you to the *)