sparkindarkness: (Default)
 Things that annoy:

 Metal handled pans. Why why why would you make a pan handle conduct heat? Isn’t that one of the most ridiculous design ideas in the history of the world? Isn’t that up there with chocolate teapots and fireguards?

 Metal handled pans that are also supposed to be oven safe – so you put said pan in, say, a 200oC for that handle to get stupendously hot.

 But what really really really annoys is that, despite the aforementioned ridiculousness of metal handled, oven-safe pans, if you firmly grasp said handle, after it comes out of the oven, with your own bare hand you really have no-one to blame but yourself.

 And that’s really really annoying because that kind of screeching pain of quite nasty burns over the entire palm of your hand and fingers really really REALLY demands you scream at SOMEONE. Screaming at one’s self is not sufficient.

 On the plus side, I didn’t spill dinner.

 On the minus side even an hour after the burn, removing my hand from a bowl of cold water or an ice pack was quite painful – to an extent of not being able to keep it out of water for more than 5 minutes before being quite willing to murder a rather large number of people if they were stood between me and that water. This was not a productive way to spend the evening.

 Thankfully, it has reduced to being merely excruciatingly painful so I am not forced to keep it stuck in ice – but typing one handed is vexatious. Typing two handed is… unpleasant. The cold water is still nearby to top up.

 What does surprise me is the relative lack of blisters – I mean, there’s a lot of redness and several blisters all over my hand –but the blistered areas are no more/less painful than the none-blistered. The blisters seem to be quite quite random.

sparkindarkness: (Default)
 My cousin is getting engaged and, against my usual habits, I am getting her a congratulations card (I disapprove of cards for various reasons)


I just need to find the right one. I need one that says:


"Congratulations on the whole wedding thing" while at the same time also saying "good gods girl why would you do this? Were you drunk?!" and "STOP! STOP! IT'S NOT TOO LATE!" with a nice subtext of "when the time comes, I will help you bury the body."


And, of course, "just because I'm willing to help you bury the body doesn't mean that, in 18 months when you realise what an arsehole he is, I will be saying 'I told you so'"


See this is the problem with cards, they lack eloquence.



Maybe I could go with a cake - it could be full of butter and sugar symbolising something you will definitely regret later with a heavy lemon kick for the bitter bitter regrets that are sure to come and maybe some spiced caramel for the warming assurance of murderous support in the future.

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 If you’ve been in Britain and not been living in a cave, you’ll be aware of the horsemeat scandal (and related – but horsemeat is the one that the media has been focused on). Lots of food, especially cheap, processed food that purports to be beef apparently contains horsemeat. In the case of a Findus beef lasagne, it contained 100% horsemeat and nary a cow in sight.
Needless to say, people aren’t happy.
Unfortunately, a significant part of the media reporting around this (and people’s reactions) has been “ZOMG THE POOR HORSEY!” because, unlike our continental neighbours, British people rarely eat horse and there’s something of a social taboo about it. This, in turn, has led to a silly backlash among those who enjoy smugness about how silly silly these silly people are who will eat a cow but not a horse. Oh how silly.
Personally, I’ll eat horse. I have eaten horse. It’s nice meat. But the issue here isn’t “silly English people who won’t eat horse, you sillies” but that our food is mislabelled.
I don’t care exactly how it’s being mislabelled, I object to the deception. If I get a beef lasagne that claims to contain beef, I don’t expect Dobin. Whatever reasons people have for not wanting to eat certain food – whether it’s religious, philosophical, medical, ethical, or fluffy-fuzzy-bunny-logic – that is their choice to make. Whether they want organic or GM free or vegetarian or gluten free or kosher or whatever – people get to choose what they put in their stomachs. People need to be able to trust food labels. And people deserve to get what they paid for – someone gives you money for a beef lasagne, they are paying for a beef lasagne, not a horse or donkey or scrag end of rat.

Because horse may be fairly benign, but what else passes through? Because this has, if nothing else, exposed a severe problem with the meat industry and the regulatory organisations. We’re being fed horse dressed as beef – what else are we being fed? What else is being passed off? I find it unlikely in the extreme that we can have a horsemeat scandal that is this broad and it be the only problem with our food supply.
Illicit meat sources – and unknown meat sources – also damage or destroy the provenance of the meat. This is important for far more than pretentious foodies who only ever eat carrots that have been nurtured on the sweat of French maidens in the Loire valley and wouldn’t dream of eating carrots from anywhere else. The provenance is what ensures that the meat comes from animals that have been reared in the borderline humane methods the weak law demands. Provenance ensures they were slaughtered not just humanely, but hygienically as well. Provenance ensures the meat isn’t full of the chemicals, hormones and radiation that we disapprove of this side of the Atlantic. In fact, a vast amount of our food safety (and simple food STANDARD procedures) precautions requires us to know where the food comes from and that that source is tested and monitored.
So this isn’t negligible but it may serve to expose a lot of corruption and even organised crime. But while looking at that, we may also want to consider the very nature of meat production and sale. Particularly the idea that 6 or 7 companies across 4 or 5 countries play pass the parcel with the meat before it reaches our plate. It’s almost comic to imagine. We may also want to consider the very common complaint from food producers of the thumb screws the massive supermarkets are putting on them
And maybe, as a “where can we find cheaper food” option, we should consider expanding our palette legitimately.

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So today I was wandering along and happened to see one of my exs (exes? An ex anyway). Beloved, rightly, commented that I was looking waaay hotter than him which is, of course, what all right thinking people hope to be the case when spying an unpleasant ex and yet I didn’t smile as it deserved,

For I was having one of my Bad Moments.

Which is the frustrating. Because a part of me (ok, most of me) is still really not happy with not being over, well, everything. C’mon I’ve been in therapy for a while now, I’m taking the pills regularly (barring the odd hiccough), where’s the sanity? I want my miracle cure, damn it!

In fact, I’ll settle (at the moment) for being over anything – see, I don’t ask much brain, but can you at least resolve a few issues? Isn’t this what therapy is for? What the hell is the point if these nasty pills (and their nasty side effects) and dragging all (ok, some, not quite up to all) of the nasty shit out for therapist blokey to poke through if it’s not going to FIX anything?

Ok, ok, yes, when I first went to the guy I was in the Spiral of Doomness and I have stopped getting actively worse which, yay, progress and all that. And no, I’m not as bad as I was at all, everything is much more MANAGED now; there’s not nearly so many Bad Moments and the Bad Moments aren’t as Bad and I can, pretty much, keep things on an even keel. I am no longer drowning. I’m afloat. Soaking wet and on rough seas, but afloat.

But when do I reach dry land (to overextend this maritime metaphor beyond all reason)? When does it all stop, the Bad Moments, all the ickiness, the pills, the therapy, the whole caboodle. When do I push the magic “I’m currrrrrrrred button”? Which I should probably ask therapy blokey. But I can’t – I’m not a fool (much), I know the answer to that could be “well, it’s never going to be cured, it’s about management.” Which I don’t want to hear, I think part of the way I keep putting up with it all is an unspoken understanding of temporariness. I’m wary of my own reaction if I get confirmation; so either I don’t ask the question or I do ask it and start chanting “nah nah nah I can’t hear you” with my hands over my ears if he says something I don’t like. Which is very undignified and a bad habit for therapy, methinks.

But… I need some more progress… which, of course, I’ll probably dismiss once it happens and demand more because that’s me, but still. This is feeling like a holding pattern and I don’t want to hold here.

Though, tbh, and coming back round on the “I should be fair” train because if I don’t, I’ll end up talking myself out of therapy and the pills (again *cough*) and Beloved will have to drag me there by my hair which is also very undignified. Also, split ends. So, to be fair, I haven’t discussed my bad exes much with therapy blokey, because when I first did, I also said that, basically, at the time I had “victim” written across my forehead in block capitals because I’d internalised so much self-hatred and homophobia that I’d endure just about anything and smile about it just for the sake of any shred of affection or potential acceptance. And therapy bloke instantly gave me a very wonderful lecture on not accepting blame, that it wasn’t my fault yadda yadda, yeah very good – but too simplistic. There’s a difference between “blaming the victim” and accepting that being previously homophobically victimised set me up to be a victim again. Of course, that may be because the first words I ever said to him were “You blame any of my problems on being gay and I walk.”

And that sounds awfully like putting road blocks in my own path. Ugh, thank you Reason-Brain, for ruining my perfectly good pout.

Y’know, there’s way too much being fair here. I’m going to pout and sulk and meanly blame people for stuff I’m not letting them cure while drinking all the pear cider in my office mini fridge (because when Sparky is emptying the bottles, he’s not going down stairs to do it). Actually since there’s 36 bottles, I probably shouldn’t do that.


(Actually definitely, since Beloved has made a gentle "ah booze as a coping mechanism I see," joke. Which is ANNOYING because if he'd criticised or nagged, I could have ignored him and drunk defiantly but nooooooooo he has to gently poke at the wisdom of it instead. Bah.)


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April 2015

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