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Andrew's telling me about his dream. His sister told him she was trans so we couldn't go on our planned trip to the Moon because the insurance was all messed up since the documents were in her old name.

"We were all ready to go, at Disneyland where the trips to the Moon leave from..." he started. And actually, it seems very plausible to me that commercial Moon trips will go from Disneyland!
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Andrew's trying to get the dog to stop barking.

"Calm grey ocean, Gary, calm grey ocean."

I was reading something, so it took a second for my brain to catch up with my ears.

"Calm grey ocean?" I was worried this was going to be part of his anti-sunshine, pro-overcast worldview, but no.

"Yeah, well, he's colorblind!" Andrew explained.

Of course. I should've known...
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"I thought I hadn't slept at all last night, but thinking back on it, that part where we gave Gary my skin cream to drink and it turned him into Matt Smith probably didn't actually happen, did it?"
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"[livejournal.com profile] softfruit should be in the House of Lords!" Andrew said, apropos of nothing.

"...Okay, yeah!" I said as soon as my brain caught up. I didn't need to know what brought this about about in order to agree.

"And I'd say [livejournal.com profile] diffrentcolours should be, too, if being a lord didn't give him even more excuses to take on too much more than he can do," Andrew went on.

I still couldn't disagree with any of this...but now that there was getting to be a list, I wanted to know why I wasn't on it. Especially since [personal profile] miss_s_b's renewed drunken interest in getting me a peerage to call attention to ho difficult it is for non-EU citizens to attain UK citizenship. So I asked him, "What about me? Why can't I be in the House of Lords?"

"I think it'd do your head in," Andrew said. "You'd just spend all your time thinking 'Ahhh, what is even going on here, how can this be a real thing?!' I'm only thinking about my Holly's fragile mental health here!"

Ha. He may have a point there.
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Exemplary text from Andrew yesterday:
Waiting for man chest hair train semicolon expected time gets one minute later every minute
That he refuses to learn how to get punctuation into his texts, but is also unwilling to make do without semicolons, says so much about him.
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Andrew's just asked me to help him with re-writing the lyrics of a Monkees song into a Shakespearean sonnet.
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After his latest blog post, explaining what's gone wrong with the Hugos this year for people who've seen the outrage but weren't previously clued-up and now want to know what their friends are talking about, Andrew's been invited onto some podcast so he's on Skype downstairs.

...I'm trying to read and I keep hearing him yelling things like "the Futurians were Trotskyists!"

It's slightly distracting, but I so very approve of this. If nothing else, it means he's explaining things that bother him in great detail to Americans who aren't me!
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I crawled into bed and woke Andrew up, which is just as well as I didn't want him to wake up to see me upset -- I'd been crying, out of sheer overwhelm and pain that words weren't adequate to express.

He spent a long time giving me cuddles and trying to make me feel better...and, in the process, make himself feel better because he so hates to see me weepy and miserable that it's almost impossible for him to overcome that. So desperate to fix what can't be fixed, he can get distraught

Eventually he, face buried in my pillow next to me and arms tight around me, said "I just want to envelope* you in loves until you shine with lovedness."

It was heart-meltingly sweet and I loved the image but I told him I wasn't sure what that meant. (In emotional situations, his vocabulary can get a little surreal in the endearing way of people just learning a language.) He said he didn't know either but we agreed it clearly meant a good thing.

* Not envelop. Envelope.
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Andrew, running his fingers along my hand: "Your finger's all...lumpy, there!"
Me: "That's my knuckle, love."

The world is forever full of surprises for my dear husband. It must be fun, if it ever stops being confusing.
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Andrew wrote this on Facebook yesterday:
I am going to hold a referendum on whether my house should declare independence. There are arguments on both sides. On the "no" side, there's the fact that the [our address]ish economy is largely reliant on imports for such vital supplies as kebabs and superhero comics, while on the "yes" side it's incredibly unlikely that a post-independence [our address] would have a Tory government any time soon.
Registration for the referendum is at an unprecedented 100% of residents, not counting the 50% of residents who don't get a vote because they're foreign. Early polling remains inconclusive, and tensions remain high, with at least one prominent "no" spokesperson expected to issue a statement shortly that the [our address] electorate should "stop messing around on Facebook and go and do the dishes like you said you were going to half an hour ago".
Naturally my first comment was
The spokesperson would also like to point out how lax this campaign is being with sensitive personal information like its home address. If an independent house can't be trusted with such basic information, how can it expect us to trust it has our best interests at heart?
Andrew said:
The Yes campaign would like to refute those disgraceful slurs, by which it means rebut as all politicians do when they say refute, by pointing out the need for all campaign literature to carry an imprint stating the address at which it was published, and further pointing out that it's a friends-locked post and all our friends either know where we live anyway or don't care
One of his friends chimed in with:
The independant house would be welcomed into the global community of independant dwellings, geodysic domes, manses, and yurts.
then adding the acronym: "Gcidgdmy!"

Then it was me again:
The No campaign isn't interested in your empty rhetoric, it is only interested in action. So make sure you put the bins out when you go get your kebab.
(At least we were not, I should say, in the same room when we were talking to each other like this. I had been trying to take a nap before this assault on my dwelling (and indeed my status in it! calling me a foreigner in my own house?!).

Andrew said
I am proud to stand on my record. A record of doing the dishes, a promise of putting the bins out when I can be bothered to stand up again.
To which another of his friends made the very good point: "If only more manifestos contained 'when I can be bothered' I might believe them. There's a swing to the Yesses here." Following this up with "I realise that I am not eligible to vote in this election, but I'm English so naturally thought you'd appreciate knowing what I think even though it's your election." For some inexplicable reason, this got lots of 'like's.

Again I worried, as I always do when Andrew and I have conversations on the internet, that people will fret for us and think we're having a violent argument. I don't know if it's more or less fret-worthy that this is our idea of fun!
If only the house had a Devo Max option. We could have been cranking up the nu wave hits right now.
Andrew's friend Sarah said again (well actually soon after all this nonsense she sent me a Facebook friend request too! so she can be my friend as well now).And then another friend said something that really made me laugh:
Just to add another English, not involved but going to tell you anyway comment...( Include me in the 'don't care re. address' and 'highly worried that you're having a domestic' demographic of non-voters )... Thought you might like to know that Daves on his way to persuade you to vote 'no'. Bolt your doors and put the oil on.
Then from Debi, an important question:
Also English and not involved, therefore have an opinion: what will be the policy on immigration into the independent state?
Considering the dim approach Andrew takes to most humans and his fondness for being left on his own, I speculated that not only would immigration be frowned upon but that mere tourist come-over-for-a-cup-of-tea-or-board-games-or-crash-in-our-spare-room visas would be impossible to come by for all but a lucky handful of people. Indeed, the Yes campaign takes a dim view of emigration too, telling me after a few hours out of the house, or even asleep when he's still downstairs, how much he misses me.

Whatever happens, I just hope the bloody referendum happens soon, before we all get sick of hearing about it.
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I got the most lovely e-mail from Andrew, a perfect travel send-off:
Hope there are no lines, that the vegetarian food is edible, that there are three films you want to watch on the little screens, that you accidentally get upgraded and get free spirits, that the flight from the US takes just long enough that you have plenty of time in Amsterdam to get to your plane but don't have to wait a long time, that you get some proper sleep on the plane, and that you get home tomorrow feeling refreshed, happy, and loved.
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I'm surprised Andrew's never mentioned this, given I know he has contingency plans for Dalek invasions, waking up one day to discover that he's Batman, what to wish for if he's ever granted three wishes, etc.
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1. There's a picture of an actual quick brown fox jumping over a lazy dog that, every time he sees it, makes Andrew really happy. He says it's because the fox and the dog both look so happy.

Human happiness may or may not make Andrew happy, but dog happiness almost always does.

2. He bought a bunch of fancy chocolate the other day. A lot of it's stuff he knows I don't like fruit in my chocolate, or salt, or milk) but one of them is mint dark chocolate. He keeps all the chocolate in the fridge, and I just noticed that the mint dark chocolate is underneath the punnet of mushrooms.

As if to say "this one's been claimed by Holly, for mushrooms are her weird food and nothing to do with me."
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1. Andrew's a good friend to someone having a bad day by helping them write a policy motion to tackle one of the things that made their day shitty.

(Lib Dem friends are the best friends.)

2. [personal profile] magister and I both chose the same beer with our lunch today, him because he liked the name, me because I liked the picture.



Every time we show an interest in one of the Oakham Ales, we hear about how the pub we're in is one of only eight in Yorkshire that has them, and how the brewery people come and check everything about the pub before they decide if it's worthy, and I think they like having the chance to brag so I'm happy to listen. Paranoid is apparently a beer Oakham brew only once a year, which is a bit of a shame because it's amazing and I'd love more of it. But there are always other nice beers.

3. There are always nice beers.

4. For the past few days I've been casting cursory glances at the pile of dirty dishes, the new-heights-of-untidiness in our bedroom, and the basketsful of clean and dirty laundry, thinking I know I have to sort all this out. Can't wait until I feel like that's a thing I can do.

Today, I sorted out all those things. And cleaned the bathroom. And made myself a proper dinner with vegetables in it.

(I can push myself to do a thing even if it's not a thing I can do -- sometimes things just have to get done -- but it tends to leave me neither mentally nor physically well, and I've learned that after a few days of feeling like such things are insurmountable, I'll wake up one day and just...be able to do them. I got all this done on a day when I was hardly even in the house! Whereas yesterday I was home all day and was barely able to feed myself.)

5. I watched "Baby," one of Nigel Kneale's Beasts (James was delighted that I liked The Stone Tape, which he lent me after I complained about the sexist, ableist, boringest film The Quiet Ones and I can totally see why, because The Stone Tape is basically the not-shit version of the same idea, and between my positive reaction to that and James's conviction that I need to see Quatermass and the Pit and then all the other Quatermasses, I think there will be a fair amount of Nigel Kneale in my life for a while, and on the evidence of what I've seen so far I'm perfectly fine with that.)

We talked about how good Kneale is at conveying a lot in a few words, something really admirable in any genre but absolutely great for horror. And a lot of the horror here isn't about the story's supernatural element at all, it's about the awful situation this poor woman would be in anyway, and the very mundanity of how badly she's treated by her husband, his boss, his wife, even the builders who upset and patronize her, makes it feel very claustrophobic and bleak even before the supernatural horror turns up.

This probably doesn't make it sound like much fun but I really enjoyed it, despite becoming so sensitive in my old age that I yell at Andrew for even just telling me anything that happens on Hannibal nowadays and got upset yesterday at the fate of fictional babies in an Onion article.
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He just said, apropos of nothing, "And all this trouble could have been avoided if he'd been named Hegetarian."
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Yesterday evening Andrew came down the stairs to where I watching a movie and said, "One not good thing about having a house is that there are lots more dark rooms that are full of serial killers when there's no Holly around."

Guess who's been watching Hannibal again.
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I think Andrew must have an itch somewhere.

But since he's asleep and his hand is resting on my hip, he's scratching my hip instead.

Very gently. It's sort of cute. I can't help thinking it feels like he's trying to look after me, even though I know it's just coincidence.
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"Happy birthday to you!" Andrew just sang out to me from the other room.

"Aw, thank you," I said. I've been knitting while watching National Lampoons Christmas Vacation, my family's traditional Christmas movie, and having only my third mince pie of the year (and my second was just yesterday!); I'm way behind on my favored Christmas traditions this year. So I hadn't noticed it'd ticked over from yesterday to today until he started singing.

"I was waiting until exactly midnight," Andrew explained his singing. "But then I didn't look at the clock, and then it was a quarter past." Aw, bless him for trying.

Helpful

Nov. 29th, 2013 11:13 pm
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Every time Buffy kisses Angel, Andrew shouts "don't do that! He's a vampire!"

Every. Time.
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Andrew went to the kitchen, came back with a mug of coffee in each hand, singing "Caffeine! Caffeine! Caffeine! Caff-ee-ine!" in the style of a well-known Dolly Parton song.

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