I honestly don't know which is cuter:
A. A full-grown Pirate playing ring-around-the-rosie with the Pirette in front of all his cricket buddies, or
B. The Pirate teaching the Pirette how to bake homemade sourdough* bread, whilst she stands on a dining chair in the kitchen and sprinkles flour on the counter top as per his instructions. (Note to self: I must get them matching aprons for Christmas.)
Votes in the comments box.
*We find that, disappointingly, Paul Hollywood's method yeields a better result than Hugh Fernley-Wittingstall's method. Sorry, Hugh.
Showing posts with label banality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label banality. Show all posts
Monday, August 26, 2013
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Small Pirate pictures! Yay!
There be mischief in those eyes, yarrh...
The Gerber baby can kiss my nappy!
My mom, my fuzzy beagle... What more could I want?
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Not that Big News, but something else Mildly Interesting
Hi all.
After a loooooooong hiatus from bloggering I've found myself in need of your good opinions. I know I can always trust my trusty readers to guide me in the paths of righteousness and sound marketing principles. (How are you, by the way, my dear readers? I have missed you, you know.)
So I'm starting a business.
It turns out I'm rather handy in kitchen, dontcha know, and without really meaning to, I've sort of started a private wee bakery in my house. It began with my Teutonic neighbor hiring me to bake birthday cakes for her sons because, while she enjoys baking, she doesn't really have the time and thinks I do a better job anyway. So she went around and told everyone else, and now I take orders from all my neighbors for cakes for their special occasions. (I also do a good line in pies, but those don't seem to appeal to the English palate as much, so even though I think my pies are a good deal more interesting than my cakes, no one really seems to want them, but that may change.)
And since I haven't been able to get a job in the god-forsaken county that is Cornwall, this cake-baking lark has become my only source of income. So go with what you know, right? Time to expand the bizness!
Step one: reach more clientelle through website.
Sounds simple enough. There are a million companies out there that allow idiots like me to build personal websites for a small fee and provide templates and tech support and all sorts of things for a small monthly fee. But here's the kicker: I want the URL of the website to be the name of the business, and all the names for the business I originally wanted have already been registered as URLs by other people.
SO! I have on the sidebar a selection of potential names, and I would like you to vote on the one you would find most appealing if you were hiring someone to bake a cake for your wedding or birthday or whatever.
Feel free to leave comments as to why you voted the way you did. I have my own thoughts on each of these, but I'm curious to see yours.
As for the rest of my life, here's the rundown of the past year:
Marriage is great
Cornwall is beautiful, but bankrupt. There are NO JOBS.
I still haven't finished my PhD.
Nor am I pregnant.
My last living grandparent died a few weeks ago, followed shortly by his wife, followed shortly by my penultimate surving great-uncle. It's going to be one of those winters, I can tell.
The slugs ate my whole garden except the sweetcorn.
Pirate and I both had pig flu and nearly died.
My parents came over to celebrate Christmas.
And that's about it, really. Now go to the sidebar and VOTE, bitches!
(Oh, and that first entry should be Cornucopia Cakes, as Dave very kindly pointed out. I can't correct it on the poll because blogger won't allow you to make changes after voting has begun. Very sporting of them and all that, but they clearly didn't anticipate my bad spelling.)
After a loooooooong hiatus from bloggering I've found myself in need of your good opinions. I know I can always trust my trusty readers to guide me in the paths of righteousness and sound marketing principles. (How are you, by the way, my dear readers? I have missed you, you know.)
So I'm starting a business.
It turns out I'm rather handy in kitchen, dontcha know, and without really meaning to, I've sort of started a private wee bakery in my house. It began with my Teutonic neighbor hiring me to bake birthday cakes for her sons because, while she enjoys baking, she doesn't really have the time and thinks I do a better job anyway. So she went around and told everyone else, and now I take orders from all my neighbors for cakes for their special occasions. (I also do a good line in pies, but those don't seem to appeal to the English palate as much, so even though I think my pies are a good deal more interesting than my cakes, no one really seems to want them, but that may change.)
And since I haven't been able to get a job in the god-forsaken county that is Cornwall, this cake-baking lark has become my only source of income. So go with what you know, right? Time to expand the bizness!
Step one: reach more clientelle through website.
Sounds simple enough. There are a million companies out there that allow idiots like me to build personal websites for a small fee and provide templates and tech support and all sorts of things for a small monthly fee. But here's the kicker: I want the URL of the website to be the name of the business, and all the names for the business I originally wanted have already been registered as URLs by other people.
SO! I have on the sidebar a selection of potential names, and I would like you to vote on the one you would find most appealing if you were hiring someone to bake a cake for your wedding or birthday or whatever.
Feel free to leave comments as to why you voted the way you did. I have my own thoughts on each of these, but I'm curious to see yours.
As for the rest of my life, here's the rundown of the past year:
Marriage is great
Cornwall is beautiful, but bankrupt. There are NO JOBS.
I still haven't finished my PhD.
Nor am I pregnant.
My last living grandparent died a few weeks ago, followed shortly by his wife, followed shortly by my penultimate surving great-uncle. It's going to be one of those winters, I can tell.
The slugs ate my whole garden except the sweetcorn.
Pirate and I both had pig flu and nearly died.
My parents came over to celebrate Christmas.
And that's about it, really. Now go to the sidebar and VOTE, bitches!
(Oh, and that first entry should be Cornucopia Cakes, as Dave very kindly pointed out. I can't correct it on the poll because blogger won't allow you to make changes after voting has begun. Very sporting of them and all that, but they clearly didn't anticipate my bad spelling.)
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Middle Class
So there we were, the Pirate and I, listening to the test match* on the radio, playing Boggle, and eating strawberries.
When the revolution comes, we are fucked.
*That's cricket, for you football-watching Philistines.
When the revolution comes, we are fucked.
*That's cricket, for you football-watching Philistines.
Monday, February 02, 2009
The Life Domestique
Ah, the pleasantries of matrimonial banality. Everything, no matter how lovely or how miserable, is just that little bit nicer or more bearable. This weekend we:
Got Pirate new glasses, went to the pest store and bought 7 fish (6 guppies and an algae eater, if you must know), and visited The Gables Farm to pick a cat to adopt (we chose 2 kittens, but they're not available yet. Watch this space).
Sunday we baked loads of muffins, spilled 4 gallons of hot soapy water on the kitchen floor and cleaned it up, made a pot of chili, scooped a dead guppy out of the aquarium, and tried to have a super-bowl party but failed to have any friends cool enough to come.
Pirate ordered me a calendar online that he made with my own photographs, I refilled the bird feeders and cleaned the hamster cage. (It was a big weekend for animals, apparently.)
Nothing was monumentous; it was just nice to have a companion. Even cleaning 4 gallons of water off the kitchen floor became a laughable offense rather than a swearing, cursing, day-ruining event. God it's good to be home.
I'll try to have something bad happen to me in the next week or two so I can write something interesting instead of all this mushy drivel.
Got Pirate new glasses, went to the pest store and bought 7 fish (6 guppies and an algae eater, if you must know), and visited The Gables Farm to pick a cat to adopt (we chose 2 kittens, but they're not available yet. Watch this space).
Sunday we baked loads of muffins, spilled 4 gallons of hot soapy water on the kitchen floor and cleaned it up, made a pot of chili, scooped a dead guppy out of the aquarium, and tried to have a super-bowl party but failed to have any friends cool enough to come.
Pirate ordered me a calendar online that he made with my own photographs, I refilled the bird feeders and cleaned the hamster cage. (It was a big weekend for animals, apparently.)
Nothing was monumentous; it was just nice to have a companion. Even cleaning 4 gallons of water off the kitchen floor became a laughable offense rather than a swearing, cursing, day-ruining event. God it's good to be home.
I'll try to have something bad happen to me in the next week or two so I can write something interesting instead of all this mushy drivel.
Friday, December 05, 2008
In-laws
They are coming.
They are coming tonight.
I have 9 hours to:
*I must remember to buy toilet paper
**I'm making stockings for both of us out of an old pair of jeans.
***It was supposed to be done for last Christmas
They are coming tonight.
I have 9 hours to:
- clean the bathrooms
- mop the kitchen floor
- vacuum the whole house (Pirate?)
- tidy the spare bedrooms
- rearrange the furniture in the spare bedrooms
- put sheets on all the beds
- wash a load of darks
- walk a mile to the grocery store and carry all the groceries home*
- cook dinner for Pirate
- bake Christmas cookies
- take out the compost bucket
- clean the dead leaves out of the flower beds before the stems rots
- shower
- finish sewing Pirate's stocking**
- finish crocheting Pirate's mum's scarf***
*I must remember to buy toilet paper
**I'm making stockings for both of us out of an old pair of jeans.
***It was supposed to be done for last Christmas
Friday, November 28, 2008
When the Cat's Away...
Going to Bristol this weekend. Pirate is going to B'ham for an archery competition, so he's dropping me of in Brizzle on the way. I'm going to spend two nights with my ex-partner (sculling partner), and run around and do Crimbo shopping and go to the gym and see my supervisor and lots of friends and get drunk a few times. w00t.
See yous Monday.
See yous Monday.
Monday, November 17, 2008
It turns out that Pirates wear underwear
Who knew?
It also turns out that they will wear their underwear until it is so riddled with holes it can double as a fishing net. At which point they keep wearing it.
So I had a very Middle Class moment the other week. No, not quite that middle class. Or even that. But middle class enough for me.
I went to Mark's & Spencer's to buy underwear for my man.* And then stood around in the men's underwear department with a bunch of other middle-aged housewives complaining that our men refuse to buy their own underwear, but complain about the stuff we buy for them.
It was all terribly middle class, dahlink.
* I eventually got him these.
ps. The bestest part was looking around at the packaging and realizing that my Pirate is more fit and better hung than all the professional underwear models. Yee-haw baby!
It also turns out that they will wear their underwear until it is so riddled with holes it can double as a fishing net. At which point they keep wearing it.
So I had a very Middle Class moment the other week. No, not quite that middle class. Or even that. But middle class enough for me.
I went to Mark's & Spencer's to buy underwear for my man.* And then stood around in the men's underwear department with a bunch of other middle-aged housewives complaining that our men refuse to buy their own underwear, but complain about the stuff we buy for them.
It was all terribly middle class, dahlink.
* I eventually got him these.
ps. The bestest part was looking around at the packaging and realizing that my Pirate is more fit and better hung than all the professional underwear models. Yee-haw baby!
Monday, November 10, 2008
Back to back
My back has been getting slowly but steadily worse for several weeks. By this weekend I was having serious problems, including but not limited to:
So I finally did it. I slept on the floor.
I expected that I might feel somewhat better after a night on the floor, instead of in a bed so soft that when you sit on it your ass sinks below the level of your knees. I did not expect that after one night on the floor that I would feel completely fine.
That pretty much settles it. We need a new mattress.
For budget reasons we'd really rather not make a major purchase until after Christmas. As a stop-gap we're going to try putting a sheet of plywood between the mattress and box spring. Several people have suggested that this will help, so it seems the obvious first step.
(Oh, and I've got an appointment with the doctor in the morning to see if there's anything else that can be done from a medical perspective. In the past 2 years the NHS has shown a distinct disinterest in my back problems, but this is a new doctor so maybe he'll be more openminded to helping a 29-year-old healthy woman with chronic pain issues. I'm not holding my breath, though.)
- pain that reduced me to tears every time i sneezed or coughed
- an inability to bend over to put on my own knickers
- an inability to bend over to wash my face
- an inability to get into a car w/o assistance
- an inability to twist around to wipe my own ass
So I finally did it. I slept on the floor.
I expected that I might feel somewhat better after a night on the floor, instead of in a bed so soft that when you sit on it your ass sinks below the level of your knees. I did not expect that after one night on the floor that I would feel completely fine.
That pretty much settles it. We need a new mattress.
For budget reasons we'd really rather not make a major purchase until after Christmas. As a stop-gap we're going to try putting a sheet of plywood between the mattress and box spring. Several people have suggested that this will help, so it seems the obvious first step.
(Oh, and I've got an appointment with the doctor in the morning to see if there's anything else that can be done from a medical perspective. In the past 2 years the NHS has shown a distinct disinterest in my back problems, but this is a new doctor so maybe he'll be more openminded to helping a 29-year-old healthy woman with chronic pain issues. I'm not holding my breath, though.)
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Insomniac
It's 6 am. I've been awake for 2 hours. I don't think I'll go back to bed this morning.
The bed is horrible. It's too small and too soft. With Pirate in it I've got no room to move. My half of the bed is smaller than my mummy sleeping bag. And the mattress is awful. It's really old and completely soft. When you sit on the bed your butt goes all the way down to the box spring. It's doing my back in. I can't turn over in it, and if I'm in one position too long my back hurts. I wake up 6 times a night just to roll over, which I have to sit up to do.
But despite all this I've been able to sleep. It's taken 9 or 10 hours a night to get the equivalent rest of 7 or 8 good hours, but that's ok. Tonight it was the temperature issue again.
I'm cold. I'm always cold. It's a fact of life.
Pirate is hot. (My god is he hot!) He generates heat like a little sea-faring blast furnace. So I want loads of covers and he wants none. USUALLY.
Except the last few nights. It finally got cold here, and he's been complaining that his shoulders are getting cold, because I like to have an arm on top of the blankets and he likes them all the way up to his chin, but when I put an arm out it pushes them all down to the level of his armpit and his shoulders get cold.
So all night tonight as the covers have been sliding all over with their usual independent-mindedness (why the hell do blankets not stay where you put them????), I've been adjusting them to keep Pirate tucked in the way he likes.
When I woke up to move or pee (it's hard to tell sometimes what wakes me) I discovered ALL the blankets and duvets piled on top of me like a 4-foot-deep dollop of wool whipped cream. I couldn't move. I woke Pirate and said "AREN'T YOUR SHOULDERS COLD!??!?!".
"No," he replied. "I'm baking. You can have the covers."
Aaaaaaaaaagggg!
I dumped them all on top of him and got up to blog and eat chocolate chip cookies.
The bed is horrible. It's too small and too soft. With Pirate in it I've got no room to move. My half of the bed is smaller than my mummy sleeping bag. And the mattress is awful. It's really old and completely soft. When you sit on the bed your butt goes all the way down to the box spring. It's doing my back in. I can't turn over in it, and if I'm in one position too long my back hurts. I wake up 6 times a night just to roll over, which I have to sit up to do.
But despite all this I've been able to sleep. It's taken 9 or 10 hours a night to get the equivalent rest of 7 or 8 good hours, but that's ok. Tonight it was the temperature issue again.
I'm cold. I'm always cold. It's a fact of life.
Pirate is hot. (My god is he hot!) He generates heat like a little sea-faring blast furnace. So I want loads of covers and he wants none. USUALLY.
Except the last few nights. It finally got cold here, and he's been complaining that his shoulders are getting cold, because I like to have an arm on top of the blankets and he likes them all the way up to his chin, but when I put an arm out it pushes them all down to the level of his armpit and his shoulders get cold.
So all night tonight as the covers have been sliding all over with their usual independent-mindedness (why the hell do blankets not stay where you put them????), I've been adjusting them to keep Pirate tucked in the way he likes.
When I woke up to move or pee (it's hard to tell sometimes what wakes me) I discovered ALL the blankets and duvets piled on top of me like a 4-foot-deep dollop of wool whipped cream. I couldn't move. I woke Pirate and said "AREN'T YOUR SHOULDERS COLD!??!?!".
"No," he replied. "I'm baking. You can have the covers."
Aaaaaaaaaagggg!
I dumped them all on top of him and got up to blog and eat chocolate chip cookies.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Alone
Tonight I am alone. Pirate has left for the week. (When we woke up this morning I looked at him and realized that the next time we wake up together it will be as husband and wife. Wow.)
Not only that, all my flatmates have gone. I am the last person in the flat.
I am also the last person in the entire 8-storey, 200-occupant building. Everyone else left Friday, or Saturday at the latest, but I got special leave to remain since I had no where else to go before the wedding.
Now, my flatmates were pretty fucking anti-social. I rarely saw or spoke to them. I knew they were there because the kitchen was constantly filthy, but that was the only evidence of their existence.
But somehow without them here the place is eerily quiet. It doesn't help that Pirate has also taken Goebbels (the evil, aryan, Nazi dwarf hamster) as well as Wong-Foo, Studly, Preggers, and Gluon (my Betta, 2 guppies, and their quantum offspring, respectively). The hamster wheel and aquarium bubbler have been my constant night-time noises for 3 years.
And because it's Sunday, there aren't even many drunk people outside screaming. There are fewer ambulances. There are no live bands at the pub downstairs. Even the seagulss have gone. (Thank fuck for that, anyway.) Except for the hum of normal traffic around St. Augustine's Parade, it is completely quiet.
I have never felt so alone in the middle of a huge city.
This is the first time since I arrived I'm locking myself in my bedroom while I sleep.
Not only that, all my flatmates have gone. I am the last person in the flat.
I am also the last person in the entire 8-storey, 200-occupant building. Everyone else left Friday, or Saturday at the latest, but I got special leave to remain since I had no where else to go before the wedding.
Now, my flatmates were pretty fucking anti-social. I rarely saw or spoke to them. I knew they were there because the kitchen was constantly filthy, but that was the only evidence of their existence.
But somehow without them here the place is eerily quiet. It doesn't help that Pirate has also taken Goebbels (the evil, aryan, Nazi dwarf hamster) as well as Wong-Foo, Studly, Preggers, and Gluon (my Betta, 2 guppies, and their quantum offspring, respectively). The hamster wheel and aquarium bubbler have been my constant night-time noises for 3 years.
And because it's Sunday, there aren't even many drunk people outside screaming. There are fewer ambulances. There are no live bands at the pub downstairs. Even the seagulss have gone. (Thank fuck for that, anyway.) Except for the hum of normal traffic around St. Augustine's Parade, it is completely quiet.
I have never felt so alone in the middle of a huge city.
This is the first time since I arrived I'm locking myself in my bedroom while I sleep.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Mega-girly Girliness
Not my normal scene, I know. But yesterday I had an uber-girly day out with one of my bridesmaids. After a nice lunch of posh salads and white wine in the Slug & Lettuce we went lingerie shopping for The Big Day.
I bought an ivory satin bosque that has more lift than a Saturn 5 rocket. It turns out I have tits.* Who knew?!
Then we went to see Prince Caspian and drool over the hot kid with the faux Spanish accent playing PC. *fans face* The really sad and surprising thing is that despite PC's hotness it was the wet-chinned public school prat playing Peter who got me going in the scene where he fights Usurper Shiraz. I mean god DAMN I loves me a shiny suit of armor. *fans faster* Really, it wasn't Peter, just the way he wore that tin can with the red tabard and looked all "I'm about to die but I'm so taking you with me you fake-accented fucker." Mmmm.
(this pic would be better if he wasn't pouting. that's susan's job anyway)
Then there was more food at Frankie & Bennies where we ordered some very contrived menu item calling itself 'The Americana.' I don't know what made it American, but it were tastee. Also more wine.
w00t for (occassional) girlyness and very decadent 2-meals-out days.
*Really awesome ones
I bought an ivory satin bosque that has more lift than a Saturn 5 rocket. It turns out I have tits.* Who knew?!
Then we went to see Prince Caspian and drool over the hot kid with the faux Spanish accent playing PC. *fans face* The really sad and surprising thing is that despite PC's hotness it was the wet-chinned public school prat playing Peter who got me going in the scene where he fights Usurper Shiraz. I mean god DAMN I loves me a shiny suit of armor. *fans faster* Really, it wasn't Peter, just the way he wore that tin can with the red tabard and looked all "I'm about to die but I'm so taking you with me you fake-accented fucker." Mmmm.
(this pic would be better if he wasn't pouting. that's susan's job anyway)Then there was more food at Frankie & Bennies where we ordered some very contrived menu item calling itself 'The Americana.' I don't know what made it American, but it were tastee. Also more wine.
w00t for (occassional) girlyness and very decadent 2-meals-out days.
*Really awesome ones
Apropos
So there I was, wandering around the House of Fraser going-out-of-business sale, listening to U2, I still haven't found what I'm looking for, coming over the loudspeaker.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Commando
I had a very interesting day at the office yesterday. It stemmed from something which started out as a very minor and occasional nuissance but has since grown into a full-blown lingerie catastrophe.
Of course I'm talking about that annoying sensation when your underwear slices in to your bikini line and feels like cheese-wire that is on the verge of amputating your legs.
I have a couple pairs of knickers with inadequate leg elastic that tend to create this feeling. They annoy me and so I stopped wearing them (despite their being extremely cute and pretty). But lately ALL of my underwear has been doing this, even the old, saggy, stretched-out, cotton granny panties.
Yesterday it reached critical mass. They got so painful I had to take them off. In fact, so fed up was I with the whole dilemma that I got angry at the offending underwear and threw them away, right there in the office (well, in the sanitary disposal bin in the ladies' room) and went commando for the rest of the day.
Yes, I went commando at work.
(I was wearing a knee-lenght corduroy skirt, so it was ok. I didn't have any scary four-corners crotch seams in trousers to contend with, and the skirt was completely opaque, so there was no visible lack-of-panty line.)
It was quite nice, really.
Today I wore the most comfortable pair of knickers I could find, and they're driving me nuts. They're cutting it to my skin so badly it's like wearing pants made a dental floss. I don't know what to do. I can't spend the rest of my life commando, but right now the thought of having to wear underwear every day for the rest of my life is making me cringe. Surely there's a solution to this, and it probably involves replacing all my underwear with something more comfortable, but I can't imagine what that could be. Any suggestions?
ps. The current underwear is mostly low-rise bikini. I've worn them for decades without difficulty. I don't know why they're bothering me now.
pps. I've considered switching to high-leg bikini, but they ride up my ass and I spend my life attempting to subtly remove wedgies.
ppps. No, I haven't gained weight. Not an ounce. In fact I've lost a few pounds. So my legs haven't gotten any fatter if that's what you're thinking.
Of course I'm talking about that annoying sensation when your underwear slices in to your bikini line and feels like cheese-wire that is on the verge of amputating your legs.
I have a couple pairs of knickers with inadequate leg elastic that tend to create this feeling. They annoy me and so I stopped wearing them (despite their being extremely cute and pretty). But lately ALL of my underwear has been doing this, even the old, saggy, stretched-out, cotton granny panties.
Yesterday it reached critical mass. They got so painful I had to take them off. In fact, so fed up was I with the whole dilemma that I got angry at the offending underwear and threw them away, right there in the office (well, in the sanitary disposal bin in the ladies' room) and went commando for the rest of the day.
Yes, I went commando at work.
(I was wearing a knee-lenght corduroy skirt, so it was ok. I didn't have any scary four-corners crotch seams in trousers to contend with, and the skirt was completely opaque, so there was no visible lack-of-panty line.)
It was quite nice, really.
Today I wore the most comfortable pair of knickers I could find, and they're driving me nuts. They're cutting it to my skin so badly it's like wearing pants made a dental floss. I don't know what to do. I can't spend the rest of my life commando, but right now the thought of having to wear underwear every day for the rest of my life is making me cringe. Surely there's a solution to this, and it probably involves replacing all my underwear with something more comfortable, but I can't imagine what that could be. Any suggestions?
ps. The current underwear is mostly low-rise bikini. I've worn them for decades without difficulty. I don't know why they're bothering me now.
pps. I've considered switching to high-leg bikini, but they ride up my ass and I spend my life attempting to subtly remove wedgies.
ppps. No, I haven't gained weight. Not an ounce. In fact I've lost a few pounds. So my legs haven't gotten any fatter if that's what you're thinking.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Picture Pages
Had a nice weekend. No rowing, which is good, as I needed a weekend to let my body recover. I've got 3 major races in the next 4 weeks, culminating in Women's Henley Regatta at the end of June, so that was the last bit of respite for a while. The calm before the storm, if you will.
I watched Pirate play cricket instead. It was good. He won his matches on Saturday and Sunday with sufficient ease that it was actually pretty boring to watch. So I don't have much by way of exciting things to write. So here are some pictures instead:
Black swans on the River Thames in Reading, April 2008
Tulips outside the City of Bristol Council House, April 2008
The Pier, Clevedon, April 2008
England's green and pleasant land, Lancashire, April 2008
I watched Pirate play cricket instead. It was good. He won his matches on Saturday and Sunday with sufficient ease that it was actually pretty boring to watch. So I don't have much by way of exciting things to write. So here are some pictures instead:
Black swans on the River Thames in Reading, April 2008
Tulips outside the City of Bristol Council House, April 2008
The Pier, Clevedon, April 2008
England's green and pleasant land, Lancashire, April 2008Monday, May 19, 2008
Ostrich strategy
I can't contemplate the inhumanity and profound evilness of the Burmese junta, standing by while scores of thousands of Burmese people starve to death or die of dehydration, exposure, and disease. I don't understand it, I just don't understand. I can't begin to wrap my brain around it.
So instead I'm going to tell you my favorite uses for peanut butter.
Things on which I put Peanut Butter:
So instead I'm going to tell you my favorite uses for peanut butter.
Things on which I put Peanut Butter:
- Toast, then sprinkled with cinamon and sugar
- Apples
- Sandwiches, with sliced banana inside
- Sandwiches, with strawberry or grape jam
- Sandwiches, with honey
- NOT sandwiches with mayonaise. That's just gross. Ew ew ew ew ew ew.
- Celery, with raisins
- Ritz crakers
- Rich tea biscuits
- Animal crakers
- Graham crakers
- Chocolate
- Cinamon raisin bagels. Seriously, try it sometime.
- Dogs' noses. (No, I don't eat dogs' noses. I said 'Things on which I put peanut butter', not 'Things on which I eat peanut butter.' Ha ha! Did I catch you?)
Thursday, May 15, 2008
I do not like the letter 'B'
It looks too much like a 1 and 3 mushed together, even when people write relatively neatly. If they have sloppy handwriting it leads to inevitable tragedy.
This wasn't such a big issue for me in America, where one could usually discern letters/numerals through context. But here in the UK where postcodes are a mix of numbers and letters it's all too confusing.
I'd like to send an e-petition to Downing Street to be made the government's top priority for Things Next To Be Ignored, but as I'm not a citizen yet I can't even do that. I'll have to sit here being ignored unofficially and attempting to decipher people's Bs, 1s, and 3s.
This wasn't such a big issue for me in America, where one could usually discern letters/numerals through context. But here in the UK where postcodes are a mix of numbers and letters it's all too confusing.
I'd like to send an e-petition to Downing Street to be made the government's top priority for Things Next To Be Ignored, but as I'm not a citizen yet I can't even do that. I'll have to sit here being ignored unofficially and attempting to decipher people's Bs, 1s, and 3s.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
My bike broke. Grrr.
The derailer on my bike is bent. This is have the dual effect of
a. Not allowing me to use any of the larger cogs on the rear gears, and
b. shifting very slowly and haltingly.
Result: It took me 90 minutes to get my chiropractor in Clevedon yesterday (it normally takes 60 minutes from Bristol) making me 30 minutes late for my appointment, and it took me 3 hours to get back again. Because I had to walk. Along a B-road with loads of lorries and no shoulder. I can't believe I'm still alive.
Best get the beastie into the shop methingks. I need it to get to my race on Saturday.
Oh, and here's a helpful hint: Never EVER eat raw broccoli on an empty stomach. Such cramps I have never had. Oy vey.
a. Not allowing me to use any of the larger cogs on the rear gears, and
b. shifting very slowly and haltingly.
Result: It took me 90 minutes to get my chiropractor in Clevedon yesterday (it normally takes 60 minutes from Bristol) making me 30 minutes late for my appointment, and it took me 3 hours to get back again. Because I had to walk. Along a B-road with loads of lorries and no shoulder. I can't believe I'm still alive.
Best get the beastie into the shop methingks. I need it to get to my race on Saturday.
Oh, and here's a helpful hint: Never EVER eat raw broccoli on an empty stomach. Such cramps I have never had. Oy vey.
Friday, May 09, 2008
I may have spoke to soon maybe
or, How the Bitch Got Her Mojo Back
See, with no prospect of racing on the horizon, the training of rowing is just fucking miserable. It has few redeeming qualities.
But when there's a goal, well, that's a different story, see?
So I've hooked up with this chick from Another Cunting Rowing Club (ACRC). We've been training in the double scull.
Our first outing showed some promise. Then she got ill and I got busy and we didn't do much for a while.
Our second outing was brilliant fun, this past weekend. Pirate came down to the boathouse and went for a jog. We got in the double and did some race starts. The resident waterfowl were out with their small fuzzy offsprings, and they saw that it was good.
Monday morning, same story. Although 2 training days in a row left my back a bit stiff, we got on just fine. We're starting to think there might be some real potential here. So we're racing at the ACRC regatta on 17 May. We're entered in both Senior3 and Senior1. This race will be the litmus test; if we do well, it's full speed ahead to Women's Henley!!!
And then came Wednesday.
I can't steer for beans, let's make that abundantly clear right now. So what did I do? I crashed. Into the men's double. While we were both doing full-pressure pieces. Result: 2 bent riggers and an oar to my lower back like getting bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Ow.
Again I say unto thee: ow.*
But the weather was glorious and sunny and sultry and hot and steamy, and the fuzzness of the duckylings was exceptionally fuzzable, as were the swanlings, with the grey fluffness and the tiny peepness, and the leafness of the trees was bright and green and the sun glinted on the still Avon waters. The pieces were strong and swift and I could hear the bubbles gurgling under the bow as we sliced through the river: the boat was singing to us! Sing, boat, sing!
Yeah. I'm back.
*Great excuse to go to Argos and buy a giant heated, vibrating back massager. Tonight I will try sittin on it for variety. I expect it to be excellent.
See, with no prospect of racing on the horizon, the training of rowing is just fucking miserable. It has few redeeming qualities.
But when there's a goal, well, that's a different story, see?
So I've hooked up with this chick from Another Cunting Rowing Club (ACRC). We've been training in the double scull.
Our first outing showed some promise. Then she got ill and I got busy and we didn't do much for a while.
Our second outing was brilliant fun, this past weekend. Pirate came down to the boathouse and went for a jog. We got in the double and did some race starts. The resident waterfowl were out with their small fuzzy offsprings, and they saw that it was good.
Monday morning, same story. Although 2 training days in a row left my back a bit stiff, we got on just fine. We're starting to think there might be some real potential here. So we're racing at the ACRC regatta on 17 May. We're entered in both Senior3 and Senior1. This race will be the litmus test; if we do well, it's full speed ahead to Women's Henley!!!
And then came Wednesday.
I can't steer for beans, let's make that abundantly clear right now. So what did I do? I crashed. Into the men's double. While we were both doing full-pressure pieces. Result: 2 bent riggers and an oar to my lower back like getting bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Ow.
Again I say unto thee: ow.*
But the weather was glorious and sunny and sultry and hot and steamy, and the fuzzness of the duckylings was exceptionally fuzzable, as were the swanlings, with the grey fluffness and the tiny peepness, and the leafness of the trees was bright and green and the sun glinted on the still Avon waters. The pieces were strong and swift and I could hear the bubbles gurgling under the bow as we sliced through the river: the boat was singing to us! Sing, boat, sing!
Yeah. I'm back.
*Great excuse to go to Argos and buy a giant heated, vibrating back massager. Tonight I will try sittin on it for variety. I expect it to be excellent.
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