We pause now in the middle of this whinge

to bring a brief moment of eye-watering hilarity.


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Wake-up Call

Every now and again a news story comes along that I feel compelled to share.

MORON STUNNED THAT ALLOWING 8-YR-OLD TO PLAY WITH UZI RESULTS IN ACCIDENTAL DEATH

This is my favorite part of the story:

"This accident was truly a mystery to me," he said. "This is a horrible event, a horrible travesty, and I really don't know why it happened."

Um, it happened because you thought it would be cute to let your kid fire an Uzi. Jesus H. Christ in a hula-hoop. Are people really that dumb?? Yes, yes they are.

It's time to stop taking Islam seriously

I used to be a flaming liberal, always ready to defend the rights, freedoms, and thoughts of anyone. I felt that all cultures were equally valid and no one had the right to criticize anyone else's culture. Our Muslim friends and neighbors have finally convinced me I was wrong. (Oh, the irony.)

I thought the whole Danish cartoon scandal was rediculous, but those sympathetic to the over-reacting Muslims did have one good point: the cartoonists were deliberately poking fun. Now most people can take a joke, and even those of us who can't will usually just sulk for a while. We certainly don't go around calling for the public decapitation of the person who made the unwelcome crack. And yet a bunch of "extremist" Muslims did just that.

But this time, this time there is no excuse, no defense, no justification for the insanity. The cartoonists may have sparked riots, but the fact is they did intend to be insulting (that is the point of a satirical political cartoon.) Mrs. Gibbons plainly had no such intent. Hers was a well-intentioned, if slightly (and only slightly) misinformed act. (I say 'slightly minsinformed' because apparently the ban on using the name isn't universal -- for several months kids took the teddy home before a parent complained. Clearly the parents of all the other kids were as blisfully ignorant of their religion as Mrs. Gibbons.) And now there are riots calling for her execution.

I refuse to resepct any culture/religion/ideology/whatever that suggests death (or even 15 days in prison) is an appropriate punishment for an accidental insult. Mrs. Gibbons harmed no one. She hurt no one. No property was damaged, no lives or reputations unraveled or destroyed. This is out of all proportion, and we are under no obligation to respect it.

I'm sure that the government and some other prominent individuals will be reminding us shortly that this isn't the majority of muslims, it's just a crazy "extremist" minorty. But is it really? Where are the protesters telling the protesters to shut up, chill out, and go home? Where are the MUSLIM voices crying out that this is nuts? They are conspicuous by their absence.

Ben Macintyre of the The Times would like us to believe that the Sudanese government is using Mrs. Gibbons as a pawn in their political games. That's probably true. But if it were only a few corrupt and nasty government officials who were making a scapegoat of Mrs. Gibbons, the incident would be much smaller in scale. The problem is that thousands of people agree with the goverment. The Sudanese people are not crying "Our corrupt goverment is using an innocent woman to maniuplate our support! They are shit and we will oust them!" No, they are crying "Death to the infidel! They are as happy to make Mrs. Gibbons a scapegoat as the government is, and that makes them just as crazy and just as extremist.

And this isn't just a few nutters in Kartoum. There is slilent complicity all over the world. Middle Eastern nations should be condemning this for the insanity it is, repremanding the Sudanese government for making Muslims the world over look bad. Where is the outrage from other Islamic nations?


Now, before you go and delcare a fatwah on me (oh hell, go ahead and delcare it anyway; nothing I say to you will make any difference if you're of the fatwah-issuing mindset), I'm not saying that every Muslim is a crazy extremist. Just the majority of them. Why? Because Islam itelf it inherently irrational. Built into the very fabric of the relgion is intolerance, over-reation, extremism, impatience, suspicioun and contempt. No rational, thinking being would view the reaction to Mrs. Gibbons faux pas as appropriate. End of. The people calling for her death or imprisonment are not rational and they don't think. Furthermore it appears that this is the majority of Muslims.

If you do not behave in a reasonable manner, I am under no cultural obligation to accept you as a reasonable person. And if you follow a philosophy that condemns reason, thought, and rationale, I will dismiss you as unreasonable, thoughtless, and irrational. Political correctness be damned.

Why I shouldn't be allowed to live alone

I locked my self out today. In a fluey fog I left the flat without my keys, and the door locked behind me. As soon as I heard it 'click' i knew what i'd done. You know that feeling, when you realize something in the very instant that it's too late to do anything about it? Like when a deer jumps into the headlights of your car 6 inches from your hood (bonnet) when you're driving 50 mph and you have just enough time to think "well crap, i'm going to hit a deer," before you plough into bambi. Yeah, one of those moments.

Me and doors that lock automatically don't get along. I really shouldn't have them. Sadly, lots of student housing is equipped with this type of door, and since I've been a student for the last 10 years, I've had a lot of these doors. And locked myself out a LOT.

Would you like to hear about my very best lock-out story of all time? It's a good one.

I was an undergrad at Connecticut College, doing my double major in English and Botany. ('cause i'm that cool, sistah. *snaps fingahs*) I was living in Blackstone House, the substance-free dorm, where no alcohol, tobacco, or drugs were allowed, even if you were legal. (Sorry, what was I just saying about cool? never mind.) I lived on the second floor (first floor to you Brits) next door to one of my best friends, Billy-Jean. (Who just had her first baby, by the way. I WANT A BABY! WAH!)

Outside our windows was this goofy little balcony thing. It wasn't accessible by any door, and in fact we weren't supposed to go out on it at all. It was just an architectural feature of the building (which was made of New England granite and built in 1914, one of the three original buildings of the college and the oldest dorm). The down-side of this balcony was that people were constantly accidently throwing their frisbees onto it, and either I or Billy-Jean would have to retrieve them by climbing out our windows. The upside was that A) it was a great place to keep ice-cream in the winter, since Blackstone didn't have a kitchen or a freezer, and B) when I locked myself out I could go to BJ's room, climb out her window, cross the balcony, and climb into my own. This was useful since, according to college rules, if you locked yourself out Campus Safety would let you in for free once, but after that they charged you $10 a pop. Generally Sampus Cafety was pretty sympathetic to 'Stoners (the ironic, self-styled residents of Blackstone) since we never caused any trouble with partying and damaging property, but even so I didn't like to push my luck.



So one day, in my usual dipshittedness, I locked my self out. I hung my head, mumbled "for fuck's sake" and went next door to BJ's room. No answer. I tried the next room down, which was BJ's boyfriend's (now husband's) room. BJ wasn't in Tooth's room, but had some suggestions where she might be. Being a shy kind of girl, the list wasn't very long, and I tracked her down without overmuch difficulty.

I apologized profusely and asked her if she could come open her room so I could climb out her window. You wouldn't think this was a huge favor, except that she had a fish tank set up in front of the window I needed to use, and there were several plants hanging from the curtain rod above with tendrils hanging all over the place, along with numerous other obstructions in the form of furniture and clothes crammed in everywhere. She sighed but came along willingly. In total it took about 15 minutes to move everything out of the was so I could get out the window, which eventually I did.

I squeezed myself out, padded gingerly across the balcony (which was actually the roof of the living room down stairs, but we were never certain how much weight that roof would hold), threw open my window, climbed inside, crawled across the (strategically located) bed, walked to my door, opened it -- with the intention of going next door to thank BJ one more time-- stepped into the hall, and...

you guess it. Closed and locked the door behind me.

When I realized what I'd done I fell to pieces right then and there in the hallway, laughing hysterically. BJ heard the rucus, saw me in a state of impenitrable giggle-fits, immediately deduced what I'd done (I'm fairly predictable), and joined me in the chorus. I don't know how long we sat there, laughing until we cried at my sublime stupidity, but eventually we went back into BJ's room and repeated the whole procedure.

I've never lived this incident down. To this day, whenever i do something really, really dumb (which is often), BJ still reminds me of this story. And I still giggle.

It's coming, I swear

I'm so sorry, guys. I know I've been rubbish about posting lately. I've been so busy i havn't had time to fart, never mind anything else. I havn't forgotten about you, though, and I still love you all.

Here's the past week in summary, titled "Why the Pirate is a Complete and Utter Muppet"

1. Last week he said "Let's go see Chicago at the Hippodrome." I said "Ok" and asked him what night he wanted to go. "Friday," he declared. Fine. I bought tickets for last Friday. On Thursday I emailed HIM to ask about his cricket schedule for the weekend, and he said "I'm playing in Aldershot on Friday."

???

I wrote back and reminded him about Chicago, and asked how he planned to finish a cricket match at 7 pm, shower, change, and drive 2 hours back to Bristol in time for a 7:30 curtain.

"Shite shite shite shite shite shite" was the response.

As it happens he left the match early (was all through batting), drove 100 mph, and got here at 8 o'clock. He missed the Cell Block Tango, but saw everything after that.

Wally.

2. Sunday Pirate had no cricket, owing to the rain. He's been saying for ages that he wanted to go to John Lewis and buy the biggests, softest, fluffiest feather pillows money could buy, so I suggested we spend the afternoon at the mall. Sadly the auto show and the rain meant that there were double the crowds and half the parking spaces of normal. After salivating over the Aston Martins we made it into John Lewis, who were, rather serendipitously, having a pillow sale. I shit you not.

After a salesladay gave us a thorough introduction to the finer points of pillow purchasing, Pirate decided to get one of the crazy expensive ones that normally go for £70 but were marked down to £35.

Did you notice that? Yes, ONE pillow. ONE.

I have spent every single weekend at his house for the past year (minus only the 3 months last fall when he was overseas on business). And he buys ONE pillow.

Putz.

So I said, rather tactfully, that maybe I should buy one of the cheap ones (since I can't afford to blow £35 on a pillow, even if I thought that was a good idea) so that I would have someplace to lay my head when I stayed over. I thought this would clue him in to the fact that he really needed to buy 2 pillows. Did it fuck.

He said, "that's a good idea." And so there I was having to buy my own fucking pillow so I'd have something to sleep on when I go over to his place.

I can't describe to you my level of annoyance, or my surprise at the breadth of his cluelessness. I asked my dad, that automatic handy-dispenser of wisdom, if I was over reacting. "Yes and no," he said. "His head was in the up and locked position, but men are like that so there's no point getting upset about it. It's like shouting at the rain." *sigh*


3. Yesterday he was returning on the train from London to his home near Chippenham. He rang me from the train and said "Damnit, I must have slept through my stop. We're coming in to Bristol Parkway and I don't remember going through Chippenham at all."

We figured out later that's because there are 2 routes from London to Bristol. The one that terminates at Temple Meads goes through Chippenham. He got on the other one, that terminates at Parkway and misses Chippenham completely.

Dufus.

4. In order to get to Chippenham he had to go on to Temple Meads and connect there to the other line. So as long as he was in town he came round for dinner. Which was nice, as I had slow-roasted a beef brisket in red wine and garlic for the last 4 hours, and it was smelling goooooood.

I met him at the station, and smiled at the sight of him, all dooded up in his brand new made-to-measure blue pin-striped suit. Day-am! There's hot and there's hot. That man can wear a suit. Oh yes.

He opens the jacket to put his ticket away, and discovers that the weight of his enormous wallet (which was probably full of pound coins for parking meters) had pulled the lining right out of the jacket, and there were 2 huge holes in it. It was the first time he'd worn it.


The man is on a roll, really.

I'll be gone for the weekend. Have a good one, and I'll see what I can do about posting the lurid bits of the Summer Ball next week. Don't get sunburnt! :-D

Dude. WTF?

Did anyone else watch Gordon Brown's first speech as the new Labor leader?

He begins (and I'm not making this up), "It's with humility, and it is with pride," yadda yadda yadda.

Humility and pride?

Who the fuck proof-reads his speeches???

Bring on the Yeasty Beasties!

or: Confessions of an Inadequate Drinker of More Than Adequate Beer, and the Unfortunate Consequences,
or: How I Made a Right Tart of Myself on Sunday Night

UPDATE: (at bottom of post)

This is pretty personal and pretty detailed, which is why i didn't post it right away, but i've decided that it was an emotionally significant event and i could really use your thoughts. Sadly, in order to fully convey my horror at what transpired Sunday evening, I have to give you some pretty grapic details. Sorry. (Warning: disgusting details and whinging inferiority complex imminent!)

I have never been so embarassed in my entire life.

Sunday the Pirate's cricket game was cancelled because of the rain, which gave us the whole day to do whatever the fuck we pleased. Rainy sundays are great. Rainy sundays when i'm on the rag are considerably less great. So much for the usual Olympic marathon bedroom gymnastics. Bah. So we had to find other ways to amuse ourselves indoors.

So we did pleasant Domestic Things. We went to the outdoors store and got ourselves some necessary bicycle bits and parts, went to the grocery store for milk and toilet paper (that most necessary accessory for modern life), and stopped by the pet store to procure me a new fish (photos to follow shortly, after i get my camera batteries charged). That killed half the day.

So I rang up some pals to see if anyone wanted to go bowling. i managed to get flatmate B, former flatmate Welsh Cake, and her boyf the Yorkshire Pudding on board. (Me, i'm the American Pie, and Pirate is known in these parts as my Lancashire Hotpot. Getting the Hotpot and the Pud together is always great fun; they can spend hours insulting each other's heritage -- it's brilliant!)

We had So. Much. Fun. The bowling alley is shite, and the laminate floors (as opposed to polished wood) mean i get absolutely no slide, so my scores were shite too, but that wasn't the point. The Welsh Cake is the worst bowler I've ever seen -- bless her cotton socks -- so when she finally got a strike we all jumped up and danced like Muppets. Not muppets in the generic sense, i mean Muppets, those wonderful creations of Jim Henson's with their very distictive dancing style (head thrown back, arms straight out in front, hips and hands girating back and forth). Even the Pirate got in. Actually, he started it. and i LOVE that he is the sort of man who will go out in public with his girlfriend and her friends and has no compuntions whatsoever about looking like a complete tit and dancing in a bowling alley. god i love that man. he's more man than any man i've ever met, and he's still a complete kid inside, too.

We had so much fun we didn't want the fun to end, so after our 2 games we piled into the car and went to The Mall in Clifton Village, my favorite pub in Bristol. It's got a great vibe, great ambience, great music, comfy furniture, and the best selection of Belgian beers on draught of any pub I've seen (in a country other than Belgium).

I started going there for the Hoegaarden, but one day when they were out i discoverd the Leffe. Oh sweet mother of god that's good beer. And very strong. They normally only serve it in half pints, but the (Belgian lesbian) barmaid who served me (and tried to chat me up) was perfectly happy to pull me a pint. Whee! At 6.5% that went down too fast and too smooth. So i moved on to a pint of Fruli -- a strawberry wheat beer that actually contains strawberries, and not just strawberry cough syrup. That's good beer, too.

Then for some reason i decided I wanted a half pint of the Schneider Weisse, another lovely brew. Except aforementioned lesbian Belgian barmaid pulled me a whole pint. Did i only drink half? Did i fuck.

Normally 3 pints, even three strong pints, wouldn't be enough to make me more than slightly tipsy, so i didn't worry too much. I'm Polish, remember? But i had forgotten about dual facts that a, i havn't drunk much in the past several months, so i don't have much of a tolerance, and b, all i'd eaten since lunch time was a 6" sandwich at Subway, and that was several hours past already (pre-bowling). So i had NO food in my stomach to sop up the deliscious yeasty beasties.

When we got back to my place and bid the Cake, the Pud, and B goodnight and closed the door, then did i begin to realize how far gone i truely was. i told the Pirate i wanted to clear my head, and went downstairs to walk around the block. It was raining, but i jogged 4 laps around the block anyway, hoping to speed up my metablolism and process the alcohol a bit faster. (I never get drunk when I'm dancing no matter how much i drink, so i figured this should work.) It didn't. I was drunk and wet. I went back upstairs where the Pirate had laid out the air mattress and sleeping bag for me (it was my turn on the floor -- he's had it the past 3 weekends), along with my teddy bear and feather pillow and filled 2 pint glasses with water, which he ordered me to drink.

(Warning to male readers: details of menstrual condidtion imminent!) Now, because Aunt Flow was visiting we hadn't had any nookie all weekend, and because last weekend we were so fucking sick and and exhausted, it had been a while. I was randy. really, really randy. But the good news was that i hadn't had a drop of blood since the previous night. I had considered jumping the Pirate in the morning, but decided to give it another day just to be sure. By sunday evening when i was still clean i decided the coast was clear and announced such. Someone was very happy indeed. Two someones, really. (Attention male readers: you can open your eyes now.)

This is where my memory starts to get a bit fuzzy, but i remember most everything. I hope.

We started kissing, but every time I closed my eyes i got really dizzy and nauseous. We tried to lie down on the bed but being horizontal was a Bad Idea and my equilibrium told me so. So we stood up and i tried to go down on the P, but after a few seconds the nausea became too great and i had to bolt for the bathroom, where i threw up three times.

The Pirate asked if i was OK, and i said that honestly yes, i felt much better having emptied my system, and i did. So we carried on, standing up. It was all going terribly well, and we had a lovely time. After everyone was satisfied, tired, and happy, i got off and...

(warning: gross bit coming up)... there was blood everywhere. I was mortified. I have never made such a mess in my life. I'm not opposed to shagging while ragging in principle, and have done it before -- taking appropriate measures, such as a thick black towel on the bed -- but the Pirate is not a fan. This is ok with me, and i respect his feelings on this matter. But even i have never seen such a mess. It was disgusting, and it was everywhere.

Pirate went into the bathroom to clean up, while i sat on the bed amidst a pool of sticky embarassment. When he came out i went to get cleaned up, was overcome with nausea again (i was still rather drunk) and proceeded to throw up again. and again.

I honestly don't know which embarassed me more, the blood or the puking. Either one would have been enough make me want to move to another country and never show my face again, but both in one night is almost more than i can bear. Pirate was incredibly understanding, and wiped away my tears and told me everything was fine and he didn't care and just wanted to make sure i was OK.

The following morning (managed to dodge the hangover; i think the yakking helped there), i was still crying from embarassment, and again Pirate told me to stop being silly that everything was fine, and gently wiped the tears from my face, told me that of course he forgives me when i asked him, and kissed me.

But (in a stupid, backwards, totally illogical way) this just makes everything worse!

He's so goddamn perfect! if he would do something assenine, just once, he would be easier to believe. Even if he said something like "yup, you really fucked up, and there is nothing sexy about a bleeding, barfing drunk woman, but you are still a wonderful person and i still love you," i could take that. But he doesn't even acknowledge that i did anything wrong, which makes me wonder "What is he really thinking??? What is he not telling me???" No one can possibly be that understanding.

Can they?

That's the other possibilty: he really is that sympathetic and understanding, which makes me feel all the more inadequate. He's just too good for me. He's the most wonderful man alive, treats me like a queen, and how do i repay him? By bleeding and barfing all over him. Fucking great girlfriend i am.

So HOW CAN I STOP FEELING GUILTY????

UPDATE: All afternoon while i've been sitting here writing this and feeling like a giant disgusting shit, do you know what the Pirate was doing? This was our text conversation:

P: Having a productive day?... [stuff about his day]
me: Hullo! I'm fine. I got my bike back from the shop. Whee!
P: Good stuff. I'm off out to pick you a carrier bag of wild garlic. How long does it go in the oven for?

That's right. While I've been sitting here feeling like a monster, he was out wandering the wild woods of Wiltshire to pick me loads of wild garlic for my cooking.

I can't get over how sweet that is. That's right up there with the omelette for thoughtful gestures. He's not going to use it -- he hates cooking! He's doing it entirely for me! It also sends the message of how much he appreciates my cooking, and wants to do something to contribute.

He's too good for me. I don't deserve him. I bleed and barf all over him and what does he do? He spends an evening gathering me a bag of wild cooking herbs. I don't think I can ever be good enough for him, but i desperately want to spend the rest of my life trying.

Vingnettes from the weekend

As opposed to vinegarettes. This is snippets of life, not salad dressing. Duh.

Foot-in-Mouth Disease
Saturday His Swashbuckleyness made his first ever totally insensitive, thoughtless, assenine remark. We've been together over 9 months, so I think he's still got a hell of a great record. (Keep in mind that my back hurts. A lot. Often. There is nothing I want more than to go back to rowing and rack up the medals with the rest of my team. Instead I'm stuck indoors getting fat and bouncing between phyical therapists like a nuclear-powered pingpong ball. And The Pirate bloody wells knows it.)

So Saturday morning we wake up together, the sun is shining, it's a beautiful day. We are snuggling. And what does he say? "Gee, what a great day to go sculling!" Which was all it took for me to burst out in tears. The putz.

Plant Life
When I'm depressed I play in the dirt. Works every time. To cure stree, exercise. To cure depression, re-pot all your houseplants.
So I dragged the Pirate over to Gardiner Haskins where I splashed out (spent 16 pounds) on new pots for my houseplants. And then made him spend 2 hours of his afternoon watching me pot houseplants. Poor lad. It must have been the epitome of boring for him, but look at the results!



Honest People
Saturday evening we had dinner at the Pirate's local with one of his mates from work. It's a great pub -- I had the wood pigeon in summer fruits sauce and a bowl of spring vegetable soup. It was good, but not as good as the P's lamb shank. I'll get that next time. Unless I get the pheasant again. Or the venison. But I digress.

We ate in the garden out back overlooking the valley and the setting sun. I put my purse (that's 'handbag' for the British readers) under the picnic table. And promptly forgot about it.
When I couldn't find it the next day I figured I must have left it, so I walked back to the pub. Someone had turned it in, and the barkeeper handed it to me. With all the cash and credit cards still inside it. Every penny. It's very reasurring to know that there are still honest people in the world. Apparenlty people don't all suck. Or do they...

Fat Kids
Sunday afternoon cricket games are fun. I like the Pirate's local club because it's a real family affair. Everyone shows up with the kids, and the women drink ale and clap and shout "shot!" and the kids run around the edge of the pitch playing boundary ball and biting each other. It's nice. Except for every single one of the kids is fat and ill-behaved, and I regularly see displays of some of the worst parenting skills on Earth.

Like this sunday. There was a girl, about 4 years old. Not quite as huge as the 4-year-old boy with the 3 chins who already has difficulty walking and balancing his enormous girth and will never in his entire life see his own willy without the aid of a mirror, but getting chunky. Her mother was beyond chunky. In the first over this little girl said she was hungry. Her mother replied that she couldn't be hungry because she'd just had lunch. The little girl repeated her request, and mummy gave her... a bag of crisps! For a 4-year-old! Fabulous. It took the child about 4 overs to eat the crisps, at which point she declared she was hungry again, so mummy gave her... another bag of crisps!

Now, at 200 cals/bag, this child had eating 400 calories, fully a third of all the calories she needs in a day, in the form of a food that will not satisfy her hunger and provide no nutritional value whatsoever. Of course, the salt made her thirsty, so mummy gave her... a can of coke! Another 240 calories!

Later on the afternoon, while the two sides were having their tea, the mother went into the bar and brought out a Mars bar, which she unwrapped and handed to the little girl. Who, to the best of my knowledge, had not solicited the candybar in any way. She said she didn't want it. The mother told her to eat it. So she took 3 bites and pushed it away.

I wanted to vomit. I have never in my life seen a parent attempt to force their child to eat a candy bar. I'm so disgusted I don't know what to think. There's ignorant, but this defies all ignorance and logic. This is somewhere so far beyond ignorant even the powerful gaze of ObviousMan cannot penetrate the fog of stupidity. I have no idea what this woman thought she was doing. I was seriously tempted to report her to the authorities for child abuse.

Oops
And the Pirate was out for a duck on the second ball, so it wasn't the best day of cricket ever.

There and Back Again
But Sunday evening was nice. We fixed some pasta for dinner and watched the P's new Red Dwarf DVDs. Normally he drives me back on Sunday evening (if I havn't bicycled), but it was late and he was tired and I didn't have my bike, so I said I'd take the bus back in the morning.
I caught the 8:03 bus from the stop outside his house and arrived at Bath Spa (train station for the American readers) at 8:30, ten minutes ahead of schedule. The train was a bit late departing, and didn't leave until 8:55, but we got into Brizzle shortly past 9, and by the time I walked home I was stepping into my front door by 9:30. Almost exactly 90 minutes. Not bad, except it only takes me 2 hours on a bike.

Now consider this: the bus was 3.60, and the train was 5.60, for a total of 9 pounds, 20 p to travel 25 miles on public transport.

Let's hear it for British public transport! It costs a forturne, but it will get you there slightly faster than an injured person on a derelict bicycle!

Cute
Here are some photos of Bluto sitting in my fern and chomping on it. I wish I could eat my furniture!