Showing posts with label otters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label otters. Show all posts
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Griddle Me This
It was Canada's birthday last Saturday (my flatmate, not the country itself) and thus we partied as usual, in a fashion that Lionel Richie himself would have undoubtedly blessed. There were a number of conversations during the course of the night which have stuck in my brain, so I'll do my best to recount them here.
Please bear in mind that by this point in the evening, we had partaken of "brah-bombs" which were basically Jaegerbombs but in small wine glasses (the only clean receptacles left at this point) and so we cannot be entirely judged on the below. In addition, more than one person present was wearing an animal onesie.
JohnBoy: So, there's a guy who walks around Edinburgh dressed as a giraffe.
I confess that this may not have been the start of this conversation but it was certainly the point at which I started paying attention. I believe that it might have been suggested that the tallest person in the room should be wearing a giraffe onesie in order to fit in with the rest.
Alana: What, like... he's wearing a giraffe print shirt or something?
JohnBoy: No, actually dressed as a giraffe. Like, a giraffe costume. Er. His face is in the neck and the giraffe head is sort of... up there (gesturing vaguely above his own head). And he wheels a little suitcase around behind him.
Alana: Huh. I see a guy sometimes - nice briefcase, expensive dress shoes, and a Pikachu onesie.
Me: (chomping through my second toasted crumpet, because Jaeger makes me crave snacks) I am clearly working in the wrong end of town.
JohnBoy: You've got to wonder if they change for work into business clothes. And if they do, why not wait til they get home to change back into the onesies/costumes?
Me: (through a mouthful of crumpet) I really want an otter onesie. With a clam upon the tummy!
JohnBoy: With a what?
Alana: A clam. On her tummy.
Me: (spraying crumbs everywhere) A CLAM!
JohnBoy: ...I see.
Another friend entered the kitchen at this point and innocently headed towards the sink. In hindsight, this next remark might have been a little over-aggressive, and various bystanders have assured me that she did not even see me standing there, hunched over the toaster like the Gollum of baked goods.
Me: (laser-eyes of death, like those statues in the Neverending Story) HEY. YOU. STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY CRUMPETS.
I'm assured that a protective barrier was formed at that point to shield me and my ever-increasing crumpet rage from the rest of the party. Luckily (for everyone else) this worked until I ran out of crumpets, at which point I simply left the building to go to another birthday and forgot about all of this entirely until the Honey Brahdger reminded me a couple of days later. This in itself is unusual, since the Honey Brahdger rarely remembers anything while drunk, therefore I can only assume that Fate required this blog post to be written, and who am I to argue (or even casually debate) with Fate?
Now please excuse me. I have crumpets to attend to.
Thursday, 9 February 2012
This Is Something FutureOtter Can Deal With
Good morrow, fair otterlings! I do apologise for my lack of recent bloggage. I have in fact been rather busy doing various productive activities (including Yo Momma, who works like a beast of burden and is a credit to Yo Family, furreals). I have started writing again, much to the delight of some and the horror of many, including, I am sure, my immediate family and friends who will be forced to read and give their opinions on my literary endeavours whether they like it or not. I don't know why they are so afraid to do so - it is not like I summon them to my lair and then swivel around in my chair to face them while stroking a menacing looking cat.
Back to the point. I have been writing short stories. I intended to submit some of these to magazines in the hope that someone somewhere would recognise my eccentric brilliance and give me lots of money (my own personal fishmongerer would also be nice, although if they could also monger cheese that would be even better. Note to readers: if you can monger more than one thing, please apply for this position. Sexually graphic applications will be put into a separate pile and considered later) so that I could take a couple of weeks off work to write, or attend a writer's residency somewhere nearby, or even just to go towards the eventual collection which I imagine I would self publish on Kindle for ease of distribution. It is, of course, entirely a coincidence that the residencies I have discovered on the internet all seem to be beside local vineyards.
In any case, I am considering creating a project on Indigogo and asking for donations. However, before I launch myself into what is potentially a stupid idea - and I am patting myself on the back for actually thinking something through for a change instead of charging in like a drunken badger in mating season - I wondered what my readers thought. Perhaps you have been with me since the very first post, or perhaps this is your first time at Wit and Pendulum (and if the latter, please indulge me and go look at some of the previous posts, especially http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/04/dressed-in-little-honey-jackets.html and http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/02/spiders-versus-murderers.html and especially http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/02/parents-parties-and-predicaments.html which will give you more of an idea of what the hell is happening here). The stories I write tend to run along the same lines - slightly dramatic, with a dash of comedy and a soupçon of morality. Essentially if you've enjoyed the blog, you will probably enjoy these too. So please, leave your comments and feedback below. Much like a date, I don't like to ask anything of you (at least not before I've had a chance to ply you with wine and tell you repeatedly that you don't look a day over fabulous) and frankly I find it embarrassing, but here goes.
I shall leave you with a reference to an old blog post regarding misquoted song titles, because apparently among the things you should not do at a somewhat sombre family gathering is point out how you always thought the line from Abba's song Super Trouper was "when I called you last night from Tesco", because it makes everyone in your immediate vicinity laugh so hard that their beverage of choice comes out of their nose. You have been warned.
Back to the point. I have been writing short stories. I intended to submit some of these to magazines in the hope that someone somewhere would recognise my eccentric brilliance and give me lots of money (my own personal fishmongerer would also be nice, although if they could also monger cheese that would be even better. Note to readers: if you can monger more than one thing, please apply for this position. Sexually graphic applications will be put into a separate pile and considered later) so that I could take a couple of weeks off work to write, or attend a writer's residency somewhere nearby, or even just to go towards the eventual collection which I imagine I would self publish on Kindle for ease of distribution. It is, of course, entirely a coincidence that the residencies I have discovered on the internet all seem to be beside local vineyards.
In any case, I am considering creating a project on Indigogo and asking for donations. However, before I launch myself into what is potentially a stupid idea - and I am patting myself on the back for actually thinking something through for a change instead of charging in like a drunken badger in mating season - I wondered what my readers thought. Perhaps you have been with me since the very first post, or perhaps this is your first time at Wit and Pendulum (and if the latter, please indulge me and go look at some of the previous posts, especially http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/04/dressed-in-little-honey-jackets.html and http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/02/spiders-versus-murderers.html and especially http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/02/parents-parties-and-predicaments.html which will give you more of an idea of what the hell is happening here). The stories I write tend to run along the same lines - slightly dramatic, with a dash of comedy and a soupçon of morality. Essentially if you've enjoyed the blog, you will probably enjoy these too. So please, leave your comments and feedback below. Much like a date, I don't like to ask anything of you (at least not before I've had a chance to ply you with wine and tell you repeatedly that you don't look a day over fabulous) and frankly I find it embarrassing, but here goes.
I shall leave you with a reference to an old blog post regarding misquoted song titles, because apparently among the things you should not do at a somewhat sombre family gathering is point out how you always thought the line from Abba's song Super Trouper was "when I called you last night from Tesco", because it makes everyone in your immediate vicinity laugh so hard that their beverage of choice comes out of their nose. You have been warned.
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
The Continuation Of The Human Race
This is a guest post I wrote for Taming Insanity (found here http://www.taminginsanity.com/) yesterday, but I figured I should also include it on my own site. Otters like things to be kept in small neat bundles, where we can keep an eye on them. Imagine the horror if one of my posts was caught fondling one of her posts. The scandal! We'd never hear the end of it. And with that in mind, please enjoy....
Oh, babies. If they were being marketed, the tag would say something like "People, made by people" or perhaps "Too much time on your hands? Oversleeping? Try our new BABY range!" Perhaps that's just how I've seen them for most of my life - as a wailing, screaming, weeing-in-the-supermarket-aisle majority, rather than the adorable burbling minority who undoubtedly never throw soft foods and instead settle for grinning happily at old ladies on the bus - but as I get older, my views are changing somewhat.
My internetfriend Taming Insanity asked (begged, really, and you know I can't resist anyone who makes sad puppy eyes) her fellow bloggers to help her out as she's going to be too busy to post much, what with being heavily pregnant and all. I'm personally grateful - she's populating the planet so I don't have to. Thanks for taking one for the team, bro.
It's not that I don't want to have kids, necessarily - I do like children and am surprisingly good with them (possibly because they think I am one of them and are, in a manner similar to wolves, more inclined to accept me as part of the pack) but I feel like I need a couple of things to happen first. I need to find a woman with child-bearing hips (because I'm shaped like Justin Bieber, if Justin Bieber had an awesome rack and slightly more feminine eyebrows) to birth my litter. I need to give up most of the fun but dangerous stuff I like doing now. And I need to have an actual career instead of a job, preferably involving blogging, otter-related banter or being Laura Dern's wardrobe fitter.
This brings me very briefly to something I saw recently in the local newspaper about Sarah Jessica Parker's new film, probably called I Can't Act But I'm Inexplicably Cast In These Roles Anyway, but I digress. Her character in this film is touted as being a "hard working mother who juggles her lovable kids, her architect husband and her own well-paid investment job". I'll be honest. I was confused. Firstly, quite a lot of people manage to have kids, a partner and a job. Surely there is more to the plot than that? Of course, I'm not fool enough to try to answer that question by actually parting with my money or giving up two precious hours of my life for such drivel, but all the same I'd like to know what happens. Secondly, why is SHE the only one juggling these things? Presumably her husband is also juggling the same amount of pressure - although I hear being an architect is an super easy job, with minimum effort required - unless he's a mostly absent father figure (in which case, she won't need to juggle any part of him, which should at least cut down on her stressful schedule).
In any case, the mention of this Future Baby made me wonder how different its life will be from mine, with a grand total of 26 years between us. He or she will grow up with the internet an as accepted tool of communciation. I didn't start using the internet until I was at high school, which means that I grew up in a time where you generally had to go to a library if you wanted to educate yourself on a specific topic. He or she will grow up with completely different childhood television - missing out on such classics as 'Rainbow', 'Button Moon', 'Fraggle Rock', 'Count Duckula' and so much more. God, how I love Count Duckula. In a platonic way, you know. He's not, like, the Count from 'Sesame Street' or anything, who I've always maintained has a slightly sexy edge to him. It might be the cape, the accent or the casual OCD he displays. Memo to those attempting to date an otter - owning a cape will assist you greatly in the wooing process.
This is all serving to make me feel rather old, and has the odd twin effect of reminding me I haven't done anything stupid lately. (Hmm. I have a pack of napkins, a tub of Golden Syrup and a box of matches in my cupboard. Let's see how inventive I can be) It's a toast to you, Future Baby. Hopefully by the time you're my age, science will have stopped dicking about with medicine and started working on better hoverboards. We can but hope.
Oh, babies. If they were being marketed, the tag would say something like "People, made by people" or perhaps "Too much time on your hands? Oversleeping? Try our new BABY range!" Perhaps that's just how I've seen them for most of my life - as a wailing, screaming, weeing-in-the-supermarket-aisle majority, rather than the adorable burbling minority who undoubtedly never throw soft foods and instead settle for grinning happily at old ladies on the bus - but as I get older, my views are changing somewhat.
My internetfriend Taming Insanity asked (begged, really, and you know I can't resist anyone who makes sad puppy eyes) her fellow bloggers to help her out as she's going to be too busy to post much, what with being heavily pregnant and all. I'm personally grateful - she's populating the planet so I don't have to. Thanks for taking one for the team, bro.
It's not that I don't want to have kids, necessarily - I do like children and am surprisingly good with them (possibly because they think I am one of them and are, in a manner similar to wolves, more inclined to accept me as part of the pack) but I feel like I need a couple of things to happen first. I need to find a woman with child-bearing hips (because I'm shaped like Justin Bieber, if Justin Bieber had an awesome rack and slightly more feminine eyebrows) to birth my litter. I need to give up most of the fun but dangerous stuff I like doing now. And I need to have an actual career instead of a job, preferably involving blogging, otter-related banter or being Laura Dern's wardrobe fitter.
This brings me very briefly to something I saw recently in the local newspaper about Sarah Jessica Parker's new film, probably called I Can't Act But I'm Inexplicably Cast In These Roles Anyway, but I digress. Her character in this film is touted as being a "hard working mother who juggles her lovable kids, her architect husband and her own well-paid investment job". I'll be honest. I was confused. Firstly, quite a lot of people manage to have kids, a partner and a job. Surely there is more to the plot than that? Of course, I'm not fool enough to try to answer that question by actually parting with my money or giving up two precious hours of my life for such drivel, but all the same I'd like to know what happens. Secondly, why is SHE the only one juggling these things? Presumably her husband is also juggling the same amount of pressure - although I hear being an architect is an super easy job, with minimum effort required - unless he's a mostly absent father figure (in which case, she won't need to juggle any part of him, which should at least cut down on her stressful schedule).
In any case, the mention of this Future Baby made me wonder how different its life will be from mine, with a grand total of 26 years between us. He or she will grow up with the internet an as accepted tool of communciation. I didn't start using the internet until I was at high school, which means that I grew up in a time where you generally had to go to a library if you wanted to educate yourself on a specific topic. He or she will grow up with completely different childhood television - missing out on such classics as 'Rainbow', 'Button Moon', 'Fraggle Rock', 'Count Duckula' and so much more. God, how I love Count Duckula. In a platonic way, you know. He's not, like, the Count from 'Sesame Street' or anything, who I've always maintained has a slightly sexy edge to him. It might be the cape, the accent or the casual OCD he displays. Memo to those attempting to date an otter - owning a cape will assist you greatly in the wooing process.
This is all serving to make me feel rather old, and has the odd twin effect of reminding me I haven't done anything stupid lately. (Hmm. I have a pack of napkins, a tub of Golden Syrup and a box of matches in my cupboard. Let's see how inventive I can be) It's a toast to you, Future Baby. Hopefully by the time you're my age, science will have stopped dicking about with medicine and started working on better hoverboards. We can but hope.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Librarians Do It On Record
When I was in Oxford, I had the delightful experience of going on the tour bus. I've lived in Edinburgh for about 8 years now and have managed to successfully bypass most of the tourist attractions (with the exception of the Castle and the Zoo, obviously) including the tour buses. But this was incredibly fun. Oxford is a beautiful place with a fascinating history. I had no idea that a pub called the Eagle and Child was where CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien would meet to exchange stories and new work over a beverage or two (I actually managed to visit and totally nerdsploded all over the place at being in the same building two of my literary heroes had once been in). If I squinted, I could almost see them sharing a quiet drink - discussing Frodo or perhaps Aslan and his sweet breath, debating about whether Caspian would be able to kick Aragorn's ass (not likely, let's be honest) or hooking up the White Witch with Gandalf (now there's a story of loss and redemption that I for one would love to read).
The Bodleian Library was one of the most impressive buildings on the tour. Under the law, it holds one copy of every book published in the UK and Ireland, ever. It even has an underground walkway and an electronic cart system (which made me imagine a kind of Indiana Jones style railway-through-mine-shafts). I could easily and quite happily live forever in such a place like some kind of feral otterbeast, scuttling through the dark, guarding the precious books. I could see myself as some sort of hideous library Gollum, crooning gently and lovingly at the stacks. Apprentice librarians might tell tales around a campfire, late at night, of a strange monster which makes little snuffling whiskery noises in the shadows before pouncing on students who venture too deep into the labyrinth. They say the only warning you get is a faint smell of fish before it drags you off to a horrible gnawy death....
Now, Edinburgh has its perks. It's a wonderful place to live with many exciting attractions and plenty of history, recent tram debacle aside. But Oxford was just so pretty. The museums, the streets, the university buildings - it was all so British, so aesthetically pleasing. I'm wandering dangerously into city fangirl territory now so I'll stop, but I really was impressed. If you ever get the chance to visit, I highly recommend it.
To finish this post, I'd like to show you this picture of me with a giant fork at Edinburgh's Taste Festival. If there was ever a reason to visit Scotland, then this is it.
The Bodleian Library was one of the most impressive buildings on the tour. Under the law, it holds one copy of every book published in the UK and Ireland, ever. It even has an underground walkway and an electronic cart system (which made me imagine a kind of Indiana Jones style railway-through-mine-shafts). I could easily and quite happily live forever in such a place like some kind of feral otterbeast, scuttling through the dark, guarding the precious books. I could see myself as some sort of hideous library Gollum, crooning gently and lovingly at the stacks. Apprentice librarians might tell tales around a campfire, late at night, of a strange monster which makes little snuffling whiskery noises in the shadows before pouncing on students who venture too deep into the labyrinth. They say the only warning you get is a faint smell of fish before it drags you off to a horrible gnawy death....
Now, Edinburgh has its perks. It's a wonderful place to live with many exciting attractions and plenty of history, recent tram debacle aside. But Oxford was just so pretty. The museums, the streets, the university buildings - it was all so British, so aesthetically pleasing. I'm wandering dangerously into city fangirl territory now so I'll stop, but I really was impressed. If you ever get the chance to visit, I highly recommend it.
To finish this post, I'd like to show you this picture of me with a giant fork at Edinburgh's Taste Festival. If there was ever a reason to visit Scotland, then this is it.
Saturday, 14 May 2011
Twitterfests and Apple Beer
If you read the last post I published, you'll know that I had planned a Twitterfest (or rather, Otterfest, if you will) in order to meet some the awesome people I talk to on Twitter. It was absolutely brilliant. I had a splendidly magnificent time, and I'd like to thank @JenClone, @Oddtwang, @SuperRetroid, @TheNatFantastic, @Trishie_D, @JennieSue and @nicelittlestory for making that possible. We came up with some incredible in-jokes during the time I spent in Leeds and Oxford, and thankfully I managed overall not to embarrass myself too much (I think, although I do recall doing a robot dance as we exited a pub which probably wasn't the coolest or most impressive thing I could have been doing). In addition, one of our crew made little badges with otters on them, to commemorate this special occasion, which was a wonderful and very sweet thing to do. I felt like otter royalty.
There was one moment of humiliation, which I've already enjoyed telling people about, during the brunch meeting on Sunday, when we were all standing in the queue for Bagel Nash in Leeds. I was standing between two people taller than me so I was trying to keep track of the conversation as it flew over my otterhobbit head, as well as deciding what kind of bagel I was going to have. Therefore my thoughts were rather preoccupied when a slight tilt of my head encouraged my floppy Bieberhair fringe to fall into my eyes. My immediate reflex was to flick my head to the side, swinging the hair back from my face in a dignified if slightly camp manner. Unfortunately, I had momentarily forgotten that I was standing very close to a chiller cabinet. What actually happened, instead of the graceful L'Oreal Cheryl Cole style hair whip I had intended, was that I stupidly banged my skull against the side of the cabinet, in front of everyone. From a distance, it must have looked as if I could no longer stand the chat going on around me and had decided to suddenly end my existence in a very longwinded and painful fashion. What's worse, this was the response I got:
Jen: Oh my god! Are you okay? It's fine, I don't think anyone saw - hey, everybody! EVERYBODY! Did you see what Otternator just did?!
In addition to this wonderful memory, we had many exceptional moments of banter and learned some very important life lessons. Jen brought up an instance when a man on a dating website sent her an introductory email that was entirely based around watersports. Thus, the following conversation happened:
Jen: It was awful. Really. Not a good start.
Me: You know, I've always found the name very misleading. Because there are actually proper water-related sports. Jetskiing, surfing, that kind of thing. They should call it something else. Like.....WeeSports. WAIT! NO!
SuperRetroid: If you invite people round for WiiSports, you better be very clear on exactly what you're planning. Otherwise that's just embarrassing for everyone.
Oddtwang: Exactly.
In summary, I highly recommend Twitterfests. Just be certain no one's an axe murderer and be sure to take extra socks. You'll thank me later.
There was one moment of humiliation, which I've already enjoyed telling people about, during the brunch meeting on Sunday, when we were all standing in the queue for Bagel Nash in Leeds. I was standing between two people taller than me so I was trying to keep track of the conversation as it flew over my otterhobbit head, as well as deciding what kind of bagel I was going to have. Therefore my thoughts were rather preoccupied when a slight tilt of my head encouraged my floppy Bieberhair fringe to fall into my eyes. My immediate reflex was to flick my head to the side, swinging the hair back from my face in a dignified if slightly camp manner. Unfortunately, I had momentarily forgotten that I was standing very close to a chiller cabinet. What actually happened, instead of the graceful L'Oreal Cheryl Cole style hair whip I had intended, was that I stupidly banged my skull against the side of the cabinet, in front of everyone. From a distance, it must have looked as if I could no longer stand the chat going on around me and had decided to suddenly end my existence in a very longwinded and painful fashion. What's worse, this was the response I got:
Jen: Oh my god! Are you okay? It's fine, I don't think anyone saw - hey, everybody! EVERYBODY! Did you see what Otternator just did?!
In addition to this wonderful memory, we had many exceptional moments of banter and learned some very important life lessons. Jen brought up an instance when a man on a dating website sent her an introductory email that was entirely based around watersports. Thus, the following conversation happened:
Jen: It was awful. Really. Not a good start.
Me: You know, I've always found the name very misleading. Because there are actually proper water-related sports. Jetskiing, surfing, that kind of thing. They should call it something else. Like.....WeeSports. WAIT! NO!
SuperRetroid: If you invite people round for WiiSports, you better be very clear on exactly what you're planning. Otherwise that's just embarrassing for everyone.
Oddtwang: Exactly.
In summary, I highly recommend Twitterfests. Just be certain no one's an axe murderer and be sure to take extra socks. You'll thank me later.
Friday, 29 April 2011
This Is Not A Pipe
The company I work for is international. We have a lot of different cultures represented in our workplace, and almost everyone speaks at least two or three languages, if not more. This can be incredibly useful and incredibly embarrassing as I found out to my consternation on a dress down day a couple of years ago. I had just bought some new tshirts from Threadless and I was excited to test them out on my work colleagues. On this particular day, I had innocently chosen a green tshirt with a green pipe on it (the kind from Mario games) which had a fireflower coming out of the top. Underneath it said "ceci n'est pas une pipe" (translated: "this is not a pipe"). I considered this the height of cool. Who wouldn't want a shirt that managed to be both a video game reference and an art reference all in one? After all, many of us have experienced the feeling of exasperation when your little on-screen Mario jumps onto one of these, only to be destroyed instantly by something vicious coming out of it with no warning whatsoever. My geekery knows no bounds.
So when I met my French friend for lunch that day, I expected him to congratulate me on my excellent choice of apparel. I did not expect him to glance at my tshirt, double-take and then start laughing hysterically.
Me: Is it that funny? Really?
Him: No, it's just....I don't know how to tell you this.
Me: Oh god, what?
Him: Well, it's slang. Translated literally it means "this is not a blowjob".
Me: Are you telling me that I've been walking around all day, at work, wearing something that has a sex joke on it?! In a language people around here can read?
Him: Um...Yes.
Me: Oh. Crapmaster.
This leads me, in a very roundabout way, to something that was brought to my attention the other day. I have referred to myself throughout this blog as Otternator, or occasionally as an actual otter (complete with bright, shiny eyes, magnificently Biebered pelt and a varied range of expressions) and no one had really questioned it much so it never occurred to me that I should have taken the time to explain myself a little. 45 posts, people. I am rather embarrassed. I do apologise.
Really, the story is quite simple. An ex and I had a running joke that she looked like a gangling, runty pony (yes, I said runty) and so it naturally followed that we tried to decide which animal I looked/acted most like. The otter is small. It can sometimes look rather sweet and cuddly, but it will in all likelihood bite your motherflipping hand off if given half a chance. The otter enjoys rolling about on the ground, romping with other otters (which I think you'll agree, is otterly delightful - the pun potential with this animal is truly amazing) and eating fish. It has moments like this:
But it also has moments like this.
"Ma! MA! Derek won't let me watch America's Next Top Model! MA! MAAAAA!"
(photo via Yasaiman at http://www.flickr.com/photos/yasaiman/5511399875/)
In short, I am really quite ottery. I look innocent when I'm not, I'll fight you for some meat and I move much better in water than I do on land. Thus it was decided, and I have enjoyed otter-related products/jokes/stories and so forth ever since.
So when I met my French friend for lunch that day, I expected him to congratulate me on my excellent choice of apparel. I did not expect him to glance at my tshirt, double-take and then start laughing hysterically.
Me: Is it that funny? Really?
Him: No, it's just....I don't know how to tell you this.
Me: Oh god, what?
Him: Well, it's slang. Translated literally it means "this is not a blowjob".
Me: Are you telling me that I've been walking around all day, at work, wearing something that has a sex joke on it?! In a language people around here can read?
Him: Um...Yes.
Me: Oh. Crapmaster.
This leads me, in a very roundabout way, to something that was brought to my attention the other day. I have referred to myself throughout this blog as Otternator, or occasionally as an actual otter (complete with bright, shiny eyes, magnificently Biebered pelt and a varied range of expressions) and no one had really questioned it much so it never occurred to me that I should have taken the time to explain myself a little. 45 posts, people. I am rather embarrassed. I do apologise.
Really, the story is quite simple. An ex and I had a running joke that she looked like a gangling, runty pony (yes, I said runty) and so it naturally followed that we tried to decide which animal I looked/acted most like. The otter is small. It can sometimes look rather sweet and cuddly, but it will in all likelihood bite your motherflipping hand off if given half a chance. The otter enjoys rolling about on the ground, romping with other otters (which I think you'll agree, is otterly delightful - the pun potential with this animal is truly amazing) and eating fish. It has moments like this:
Screw him. He could have the kids. She'd take the Kawasaki.
(photo via Drew Avery at http://www.flickr.com/photos/33590535@N06/5584342791/)But it also has moments like this.
(photo via Yasaiman at http://www.flickr.com/photos/yasaiman/5511399875/)
In short, I am really quite ottery. I look innocent when I'm not, I'll fight you for some meat and I move much better in water than I do on land. Thus it was decided, and I have enjoyed otter-related products/jokes/stories and so forth ever since.
Friday, 11 March 2011
Presents Are For Life, Not Just For Christmas
I get uncontrollably overexcited about certain things. It is a curious and well-known (among my friends and family) phenomenon. Cheese, for example, throws me into a frenzy of knowledgeable excitement which leaves me rambling for minutes on end, saying things like "of course, there is the Cashel Blue, which really is one of the better soft blue cheeses, unless you're counting... Hello? Hello?" and realising that I've been left alone at the cheese counter in Asda for quite some time, and that other customers are beginning to stare.
In addition, anything involving dinosaurs or robots leaves me a gibbering, giggling, geekified wreck. Pictures of small cute animals, preferably stuffing their tiny faces with food, sends me into paroxysms of delight. Nothing, however, comes close to the sheer adrenaline rush and immediate emotional meltdown I experience whenever Other Half mentions the key word "present".
PRESENT!
It is like she has just plugged me into a socket. My brain reacts with lightning speed, screaming in exultant joy as it throws its doors open to the wonderful world of possibilities. So you can imagine the dizzying heights of emotional turbulence I reached today when I received the following email.
From: Other Half
To: Otternator
I've bought you a little present.
From: Otternator
To: Other Half
*twitches frantically* What is it? WHAT IS IT?
From: Other Half
To: Otternator
It's just a little present. Don't get too excited.
From: Otternator
To: Other Half
TOO LATE.
What could it be? My mind races through all sorts of wonderful, dream-like scenarios in which Other Half hands me the keys to a motorbike (this will never happen because I can't walk in a straight line for ten paces without crashing into something and no one has ever allowed me to have a driving lesson for this reason), or a pygmy goat (pygmy anything, really) or Laura Dern, wearing her Jurassic Park outfit complete with hat. Once I've discarded these theories, on the basis that they all defy logic and what I know of Other Half - she prefers me alive (as opposed to roadkill) and not sleeping with Laura Dern, and she refuses to let me have a housegoat for reasons known only to herself - the possibilities that are left number in the millions. It could be a cd. It could be some kind of nice soap. It could be a sweater. It could be a ruler with some cute pictures on it. It could be anything. My mind reeled. I was unable to handle the ocean of ideas. I floated around in it, dazed but happy. The only thing I was certain of is that time was not going by fast enough, and that I really, really wanted my present.
By the time Other Half got home, I had been sitting at the bottom of the stairs for an indeterminate amount of time, anxiously awaiting her arrival. Roland and Giles, as they normally do, ran to greet her with yips. They twined lovingly around her legs, making her stumble as she tried to walk without treading on ground that suddenly seemed to be made entirely of delicate cat limbs.
Other Half: (looking at me with amusement) Here you go. It's rubbish so I don't know why you got so excited.
Me: (in awe) It''s the single greatest thing I've ever seen.
And so it was.
In addition, anything involving dinosaurs or robots leaves me a gibbering, giggling, geekified wreck. Pictures of small cute animals, preferably stuffing their tiny faces with food, sends me into paroxysms of delight. Nothing, however, comes close to the sheer adrenaline rush and immediate emotional meltdown I experience whenever Other Half mentions the key word "present".
PRESENT!
It is like she has just plugged me into a socket. My brain reacts with lightning speed, screaming in exultant joy as it throws its doors open to the wonderful world of possibilities. So you can imagine the dizzying heights of emotional turbulence I reached today when I received the following email.
From: Other Half
To: Otternator
I've bought you a little present.
From: Otternator
To: Other Half
*twitches frantically* What is it? WHAT IS IT?
From: Other Half
To: Otternator
It's just a little present. Don't get too excited.
From: Otternator
To: Other Half
TOO LATE.
What could it be? My mind races through all sorts of wonderful, dream-like scenarios in which Other Half hands me the keys to a motorbike (this will never happen because I can't walk in a straight line for ten paces without crashing into something and no one has ever allowed me to have a driving lesson for this reason), or a pygmy goat (pygmy anything, really) or Laura Dern, wearing her Jurassic Park outfit complete with hat. Once I've discarded these theories, on the basis that they all defy logic and what I know of Other Half - she prefers me alive (as opposed to roadkill) and not sleeping with Laura Dern, and she refuses to let me have a housegoat for reasons known only to herself - the possibilities that are left number in the millions. It could be a cd. It could be some kind of nice soap. It could be a sweater. It could be a ruler with some cute pictures on it. It could be anything. My mind reeled. I was unable to handle the ocean of ideas. I floated around in it, dazed but happy. The only thing I was certain of is that time was not going by fast enough, and that I really, really wanted my present.
By the time Other Half got home, I had been sitting at the bottom of the stairs for an indeterminate amount of time, anxiously awaiting her arrival. Roland and Giles, as they normally do, ran to greet her with yips. They twined lovingly around her legs, making her stumble as she tried to walk without treading on ground that suddenly seemed to be made entirely of delicate cat limbs.
Other Half: (looking at me with amusement) Here you go. It's rubbish so I don't know why you got so excited.
Me: (in awe) It''s the single greatest thing I've ever seen.
And so it was.
It was a wind-up otter bath toy. Other Half knows how much I love otters and everything otter-related. I constantly make otter puns ("that's otterly brilliant" ...*cymbal crash*) and whenever the mood strikes me I will happily sing along to my ipod, inserting the word 'otter' into songs, completely at random and with total disregard for the lyrical flow.
Think how much better songs would be if artists wrote them about otters. For example, that Elvis classic You Were Otter On My Mind, or, Whitney Houston's I Will Otter Love You. This puts me in mind of the Muff Game, which, despite sounding like an awful euphemism, is not a drinking game as such, just a game I tend to find funnier when I'm drunk. There is only one rule and it is simple - you choose a song with the word 'love' in the title, and replace it with 'muff', so you'd get song titles like All You Need Is Muff, and How Deep Is Your Muff, and When A Man Muffs A Woman. Best suggestions on a postcard, or in the comments section.
Let the hilarity ensue.
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