King Henry VIII was an Alpha Male

...and the gentle reader will have noticed that our heroine has still not figured out how to keep the beginnings of her paragraphs indented! Nor can she use the spell check! But she doesn't care! 'Cause no-one is reading this damn thing anyway!

Arghhh! The bastard got his revenge by creating a Roger Whittaker radio station!

Last week at the Thrift Store I picked up another book about King Henry the Eighth and his six wives. Ya gotta love all that beheading that goes on. I don't know, I just can't get my head around (ahar har har, get it, pun so totally intended) all the violence that went on in those days. So last night at supper I asked That Guy how he thought he would deal with being led to the chopping block.

"Would you break down and weep like a baby?" I asked.
"Oh hell, yes," he said.
"Really?" I asked, maybe a little dismayed. This is the wimp I chose to be the father of my children? I mean, aren't I instinctively supposed to go for some sort of Alpha male model? Someone who laughs in the face of adversity?
"Oh yeah. If I was about to get my head whacked off? I'd be absolutely terrified."
"Would you hide, daddy? Under a blanket?" asked little Miss High Intensity, totally in earnest.

This totally cracked us up, and we laughed pretty hysterically for a couple of minutes or so. Then I said, " in thirty years when global warming has resulted in a total breakdown of society and the U.S. has invaded us for our water and you're sitting in your cell awaiting execution, do you think you'll recall this conversation fondly?"

"Yeah," he said, "unless you guys are already dead. Then remembering it would be terrible."

Cozy, happy family moment DESTROYED! Silently, we contemplated the end of the world as we know it. The baby was sitting in her high chair smiling her face off as usual, and Miss H. I. was sitting in her chair naked, except for one of those woolly winter caps with the strings down the sides that she often insists upon wearing at the dinner table. She looked like a precocious little smart-ass from some Swedish movie, VERY pleased with herself. The thought of them dead from some sort of global catastrophe was soul-rippingly depressing. So we changed the topic to something very bland and boring. I think we talked about the dinner I'd made. (Since that damn mouse made its first appearance in the spice drawer, meals around here have been, um, a little less perky than usual.)

Last night was Halloween. (Yes, I know the date above says it's the 29th. That's another thing I've got to bloody well figure out.) That Guy downloaded a template of George Dubya's face which I spent about an hour or so carving into our pumpkin. I kind of hacked up the sides of it a bit by accident, so it ended up looking like he had horns, which was great. Lit up he looked dead evil. I thought it would frighten the snot out of the kids, but no-one even MENTIONED it. Story of my life.