Tuesday, Nov. 24, 2009
Dear Diary:

"Oh you can do that," I said to the spousal unit, "but if you do, you're a dead man."

Our 35th wedding anniversary is coming up next month, just before Christmas. For some unfathomable reason, 35 is considered the coral anniversary. Is that because long marriages often shipwreck on the reefs of life?

I am less than enthusiastic about a coral marker for the big three-five. Can you tell?

The spousal unit has been pestering me for gift suggestions. I have hinted that a gift certificate for a place in Ontario that sells water garden plants would not be remiss. Well, maybe, hint would imply more subtlety than was used. I think the actual words were, "Buy me a gift certificate for water lilies."

He has been less than excited by that. It feels too mundane to him.

Fine.

I haven't been able to come up with a Plan B, because, well, I want water lilies. Ounce for ounce, they are only slightly less expensive than gold. They are beautiful and extravagant and have I mentioned that I want water lilies?

Just checking.

Last night I was reading the Lifehacker feed when a post came up about splitting wood and the benefits of a wood splitting wedge called a "wood grenade". If there is one thing the spousal unit and I have done a lot of over our lives, it's splitting firewood.

Anything that makes our woodsplitting lives easier and better is a source of everlasting joy and happiness. I called the spousal unit in to read the article. I could see that the wood grenade was setting off all his bells and whistles. A new tool for a man who loves tools. Plus, it was less than $10.

Then he got that look on his face that told me he was about to pull my chain. Hard. "I should get you a wood grenade for our wedding anniversary."

That was when I said he could purchase a wood grenade as an anniversary present, but that it would have a direct impact on his longevity. I believe the message has registered.

D. is back safe and sound from Afghanistan, looking thinner and older than he should. Prince Charles inspected his regiment, The Black Watch, just a few days after he landed back in Montreal. D's initial homecoming was a flurry of military spit and polish and, well, skirts.

The Black Watch in Canada still wears its kilts on dress occasion, you see. I can't imagine what a disjoint it much have been. For months he's been lugging an 80 pound backpack of equipment plus wearing body armour in a place where 50C (122F) was common and 25C (77F) felt balmy.

Then presto change-o there he was back in a Montreal autumn in a skirt. Boy howdy, that has to be whiplash inducing.

D's dad is an avowed cynic, deeply anti-royalist, so I was set back on my heels when he said that the Prince's concern, compassion and understanding of the soldiers knocked him out. Prince Charles has a new fan. Who knew?

It's so good to see D home safe and sound and to see his dad so happy, so relieved. Christmas came early for that family.

We've had record warm temperatures this November, which is disconcerting. I feel as if I should be doing something outside, but it's ten minutes to winter so there's nothing to be done.

The yard is cleaned up, the gardens are dormant, and we already have next year's firewood split, stacked and drying.

I could do housework, I suppose.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I'm such a kidder.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 143 miles.

Going Nowhere Collaboration

Goal for 2009: 500 miles


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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