Tag Archives: humor

10 Things I Hate About The Turk

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Those of you who follow my blog will know that The Turk has been in Australia for a little over 3 months now.  His original plan of holidays and fun times down in Oz turned into a medical emergency and him being stuck in Australia until the Cardiologist gave him the all clear which, fortunately or unfortunately depending how you look at things, he got last Monday.  This means … yikes … he’s coming back in a few days!

kemal collage

I have enjoyed my single life immensely over the past few months.  I have enjoyed not sharing my bed (and the earth trembling snoring).  I have enjoyed ignoring the housework (as a good Turkish housewife should).  I have enjoyed my nights out without him and I have enjoyed my nights in without him.

I now realise that I will not only have to return to a life shared with him I also get to experience his crazy ass, typically Turkish, male antics again and so, in celebration of The Turk’s forthcoming return, I give you  – 10 things I hate about The Turk:

  • His Big Fat Turkish Ego! I think this one covers everything else on the list but his ego is the largest thing about him *nudge, nudge*.  He knows everything.  He can do anything.  He spends more time in front of the mirror than I ever have and he is the total male package.  I am sooo lucky.  He tells me so every, single day!
  • His Turkish Compass. Being Turkish and a male (or maybe just male) he will never get lost.  It is unheard of.  Impossible!  Rubbish!  And yet despite this unique ability that is akin to a superpower he can never find his kimlik.  Or his mobile.  Or his bloody wallet.  He is like a Tyrannosaurus Rex – can’t see the shit right in front of him!
  • His love of stomach turning Turkish food. Ick!  Eep!  Yikes!  With The Turk returning he will bring with him the insane need to cook sheep’s head or brain or liver or kidney or tripe.  I just vomited into my mouth.
  • His ability to act like a four year old boy. Like all Turkish men when it comes to a confrontation with their wife, The Turk will run away with his tail between his legs. He will disappear for hours on end and turn his telephone off.  All this achieves is that I want to inflict permanent damage on his measly ass!  I blame his mother.
  • His coping mechanism. Due to his recent illness I will probably let this one go but it is still worth a mention.  When The Turk comes down with man-flu his ability to operate heavy machinery or even the television remote becomes non-existent.  The world, quite rightfully, comes to an end.  Full body aching or even a simple sniffle means that he has been struck down with nothing short of Ebola.  During this period of marriage I can usually be found yelling, “Just die already” but I guess I shouldn’t do that one anymore.  I am going to need a new catch phrase.
  • His penis. The Turk loves his ding-a-ling and re-arranges said ding-a-ling at least 500 times an hour. Just leave it alone for Christ’s sake. You don’t see me touching my boobs every few seconds.
  • His penis – take two! The Turk always has sex on his mind.  All the time.  He is so freakishly obsessed with it. Will he never get bored of being horny? And why is everything related to sex?!?!  When he rang to tell me he could fly his actual words were, “The doctor said I can have sex again … oh and I can fly home as well”.  *Sigh*
  • His ability to lie. To my face.  He does it all the time.  “Darling you sing like Madonna”.  “Darling no that does not make you look enormous” or what about the “I’ll be home in 5 minutes”.  The last one is the worst.  A Turkish 5 minutes could be 5 hours, hell it could be 5 days!  Shit just ain’t true!
  • His ability to help … others. It does not matter what needs to be done The Turk is there for you.  Your neighbour’s cousin’s, aunt is moving home?  Of course The Turk will singlehandedly carry her ugly Turkish furniture down 4 flights of stairs!  A problem with your toilet?  Bob the Builder ain’t got nothing on The Turk.  A nuclear reactor in meltdown?  The Turk is all over it but God forbid if I need a light bulb changed in the stairwell!  He is AWOL.  It’s never going to happen.
  • Not only he is always right – did I mention at any stage that he is a genius – his family is also always right. His brother is always right (did you see how I highlighted that?  Can you feel the tension?).  His sister is always right.  Everyone is always right except for me.  Even if I had made the suggestion two minutes earlier it is not right unless it has been said by a family member.  Aarrghhhh!?!?

Bonus reason:

  • The inevitable reverse culture shock that will hit The Turk as soon as he sets down his suitcase. I lived through it last year, hell I blogged through it last year! He will be grumpy.  He will no doubt sulk.  He will yell it to the world, “Coming back here was a huge mistake and we should move back to Oz as soon as possible”.  This line of behaviour will carry on for a few weeks until, like a puppy, he settles into his new home albeit with a few pee puddles along the way.

He does have his good points too you know.  I don’t know what they are right now but I am sure they will come clear once he has returned home – and tidied the house.

On reflection I realise that my “10 things” would not be limited to my Turk or to Turkish men in general but wow(!) I feel like a huge weight has just been lifted off my shoulder!  Now it’s your turn.  Spill the beans people, it’s cathartic.  What annoys you about your lesser half?

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Wankyu Gida … um?

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Quick one folks.

I came across this sign today and … well … we all know my Turkish is abysmal but “Wank in food”?  Is that really what it is trying to say?  Makes you wonder what their special sauce might be.

Anyone care to translate?

DSC00142

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Rage against the Latrine

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Warning – excessive use of Game of Thrones memes following.  Continue at your own risk.

I am well versed in the art of the squat toilet and it is an art form indeed.  I know that the squat toilet can be grosser than gross.  I know there will be a bucket or a hose and I know what to do with it.  I always BYO my own paper, never trip over the step and always remove my mobile before pulling down my jeans.  Hell I even carry my own sanitizer, as it is highly doubtful that there will be any soap – a nightmare for any self-respecting germ-a-phob such as myself.  Yes sir, I know my way around a squatty.  Nothing is going to phase a squatty pro like me but last night my worst nightmare came to life.  A nightmare so terrifying that you, gentle reader, will run, not walk, from the next squat toilet that you come across.  This story proves that there is no rest in a rest room, no dignity in the long drop and nothing but crap in the crapper.  This is my story.

My most recent post discussed the hava (weather).  It has been cold, not polar vortex cold but cold enough for me to go all nerdy and proclaim “Winter Is Coming” a la Game of Thrones.  See what I did there? Throne?  Toilet?  It will become clearer.

cold 2

Last night and despite having succumbed to Daughter’s sickness I found myself at dinner with some Turkish friends at a lokanta down by the sea.  It was really no hardship as we had been without electricity for most of the day and we also had no running water so cooking dinner was going to be a bit of a trial anway.  By the time we got to the restaurant the downpour had become a monsoon and it was colder than Joffrey’s blackened heart so I did what I always do to fight the cold – ordered a bottle of red.  Dinner was excellent and I enjoyed myself immensely forgetting about my sinus headache and the gale that continued to howl outside.

After quite a few glasses of wine it was time for me to visit the iron throne and I toddled off in my high heels to locate the bathroom behind the lokanta.  I opened the door and my first reaction is my normal reaction when I see a squat toilet.  “Ewww”.  My second reaction was to hold my breath as I stepped in and locked the door behind me.  I did what I needed to do, made slightly easier in the high heels funnily enough, and turned to flush.  The hole below me began to groan, a strange groan akin perhaps to Hodor fighting against a Lannister – “HODOR” – and I stepped back to make a break for freedom.  As I took that step in my heels I slipped, whether it was from the rain or the urine soaked tiles I will never know, but I found myself on all fours facing, but thankfully not actually in, the squatty.  Phew.

hodor

As I took a moment to regain my composure the toilet gave another groan, this time it was the groan of the dying Oberyn Martell as he took his last breath (I mean honestly his head looked like cantaloupe that had fallen from a horse and cart!).  I stared at the squatty as the groaning intensified and suddenly, to my horror (and taking into account that my head was no more than 30 cm from the gaping hole) my “sacrifice” along with everyone else’s began gurgling up intent on escaping from its excrement stronghold.  It was Mt Etna coming to life!  Dear God in heaven help me!  I scrambled to my feet ignoring the thoughts of the germs that now were embedded in my hands from my fall and I fumbled with the door handle as the slow moving mountain of shit continued to escape from its volcanic dungeon.  Holy shit!  Literally, there was shit everywhere no doubt a casualty of the flooding that was happening outside the lokanta!  The ground became a brown carpet of evil and I threw myself against the door, yelling at the top of my voice “Bok! Bok!”  I ran into the open air gasping for breath and staring at the shit that was now slowly oozing through the doorway and wondered why I never have my camera when I really need it!

game of thrones

The owner came running and it did not take him very long to realise what had happened.  He began to holler at me, at his staff, at Allah and anyone else who would listen.  Not really sure what I could do to help I left him to it and skidded across the courtyard back into the restaurant leaving my shitty foot prints trailing behind me.  I stood in front of my friends completely soaked, freezing cold and partially covered in shit.  Instead of sympathy they reacted in exactly the manner that I would expect all friends to react.  They laughed.

Finally and continuing with the Game of Thrones feel I have going I add one final meme.

cold 3

I thought it was funny.

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Today’s weather forecast is … crazy!

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Oh my fecking God!  Yes it is a little chilly outside but, please, people, calm the feck down. Let’s not lose our head about this.  What is cold anyway?  To those of you visiting from the UK it is in fact rather pleasant in Mersin at the moment.  Yes there is a chill in the air.  There is a fresh layer of snow on the mountain range behind us and yes it was raining earlier in the week but is it cold?  Ummm, I really don’t think so. 

Right now I am wearing short sleeves although I admit you definitely need a cardigan at night.  Around me though people are dressing as if we were dealing with a polar vortex, discussing whether they need to dissect a Tauntaun (sorry nerdy Star Wars reference) and deciding whether to wait it out in the New York library with Jake Gyllenhaal (well alright if you insist).  Sorry folks it is just cold and it is not really all that cold for that matter.

day after tomorrow

You know once the weather changes here Turkish people literally lose their minds.  They verily believe that if it is not 400 degrees then you need to layer.  Actually even if it is 400 degrees you still need to layer but not with the same intensity. Cover your back!  Cover your neck!  Do you need a scarf?  *Sigh*

Flash back – middle of summer and I take Daughter and her cousin to the park.  Daughter is running around in shorts and a singlet and Tatli is wearing  – a singlet.  A t-shirt.  A long sleeve top.  And she is carry a jacket with her.  A jacket!  She must keep her jacket with her at all times.  OMG!  It is literally – literally – 400 degrees in the park and Tatli has a jacket!  Calm the feck down people!  Daughter is drenched in sweat in her singlet and is throwing water on herself at any opportunity yet she’s the crazy one?

Truthfully though right now Daughter is sick.  I am told by my kardeş (sister) that it is my fault because I have allowed Daughter to go outside in 25 degree heat wearing her short sleeve school shirt and without woollen stockings.  Diagnosed with akut bronşit (bronchitis) she has spent the past few days in bed.  Actually that is not accurate.  She has in fact spent the past few days lying around on the couch, surfing the internet and watching old episodes of Pretty Little Liars.  She has been prescribed a butt load of medicine (which she is, of course, taking reluctantly) although the clinic doctor is well aware of how I feel about enjeksiyonlar (injections) so he refrained from prescribing the Turkish equivalent of a headache tablet – the all secretive aşı (vaccine).  This “vaccine” is suggested every single time I go to the clinic.  What is this secret shot?  God only knows but I can assure you I am not pumping Daughter with some unknown aşı by our neighbour whose official title is “village injector”.  Trust me Doc once the antibiyotik kicks in you certainly don’t need the magical aşı pumped into your ass twice a day for a week!

So yes it is a little chilly here. Will Daughter wear a jacket next week?  Probably.  Is there a Snowpocalypse forecast?  No, but if you are coming to Mersin in November, bring a cardigan alright?

Rant over.

The Turkish Moustache

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With The Turk currently Down Under having something akin to a heart attack I sit here in Mersin thinking about what could have been.  Not with him – I know how that story goes – but with other, more glorious, men.  I think we have already sufficiently covered my Brad Pitt fantasies.  I also have had similar fantasies with Liam Neeson and, OK look, I am going to admit it, Sean Connery.  I know he is old enough to be my father but damn “Sir” you are still fine!

With all this spare time and taking into account the fact that Brad is newly married to my nemesis, Liam is no doubt still grieving the loss of his gorgeous wife and, well, I think I need to pass on Sir Sean (unless you are reading this Sir Sean then “I’m willing if you are”), I decided to do some research on hot Turkish men.  Actors or musicians, after all I do live in Turkey and need to start being slightly patriotic (although admittedly the men mentioned above are not Aussie).  As an afterthought but certainly no less smashing I shall now mention Hugh Jackman and will also throw my hat into the ring for one of those young, delicious Hemsworth boys.

After making my decision to undertake this important research to bring you, my dear readers, the hard (cough, cough) facts, I set forth on this tough assignment by doing a Google search on “hot Turkish men”.  The search engine gave me 4.8 million results.  Hmm I was no doubt going to be very busy.  I then got side tracked and found myself doing a Google search on Brad Pitt.  This brought up 6.9 million results.  “Stop it Janey!  Back to the task at hand!”

I want to start by saying that I definitely have a type.  I like a man that is dark (well duh!), rocks facial hair and works well with his hands.  I should have an abundance of choice here in Turkey then shouldn’t I?  But I find myself in a bit of a dilemma.  The question that has given me many a sleepless night (not true) is this – what happens when you put a moustache on a hot guy?  I will tell you.  That hottie turns into a nottie!

exhibit a

Meet Ibrahim Celikkol.  Hottie right?  Yes please.  He is an actor who has starred in many television shows over here in Turkey but what happens when you put a moustache on this hottie?  1970’s porn star!  This guy is obviously an amazing actor or is paid a lot of money to sport that particular mo’!

Exhibit B

Burak Özçivit.  Again Wowza!  Young, handsome, great hair!  He reminds me a little of A.C. Slater but put a moustache on that mug and what have you got?  Freddie Mercury’s much younger cousin.

exhibit c

Look at the brooding hotness of Murat Ünalmış.  And then throw not just a mo’ but a full fledged beard on this hottie and he turns into what?  He looks like the guy that I brought my tomatoes from this morning.  Hold on, I think it is the guy I brought my tomatoes from this morning!

Last one I promise

exhibit d

How about Tolga Karel.  I think he is a reality tv star here.  Survivor or something.  Good looking guy.  Then there is his mo’ shot –this is a professional photograph.  He chose to rock that mo’ and undo the buttons on his denim shirt (do people still wear denim shirts?).  His stylist dropped the ball on this one folks.

The list keeps going.  As I said I am a big fan of facial hair but here in Turkey the moustache must be a sign of power, of virility, manly men undertaking manly tasks sporting manly, man hair.  Honestly they are all sporting the whisker here.  Someone please write to Gillette and ask for, like, 10 million free samples of their best blade.  That should be a good start to ridding Turkey of this evil appendix to the hot Turkish man.

Just to prove that it’s not just a Turkish male that cannot pull of the mo’ here are photos of my Brad, Liam and Sean rocking the mo’.  Brad – so wrong it’s not even right, Liam – there were some bad photos but then I can’t do that to my Liam and, finally, Sir Sean – a mo and a turtleneck.  Help me please.

rocking the mo

There are some honourable mentions though in the hot Turkish men Google search.  Starting with Kivanç Tatlitug.  Seriously, I could not find a bad photo of this guy.  Is it just me or does he remind you of a Turkish Brad Pitt.  Building up a sweat with this one.

Honourable mention Kivanç Tatlitug

How about Caglar Ertugrul?  He could be Jake Gyllenhaal’s long lost brother.

honourable mention Caglar Ertugrul

Come on people.  Give me some names.  I am happy to do the research for you guys, to bring you the best of the best to drool over but I am going to need somewhere to start.  But he has to be hotter than Kivanç Tatlitug.

hottie Kivanç Tatlitug package

Just putting that out in the universe.

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Mistaken Identity

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A couple of weeks before The Turk left for Australia he and I were in Carsi doing some shopping when he was mobbed.  By women.  Yes.  Seriously!  Well it was only two women but it was still a mobbing.  It seems that The Turk looks something similar to Cem Özer who is a famous actor here in Turkey.  Why these women chose that particular moment to mob him I do not know.  Perhaps the real actor was in Mersin or perhaps these women momentarily lost their senses but regardless they made The Turk’s day.  Does he look like Cem Özer?  You be the judge.

collage 16

There is a vague resemblance I guess.  Squint your eyes, have a glass of red and you can definitely see the similarities!

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A Smile

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Each morning at a little after 7, whether it is rain, or hail, or shine, I watch a little old lady passes by my front door.  I do not know her name, I do not know where she lives, all I know is that our front door forms part of her morning constitutional.

When I see her I always smile and call out, “Gunaydin”.  She has never acknowledged me.  She has never wished me a good morning or even glanced in my direction, she merely makes her way past my front door as part of her usual morning routine.  She walks slowly but with purpose. Some mornings I see she is walking with difficulty but today I noticed she has a new appendage to help her on her constitution – a cane.  She seemed a little more sure of her step this morning but she still did not wish me a good morning when I waved at her from my terrace.

It is difficult to win over the old ladies in the village.  After their initial curiosity of the yabanci amongst them I have generally been ignored.  A few teyzer will say good morning and one or two of them will even ask me to join them for çay but on a whole I am left alone these days.  That suits me fine.  I am happy in my solitude and it gives me more time to write.

I do wonder, however, what I have to do to win this little lady over.  A smile, that is all I am asking for.  Maybe tomorrow.

DSC03407

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To my No. 1 Fan

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Did you know that humor is a great stress reliever and research has shown that being funny is actually a sign of intelligence. I’m pretty sure I’m a fecking genius.

I also think I’m a pretty nice person. I like to think that the whinging that I do on my little blog is taken with a grain of salt.  I like to think that you, my loyal readers, are mature enough to discern between my take on living in this crazy little world and understand humor for what it is.  Well maybe not! 

no 1 fan

Last night I received this email and when you read it try reading it with the voice of Yoda in your head (my request will make sense in a moment) –

“Janeyinmersin,

I think you are the bitch. if you are unhappy so living in Turkey why do you not just leave.  I am sure that it don’t want you here.  Go back to home in England.  England deserve you.  You are the bitch. Divorce you I am.”

To this person who provided an email address that bounced back (let’s call him “Yoda”), to Yoda I reply –

Dear Yoda,

I have never denied being a bitch (although I wonder are you trying to say “You are the bomb”?  If you are trying to say “you are the bomb” then thank you and big kisses to you).  I appreciate your sentiment but just in case you are in fact calling me a bitch I will say that you are in fact 100% correct.  I am a bitch and I have been called a bitch many times over the years.  I do appreciate your ability to immediately recognise a bitch.  Kudos.

I also appreciate that you obviously spent the time to use Google Translate to write your kind comment to me.  I should use Google Translate to reply to you as well however then my readers won’t get to enjoy my sarcasm and wit which is so obviously lost on you.

It is truly endearing to find a reader who has spent as much time as you obviously have Yoda reading my blog as you obviously know many intimate details about my life.  Firstly I must tell you obviously I use the word “obviously” way too much.  Obviously!  Secondly, I must say that I do love England and I bet England would love me too.  It has so much to offer.  Harry Potter, William and Kate live there, even the Beatles originated from there! But one thing that did not originate from England was, in fact, me! I am not English.  Perhaps we can play a game of Guess my Nationality?

Should I make it a visual game?  Alrighty then.  Below are 3 pictures.  See if you can guess where I am from?photovisi-download

Did you guess it Yoda?  I bet you did because you are obviously smarter than the average Jedi Knight.  I mean look at Luke Skywalker.  He was a bit dumb, he didn’t even realise that Leia was his sister!  Ewwww.  But just in case you did fail your Jedi Knight training the answer is – “I come from the land Down Under, where women glow and men plunder” also known as “Stralya”.

Finally (and just in case this message was from The Turk) – no you cannot divorce me.  You love me WAY too much!

Again thank you for reading my little blog.  Click like below if you enjoyed this reply or even like me on Facebook so you get all my updates.

Yours sincerely

Janey … still in Mersin (and fecking loving it)

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So what’s my peeve today?

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Let me enlighten you.

The Turk has been gone nearly one week.  What have I realised in The Turk’s absence?

The Turk does the cleaning.  I hate cleaning.

The Turk does the vacuuming.  I hate vacuuming.

The Turk really is a sensational chef.  To anyone who knows The Turk personally knows just how good a chef he is.  His pizza is legend – wait for it – ary.  Legendary!  I attempted pizza for Daughter and I last night.  It was not legendary.  It was – adequate.  Daughter called it adequate.  *Sigh*

The Turk also goes to the butcher.  I loathe going to the butcher.  I loathe the smell of the butcher and I loathe looking at the meat hanging on hooks.

I know that we have already established that I am a failure in the Turkish Housewife stakes but I am starting to realise that perhaps The Turk does more around here than I have given him credit for.

And this brings me to my next peeve.

A mountain of garbage that is accumulating outside my home.  I live between what is currently a building site to my right and a 3 level building consisting of 4 apartments on my left.  Each apartment has a family member living in it.  The building site does my head in, always has, always will.  Minus the fact that Vito has built their shop and home abutting our building their builders would have to be the laziest and dirtiest builders I have ever had the non-pleasure of coming across.  Crap everywhere and while I am on that subject “Where do they crap?”  There is no toilet facility built yet and I am curious as to where they go when nature calls.  You know when we were building out balcony my mother in law caught our builder doing a shit in our basement!  Yes seriously!  She went ballistic.  Best thing I ever saw.  She picked up the bok (shit) in her hand and chased him with it before throwing it in his face.  We never saw that particular builder again.  There’s your Turkish word of the day – bok!

Back to my peeve.

garbage monster

To our left we have the three level building with 4 apartments.  While The Turk was here I would often see him carrying bucket after bucket of garbage to the large dumpster down the street.  With him now gone the buckets are overflowing, the stray cats are ecstatic and the smell is all consuming.

This morning I witnessed a family member who shall remain nameless throw a bag of garbage out the window narrowly missing My Hurley Dog and I as we were in the garden.  WTF?  Not only are they too lazy to take the garbage to the bin now it seems they are even too lazy to walk it down the stairs?

My frustration levels are at boiling point.  These people are happy to live in filth but I am not.  They drop garbage where they stand.  The neighbour’s dog poops everywhere and no one cleans it up.  It’s a Rottweiler folks.  That bok is bigger than my foot!  Recycling is non-existent.  This really is getting out of hand.

As I sit here on my balcony enjoying the warm autumn breeze (thankfully not coming in from the east) I honestly wonder whether this mountain of crap is one lightning bolt away from becoming its own entity, with thoughts and feelings.  And if this mountain of crap is only one lightning bolt away from becoming its own entity do I have to feed that too?

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Satan called. He wants his weather back!

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It is seriously 10,000 degrees here in Mersin at the moment.  I am trapped in hell, sitting in my underwear right in front of my air conditioner which is about to pack it in under the pressure.  It is trying to give me what I want.  I need it.  I want it.  I feel like it is nearly there then – nothing.  It packs it in.  Someone came too soon and it wasn’t me!

hot sun

Loyal followers of this blog (and personal friends) will know that I pretty much spend all my winter months whinging about the damn cold.  I complained like a whingy feck.  “I can’t wait until summer,” I cried.  “I’m going to swim.  I’m going to swim at the beach every damn day”.  Well no I’m fecking not swimming in that cesspool that is the Village beach and no I am not taking 3 buses to get to the first clean beach outside of Mersin.  Feck my life!

collage 12

I definitely did not sign up for this kind of heat.  This day in and day out never ending hell that is the Village in the middle of summer.  You can’t go outside.  The sun will turn you into ash.  Armageddon heat.  Fire ants on crack heat.  I am thinking of spraying “Norsca” in my stairwell turning it into a Swedish sauna because that’s what it fecking feels like when I walk out my front door!  Don’t get me wrong.  I do make an effort to get out of the house.  All the time but then I step out into the Swedish sauna that is my stairwell, my brain starts to swell, my shoes start to melt and when I come to I find myself lying on the couch watching an episode of Ellen – the same episode of Ellen.  Very Groundhog Day.  Am I going to be forced to relive this hellfire summer until I do it right, Groundhog style?  I bloody hope not.

Incidentally there are a few shows here in English with Turkish subtitles but can someone tell me why I seem to watch the same show of Ellen every couple of weeks.  It’s got those two extremely obnoxious little English girls “Fatty and Rosie”.  I don’t know their names – wait I lie.  The little blonde girl is named Rosie.  She is the cute one that lip syncs or mimes.  She is the one that won’t need therapy while the other one who I have called Fatty sings, or tries to sing.  When she is older and realises how her parents have exploited her – she will definitely be spending her earnings in therapy.  How is this entertainment?  My mind tends to block it all out but they are on the show with Vince Vaughan who is probably trying to contact his agent to scream, “Why the feck am I on with these two fecking brats?  How low have I fallen down the ladder of Hollywood power?”  He is also probably wondering why he has never won an Oscar.

Back to my story.  Yes the heat.  Its fecked!

Too hot to sleep at night so I find that I have become a night crawler.  I leave the house around 10 pm with My Hurley Dog (aka The Terminator) and we troll the streets, waving to people we know and hoping to not draw attention to myself to those that we do not (after all the heat does bring the crazy out in most people).  It’s too hot for My Hurley Dog to walk throughout the day anyway.  He would rather hold his poop in until November than go outside and poop with the hot sun beating down on him.  I mean it, literally plug his butt than walk outside in this white scalding heat.  He was not designed to live in this relentless, torturous, horrid heat.  He has had yet another terrible haircut which he is totally embarrassed about.  To top it off he was attacked yesterday by two – yes two – mamma cats who ganged up on him when he went over to congratulate them on the birth of their babies.  Those bitches!  The Turk was so angry that he threw a bucket of water on the mamma cats but missed and mostly the water landed on My Hurley Dog.  I don’t think he minded though because it’s too feking hot!

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Speaking of The Turk, he has taken to sleeping on the tiled terrace in his underwear.  Daughter went out there a couple of nights ago to find him stark naked.  She came running in shielding her eyes and squealing, “What has been seen, cannot be unseen!”  Once I convinced her to not gouge out her eyes she returned to her bedroom to sleep.  A new house rule is that the Turk will always wear his underwear now.

The only one of us to doesn’t seem to give a shit about the heat is My Kedi Cat.  He no longer lives with us.  He lives in the front garden or by the front door with Evil, only coming in to eat.  He refuses to eat cat food and so I find myself cutting up pieces of steak or chicken to satisfy this bitch cat that I dragged all the way from Australia who hates my guts!  My Kedi Cat spends his days being primped by Evil (his only love) and attacking other cats who venture too close to our front door.  I sometimes see him when I am on my late night walk a couple of blocks away wandering around looking for something to kill.  He ignores me though.  Hate that cat!

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So that is today’s rant.  I am supposed to go downstairs and help make bread with the ladies.  I don’t want to unless I can go down there in my underwear but The Turk vetoed that idea.  Well if I cannot go down there in my underwear then I want to stay right where I am in front of my poor, groaning air conditioner until either it or I give up for good!

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