Today is brought to you by the letter...

Tyler doesn't like things that start with the letter D.

Dogs.
Dragons.
Most desserts.
...
And David Bowie.

I mean weird right?

And even though Harry Potter arguably starts with an 'H', he didn't think he would be a fan of that either.  Because mostly he just doesn't love the fantastical.  But he does love me, and I love the fantastical, so I suppose by some sort of transitive property he loves it too.  Subconsciously.

Regardless.

Apparently I use too many HP references in my life, and Ty decided that he needed to figure out what all this nonsense is about.  So we have been slowly but surely making our way through the movies (movies first... so if he gives up before he gets to the books he'll at least have the gist of it).  Slowly.  But as we were talking about it, Ty asked what house he would be in.

And that's when I heard it.  That innocent question might not have signaled anything to you.  But to me, it meant curiosity.  It meant... interest.

So of course I told him that, rather serendipitously, JK Rowling has a whole website about her books.  And that if we went on it would sort him into his house.

Tyler.  Got on.  Pottermore.  Clearly one of the greatest achievements of my life.

Only once.  And I suppose it doesn't really count because he hasn't been back.  But it did happen.  And everyone knows that Harry Potter is like a gateway fandom to all the other worlds of fantasy.  So maybe one day he'll be making me watch LOTR or Star Wars.

It's not impossible after all.  Just improbable.  And that's what I'm all about.

I mustache you a question

After a recent conversation, I am forced to re-evaluate all my childhood memories.  'Cause turns out I'm crazy.  Or, as I prefer to think of it, my brain is just remarkably creative.

In the house I grew up in, I knew the dead bolt was locked when it looked like this.  Well,  mostly like this.  Approximately like this.

Mostly it looked like it was a face with a mustache.  So, in the grand tradition of Stephanie, I made up a quasi-mnemonic device that really serves no good purpose.  In this case, during my daily manifestation of early on-set paranoia, I would ask myself if the door was locked.  I would glance at it and think, oh good.  Mustache.

The mustache became not just linked, but synonymous with security.  Can we talk about the irony there?

I have since suffered multiple setbacks upon realizing that some dead bolts look like this

What am I supposed to think when I see that?  Nose?  Beak?  Everyone knows that noses and beaks have nothing to do with dead bolts.  It's absurd.  Irrational.

Even worse are these

Okay.  I can see that it says locked.  And I can see an arrow.  But actually you mean that it's locked when it's at a weird angle.  Okay.  Cool.  I'll never remember that.