Sad... and suspicious

The Grand Pier at Weston-Super-Mare has been destroyed by fire. It's quite sad, really. I've been there a few times. Hairy Man used to take me there for ice cream.

It also seems a bit suspicious to me. The new owners just spent loads on restoration and renovation. Can all you boys and girls say "insurance fraud?" Sure, I knew you could.

Good Day, Sunshine!

What an amazing day it's been! I was going to write about the bloody awful day I had on Sunday at Pirate's cricket game, where the people at the Arundel Castle cricket ground were so unbelievably rude to me that by lunch time I was sitting by myself in the car, in tears, and wouldn't come sit at the table. Never in my life have I been treated so badly by complete strangers. So now I would like to proclaim loudly to all who hear that the Duke of Norfolk's 11 are the biggest, snottiest, nastiest, most condescending collection of stuck-up, aristocratic pricks I have ever met, and they can all go rot. To be fair it wasn't the players who were awful, it was all their hangers-on and the staff in the clubhouse. Cunts, the lot of them.

Some of what was said to me was so horrible it was funny, but to convey the true spirit I would have to type in an accent, which I suck at, so instead I'm going to tell you why today was so wonderful instead.

It started off with another mess of wedding reply cards, which are always fun. I haven't enjoyed going to the box to get my mail this much since I was 10 years old and expecting birthday cards with cheques in them.

Today I received a very, very formal acceptance from Pirate's great aunt Peer, who is the family aristocrat. I could barely make out her handwriting as it creaked off the personalized stationery, but lo and behold she's coming. No-one expected her to. Isn't that lovely? Yay for aged and decrepit relatives who do the unexpected!

We also got our first wedding gift today! Yay! It's the solid, Michigan maple, 3" thick, end-grain chopping board I asked for. It's 4 square feet. Proper chopping board. Very generous. (Now who will get me the knives to go with it, I wonder?)

Then I got an email from an old friend from High School that I haven't heard from in, like, geological time. He saw the announcement in the news letter and sent an email to the last known account he had for me, which still feeds in to my current account. We spent the day emailing back and forth, it turns out he's moving to Germany shortly, and would like to come and visit me over the summer, so I asked him to come to the wedding, and he said 'yes'! Whoopie! I haven't seen him in over 10 years. Amazing.

And last but not least (and this is the real cherry on the cake), the Hairy Man* I.M.'d me. We haven't communicated in almost 2 years. He took the breakup pretty hard, and I've never stopped worrying about him and wondering what he's up to. It's been a bit of a loose thread that I was never able to tie off. I tried to get in touch a couple times, but he ignored me, and so I left him in peace. And then tonight he Skyped me, right out of the blue. He's living with his new girlfriend, which makes me very happy. I wish them both well, and I hope it works out for him.

Oh, and a gift I ordered for the Pirate from Amazon arrived, so I'll be able to give that to him when he comes over on Friday.

Yay! Happiness abounds! (As does stress, but we don't think about that.)


*If you're new around here and you want to read more about the Hairy Man, click the 'hairy man' category on the sidebar. It's all there.

Conundrum

What do you do with gifts from ex-boyfriends?

I still have gifts from Hairy Man. Not many, but a couple. Most notably, this, his first ever gift to me, which he brought back from a diving holiday in Egypt.























That sculpture is still sitting on my bedside table (being used as a jewelry holder for my bracelets. ahem.) After I left Hairy Man and began seeing the Pirate I left it there because
a) I genuinely like it; it's a really neat piece of art, and
b) breaking up with His Hairyness was the hardest thing I've ever done, and though he disappeared from my life completely, I wanted to keep some reminders of him around.

I still miss him, and I still cringe at the thought that I'll never see him again, but I think the statue and the memories it evokes bring me more sadness than comfort.

On the other hand, the thought of getting rid of it -- even taking it to a charity shop or giving it to a friend -- feels like dumping him all over again, and I just can't bring myself to do it.

Every time I think of him I become incredibly sad, and yet there's a part of me that doesn't want to stop thinking about him. I cherished the time we spent together, and I want to be able to look back on those memories with fondness, and not tears. I don't want to forget about him, but I don't want to be sad every time I remember him.

So what should I do with the statue?

Birthday musings

It was my birthday last Friday. (hence the reason I didn't get any blogging done over the weekend. There were too many goings-on.) I am 28.

It's not that I object to being 28 per se. It's that I object to being just 2 years shy of 30. Something about that "3" just gives me the willies.

Since my b-day follows right on the heels of the new year, I spend a lot of time in January navel-gazing. New year, another year older, etc etc. This year I am astonished at how much my life has changed in such a short time. I can't help but look at where I was this time last year an be astonished at everything that's happened since then.

Last year at the New Year i didn't make any resolutions. I was depressed. I was in Bristol, in England, doing what I wanted to do, but I was profoundly lonely. I had very nice flatmates, all of whom were in relationships. I had very nice friends in my department, all of whom were in relationships. I was still recovering from the emotional trauma of being deported from England, and the worse trauma of not getting the warm reception from my friends that I desperately wanted. When I arrived in Bristol I hoped that the almost-flames I left behind in Manchester would rev up in a proper conflagration, but alas no. Nothin' doin'. I was depressed, convinced I would be alone forever, and focused on my work because I had nothing else besides my research and rowing. I hadn't been kissed or on any kind of a date in over 8 years.

It was on my birthday last year that one of my flatmates dragged me out to a club to get drunk and dance. It was on that night I met The Hot Scot, and pulled for the first time ever. THS made me realize what I'd been missing out on. It was that snog (and lord, what a snog!) that inspired me to join a dating service.

It was on that dating service that I met the Hairy Man, and I began to know was it was to be happy.

And it was the confidece I gained from my relationship with the Hairy Man that made my relationship with the Pirate possible. I am convinced that had I been at the party where the P and I met in my pre-Hairy state of depression that he never would have found me even the least bit attractive.

I am reminded in this saga of a book my mom used to read me call "The Little Bug That Went Ah-Choo!" In the book a bug sneezes and the result of that sneeze, by the last page of the story, is the most extaordinary parade the town has ever seen. In my case, it all started because I went to a club with my flatmate on my 27th birthday. On the 28th birtday I sat in my kitchen, looking across the counter at most wonderful man I've ever met (as he devoured the chicken and dumplings I fixed for dinner), and thought, I'm happy.

I hope 2007 brings you all as much joy and wonderfment as 2006 brought me. xxoo

Stuff I've learned from men

(Now new and imporved!)

This is a great little idea from Patroclus. Thus, I'm stealing it.

What I can't decide is should I include all the things I've learned from men in general (not counting teachers and profs, obv.), or just boyfriends? The latter would be a significantly shorter list. So I guess I'll start with that and we'll see where I get to. I can always add stuff from superfluous men* later.

from the first bf, my freshman year of college, i learned:

• the naming protocol of organic molecules
• the easiest way to put pillow cases on really turgid pillows
• how not to eat at the dinner table
• how not to practice good personal hygeine
  
• how not to treat a girlfriend
• how to screw up a clarinet solo in front of 1000 people
• the most effective and publicly humiliating way to break up with an asshole
  

moving on to bf #2, Hairy Man, we have:

• how to make really good curry
• how to shag
  
• how to cook while camping out
• an appreciation of ACDC
• how to treat a girlfriend well
• a deeper level of guilt
  

is it to soon to do the Pirate? I don't think so. That gives us:

• general stuff about cricket
• stuff about archery (did I mention he's Robin Hood? yep. eat yer heart out.)
• how not to throw like a girl and bowl a cricket ball properly
• all kinds of stuff about boats that i'll never be able to remember
• several really crass (and really funny) swear words and euphamisms
• how to dance
  
• how to accept gifts
• how to be free
• what it feels like to be loved
• UPDATE: how to operate my eyeballs independently. (There's a skill every gal needs.)
  

What have you learned from your boy/girlfriends? Tagging: everyone! Hop to it.


*I'm giving myself 5 bonus XP for using the phrase "superfluous men."

Of Confidence

and of Irony.

This post is inspired by The Great She Elephant, who is unbefuckinglievably beautiful. Seriously. I would.

I went for 9 solid years without a single date. For ages and ages I didn't know why. I didn't think I was especially ugly. I'm no Catherine Zeta Jones by any means, but I've seen far uglier women get asked out. I just didn't understand. I despaired. By the time i was 25 i absolutely believed i would alone forever. No one in my life had ever fallen in love with me, and no one ever would.

Sure, there were people I had been close to in that time, people I had cared about tremendously, people I had been attracted to, and even managed to fall in love with a couple of them. But none of them ever came close to returning my feelings. I declared myself the Queen of Unrequited Affection, and reveled in my misery. I consumed it like dark chocolate mousse, and it returned the favor.

I came to Bristol with bright, new hopes of salvation. I thought, "This is it. This time, something will happen." Of course, I thought that about Manchester, too, and thought I didn't find the love of my life, I did make one wonderful, intimate, enduring friendship, so it wasn't a total loss.*

Maybe my expectations were too high, but by Christmas I was totally depressed again. Every single one of my flatmates was in a relationship. One of them had even managed 2 boyfriends in that space of time. I thought "How does she do it? How does she meet people? and WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I????" I had no answers, and I was miserable.

Que the New Year, and my birthday. Aforementioned flatmate and I went out, ate food, drank alcohol, and danced. I met the Hot Scot. I snogged for the first time in my life. It was my 27th birthday. And I got a taste (rather literally) of what I'd been missing.

That was when I decided to take, erm, matters into my own hands. I couldn't bear to sit idly and wait any longer. No, i didn't buy a rampant rabbit. (yet, anyway). I joined an internet dating service. My brother met his wife on eHarmony, so i figured I'd give it a go. I also joined Dating Direct, 'cuz it looked good, and I didn't necessarily want to meet men who were hard-core wife shopping. (Sorry this is going on so long. There really is a point to all this. I'll get to it eventually.)

And that was when I met the Hairy Man on Dating Direct. It wasn't love at first sight, it wasn't uncontrollable animal magnatism, but it was a good time. I really liked him (still do and miss him like hell), and eventually I, he, well, yeeeeeah.

And a strange thing happened (I'm getting to the point now. Yay!): people started to treat me differently. Men, specifically. When I walked into a shop, someone would open the door. Walking down the street, men would smile at me. I got asked out to dinner by no less than 3 chuggers, on separate occasions. I declined them all, as I was happy with His Hairiness, but it did exaperate me. I thought Why the hell didn't these sorts of things happen when I was single? They say men are like busses: you can wait for ever for one to come along, and eventually they all show up at the same time.

I reckon there's a lot of truth in that. Flatmate B has a theory, and the more I think about, the more I'm convinced it's right. The thing people find most attractive, regardless of appearance, is confidence. It's why women have swooned over James Bond for over half a century: he's the epitome of confidence. It's why we often fall for assholes and bastards (there's a fine line between confidence and arrogance). I didn't think I changed all that much after I started dating the Hairy One, but maybe I did.

I think the confidence I gained from that relationship changed the way every single person I encountered saw me. For the first time in my life, I felt attractive. And that made me attractive to other people for the first time. Somehow I'd been subconsciously conveying my insecurity and lack of self-worth in my mannerisms and everyday actions, and that is the biggest turn-off of them all.

So, GSE, I feel your pain. I completely understand what you're going through. I've been there, rather recently. You are a smart, clever, loving, beautiful woman who any man would be lucky be with. And the minute you start believing that, really believing it, the men will too. I promise. Go get 'em, tiger.

And the reason this is ironic? I broke the Hairy Man's heart when i met the Pirate, but if it hadn't been for my relationship with the Hairy Man, I would not have had that inner confidence, and the Pirate probably never would have found me at all attractive. It's a mad mad mad mad world.


*and a Master's degree, but who really cares about such trifles?

Food for thought, and food for eating

You will never believe what I got in the post yesterday. Go on, guess. You'll never guess. OK, I'll tell you: a love letter. A fucking love letter. Ah, but from whom? I hear you ask. I'll tell you this much: I didn't need to look at the signature to know who sent it. All I needed to see was the stationery on which it was written. Black paper. Black paper written on with silver ink. What sort of man sends a love letter on black paper?! The sort of man who goes to Egypt on holiday and brings his girlfriend back a stone sculpture of a pre-dynastic fertility god complete with giant erect phallus, that's who. A man with style. A man with penache'. A man who went from happily getting all he could manage and then some to lonely bastard in the space of half a pint.

It was really moving. I really had no idea he felt that way. He's not one to express his emotions in words, but I think at this point he figured he had nothing left to lose. For the sake of fairness, because I previously published a list of all the things he did that bugged me, I'll let you read a bit of the letter, to leave you with a more balanced and favorable impression of his character.

...I dreamed of serenading you with my guitar under your balcony last night, except you don't have a balcony. If I could actually play the guitar I could play through the intercom system, but I guess that would distort the sound and you wouldn't understand me. (laughing hysterically)

I could send you a love poem but I guess you'd recognize my plagarism and laugh.

The fact is I feel compelled to write to you with all my heart... (getting choked up)

...there are many things I love and admire about you even though I never took the opportunity to tell you. When we're out walking I love it when you seem to just disappear when i turn around I discover you have stopped to smell a lily about 50 metres back along the path. The confidence in your voice and the sound of you speaking puts me at ease... (cue the weeping)

...CB, I love the way a little sigh escapes your mouth when you seem peased or contented. I love the smell of your hair (that's not just a line, he really did smell my hair a lot)... I love the way your skin feels when I touch your arms, shoulders, and back. I like the way your bum wobbles when you go out jogging and I love it that you don't seem to care. Most of all I love it when I wake up and find you lying there beside me...

There was more to it than that. Some bits too personal to publish here, some too mundane, questions he would like answered, etc., but anyway. I had to respond; couldn't just let that one lie. I sent him a response, 3 pages typed, single spaced. Too many times in my life I've heard the phrase "I love you, but..." This has led me to conclude that "but" is the most wretched word in the English language. I never thought I'd hear myself say it. Today I hate myself.

Was out with the Pirate last night. Saw "Cars." Cute flick, but I have some issues with it. Maybe I'll do more with that later.

Right now, I promised you food for eating. I have had several requests lately for recipes for light, summer fare. First Nations is in the process of re-learning how to cook, the Great She Elephant is looking to slim down a wee notch, and I'm sure I remember HC asking me for some salad recipes. So for the next few weeks I'll be posting a recipe ever couple days or so. These are all light, easy, and really super yummy. If you try them and have any suggestions as to how they can be improved, by all means leave your thoughts in the comments. Bon appetite!

Mediterranean Salad

Ripe baby plum or cherry tomatoes
Feta cheese
Greek olives (optional)
Fresh basil
Olive oil
Balsamic vinegar
Salt/pepper

Slice the tomatoes into quarters. Coarsely chop the basil. Mix the tomatoes, basil, and olives in a bowl. Drizzle with oil, vinegar (be spare with the vinegar. seriously, less is more). Season to taste. Crumble the feta cheese. (Always add the feta last or the balsamic vinegar makes it go a wonky, unnattractive colour.) Serve immediately, room temp.

Because this salad is so simple, the key here is good ingredients. The basil MUST be fresh. Dried basil has no flavor. You can buy a pot of fresh basil at Sainsbury's for a pound. No excuses. Use really ripe tomatoes, good olive oil, and a fairly sweet feta. (Most fetas are too salty for me. If you can't find a feta you like, give it a whirl with goat cheese or mozzarella.) Enjoy!

Slow news day

Not much to report at the mo. Not a lot terribly interesting going on.

I got to speak (too briefly) with Hendrix-Cat for the first time over the weekend, which was a treat.

The l'il pooper was having a problem with constipation, which had Vi in hysterics for 2 days, but a little KY in the bum did the trick and everything's moving along nicely now at that end. (This is the last time I will ever post anything about a baby's BMs, I promise.)

I finally took the restrictors off my windows so I can get some cool air in at night and sleep. (It was so hot in my flat I actually got heat rash on my ass.) Did the same in the kitchen. Holy air ciruculation, Batman!

Had a bit of a nasty email exchange with the Hairy Man. When I broke up with him I told him I'd pay for the French holiday we'd booked. This week he emailed me the invoice for the cancellation fee and asked me to reimburse him. I put the checque in the mail that evening; he received it the next day, and propmtly sent me an email saying he knows i'm short of cash and will therefore not cash the cheque. !!! Exasperating. He aslo said some very nasty, condescending, insulting, and hypocritical things. Not like him at all. No idea what to make of it, but it's making me feel like shit all over again, just when I was starting to get it together. Hm. Maybe that was his plan all along, who knows.

Things are wonderful with the Pirate. He phones me or texts me every night to say goodnight and send a kiss. My day isn't over until I've head his voice and know he's OK. He's coming for dinner tomorrow night. I think I'll bake a lasagne.


's about it, really. I hope your lives are more exciting, but given the disticnt paucity of fresh posts among my imaginary friends this week, i suspect we're all equally apathetic at the mo.

Shaving Hairy

At Frobisher's request I'm putting up one final photo of me and His Hairyness. This was taken at St. David's cathedral in Wales on our first camping trip. (You can't see them, but we're both wearing bum bags - proper tourists!) That was such a great trip. We talked about the holiday in France, about him coming to spend Christmas with my family in the States, about future camping trips we were planning. I can't believe how much has changed since then. It was only 3 weeks ago, but it seems ages and ages already. *sigh*

This is the last post I'm going to write about the Hairy Man. In a pathetic and blatantly infantile attepmt to find some closure so I can stop feeling like a piece of decomposing cockroach crap for dumping him out of the blue, I am now going to write all the things that bugged me about our relationship. These are all tiny, insignificant, niggly things that never bothered me individually, but taken in conjunction are useful for convincing myself that the relationship was doomed, would never go anywhere, and was bound to end sooner or later, therefore better was sooner. (Which is just a verbose way of saying what you all have been saying in the comments for days now anyway.) So here goes:

1. To the best of my knowledge, he never told his parents about me. Granted his parents are shits and he has little contact with them. Well, he has no contact with his father, but he does phone his mother now and again, and he mails her a postcard whenever he goes someplace, even if it's just camping for a weekend. I was sitting in the living room with him once while he was on the phone with his mum, and he was describing his plans for the day and never once mentioned that I exist or was part of those plans. When he would send a postcard from our camping excursions he would tell me to read them before he put them in the post, and there was never any mention of me. Now, if you were on holiday with a woman that you'd been seeing regularly for over 3 months, wouldn't you at least mention her name in a postcard? That's what I thought, too. Call me crazy but I get a bit paranoid when people won't admit to knowing me.

2. He wouldn't talk about his feeleings. Ever. Even on the rare occasion when I would ask. He never once told me how he felt about me, or named a single personal quality of mine that he liked or valued. (Well, not quite true. He did once say that I had "a very slappable ass." But I like having my ass slapped, so this was not insulting.) I can count the compliments he paid me on one hand. I didn't pay much attention to this either because all his actions toward me were very kind and generous, so I just dismissed it as him not being one of those verbal people. But I'm a verbal person, so it annoyed me.

3. He wouldn't come over to my place for dinner. Only once, our third date, which concluded with our first shag. After that he wouldn't eat dinner here. I could never figure out if it was my cooking or my flat that he disliked (he wouldn't say), but I love cooking for people and it really hurt my feelings that he always preferred to go out.

4. He wore really really stoopid shoes. Sketchers, with big poofy tongues, that he wore with the laces really loose and the tongues sticking out, like some 17 year old skate rat. Grow up. Buy some real man shoes. I dismissed this as unimportant because in the grand scheme of things, shoes are unimportant. (Though I suspect Hendrix-Cat will strenuously disagree with this stance. :-)

5. He was the biggest pain in the ass while shopping ever. Even for things that he genuinely wanted AND needed. We would go downtown or to the mall, try a few stores, compare a few items, he would find exactly what he wanted, and then... NOT BUY IT. For no reason. Just didn't feel like it. !?!?!? I never did figure this behavior out. He blamed it on being a Libra. Apparently that justifies his chronic indecisiveness. (You can tell I'm really groping for things to complain about, can't you?)

6. He didn't like to kiss me. He said I slobbered too much. I countered that just meant that I needed more practice, but he remained unconvinced. In just two dates I spent more time kissing the Pirate than I have kissing every other man I ever kissed - combined. He's yet to find ought to complain about. So there.

7. He didn't like the way Bluto smelled. I think Bluto smells exaclty the way a hamster should. But then, His Hairyness did genuinely have a very sensitive nose, and I know that I have a relatively insensitive nose, so it's very possible he actually was smelling things there that I was unable to detect. But still, it's bad form to insult someone's pet. Am I wrong? (We're really scraping the bottom of the barrel now!)

8. He didn't like my underwear. Well I'm sorry but considering that before I met Hairy it had been 8 years since a male viewed my underwear, my knickers drawer was stocked with comfortable cotton bikini pants, not scary hot pink glossy plastic g-string thingys that cost a fortune and are uncomfortable for more than 30 seconds at a stretch. I did purchase some lace French knickers in a variety of colors as well as a couple pairs of some really skimpy things that ride up my ass (and frankly i don't think look very sexy, but they are from the Victoria's Secret Very Sexy Panties collection and i figured they know more about these things than I do), but he wanted me to wear them all the time. He always teased me if I ever wore my comfy old cotton ones, and said that undressing a woman should be like opening a christmas present. Well, i told him you can't have christmas every day or it just wouldn't be special anymore, but I'm pretty sure he didn't believe me.

9. He complained if I didn't shave my legs or armpits. Personally, I'm of the mind that if God/nature/the universe saw fit to put hair under my arms who am i to argue? I am an advocate of looking one's personal best and keeping up good hygeine and all that, but the shaving thing has nothing to do with hygeine and little to do with looks. It's purely an artifical cultural contrivance created by the men who controlled the fashion industry in the 1940s and 50s to infantilize women. It's creepy. The onset of body hair happens at puberty. Remove the body hair and you are effectivley re-creating a pre-pubescent body, which put in a sexual context smacks of paedophilia. Until I started seeing Hairy I hadn't shaved in about 6 years, and I was very happy this way. But he said he liked smooth legs etc, and I figured it was a small thing that I could do to please him, and not an outrageous request given the current popular opinions on such matters, and so I went along with it. But I drew the line at the short and curlys. Those puppies are staying put, and I flat out refused to cave on that one no matter how much he hinted.



Jesus, was I a complete doormat and totally unaware of it? This really makes it sound like a rubbish relationship, doesn't it? How very therapeutic! I'm beginning to wonder what i ever saw in him. Keep in mind that if all this stuff annoyed me, and yet I still really liked him and had a lot of fun with him and found him to be a very generous and kind person overall that the list of things I liked about him would be a lot longer than 8 items and it would be about much more important stuff. But if I write that list I'll start crying again and the whole point of this excercise was to make me feel better. Which it has. Job done.

The Decision

Well it's the moment you've all been waiting for. Or rather, for which you've all been waiting. (I can't abide ending sentences in prepositions.)

One of the hardest things about breaking up with someone is that when you're really upset the one person you want most to comfort you is the one person you can't go to for comfort. It's horrible.

I spent most of monday morning and afternoon in tears. I feel like I've kicked a puppy.

Perhaps I should back up a bit.

I went camping with the Hairy Man and a few of his mates this weekend. Down to Croyde, which is crowded and touristy and a great place to be if you're a 19-year-old surfer. I go camping to get away from it all, not to party, hang out in a pub, and stumble home drunk. Shit, I can do that here. But whatever. I was glad that Hairy and I weren't alone; I like his friends and it was good to have other people around to act as a bit of a buffer. All weekend whenever I found myself alone for a few minutes my thoughts would wander to the Pirate and how eager I was to see him on Monday evening. And then I would rejoin the group, and His Hairyness would put his arms around me and ask "Ok, Petal?" I felt like such a monster.

I waited until after we got home on Sunday evening to have a talk with him. (I've heard of the perils of breaking up with someone while on a camping trip. I really really really didn't want to get left in Croyde. Ugh.) We went down to the local for pint, and the conversation basically went:

"I've only ever been with one person (you), and I'm not ready to limit myself yet in that way. I need be free to see other people."

*deflates slightly*

(continues) "I really like you and I really care about you, and I'd like to continue to see you; I'm just not at a point in my life where I want to be in an exclusive relationship."

*looking into bottom of glass* "Well, I don't really do the sharing thing."

So that was that. There was a bit more to it, but that's the gist. And just like that it was over. 4 months together, every single weekend, and in the space of half a pint, it was over. He didn't walk out; he waited for me to finish my Guinness and we walked home together (his home), but rapidly and in silence. He asked me if there was anything I'd left in his flat that I wanted back. I told him no, that anything I'd left he was welcome to keep.

I was in full waterworks by this point. "I hate to think I'll never see you again."

He just shrugged, as if to say "Well, that's the choice you're making, isn't it?" And then he turned and went inside. He never said a word. I think it came as quite a shock to him. Hell, it came as a shock to me and i'd been bracing myself for it all weekend.

But there was really no other way. I couldn't stay with him when I had such strong feelings for someone else. And I did need to be free to explore those feelings and see if that relationship leads anyhere. It wasn't just the Pirate, though, it was the principle. I'd been wondering for some time, well before last week, what would happen if I stayed with Hairy for 6 months, a year. I knew that eventually I would start to wonder what I'd missed, what else was out there. I'm 27 years old, but my relationship with Hairy was my first actual foray into dating as an adult. If for only that reason, it never really had any serious long-term potential. I'd been wondering this for some time, but continued to see Hairy because it was easy and familiar and comfortable. I never was in love with him, though I did love him. I just wish I'd met him at a point in my life when I was ready for the kind of relationship he wanted. The incident with the Pirate was just a kick in the ass, the incentive I needed to face reality and make the hard decision.

When I got home there was an email waiting: "Hope you're not feeling too bad with yourself. You have to live the life you wanna live and I guess some things aren't meant to be. I really enjoyed spending time with you and loved your company which brightened up my recent weekends. I hope you have fun and find what your looking for. H"

He really is a good man. I hope he meets someone wonderful who falls ass over teakettle for him in the space of minutes.

Like I've fallen for the Pirate.

(Now we're getting to the juicy bits.)

I had him 'round last night for dinner; wanted to do something nice to thank him for taking me to the ball.* And we had an absolutely lovely evening. I can now say without a shred of doubt that the feelings I had last week were not a function of the atmosphere. We hit it off incredibly well the first time we met, we had an amazing first date, and it just keeps getting better.

We were sitting on my floor playing with His Roundness the Schmuggleware. I took the opportunity to say some things I felt needed saying. I was really concerned about the impression I left, what he must think of my (obvious lack of) character/integrity. After all, he knew I was seeing someone else, and then I cheerfully hopped right into the sack with him. I told him that including last week I'd only ever been with 2 men in my life, and that i wouldn't have done what I did if I hadn't felt there was something really special taking place. And he said he felt the same way.

We continued to talk for some time, and I found him very easy to open up to. He was receptive to what I had to say, and didn't put me on the defensive at all. (A refreshing change, I must admit.) And I told him that I had ended my other relationship, a very brief synopsis of why (for personal internal reasons, not to be with him, the Pirate), and that I was free.

He brushed a piece of hair out of my face. "I'm glad."

And then he did something really remarkable: he expressed his own feelings. In words! Him, a man, communicating his feelings! HOLY SHIT! He said, "It's rare to meet such an extraordinary person" (all the while caressing my cheek). "You are the most clear-thinking woman I have ever met."

*Gobsmacked*


And now for the hypicrisy: After all my talk about needing to explore other options, to not limit myself too soon, to test drive other models, to shop around, etc., there's small voice in the back of my brain telling me that I may be done looking.


*The menu:
hors d'uvers: brie, crackers, fresh grapes
entree: Grilled, maple-glazed salmon steaks with spring onions
sides: Homemade cornbread, steamed asparagus, orange and avocado salad with zesty white wine dressing
bevy: cranberry juice
pud: Homemade blueberry pie a la mode
I know, I rock.

Leaning

I've obviously been thinking about this whole situation a lot lately. It's kind of been at the front of my mind about 23 1/2 hours a day. And now that the initial emotional rush has quieted a bit (partly due to typing all this stuff out. it really is incredibly cathartic) I've got a somewhat better sense of my own feelings. Hearts do speak, but usually only in whispers. There must be quiet in order to hear them.

His Hairyness and I are going camping again this weekend. This time we're going with his flatmate, his flatmate's gf, and another chick, so it'll be a right party. When we get back on Sunday i'll sit him down (read: tie him to a piece of furniture so he can't run away) and have a proper conversation.

The Pirate is coming over for dinner on Monday, at which point I'll be able to clear the air a bit. I've got questions I need to ask him, things I need to tell him, etc. (I'll try to keep it from being too heavy. I don't want to scare the boy off, but after last saturday I get the impression he's not too easily scared. :-)

So by next tuesday I'll be able to give you a full report on all the goings on. I strongly suspect the majority of issues will be sorted out by then. I'm still not sure exactly what I want, but I've got a pretty good idea of what I don't want. Progress of a sort, i s'pose. Stay tuned.

Camping, Hairy-style; UPDATED

Hi, kids! Do you want to know all about my camping trip? Do you? Of course you do!*

Well, aside from the larengytis and food poisoning, it was grr-eat! (Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?)

Friday at work I had a bit of a throat tickle, but I wasn't about to let that bother me, so I didn't say anything.**

I make it sound like I didn't have a good time. Actually, it was wonderful. We left on Friday afternoon after I got out of work, car loaded up boot, backseat, and roofrack. (You would not believe the amount of crap 2 people need to survive for 2 nights in the middle of civilisation.) We headed west, drove right off the end of the M4, and kept going 'til we could go no further without falling into the ocean. We stopped in St. David's, Wales, and got a campsite right on the ocean, on top of a cliff, where we fell asleep listening to the waves crash on the rocks.

This is the view from our tent on Friday evening, after we had dinner. We sat outside dinking tea and watched the mist roll in from the sea. I felt inspired to recite much poetry by E.A. Poe. These things happen.

Friday night I went to bed (by bed I mean air mattress, double size, that I had to inflate by hand, and by 'hand' I mean by 'mouth.' Yeah, that inspired a few wise cracks from the other half) with a scatchy throat. Saturday I woke up unable to utter a syllable. I had completely lost my voice.

After establishing that there was nothing seriously wrong with me, ie my i didn't have a fever, wasn't coughing, my head wasn't congested, i wasn't achy or run-down, and I felt completely fine save my inability to communicate vocally, Hairy proceeded to make all the obligatory cracks about the girlfriend not being able to nag, finally some peace and quiet, etc. It was rather comical. So I beat him soundly. Goddamnit my mom used to make those same cracks when i was a kid. Grrr.

But I felt fine, so we drove into town (St. David's, famous for being the only town in Wales that does not have a "y" in its name, and consists of a hitching post, rain barrel, general store, cathedral, and 3 chartered boat companies) to see what there is to see. We visited the cathedral, booked a boat cruise for the following morning and did a bit of wandering in St. David's and other tiny hamlets in the area. After we ate lunch in a pretty little outdoor cafe' by a river somewhere in a town called Llanyyclydybryyyy-y-bont (the thing is, I'm trying to take the piss, but that still looks entirely probable as a Welsh name, good lord), we went for a hike along the costal path, which is a couple hundred miles through National Park. It's gorgeous.

Sunshine, coastal breezes, birds (yep, i'm a birdwatcher. The binocs never left my neck, and though I know it annoyed the Hairy Man when I would stop and spend 10 minutes flipping though my book in an attempt to figure out what the hell had just flown past me, he never said a word, bless), and lovely company. We stopped for a break on top of a high, rocky, isolated promontory, off the main path. It was pleasant and secluded, there was a large patch of soft grass, no one but the crashing waves and the gulls...

And do you know what happened next? You think you do. NOTHING. NADA. ZIP. See, we aren't the viagarad bunny nymphos you take us for. Ha!

That evening Hairy wanted to do a bit of kayak-surfing, so we drove to a nearby beach that is famous for its good surf. I took my pod and planned to do a bit of Chariots-of-Fire style jogging on the beach while the Man took to the waves. But alas, there was no surf at all. The water was completely flat.
So we held hands and walked along the beach in the evening light. Can you believe it? We walked on the beach at sunset, holding hands! Oh the CHEESE! The SMALTZ! Can we say "Hallmark moment?" Gag me with a game show first date formula. You know I loved it. He doesn't think he's romantic at all, but that makes it even cuter.

Are you ready to hurl yet? Good.

But wait, there's more!

For dinner we (that's the Royal "we," meaning Hairy) cooked curry. With home made popadums. While camping. You should have seen the looks on the other campers' faces. That's the only reason he does it. We'd both be perfectly happy with sausages and beans, but it's just too much fun to show off. Mango chutney and everything. The works. Hehehe.

Sunday morning it was up early, stuff some tea and welsh cakes in the gob, and be off for...

a whale-watching cruise! We figured if we were in Wales, we should fucking see some whales, right? Right.
We didn't see any whales, but we did hook up with a pod of Atlantic dolphins, about 30-strong. They were very playful and sociable. We saw a couple porpoises, too, but they didn't give a shit. Didn't even stop to say "hello." Very rude, porpoises. Dolphins, on the other hand, are the picture of charismatic megafauna. They see a big inflatable raft with a dozen goofy mamals in oragnge vests and binoculars and go (in, Ellen Degeneres's voice) "Hey! Tourists! Hey, everyone - look! There's tourists over here!" And over they all come, flipping and splashing and smiling as only dolphins can.
They really do. They're just that cool.

We also saw a ton of sea birds. I thought this was great. We visited a nesting colony of gannets. That's the gannets, there. That's not snow on that island, that's birds. And bird crap. The entire island is white from bird crap. It really was like walking into the pages of a National Geographic magazine. Besides gannets we saw Manx shearwaters, Green cormorants (also known as Shags), Great black-backed gulls (agressive predators, G b-b gulls have been known to fly off with Yorkshire terriers, no shit), Razorbills and Guillemots, both members of the Auk family, and... (are you ready for this?)... POOFINS! Well, Puffins, technically, but I call them Poofins. They're very stoopid. They look cute enough bobbing around on the water and you think "aww, how cute." But then they try to fly, and all you can do is laugh. I'm serious.
It's like wathing the lovechild of a penguin and a hummingbird. They have these fat little bodies and small wings which they therefore have to beat really really really really really really fast in order to stay aloft. It's not possible to watch one without sniggering. They're just inherently funny. Like pengins and platapi, they have no dignity whatsover. Actually, they look rather a lot like this:
Clearly my boy Wiley knows his puffins. Poofins. Whatev.

And then it was time to pack up camp and come home. (By this time I had regained some of my voice, and sounded like a two-pack-a-dayer. Or like one of Marge's sisters. You know the sound.) So we came home, got into Brizzle, unpacked the car, went to fix dinner, and pulled an Old Mother Hubbard. Yep, the cupboard was bare. So we went to the pub. And that was where I got the food poisoning. (You'd forgotten about that, hadn't you?) I think it was the fried mushrooms. That's my punishment for not being healthy. I never should have succombed to the temptation of beer-battered, deep-fried happiness. Those puppies lubed up my G.I. tract and shot right out the other side. Oh, yeah. Mind, it took a few hours for the works to get under way, during which time we had totally amazing sex, so that was ok. 2 minutes after he fell asleep I ran for the loo and went 12 rounds with the porcelian god. I lost. The man was very, very sweet about the whole thing. He manages to be tender and comforting without condescending, something I have difficulty with myself. So full points for looking after me.

And then I woke up (not really, i didn't get much sleep) and then it was monday. Land the rocket, climb down to earth, back to reality, Houston we have a job to do and all that jazz. So that's it. There you go.

OMG I can't believe I forgot to post the uber-cute picture of the two of us at the cathedral!!! Aahhh! Here it is: (click for full size)
Are we cute, or what?


*egomaniac: n. someone who believes that everyone around them actually gives a shit.

**genius: n. someone who can see the locomotive coming, but likes the view from the tracks so well that she refuses to move. see also "deer in headlights," "osterich with head in ass," and "La la la la la la I can't heeeeear yooooou!"

So much going on. Let me 'splain...

No, is too much. I sum up:

Started a job a DHL.
Quit job at DHL.
Started a job at Sue Sheppard.
Like job at Sue Sheppard. (working there right now. ahem.)
The temp agency Manpower sucks and is staffed by Satan's minions.
Leaving at 1 pm today to go camping with Hairy Man for weekend. Whoo-hoo! We've been together about 4 months, and this is our first real trip away. CAN'T. WAIT. Will bring you juicy details on Monday.

Tootles, kids!

road to recovery

Thanks, guys, for all your love and support. You may not think it matters, or that I give a shit, but it really does make a difference.

I'm feeling a bit better now. As I said to Hairy (who just had no idea what to make of me on Friday night, poor soul), "Losing is a bit like a head cold. It's part of life. It sucks. You know you can't avoid it forever, and when it happens, you're fucking miserable. I also know that, like a cold, the depression is temporary. Today I feel like crap. Tomorrow I will still feel like crap. But I know that the crap is temporary, and in a few days I will start to feel better. Knowing that, however, doesn't make it any easier to deal with in the here and now, just as knowing that the cold will clear up in a few days doesn't make the congestion or the sinus headache any less uncomfortable."

Coach told me to take a few days off to recover. I tried, but it didn't work. I had been carb loading for 2 days in anticipation of a whole weekend of racing, and by Saturday I had all kinds of twitchy energy that needed an outlet. So I got on my bike and started pedaling. I did 30 miles in just under 2 hours, and I stopped twice to send text messages. Partly I needed to burn some fuel, and partly (to be perfectly honest) I needed to punish myself. I wanted to hurt. I wanted to suffer. So every time I got weepy and began crying, I went faster. I cranked the Meatloaf up on the ipod and did the last 3 miles at 19 mph. (Ok, it was downhill, but even so.)

Sunday there was a BBQ at the boathouse, organized by two of the novice women. Hairy had a lot of coursework to do, so I cycled over, paddled about in a double with one of the novice girls, and then gorged myself on cheeseburgers and Heineken. Damn straight. Normally 2 or 3 beers would have no effect on my whatsoever, but I was slightly dehydrated, and I hadn't had drop of booze in months (except for the night of Marley's nuptials), so a couple bottles hit me pretty hard. At one point I looked down, realized that I had a Heinie in one hand and a chocolate brownie in the other, and decided that life was perfect.

Day out in Devon

Sorry this has taken so long. I won't bother conveying whiney excuses. I'll just post it instead.


Friday was absolutely lovely. Harry had the whole day planned (more or less). Unfortunately, owing to the fucking 4-hour time limit on the only public carpark in Dartmouth, all our plans went to shit.

We drove down to Dartmouth, took the little teeney car ferry across the Dart, just for shits (all the while I'm 'oohing' and 'ahhing' over the charming little harbor town, see exhibit A: nausiatingly charming harbor town)...

















(and yes, I took that photo.)
...and parked in the public carpark. The original plan was to spend the morning in Dartmouth, then take a ferry trip up the river to Totnes and have lunch there, then take the ferry back down to Dartmouth, have a few drinks in one of the ancient local establishments (you know the type- the 17th c. tudor, timber, falling-down, slantways buildings with oil lamps and wibbly glass and crooked shutters and you're afraid to go inside because you know that no matter how sunny it is outside, inside it's dim and smoky and musty and all the patrons are septegenarians with blue wool overcoats and eye patches and more scars than teeth. I give you exhibit B, below), and drive home.















But since we couldn't leave the car all day, that plan went to shit.

Now, if you will bear with me a moment, I must tirade a bit.

What the fuck kind of tourist town doesn't have an all day carpark, I ask you!?!? Dartmouth was established as a deep-water harbor for tall ships way back in the day. When you see the harbor its value as a port is immediately apparent for anyone with two eyes and more than that number of neural synapses. The land slopes down deeply to the mouth of the River Dart, plunges beneath the cobalt blue water, and keeps on going. Besides being deep, the harbor is also well-sheltered. The channel to access the harbor is narrow and easily defended. In fact, there is a fort on the cliff by that channel which was one of the, if not the first, forts ever constructed specifically to accommodate cannons and firearms. It's old and crumbley and cool and sits there, still surveying and dominating the cliff, even as it slowly crumbles into the very channel it was built to protect.

But the harbor is quite small, and when steel container ship replaced tall sailing ships as the principle instruments of hauling crap to and fro, the Dartmouth economy collapsed. Cue tourism. Today the town (and indeed, much of Devon) survives on tourism. And we were there on a fucking hoilday weekend! And we would have spent the whole day. But no, we couldn't because there was no place for us to fucking park the fucking car for more than 4 fucking hours. Moreover, after the 4 hours are up, you're not allowed to renew. You have to move your vehicle. What. The. Fuck.

So anyway...

my god. i've just realized that while i was writing that i managed to eat an entire block of fudge. dear me. that's an extra 200 crunches for me tonight. that oughta learn me to stuff my face with smooth, sticky, dark chocolate, rum-soaked joy...

where was i? Darthmouth. Right.

So we parked, and then just wandered around for a bit. We walked along the harbor enjoying the sunshine, and wandered up to the fort. Hairy felt really bad about not being able to take me on a ferry ride to Totnes, so we took a super-short boat ride from the fort back into town. It cost 3 quid and lasted a total of 6 minutes, but it was fun. By that time it was almost 11:30 am, which meant we were way overdue for our first ice cream of the day.

So we stopped and got ice cream at a place Hairy knows where they make their own on site and serve it with a big blob of clotted cream on top. Oh yeah baby. I got a scoop of maple and scoop of strawberry and i listened to my arteries harden while i licked my stick of creamy happiness in the warm sunshine. (That sounds rather rude, doesn't it? Oh well.)

A bit more wandering, and we hopped in the car and drove up to Totness. Lovely drive, that. We drove down a lot of country lanes and passed a lot of places that looked more or less like this: (this is exhibit C: England's Green and Pleasant Land)























There was a market on in Totnes, which is always fun, and we wandered around the shops and stalls for a bit. Then we started looking for a place to have lunch, and in a textbook example of why I hate taking holidays with other people, we spent over an hour looking for a food venue that suited us both, and eventually wound up back at the first place we checked out. Argh. And when I say "suited us both," i'm being polite. What i really mean is, "suited Hairy." I would have been happy with anything. I didn't veto a single restaurant. It took him an hour to find someplace with a sufficiently boring menu for his taste. Ultimately, he got an egg sandwich. Mumph. (I guess it's a good thing he didn't take me up on my original offer to pack sandwiches for lunch. I would have fixed something considerably more interesting than egg-mayonaise on white bread. At the very least I would have put spinach on it. or something.)

So we left Totnes with slightly bad taste in our mouths. Me because of my slight grumpiness at his pickiness, and him because of his choice of cuisine. If you can call it that.

We perked up in short order, though. Hairy asked me where I wanted to go next. I looked at the map and saw that there was a large national park nearby. Hairy said he'd been there before and it was quite pretty. So off went to tootle through crazily narrow country lanes, across moors, around livestock, between hedgerows, and over creeks. It was a beautiful afternoon feeling the breeze on my face, listening to music, and enjoying the company of a cute, fuzzy, stud.

No, not one of those:


















One of those:


Yeah, that's the ticket.

We had dinner at a nice Indian place in Westorn-Super-Mare (we get around), and went home (his place), sunburnt, tired, and happy.

The end.

DOs and DON'Ts of comforting weeping females

DON'T:

• tell her you're too busy to offer a shoulder and ask her to come back when it's more convenient for you
  
• say anything remotely resembling "There's no point in crying, it won't acheive anything."
• tell her that the reason she is crying is her fault
• interrupt her semicoherent rablings with questions
• offer advice unless it's requested
• point out that she is dripping on your favourite shirt
  

DO:

• hold her. hold her tightly until she indicates she is ok by gently pushing you away.
• put the kettle on.
• settle her on the sofa with a hot cuppa while you proceed to fix a hot, nourishing meal. (sobbing takes a lot out of one.)
• proceed to tell her all the things you love and admire about her while she is eating her meal.
• help her get out of her sweaty, stinky, damp, sticky, snotty clothes and stick her in a hot shower.
• remove the t-shirt she snotted and drooled on, throw it on the pile of her manky clothes, and join her in the shower.
• give her that little seratonin rush she loves so much in the best way you know how.
• dry her off with a warm, fluffy towel (when she's got her breath back).
• give her some your own clean clothes to put on.
• feed her chocolate.

If you have any further questions regarding the best way to offer consolation to a weeping female, contact the Hairy Man, who is an expert on the subject, as he so ably demonstrated this weekend.

Beer bread, high 'Cs', and Famous Last Words

By popular demand, I am publishing my no-knead Beer Bread recipe. I wouldn't normally do this, as it ruins the mystique, but you lot are just so wonderful I'm breaking my own rules. See, I don't genrally like people to know how stupidly, abysmally easy this recipe is. It's much more impressive if you just plop a loaf of hot, crusty, homemade bread down in front of a man and watch his eyes and tongue roll right out of their native orifices as he ogles the majestic mound of steaming yeasty beasties surrounded by hardy, golden crust. Mmmm.

But, as I said, you guys are the shiznit, so here she goes: make it, eat it, share it, relish it, but don't let on how simple it was; let people think you put in a lot more effort than you did.

No-knead Beer Bread

3 ingredients:

3 cups self-rising flour
3 Tablespoons sugar
12 oz (1 1/2 cups) good beer*

3 steps:

1. Mix ingredients together quickly. (Dough will be very sticky, so don't worry that you can't get it into a neat ball - it won't happen.)
2. Stuff dough into a greased loafpan.
3. Bake at 375 degrees (Farenheit) for 45 minutes. Remove from loafpan to cool.

done, and done. See how easy that was? No kneading, no rising, and it takes a total of 50 minutes from start to finish. Can't beat that with a stick!


*I've done this with several kinds of beer. I like to try to coordinate the beer to the rest of the meal. For example, once I served this bread with a homemade steak and Guiness pie, so I used Guiness. The bread was dark and malty as a result. If your serving this with a lighter meat, like poultry, I recommend Worthington's. So tasty! But for fuck's sake dont' use Bud Light or MGD or something equally appalling. Generally good, strong ales or bitters work best, but play around with it and see what you like.

High C's

the meme from First Nations: 10 words beginning with C and what they mean to me. (Is it me, or does that sound like one of those lame assignements your teaching gives you on the first day of school, just so they can assign homework even though you havn't done anything in the classroom yet?)

1. Chaucer
(Oh come on, you had to see that coming!) Bastard. Genius. Wrote amazing poetry at the end of the 14th century for the sole purpose or tomenting me with his linguistic style 600 years later.

(by the way, i'm not giving this a lot of thought. i'm just pulling words out of my ass as they come to me; sort of a free-association thing.)

2. Celebrity
n. someone who holds him/herself to be a fuck lot more important than he/she actually is, and lives under the delusion that I give a shit. see Paris Hilton.

3. Clairvoyance
What Darth Vader lacked, and the reason he was unable to locate the Rebels' secret fortress.

4. Clarinet
Instrument I played regularly for 12 years in various concert and marching bands. Source of great joy, frustration, and comfort. Reason my right-hand thumb is utterly useless due to advanced arthritis from holding the bloody thing for so many years.

5. Company
People who come to your home, eat your food, and content your soul; the inspiration for hospitality and unnecessary kitchen gizzmos; bringers of wine.

6. Chrysanthemums
Cheap flowers your date gets you out of sense of obligation, but clearly thinks is a stupid idea and a waste of money, so he buys chrysanthemums.

7. Chastity
yet another dumb idea, propogated mainly by religious fanatics who's principle motivation is the fear that someone, somewhere, is having more fun than they are.

8. Charity
a tidy little word i use to justify spending thousands of dollars of other people's money that i and they both know i will never be able to pay back. as in "let me buy you dinner, you're a charity case."

9. Council-tenant
Source of aggravation, amusement, and paycheck for the Hairy Man.

10. Cheers!
catch-all, British word used as a greeting, goodbye, thank you, you're welcome, and as a toast. Should not be used on the wrong side of the Atlantic ocean, as this only invites blank stares and accusations of snobbery, lack of patriotism, or even being an "enemy" (read: terrorist) spy.


Famous Last Words

the scene: I'm standing in Hairy's kitchen. I'm dressed to go out, hair and makeup flawless, black lace blouse, sexy t-strap shoes (of Shoegasm fame), sexy Victoria's Secret knickers, and pantyhose (the kind that go all the way up to your waist). My white linen skirt is on the ironing board in front of me. I am attempting to remove some rather unfortunate and stubborn creases before we go out for dinner.

H: nice pants.

me: ta

H: Aren't you hot?

me: why would i be hot?

H: well, isn't it a little warm for tights?

me: ?

H: as opposed to stockings...

me: I am wearing stockings

H: no you're not. those are tights.

me (sensing yet another trans-oceanic language barrier coming on): these? we don't call these tights, we call them stockings or pantyhose. Do you mean the ones that only come up to the thigh and thave the little suspender thingys that hold them up?

H: Yeah! do you have any of those?!? (grins devilishly)

me: no, i don't. sorry.

H (looks crestfallen for a moment, then smiles suddenly): You wanna borrow mine?

Gift

I think the first gift you give someone says a lot about your relationship to that person, don't you agree? Technically, Hairy's first gift to me was a toothbrush. But I'm not counting that, because he didn't purchase it for me; it was an extra he had lying around and gave it me so I could brush my teeth one night. (Probably a bit of enlightened self interest on his part - I suspect my breath was pretty foul that evening.)

More to the point, if I acknowledged the toothbrush as the first official gift, I wouldn't be able to tell you lot or my future children* that this was the first thing the man ever gave me:















oh, no no; it's not that easy. you have to wait for it. this one merits some serious suspense.

and if you scroll down to see it now without reading everything, than you're only ruining it for yourself.

so,

i figured he'd bring me something back from Egypt. (Bear in mind that last night was the first time we've seen each other in almost a month, and the first time since I spent that night in terror of his life, when Dahab was bombed and all those tourists were killed. I've known for the last few weeks that he was fine, but through all the wedding and medieval conference proceedings (more on that later. maybe.) i just desperately wanted to get my arms around him and smell him and feel his hair tickle my nose and KNOW he was all right. Does that make any sense?)

I couldn't wait to see him. For one, I wanted to give him the pressies I brought from the States. I found the selection process very nerve-wracking because, as I stated earlier, first gifts say a lot. There's pressure there, mis amigos, mark my words. Too sappy and romantic and he might freak and run for the hills, too funny and cheesy he might infer I don't give a shit about him and only bought a gag-gift to fulfill the gift expectation. I especially wanted to choose something he would really like because the chili-flavoured olive oil I brought him from Italy didn't go over as well as I'd hoped. Though he is using it.

So I got a bunch of little things. Some time ago I had tried to explain the concept of root beer to him, and I just couldn't describe it, so I bought him a bottle. He aslo has a problem with all his flatware sliding out of his drain rack by the sink, and I had looked around here for an attachable basket for the drain rack to hold the cutlerly (a very common and unexciting household accessory back home) but couldn't find one anywhere, so I brought him one.

And finally, I wanted to get him something that was, well, more thoughtfull and less cheap, if you know what I mean. Something that says, "I know your tastes and your likes and dislikes, and I saw this and it made me think of you." (Not that i don't think of him whenever my eyes are open, but he doesn't know that. Eyes closed, too, now I think about it.*) And of course, I wanted it to be something very Michigan. (Sorry, I hate using political regions as adjectives, but there was just no other way to say that.)

Now, Michigan is only known for 4 things: cars, cherries, the Detroit Red Wings, and Motown.

I couldn't buy him a car, and a keychain with a Ford model-T on it falls squarely in the realm of cheap plastic thing i bought just so i could say i got you something. Cherries were a possibility, as there are all kinds of really good local cherry products available: jams, conserves, compotes, syrups, candies, etc. I even considered that I could make a cute little joke about how I always seem to be giving him my cherries, but a) it wasn't that funny and b) Hairy doesn't like sweets. He never eats pudding. or jam. or anything like that. And fresh cherries aren't in season and you can't bring them through customs anyway.

That leave the Wings and Motown. Hairy doesn't follow hockey at all. Scratch one. Motown?

You do know what Motown is, don't you? Oh, very well. (Musicians feel free to skip the following paragraph.)

Motown is a nickname for the city of Detroit, called The Motor City, or Motor Town, or Motown. It's also the term applied to a unique style of pop music that originated in Detroit in the 1960s. Motown combines 60s pop with soul and R&B; it's characterized by it's smooth sound and intricate harmonies. Some of the best-know Motown artists are Marvin Gaye, Diana Ross, The Temptations, The Four Tops, the Jackson 5, and Stevie Wonder. This was the golden era of Motown; pulsing, undulating melodies about life, love, and pain, being created when the Detroit economy was collapsing, the city was being torn apart by race riots, and Americans the nation over were protesting the Vietnam War. My mom is from Detroit. She still tells stories about when she used to walk to work from her apartment past burned out buildings and watch the National Guard snipers patrolling the rooftops, looking for (black) looters. (Not that all the looters were black; it's just the National Guard historically doesn't shoot white looters.) I grew up listening to Motown. My local radio station used to have Motown Mondays; all Motown, all day long. Fucking awesome.

I didn't know if Hairy liked Motown specifically (people seem to either love it or hate it, my mother being in the former category and my father being in the latter), but he likes a lot of music from the 60s and 70s, so I thought I'd take a gamble. Also, it seemed personal, as sharing music is a reasonably prominent part of our relationship. When we're in the car on one of his little weekend adventures, we bring along CDs we want the other to hear. And on lazy weekend mornings, we lie in bed, sipping tea, and listen to music together. I love those mornings.

So I went to the record store and deliberated between a compilation of greatest hits of Motown (all the big names represented and most of the most well-known titles), and a collection of greatest love songs of Motown. I wasn't sure how he'd feel about it, if it sent too strong a message, but I went out on a limb and got the love songs.

**** NeRvEs*****

This brings us up to last night.

(You realize of course that all this is just build up. Have you forgotten the original reason why you are here? I'll give you a hint: to find out what Hairy brought me from Egypt. I'll give you a second hint: it's not a plastic pyramid on a key ring.)

I have him the root beer. He smiled and put it in the fridge.
With much fanfare, I gave him the flatware basket. He lauged, kissed me, and put it in the drain rack. The he washed a fork that was lying on the counter just so he could try it out. (Yeah, that man is adorable.)
Then, with much apology and insisting that If he doesn't like it I'll completely understand etc etc, I have him the CD.

And he loved it.

By this time, I had completely forgotten that he said he bought me a present as well. I was just pleased that I had managed to find something to his taste that he would enjoy and would be a little reminder of me during his day.

So he leads me back to the bedroom, puts his arms around my waist and says, "I have something for you, too. You can hang your coat on it."

"Mmm," I smiled, sliding my hands down the back of jeans. "I like those gifts," I said, offering him my mouth.

Without kissing me he pulled away abruptly and got down on his hands and knees and pulled a large package out from under the bed. It was wrapped messily in newspaper and plastic grocery bags. "I had to get one of the fruit sellers in the bazaar to weigh it for me so I could be sure I could bring it back and still be under my weight limit for luggage."

I took the package from him. It weighed a ton! Well, about 8 or 9 pounds I estimate, but that's a lot more than I was expecting. The package was oblong in shape, about 15 inches long and 8 inches in diameter at its widest bit. I was intrigued, to say the least. My first thought was that it was some kind of exotic mellon or something.

was i right? not by a long shot. No, i don't think anything could have prepared me for this...







(keep scrolling...)






(it has to be a surprise you know.)






(can you take the suspense?)






oh all right; here you go:




Oh. my. fuck.



Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is a hand-carved, 15-inch tall, soapstone sculpture depicting the predynastic Egyptian fertility god Min.


HOW UNBELIEVABLY FUCKING COOL IT THAT!!!!!

Seriously. Is that not the most incredibly ballsy (literally), crazy, funniest, thoughtful, wickedly cool first gift EVER? You can't tell me it's not.

No one's ever bought me sculpture before.

This to me says

• You're mature enough to appreciate this as art without giggling, but have enough of a sense of humor to still be entertained by it.
• I went to a lot of trouble and effort to bring this rediculously heavy, monstrous gift to you in my hand luggage.
• I may be a lot of things, but boring ain't one 'em, baby. boo-yeah!
  

Got comments? Oh I know you do! (I hope that was worth the wait.)


*"I only think of you on two occassions. That's day, and night..." You know you got it bad when cheesy-ass tunes like this start sounding profound. Shoot me now before i decide Michael Bolton is a great 20th century philosopher.

He's OK

*heaves huge sigh of relief*

I knew that statistically he probably was, but of course that doesn't stop you from imagining the worst, does it? After a frantic and tearful 6 hours last night I got a text from him:

"Hi pumpkin. Am fine. Not in Dahab. Diving is great, saw turtles shagging today. Got it on film for all to see, whoo-hoo turtle porn!"

I'm giving him points for making me laugh. After it came in I sat on my floor and cried for 30 minutes from sheer relief. Let me tell you, it sure as SHIT didn't help that the BBC was writing stuff about body parts and blood flying everywhere. That is just not responsible journalism.

Thanks for all your wonderful messages of advice and support; i really appreciate it. Hugs to all and sundry.

I'm back stateside now for a couple weeks. My brother is getting married this weekend. I don't have a date (Hairy being where he is, somewhere in the gulf of Aqaba under 30m of water), so I'll just prance around and flirt with all my brother's single pals and play the part of the groom's hot little sister. Does it sound crass to write that after the last post about missing Hairy? I hope not. I told him my plan and he approved whole-heartedly, so there's not deceit or anything.

Anyways, after the wedding there's a big conference on medieval studies here in Michigan which I'm attending with my supervisor, the head of my department, and one of my colleagues (doesn't that sound impressive? "colleague." love it). So Bristol will be well-represented.

Oh, and I've just learned that I'll get to do some teaching next year. Whoo-hoo!

Out of my mind

Today at 1700 local time in Dahab, Egypt, there was a series of terrorist bombings which killed 22 people and wounded 150, give or take. Dahab is a low-key resort town on the gulf of Aqaba popular with western tourists and divers. The bombs went off in a crowded, touristy part of town near the seaside. Most of those killed were foreigners.

Right now the Hairy Man is somehwere in Egypt on a diving holiday. On the gulf of Aqaba. In a low-key resort town. By the sea side. I don't know if he is staying in Dahab or one of the other dozens of such towns, but I can't reach his mobile and I'm going out of my mind with worry.

How can I not sit here and imagine that he was sitting in a bar having an early beer when a bomb went off next to him and blew him into 73 pieces?! Especially when witnesses are describing body parts flying everywhere and pools of blood in the streets. How can I not sit here and imagine the worst?!

I tried ringing his mobile. I got some pre-recorded message in Arabic. I sent him a text. I don't know if he received it. I havn't heard back. I am sick with worry. I won't be able to sleep until I know he's alive and safe.