Nov 11, 2011

Love is Blindness

Eager to get my paws on the 20th birthday reissue of U2's electro-pop, Achtung Baby, which features covers by artists like Patti Smith, Damien Rice, Nine Inch Nails, and Depeche Mode. In the meantime, I'm listening to, and loving, Jack White's howling version of "Love is Blindness." Thought you might enjoy it, too. Happy Friday!

Jack White Love is Blindness

Nov 10, 2011

Irish Farmers Calendar 2012


It's about that time again. That time when you start talking, and thinking, about next year. I was trying to coordinate schedules with a friend recently and was horrified when we settled on a date in January. January! It feels like it should be ages away, but it's a month-and-a-half (and we all know December really doesn't count as a month).

That means holiday gift time is like five minutes away (and gift shopping time was five weeks ago). Sigh, I can't even wrap my head—never mind snowflake-painted paper—around the big gifts on my list yet, so I'm focusing on the straggler gifts for friends and coworkers—the itty-bitty things that drive me batty because I always leave them 'til the last minute. I'm delighted to see that the Irish Farmers Calendar is back to save the gift-giving day with another calendar filled with shirtless and sexy, pasty-white Irish farmers. I can't think of a better gift for a friend than the gift of a half-dressed Irishman in wellies; it's also the gift of a little giggle and a smile every day next year (as well as a donation to Bóthar).


If you'd like to get to know the farmers a little better, you might enjoy this clip of a few of the lads (and some of their mammies) on The Late Late Show.



 
Order a copy at FarmerCalendar.com and start looking forward to plans in January!

Nov 7, 2011

Fog


I had my head(ache) checked last week. I have a new doctor so we had to start with the basics. How old are you? she asked. Thirty-five, I said. Okay, she said. No you're not, said my youngest, annoyed he'd have to sit through chit chat before we got to the this-is-going-to-pinch part. Oh wait, I said, I'm thirty-six ...  I think. Or am I turning thirty-six in February? ...  wow, maybe I haven't been asked since my last birthday? ... or maybe I'm in denial? ... uhm, let me see ... I was born in 1975. I proceeded to do the math on my fingers while the doctor looked on unsmiling like a bouncer at a club I shouldn't be trying to get into. I wondered if the receptionist would tell her that I had hesitated when writing the date (2011 or 2012?) on my paperwork at the front desk. Okay, I told her, I can now confirm that I am indeed thirty-six. Hey, happy birthday to me!
If she had smiled I might have told her that if I'd wanted to lie about my age, I would have lied myself older for a cheap wow-you-really-don't-look-your-age compliment, like I do when I go to hairdressers and I need all the help I can get in the harsh light. But she didn't smile. 
Where are you from? she asked through her nose, her voice pinched by the serious glasses resting there. Trick question even when you do know your age. Where am I from or where do I live? She stopped scribbling (words like 'psychotic' and 'neurotic') in my file and took a hard look at me. I looked back at her and wondered if there's a hotline to report runaway nuns.