Wong-Foo Fighter

Well I promised you I would try to have something bad happen to me this week, and now I'm going to deliver.

Do you remember Wong-Foo? Wong-Foo was the bestest fishy ever. He had fu, foo.


I got Wong-Foo back in the summer of '07. He lived in a pretty little aquarium on my desk in Bristol and kept me company. He was far more social even than the Nazi Death Hamster. (Hard to imagine, I know.)

So last Saturday we bought some more fish. Our 80-L tank has been up and running for months, and has had no problems. Introducing a few more fish shouldn't have been an issue. We followed all the correct protocols.

Nevertheless, on Sunday morning when we inspected the fish we noticed that one of the tiny guppies (an unusual variety that were only about 2 cm long each but cost 4 quid apiece) had ick. There was a white fluffy spot on one side and it's dorsal fin was missing. I treated the tank and hoped for the best. Later that evening it died.

It died well within the pet store's 48-hour guarantee, so I bagged the fish, put it in the freezer, and made sure I had the receipt. We noticed Wong-Foo following the guppy around in it's death throes. This is not unusual behavior. The very instant the guppy went belly-up, Wong-Foo took a bite out of him. This, too, is not unusual for fish, especially bettas.

The next day Wong-Foo died.

I am both gutted* and furious.

Clearly the guppy was diseased when we bought it, despite appearing healthy. Most likely the stress of the transition was too much for it, and whatever infection it had (probably ick) it was unable to fend off. The pet store acknowledges this with their 48 hour guarantee. If the guppy had contracted the disease in our tank, it wouldn't have died so quickly.

The fact that my betta, who had been healthy for a year and a half, died within hours of taking a bite of a diseased fish is NO COINCIDENCE. I'm hoping I can get the pet store to admit this and replace the betta as well as the guppy. It's a long shot, but I have logic and truth on my side.

Meanwhile I'm mourning. Wong-Foo was an awesome fishy. His hobbies included begging for blood worms and eating baby guppies snacks. He had loads of personality and always acknowledged my presence when I entered the room. That's more than I can say for a lot of people. Wong-Foo was more than a fish in a tank; he was a genuine pet.

Now he's gone to sleep with the people. *sniff* RIP, little buddy.


*Geddit? Gutted? We're talking about fish and I'M gutted! Even in the face of tragedy I maintain my sense of humor

Homeward Bound

I'm here to bring you the Good News. The Second Coming is imminent. The End (of my American imprisonment) is nigh!

We just heard from the honorary British Consul, and he says that my visa will arrive in the next couple of days and that i can book my plane ticket for Friday week. I don't know how he got a 10 week process shortened to less than 3, but I'm not looking a gift-bulldog in the mouth.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel. It is not a train. Life is good.

Back at "GO"

Today is my 30th birthday.

30 is one of those landmark birthdays where you sit back and look at your life as it is and compare with where you thought you'd be at this point. Let's take a look, shall we?

A. Where I thought I'd be:
Happily married, at home with my Pirate, having some people to dinner to celebrate.

B. Where I actually am:
At my parents' home in the USA, back where I started, feeling old and wondering when I'll see my Pirate again.


Now before you panic let me assure you this has nothing to do with any kind of marital issues. Pirate and I are still madly in love and horny as hell and all that gross newlywed stuff. The problem is immigration issues. I'm stuck here, waiting on my spousal visa, without which I cannot return to the UK. They said it could be as long as 10 weeks.

My aunt knows the Honorary British Consulate for the Detroit area, who is a very nice man and is trying to push things along for me and shorten that 10 week estimate. Meanwhile the Pirates-in-Law have contacted their MP to push things along from that side. With any luck if they both push hard enough they'll meet somewhere in the middle and I can get the fuck out of here.

So here I sit, in my parents' house, feeling old, wondering how I ended up back here again. I feel rather like I've been playing a board game, and drew a bum card or landed on a crappy square that sent me back to "GO" while everyone else is playing on, now half a board ahead of me.

Oh yeah, and I gained 6 pounds over the holidays. 2009 is off to a great start.

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.

The Point At Which I Thew Up. The First Time.

Thursday was Traf Night on the base. Yes, I know that Tuesday was actually the anniversary of the battle of Trafalgar, but they didn't celebrate until Thursday. It was a personnel-only night, so I couldn't go and join in the reindeer games. Instead I had a neighbor 'round for tea. (How very English of me.)

Pirate came back at quarter past one in the morning and announced that we were spending the weekend on a yacht with a bloke from work, his bird, and some other people he'd not met.

I have never been on a yacht. My most recent memory of being on a boat that was powered by something other people was a fishing trip my parents took me on when I was 10 out on to Lake Michigan. My dad and I spent the whole time trowing up, and we didn't catch a single fish.

I agreed to go on the grounds that I'd never done it before, and as a rule I like to try new things. I was apprehensive, however, as this seemed to me the kind of activity that was highly dependent upon 2 things:

The quality of the company, and
The quality of the weather.

If the company was lively and the weather calm, it was sure to be a good time.
If the company was dull and the weather lively, it had disaster written all over it.

It started out well enough. The dawn broke radiantly over Rame Penninsula.

Red sky in the morning; Sailor, take warning!

(That was the actual view out our bedroom window on the morning of the excursion.)

We tootled in to Plymouth where we met the crew at the marina and went aboard.

All aboard the HMS Upchuck!

Our skipper had recently passed his Master Yachtsman qualifications, so we were in good hands. All seemed to be going well, and I started to get excited. (Not that way, you filthy sots.)

We got through the lock and out of the marina with no trouble, and set a course to take us around Plymouth breakwater on the west side, then head east for Shag Rock and up the River Yealm, where we moor in the harbor, have dinner in a charming pub in the charming village of Newton Ferrers, sleep on the boat, and return home Sunday morning. It seemed like a good plan. Essentially camping, but on the water. This sounded good to me.

Initially, it was all going very well.

Pirate, relaxing.

Then it all started to go horribly, horribly wrong.

As soon as we got past the breakwater the water got really, really rough, and so did the rest of us. Pirate, despite being an experienced sea-farer, has no sea legs. He was the first to go green. He went below deck to lie down, but that was a mistake. As soon as he got down the steps he lost his stomach, but managed (rather heroically) to hold it in his mouth until he could get back up to the cockpit and spit it over the side.

(Is this all getting a bit too disgusting? Deal. Reading this isn't a fraction as bad as living it, and I survived. You will, too.)

For a while I was doing OK. I stayed up in the cockpit, keeping in the fresh air and my eyes on the horizon. It worked, too, for about 20 minutes. And then I committed a fatal error. Getting bored with looking at nothing but an empty horizon, I just happened to glance down at the water at the side of the boat. The waves were swelling and undulating seductively beneath me. I instantly threw up.

I had no warning. One second I was fine, and the next I was spewing that morning's sausage and spetzle into the wind, spraying the two women who were sitting aft of me.

And then I did it again. And again. And again.

I spent the next 10 minutes heaving over the side of the boat in rapid succession. It was too winding for much of it to actually reach the water. Mostly it just blew all over the place.

I didn't know it at the time, but one of the other guys was on the opposite side of the boat, doing the same thing. The remaining few were standing in the cockpit between us, desperately trying to dodge flying chunks.

Having offered the entire contents of my stomach to the fish, I got a bucket and doused down the deck, then settled in to endure the rest of journey. As we reached the mouth of the River Yealm I saw the calm water on the leeward side of the land and began counting down the seconds until we reached it.

We finally got ourselves bouyed in what might well be the prettiest little harbor village in the British Isles.


I'd really like to go back and spend some more time in the village. It was a really lovely place to be. But next time, I'll take a FUCKING BUS.

After we were securely moored they let me play around in the dinghy, and that was the best part of the whole trip. I really like that bit.

Conclusion: the only boats worth being in are the ones you power yourself.

After a long walk along the coast and dinner in the Pub, Pirate and I couldn't face going back to Plymouth the same way we'd come, so we phoned a cab and went home by car. Last night we got a peaceful night's sleep in our own beds. Today the weather is shit. I can't imagine what the rest of the crew are going through to get home.

And people do this for fun????


Update: The skipper and his gf came by today to drop off our bags. Apparently it was a rough night on the boat, with lots of wind blowing it about the harbor, and people got little, if any, sleep. We totally made the right call. Boo-yeah.

My eyes, my eyes!!!! *blood curdling scream*

Part III will have to wait because guess what? I have impetigo!* In my EYES!

It started last Saturday as an itchy bump on the bottom of my chin. Monday morning I had developed what i thought was a cold sore on the corner of my mouth. As luck would have it, I had to see the doctor that day anyway to get my gym pass signed off. (If Pirate brings it back today I can go use the gym on the base for free any time I want, including all the classes and stuff. cool!)

Long story short, it's now on my chin, the corner of my mouth, my left ear, and both eyelids, which are swollen, blistering, oozing yellow puss, and itching like the blazes. You have NO IKEA how miserable this is.

Good thing Pirate and I are having company for dinner tonight -- some of his work colleagues. I look awesome!

(And yes, I asked the doctor when I went back this morning if it was safe for me to prepare food for people, and he said it was. Now I'm using an antibiotic cream and taking oral antibiotics. That should kill the little feckers.)

*Do a Google image search. I dare you.

Crisis du Moment, III

Yesterday a bill arrived from FedEx. They seem to think I owe them 175 pounds in import duty for a package my mother sent me 6 weeks ago. It was a personal gift with a value less than $400, and so no duty is owed on it. For some reason they refuse to believe this. Moreover, the irritating letter came with huge writing across the top: FINAL WARNING. It was the first notice I'd received. Assholes. Somehow I need to convince them I don't owe them anything and get that in writing before they phone Experion and fuck up my credit rating.

Crisis du Moment, II

or, Why You Should Not Take Driving Lessons With BSM

This afternoon's crisis was dealing with fucking BSM again. My god those people are fucking incompetent. It absolutely astounds me that they are still in business. (I even wrote that in the letter I sent them this morning.) Let's go in order, shall we?

Fuck up #1: The instructor never showed up for my first lesson. No phone call, no notification, nada. Just didn't show. I waited outside, in the rain, for 90 minutes, during which time I phoned them repeatedly to complain, and they insisted that, despite their failed attempts to contact the driver, they were sure everything was OK and he would be along any minute. It took an hour and half for them to clue in that something was amiss.

Fuck up #2: Against my better judgment I rescheduled the lesson, but I insisted on a different instructor. He showed up on time and was very nice and apologetic while he told me that he couldn't take me for a lesson. You see, I didn't have a provisional license. No one told me I needed one. When I first phoned BSM to book lessons I explicitly told them that I had an American driving license. No one said anything about needing a provisional or in any way indicated that having an American license was a barrier to receiving driving instruction.

Fuck up #3: After that I phoned and demanded a full refund. They were not apologetic. They tried to keep my business by offering to reschedule my lessons in Plymouth after the wedding, but they gave me no incentive whatsoever to do that. I insisted, and they said the cheque would be in the mail. Then I got a phone call three days later explaining that there had been "a clerical error" and that my refund would arrive in 2 separate cheques, on 2 separate days, so I should not spaz out when the first one arrived and it was for less than the full amount. At least they gave me a heads-up.

Fuck up #4: After more than a week an envelope finally arrived. It did not contain a cheque. It contained a letter explaining that they can only give refunds directly to the card with which I made the purchase. That's fair enough, but why were 2 different employees on 2 separate occasions convinced I would receive a cheque??? Furthermore, the letter said (and I am not making this up) "Will we refund you the full amount of [my postode]." Yes, they actually put my postcode where the amount should have gone. Someone doesn't know the difference between a monetary sum and a postcode??? It's also highly suspicious, since because of that error nowhere did it say in the letter how much they owed me. The letter committed them to paying me absolutely nothing because they neglected to include the amount. Frankly, I don't think it was a mistake. I think it was them being slimy. So I sent a copy to my solicitor, along with a copy of my reply to them (which basically said everthing I've just written here).

It's going to take forever to get that 222 pounds back, I can tell. I must say, I felt a profound kinship with GSE all day. This is just the sort of shit that seems to happen to her with statistically improbable frequency.

Crisis du Moment

So this morning's crisis was the chocolate fountain people* emailing me to inform me that despite our agreement, they would not be able to have the table and fountain set up in the reception hall before 5 pm. Instead, the earliest they could do it is 7 pm, and I would just have to deal with the fact that they would be hauling in crates and boxes and tables while the guests are seated at dinner. Um, noooooooooo.

So there I was, 10 days before my wedding, trying to hire a replacement chocolate fountain (Pirate really really really really wants one). I spent 3 hours on the internet and phone getting quotes from the few places that had availability. The best I could get was 75 pounds more than what we had originally paid. I said I would check with the Pirate and get back to him in the evening.

Then I called my contact at the reception hall just to let her know what was going on. "No problem," she said. "I'll take care of it." She asked for the details of my arrangement with the original chocolate people, which I gave her. 10 minutes later she rang me back to say she'd found a reputable place that would do everything we wanted and more for the same price. She's worked with them before and she trusts them. Brilliant!

So I phoned back the chap who gave me the quote that was 75 pounds above our budget to tell him we didn't need him after all. Here's the kicker: "I've just been on the phone to your friend at the hotel" quoth he. "She's booked me for your wedding." She got the same place I wanted, but she did it 75 quid cheaper! Brilliant!

Crisis averted. And since we're naming and shaming people, let's also give some good press to the wonderful people at the Mercure Holland House Hotel, who are being absolute stars. Thanks, guys!

*Clearly no one should ever hire these people. I believe in naming and shaming. (Now I just need to get my fucking 400 quid back.)

Sorry *sheepish*

I am rubbish. I haven't posted in AGES, and for those few of you who give a shit it must have been really irritating. I'm sorry.

I can only make the excuse that planning a wedding, moving house, and trying to write a PhD is taking its toll. It's been frustrating for me, too, because I keep having all these thoughts that I want to share but don't have time to write down right away, and by the time I get the time I've forgotten them. But here are a few of the highlights from the past couple weeks:

Fringe:

Met Hendrix Cat for coffee and a truly great She Elephant for dinner (along with the Pirate). We had a delightful time and I was thrilled to meet both of them. I sincerely hope we have the chance to repeat the experience.

Saw Ed Byrne, who did half his routine on wedding planning. We were in pain from laughing so hard. That one really hit the zeitgeist's funny bone.

Politix:

Yay for Sarah Palin! She's going to destroy the GOP ticket. They talk big now, but at the end of the day a significant chunk of the Republicans won't vote for the McCain/Palin ticket for 2 reasons.
1. After all the flack about Obama's lack of experience, she's got even less. And everyone knows that if McCain gets elected, there's a better than average chance he won't live out the full term. She's so inexperienced she even said "Can someone explain to me just what the VP does all day?" Even the republicans, when pressed, won't vote for that kind cluelessness.

2. Her so-called "family values." She was brought in because McCain is too liberal (snort) for the evangelical right wingers. She's certainly nutty enough, but she's a mother with 5 kids all in school including an infant with a serious disability. The extreme conservative right think she should be home taking care of them! A man with her positions might have been a boon to the ticket, but not a woman with a baby.

She was also brought in to pick up some of the Hillary camp, but (most) women won't be stupid enough to vote for a vagina that is hell bent on taking away women's rights to control their own snatches.

And finally, she's so right wing wacko conservative that she'll put off a lot of the moderate undecideds that Obama is trying to woo and send them running to his camp.

So at the end of the day a lot of Republicans won't vote for a ticket with Palin on it, and they sure as shit won't vote for Obama, so they'll stay home. Result: low voter turnout on election day and victory for Obama. Thus spake Zarathustra.

Bridal shower:

Bridesmaid tried to plan one for me. Not one person came. So she tried again. ONE person came. They don't have showers over here, and I don't think anyone really "got it" or understood how important it was. *sad*

Wedding:

AAaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
The bridesmaids dresses were supposed to be rust-colored, not pumpkin orange. I sincerely hope my friends don't feel like they're walking down the isle in giant traffic cones. The swatch did NOT look that bright, I swear!

House:

Pirate has just collected the keys to our future house (only 12 days away!) and has begun taking carloads of my stuff down to Plymouth. I haven't been to Plymouth yet, but he brought me pictures. The garden and views are fantastic, the furniture is acceptable, and the kitchen appliances are strangely nonexistent. I really don't know how you can call something "fully furnished" and not include a refrigerator! So guess who's going fridge shopping this week? Yup, not me!

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.

SCREWED

Pirate and I registered our wedding list through this company.

Now they are bankrupt. People have already bought gifts. They, and we, are screwed. This is the last thing I need right now.

Wank shit bugger balls damn shit fuck arse shit bugger goddamnit.

If I knew you were coming...

Who could have imagined that a blog with photos of cake-decorating travesties would be so fucking hilarious!

*wipes eyes*

15 minutes ago I was still a bit nervous about baking my own wedding cake.

No longer.

I blame the sea gulls

for the absolutely shitty morning I had.

It was because the seagulls were squawking that I leapt from my bed and lunged for the water gun on the desk to shoot the fucking bastards,

Which caused me to get dizzy and black out because I got out of bed too fast,

Which caused to lose both my balance and my consciousness

Which caused me to fall off my desk (where I was kneeling to reach the window to shoot the sea gulls)

Which caused me to (somehow, I really don't know how this happened) to fall off the desk in such a way that I scraped my back against a corner of it, catching a raised mole on my back and ripping the thing off my flesh, creating a 10-inch long vertical gouge in my back.

The pain of which caused me to go in to shock (after I came to in a pile on the floor)

Which caused me to get all hot and feverish and nauseous

Which caused me to throw up all over my laundry before I could get it together enough to ring the doctor, which I eventually did, hauled myself up to student health, and got myself bandaged up nicely.*

I could have done it myself save for the difficulty of reaching my own back.

All because of the GODDAMN FUCKING NOISY SEAGULLS.


*The bandages all fell off in the 15 minute walk back to my flat. Fucking NHS can't even apply a bandaid properly.

Angst. With a headcold. And sunburn.

Why is that you only ever get sick at The Most Inconvenient Time Imaginable?

I'm sick. Henley is in less than a week and I'm sick. Shit bugger wank balls fuck damn arse shit fuck.

And because I'm sick, I feel like crap and therefore can't be bothered to give you a long, drawn-out, delightful narrative of the weekend's spankings. There were two. I shall sum up.

Saturday:

Competing in the double scull. Was so nervous I was nauseas for 3 days leading up. Got attached to the stake boat, nearly blew my cookies, had a really mess start (holy fuck that stream was strong!!!), and rowed a line like a fucking sine curve. I was all over the river. Even so we only lost by a length. I figure if you factor in all the extra distance we did on account of my fucking steering (or lack thereof) we actually went about 100m farther, and therefore won. Too bad the judges don't see it that way.

The Mother-in-law came as well, bless her M&S socks. All that way to watch us lose. (Twice.)
Had a nice picnic anyway. The weather was good. There was a lovely irish wolf hound who befriended me and got belly rubs out of the bargain. I got dog hairs on my wet lycra.


Sunday:

Racing in a quad scull with a seriously strong crew. Scratch crew. We'd only had 1 outing together prior to racing. It was just for a lark. But the Bristol women who swore up and down that they didn't want to race a quad scull and thereby effectively threw me out of the club (remember that?)... THEY ENTERED A QUAD AGAINST US.

Knife in back: TWIST.

Holy fuck were we out for blood. We wanted to win it. BAD. Rarely in my life have I wanted anything so badly. I wanted their heads on platters. With little bits of parsley garnish sticking out of their eyeballs. The cunts.

We had an awesome start. After a few strokes we were already clearly ahead. Poor Weybridge didn't stand a chance. (I should clarify here that we were actually racing Weybridge. The Bristol quad got knocked out in their first round, but we wanted to win the whole event just to demonstrate our obvious superiority. It would have been nice to meet them in the final, but they got eliminated by New South Wales.) We were going to decimate them and go on to the final.

Until Sal crabbed. Massively. And then, utter genius that she is, her reflex was to use both hands to try to recover her blade, and so she let go of the second one! Aaaaaahhhh!

So that was us done. We made a valiant effort and came back well, even managing to close the 4 lenghts of open water between us and come in contact with them again, but then we ran out of river and they crossed the line first. Had we had another 200m of water we'd have gone right through them, but it was a short course and there just wasn't time.

Weybridge were really friendly about the whole thing and we cheered them in the final. They lost to UL, poor dears.

But we decided the quad has sufficient potential that we will carry on racing it through the summer, because we're confident we can win shit. And the weather was perfect, so that was nice. And I got to pet a 12-week old beagle puppy named Donut, who was an absolute little doll. And there was chocolate cake in abundance, which also helped. But i'd gladly give all that up and more to have won that race in the quad.

Yeah, AND I got sunburn on the top of my head where my hair was parted.

And now I'm sick, one fucking week before Henley. Frustrating ain't the word.

I'm going back to bed now.

Nighty-night.

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.

Getting Spanked

Never in my life have I had so much fun losing.

On Saturday of this past weekend I was at Metropolitan Regatta at Dorney Lake. Sal and I were entered in a double scull.

We got our asses handed to us on a very wet platter.

To be fair, it wasn't our fault. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but hear me out. Poor Sal was sick as a dog. When she picked me up in the morning she couldn't get any air through the gallons of snot and mucus filling her sinuses. Her breathing sounded like a kid blowing bubbles through a straw into a chocolate milkshake. So really, we never stood a chance.

The only reason she even got out of bed was because I had mentioned that my in-laws were driving all the way down from Preston to watch. 4 hours in the car just to watch me splashing about in a boat for a minute! (Pirate was playing cricket that day. They didn't drive 4 hours to see him play. Ha!) I thought it was rather heroic of her to even make the effort.

Here we are after our humiliating defeat. See what good losers we are?

We had a good start. We went off the blocks at 40 spm, our best start ever. But Sal couldn't get any air into her lungs and so couldn't get any power out of her muscles, so I basically pulled us down the course. We stayed well in the thick of it for about the first 500m, at which point we looked at the sign reading "500" and simultaneously (we established later) thought "Fuck, is that all?! I thought we were coming up on the 1000!"

At that point 4 of the 6 crews pulled away and we were left fighting with the crew in lane 3 to not finish last. We were neck and neck with our co-losers for the middle thousand, after which I got a massive cramp in my left forearm, a consequence of having a death-grip on the blade, and couldn't hold my oar. The harder I drove with my legs the harder it was to hang my weight on the oar. Without wanting to I found myself letting up on the pressure and the crew in lane 3 got the better of us. We limped across the finish line gasping, moaning, not moving at all together and looking very novicey indeed. Which was, naturally, the point at which my in-laws saw us. Wank.

So we drank some Lucozade, shrugged it off, declared that we'd done our best in impossible circumstances, and got on with the serious business of picnicking with the in-laws in the shade by the lake. And it was an utterly lovely afternoon.

An added bonus was bumping in to a good friend of mine from Manchester that I haven't seen in several years. I wasn't expecting him to be there and suddenly there he was in front of me. What a treat!

Eventually the in-laws dropped me off at the train station in Reading so I could make my way home, where the Pirate and I met up with the other Bristol rowers for a curry dinner, which was fun, and then went to see the new Indiana Jones movie. (I'll put up my review tomorrow.) A great day all around. Never mind the utterly spectacular, catastrophic defeat. *shrugs* Whatever.

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.

Baking disaster

Did I tell you about the 2-fold baking disaster I endured while attempting to create the Pirate's birthday cake? No? Well let me tell you about it now. I would love to know if any of you have experienced similar problems, because I am completely flummoxed by what went wrong, and I really want to try this recipe again.

The recipe was for an orange cake with white chocolate frosting. Sounds tasty, yes? I thought so too.

It was an odd recipe. There were no leaveners in the batter. Rather, the butter and suger were creamed together, then egg yolks, flour, and fresh squeezed orange juice added. The loftiness off the sponge was meant to come from the egg whites, which were beaten in to a meraingue and then folded in to the batter.

At least, that was how it was supposed to work. Here's the odd bit: I could't get the egg whites to beat stiff. I've made meraingue dozens of times before, but for some reason on this occasion I could not get those little puppies stiff. They just got all foamy, but stayed very wet and soupy. That was the strangest thing I'd ever seen... until I tried to make the frosting.

The frosting called for melting some white chocolate and folding it in to some creme fraiche. Except the chocolate wouldn't melt. I kid you not. I was using Green & Black's white chocolate, and I put it in a double-boiler so as not to over-heat it, but it wouldn't melt! It got all pasty, like mashed potatoes. I thought maybe there was some wierd additive in the chocolate, so I tried again with another brand, Nestle Milky Bar. Same result. I mean dude, WTF???

I wound up beating the creme fraiche stiff with some powdered sugar and a touch of nutmeg and just using that for the frosting. And actually, it was marvelous. So good, in fact, I'm going to do the same for my wedding cake. But I still want to know why my white chocolate wouldn't melt. Damndest this I ever saw.

Has anyone else ever had these problems? I'm baffled.

Leavin' on a jet plane

Pirate and I are off to Sith Efrica! Pirate, being the international cricket star that he is, is going on a 2 1/2 week tour of South Africa to play cricket, and I'm going with him! I was up until 3 a.m. this morning packing so that I'd be ready to go right after work today. (All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go...)

The latest wedding disaster is that all the Save the Date cards that I put in a bundle and mailed to mom vial Royal Mail Air Sure (supposedly trackable all the way to it's final destination), have gone completely missing. Gone. All of them.

So now ALL the STD cards that were meant to go to the American guests (and the numerous other friends and family mom has decided need to be invited, despite the fact that I have never met some of them) have to be redone. But of course I'm leaving. So all the spare stationery has been put in the post to mom and all the files have been emailed to her in a million different formats so she's got no excuse. She'll have to deal with.

And she's fucking thrilled! Because now she gets to do something without any input from me AND she gets to be the hero who saved the day, thereby justifying all her meddling. Now all I'm going to hear for the next 7 months (hell, probably the next 70 years) is, "What on earth would you have done without me! You never could have carried this off if I hadn't been there for you! Aren't you glad now that I was so willing to help you??" So much for telling her to back off. Fart.

But I don't care. (Not at the moment, anyway. I'm sure when I get back in March I'll care very much.) But tomorrow is another day and all that jazz. For now, I'm going to think about arriving someplace warm and sunny with the Pirate at my side. (When I come back, I'll wear your wedding ring...) There will be crickets, wickets, penguins, sandy beaches, birdwatching, hiking, and sweet sweet lurve. Oh God get me out of here.

I don't know how much internet access I'll have while I'm gone, and even if I do, frankly, I won't be using it. I need to unplug for a while.

So come back in March and I'll show you all some lovely photos and tell you about the penguins.