Welcome to the Manhouse...

This is a photo of yet another unfinished project we have sitting on the property. I refer to it as the Manhouse. To be fair, this picture was taken some months ago, and there is now a wall across the front. My son loves this picture and refers to it as "the lifesize Diarama. Complete with life-like (emphasis on LIKE) person".
I started calling it the Manhouse, much to the chagrin of my husband. When we went to visit his family at X-mas there was much talk about the Manhouse and I even had them referring to it as such! But the coup came when my husband gave in and said, "I am putting a small woodstove in the Manhouse"! Up until that point he tried to call it a shed. HAR (as in, har-d- har, har)!!!
I see the Manhouse as an escape. A little house of his own, for my husband. Originally he said it was his tool shed, but with the addition of the hopeless slack-ass chair (one step up from the Lazy Boy), the woodstove, insulation, and cold beer, he's built himself a true 4 season Manhouse!
Now if I could just get him to find a way for it to bring in some cash, you know, rent it out as a retreat. It works for him!
So, contact him. Rents are reasonable. There's even a skylight.
Book early and often! Welcome to the Manhouse!

Man, I'm Beat....

This is a photo of one of my relatives. I have no idea what year this was, but it was QUITE some time ago. She and I share the same name, but I was told at age 11 (when I asked to have guitar lessons) that "Girls don't play guitar!", and that was the end of that. At age 11 I did not know about this distant relative, or this photo , or I certainly would have stuck it in my father's face and said, "EH, what?"
At about the same time my musical endeavors were SQAUSHED, I asked the priest in religion class why girls could not be "servers" on the altar at mass. He encouraged me to write a letter to Rome and ask the Pope. I penned that letter and after having all the other girls in the class sign their names next to mine, and having the priest read it , we sent it off to Rome (of course the priest supplied the address) we awaited the most holy answer.
About a month later, I find myself and all my girl classmates in a room awaiting the WRATH of the pricipal (and she - fiesty little nun- is NOT your PAL!). I get called up to explain myself, and told that I should never question the Pope, and who did I think I was and how I had embarrassed the school, the town, the state, America in general, and... that my penmanship was atrocious! Where was that priest that had been all supportive? No where to be seen, and when I finally did see him and questioned why he wasn't there to stand up for me...he simply laughed in my face.
I didn't know at the time that priests were molesting altar boys, and the answer to why girls weren't allowed had a whole lot less to do with church dogma and more to do with preists BEING dogs.
I am sad that I don't know how to play a musical instrument, and I try to channel this distant relative to perhaps give me some of what she had. Guts, freedom to choose, individualism!
All the things the catholic church tried to stamp out of me. When people say that they are recovering Catholics, I have to laugh. There is no recovery. Only time and the wisdom that comes with that to understand things differently.
Hey, girls do play guitars.............................