Tormenting Loved Ones

Mr. Goldragon and I have a long running argument discussion joke about the state of his sense of humour.  I think he has none, and wouldn’t know what is funny even if he found it dangling by its teeth from his gluteus maximus.  He says that he is actually very humour literate, and that I am a simple creature who will laugh at inanities posing as real humour.  The truth, I suspect, is somewhere in the middle.

I will tell anyone who will listen, that he is not funny.  And those who know him will balk at me in disbelief and point out many things that have come out of his word hole that they have laughed at.  And I will say, “sure, he may say things that are funny, but he is not funny.”  How do I figure this, you may ask?  He can tell a funny story, and make peanut gallery type comments, BUT he doesn’t even attempt humour in his writing pursuits AND he cannot tell a proper joke to save his life.  However, the nail in the coffin for me is his curious inability to read a simple humour comic.

I love comics.  I can roam the internet for hours reading web comics and be quite content (I’ve even made some, and plan to again).  When I come across one that’s particularly funny, I like to share.  I’ve lost count of how many I’ve sent along to Mr. G., but every time he asks me to explain it.  Every.  Single.  Time.  And do you know what happens when you explain a joke?  The same thing that happens when you handle a butterfly’s wings.  It dies.

At first I sent them along out of a genuine wish to share the laughs.  Then it became a mission to find one that he would find funny.  Now?  Even he asks, “why do you keep sending them to me?”  Now I take perverse pleasure in his super human ability to be confused by a simple one to three panel comic.  I taunt him with statements like, “This is the funniest thing I’ve read all day!  You will hate it.”

I try to predict how he will ruin it on himself.  Will he over-think the message of the comic?  Will he get hung up on the details that don’t matter?  Will he miss the title of the comic, there-by making the rest of the comic non-sensical?  Will he not get the very well-known pop culture reference?  Will he think it’s a one panel comic and FAIL TO SCROLL DOWN to reveal the panels containing the punchline?  (He’s done ALL of these, at least once)  Or will he do something completely different (he still manages to surprise me)?  It’s truly fascinating.  And in the end, that in itself becomes the real joke.  Nothing says love like finding someone’s weakness then tormenting them with it for your own amusement, don’t you think?


A Rant With Goldragons

Hey, remember when I wrote this ?  Well, I finally finished all 1,022 pages of A Dance With Dragons.  For an entire month I read one to two chapters a night.  Sometimes at the kitchen table with proper light.  Sometimes in bed with the Boy snuggled up against my leg as I milked the last bit of natural daylight for all it was worth.  Sometimes I read 3 chapters in a night, staying up past my modest 9-9:30pm bedtime, against my better judgement.  I even spurned Mr. Goldragon’s advances one evening in favour of finishing the final two chapters.  So, you might ask, was it worth it?

The short (spoiler-free) answer can be summed up thusly:

Dear George R. R. Martin,



Grace Goldragon


PS: The book would have been half that length if you didn’t describe every goddamned meal every character ever eats(or even leaves uneaten, WTF?) in meticulous detail.

The long version is as follows.  But beware, I’m not sure what constitutes a spoiler for some so just in case: Here There Be Spoilers.

It started out promising, it really, really did.  Things were happening, an odious character finally got his comeuppance and I was suitably engrossed in the plot.  Rubbing my hands together gleefully I thought, “yes!  NOW we’re cooking with gasoline!”  I felt this way until about half way through.  And then things started to get weird.  And not in a good way.

For the next 40% of the book, Nothing Happened.  That’s what it seemed like while I was reading it, anyway.  In each storyline, the same points replayed themselves over and over again, until I was pulling my hair out thinking, “Okay, okay, I get it, I get it!  Can something happen now please?”  Now that I’ve had time to think about it, though, I don’t think the issue was that nothing happened.  One thing you have to understand about George R. R. Martin’s writing, one of the things that he’s famous for, is the reversal.  When things seem to be going one way, and the characters have great plans, some would say schemes, at the last second something will happen that will cause the schemes to blow up in the planners’ collective face, or at least  not go the way that they (or the reader) had expected it to go.  In this part of the book, however, everything went boringly according to plan.  Nothing was a surprise.

And then, the last 10%.  *Sigh*  This part left me with an enormous sad :C<[that’s the one].  Too many things happened.  Too many cliff hangers.  Too many things left unanswered.  Again.  Unfortunately, I think part of my growing dissatisfaction is that this is one part of a series.  There are supposed to be 2 or 3 more books.  Am I going to have to wait 6 or 12 or even 18 more years before I get to see how this all plays out?

I’m going to admit right now that part of what keeps me reading is that I want the good guys to win, and I want the bad guys to be punished, in the end.  I read somewhere that he implied that in the ending that he has planned, nobody wins.  And if that’s true then I feel like the grandson in The Princess Bride when he said, upon finding out that Prince Humperdink lives, “Jesus, Grandpa, what did you read me this thing for?”

(I’m still buying the next book.  In hard cover.  As soon as Mr. Martin decides to graces us with its presence)

I Love Babies, in a light wine sauce

According to many women, the baby stage is their favourite.  I am not one of those women.  Or rather, I never used to be.  I did not enjoy the Girl as a baby.  Of course I loved her, and marvelled over how cute she was, but otherwise, the baby stage was something to be endured until she became more interesting.  I really liked the early toddler stage, when she stumbled around like a tiny drunk, was able to feed herself, could tell me what she wanted and started sleeping through the night.

And then she turned two.  Suddenly it was all defiance, and screaming, and tantrums and anger.  This subsided a bit when she was two and a half.  And then she turned three.  Now we’re on arguing just for the sake of being contrary, more tantrums, more screaming, more anger.  Not everyday, mind you.  There are some days that go by without incident.  But there are others where it feels like all I’ve done is fight with her.  I deal with it as best as I can.  Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t.  And there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think, “am I doing this right?  Will she come to me in twenty years time and tell me that she’s fucked up and it’s all my fault?”

The result of this is that I’m appreciating the Boy’s baby-ness.  It’s so much more simple at this point.  I can feed him when he’s hungry, put him to sleep when he’s tired, laugh with him, cuddle him and just be free to give him everything he wants without fear of spoiling him.  But he’s growing up too fast.  I find myself burying my nose in his feathery hair and breathing deep, trying to savour the distinctive sweet baby smell.  All too soon my sweet little boy will be a cranky three-year old, seemingly doing things for the sole purpose of getting into trouble (or winding me up).  But, hey, at least he’ll be sleeping through the night, right?  Right??

Typing Goes In, Blogging Comes Out

Blogging used to come so easily to me.  I had a Livejournal account that I started back in 2004, and back then the entries seemed to write themselves.  I never got stuck thinking about what to write about.  I just did it.  I read them now and think, “Gosh I was a funny girl!”  Fast forward to today and, I’m not going to lie, I’m struggling.  My fingers are clumsy, and I can’t seem to cobble together a coherent thought, let alone an entertaining one.  Here’s why *I* think I’m floundering:

1) I used to be freaking awesome.  And I didn’t care who knew it.  In fact, I wanted everyone to know it.  In actuality, all this unbridled awesomeness stemmed from the fact that secretly, I didn’t think I was very awesome at all.  I pushed that down, covered it up, and busied myself with convincing all around me of my own worth.  Which, strangely enough, endeared me to many people.  It also resulted in me getting into fights with my friends, hurting some people who in reality didn’t deserve it, and at the time I didn’t care, because I had come down with a case of terminal correctness ie, I was always right.  ALWAYS!  Then I moved away.  Isolated from my friends and family, I had the time and space to do some serious thinking. I finally came around to the fact that I (probably) am not always right, and had been a real douche.  An entertaining douche to spectators, but a douche none the less.  Now I’m so concerned with being “fair,” I find it difficult to have an opinion at all.

2) I’m a Mom, and my kids have stolen ALL OF MY HUMOUR.  Patience, disciplining, and utter exhaustion sure take the wit out of a person.

3) We’re not allowed to use “gay” as a disparaging remark anymore.  While I completely understand why that is, I have yet to find a word to replace it.  “Lame,” just doesn’t have the same ring (and is possibly offensive to people who have a limp).  Same goes for “retarded.”  It’s an ugly, hate-filled word, but so very satisfying to say from a linguistic standpoint.

What does all this mean?  Do I have to be mean, have extreme opinions, or have a life in order to be entertaining?  Quite possibly.  But I’m going to keep blugeoning my head against this brick wall until I’m interesting again, goddamnit!