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Musings

  • Irish Woman has been doing a fine job of letting me sleep after working the night shift.  Other people, not so much.
    • I must remember to send a nice check to the charity that called and woke me during normal business hours and got a rather rude response in a foreign language before I woke up enough to be human.
  • I finish night shifts on the morning of Christmas Eve.  That gives me 24 hours to get my sleep cycle flipped back before the true madness begins.
  • Boo was a baby chick in the Christmas play at his school the other night.  Irish Woman made him a costume for it, and she put a lot of work into it.  I gave her some grief about the hours she spent on it, but I repented after I saw the elaborate costumes other parents made or bought for their kids.
  • I noticed something while watching Boo’s play: The boy angels all looked like they’d been hit by a truck, while the girl angels looked, well, angelic.
  • Irish Woman is donating a batch of yellow-cake cupcakes topped with her home-made bourbon caramel fudge icing to the school Christmas bake sale.  Something tells me that the more Catholic she is in the use of the bourbon, the better they will sell, if you know what I mean.
    • Don’t ask for her recipe.  I’ve been with her for 15 years, married to her for 11.  I’ve contributed the height gene back into her bloodline.  After all that, I’m still not sure what it takes to make that icing.
  • It is exceedingly difficult to estimate travel times of people who alternate modes of transportation between walking, boats, horses, camels, and yaks.
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