Is anyone else at all distressed that a mother of 6 children (ages 2-7, which means she didn't get her period for 5 years) felt the need to have fertility treatment? Am I the only one who thinks that's crazy?
1. I SERIOUSLY hope her health insurance didn't pay for that fertility treatment
2. What on earth makes her think she's capable of looking after 6 kids AND 8 infants at the same time, while her husband is on duty in Iraq no less???
3. Why would anyone want that many kids? I can understand having 14 kids in the grand old days before birth control. You either had to accept that you'll be a baby machine or give up having sex with your husband for the rest of your life. I know what I would have chosen. But this is the 21st century people! You no longer have to make that choice. Wake up and smell The Pill!
8 babies. That's not a family, it's a LITTER. It's dangerous (for the mother and the kids), it's irresponsible and puts an unfair drain on social service programs and the medical system (at the end of the day, whether she's on medicare and wellfare or and employed adult with health coverage, it's still the rest of us who are picking up the tab for this woman's personal attempt to populate the planet with her own spawn), and it's not fair on the rest of her kids, who will now be completely ignored until the 8 babies are all out of diapers.
Am I the only one who thinks this is nuts?
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Friday, January 30, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Historic
While the last bricks of a long-held, deep-seeded American bigotry were being pulled down in Tuesday's historic election,
a new one
rears
it's ugly, ugly head.
I'm absolutely thrilled that America finally decided a black child can have the same dreams of growing up to be president as a white child. I'm utterly appalled that a lot of those same people think they get a say in who people marry.
Eighteen THOUSAND couples in California who got married this summer, thanks to the acknowledgment of their rights by the CA legislature and supreme court, have just been told that their marriages aren't valid. That despite the licenses, vows, parties, and cakes, they are no longer married, because of a bunch of bigots decided so.
I can't imagine how I would feel if someone came a long and told me that I was no longer married to Pirate. That for some reason the public disapproved, and without my consent, invalidated my marriage.
I think I would kill myself.
What happened today in California is utterly despicable.
Today I'm thrilled for Obama, but I'm still weeping for the state of civil rights in America. Congratulations, African-Americans, you're officially off the bottom rung of the latter. You've been replaced by a deeper loathing of gays.
a new one
rears
it's ugly, ugly head.
I'm absolutely thrilled that America finally decided a black child can have the same dreams of growing up to be president as a white child. I'm utterly appalled that a lot of those same people think they get a say in who people marry.
Eighteen THOUSAND couples in California who got married this summer, thanks to the acknowledgment of their rights by the CA legislature and supreme court, have just been told that their marriages aren't valid. That despite the licenses, vows, parties, and cakes, they are no longer married, because of a bunch of bigots decided so.
I can't imagine how I would feel if someone came a long and told me that I was no longer married to Pirate. That for some reason the public disapproved, and without my consent, invalidated my marriage.
I think I would kill myself.
What happened today in California is utterly despicable.
Today I'm thrilled for Obama, but I'm still weeping for the state of civil rights in America. Congratulations, African-Americans, you're officially off the bottom rung of the latter. You've been replaced by a deeper loathing of gays.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Well so much for that
The driving instructor from BSM never showed up today.
When he was 15 minutes late I phoned the BSM office and asked "where is he?" Give him more time, they said.
When he was 30 minutes late I phoned again. They apologized profusely and tried to contact the driver on his mobile. They rang me back to say they couldn't reach him, but they left him a message to call me. He did not.
When he was an hour late I rang back and said "tell him not to bother. I want my money back." They said I'd have to ring my local office to arrange a refund or a re-schedule.
When he was an hour and 15 minutes late HE rang ME to say "I'm running late. I won't be able to make it." NOW he tells me! Jerk.
I will reschedule on condition they give me
a) a different instructor
b) a free lesson
Otherwise I'm demanding a full refund (they require you pay for 10 hours of instruction up front, a total of 222.50 pound).
Also, where the hell were these guys when I was in Manchester, being kept away EVERY SINGLE NIGHT BY ASSHOLES PLAYING LOUD MUSIC???
If only they responded to seagull complaints. Oy vey.
When he was 15 minutes late I phoned the BSM office and asked "where is he?" Give him more time, they said.
When he was 30 minutes late I phoned again. They apologized profusely and tried to contact the driver on his mobile. They rang me back to say they couldn't reach him, but they left him a message to call me. He did not.
When he was an hour late I rang back and said "tell him not to bother. I want my money back." They said I'd have to ring my local office to arrange a refund or a re-schedule.
When he was an hour and 15 minutes late HE rang ME to say "I'm running late. I won't be able to make it." NOW he tells me! Jerk.
I will reschedule on condition they give me
a) a different instructor
b) a free lesson
Otherwise I'm demanding a full refund (they require you pay for 10 hours of instruction up front, a total of 222.50 pound).
Also, where the hell were these guys when I was in Manchester, being kept away EVERY SINGLE NIGHT BY ASSHOLES PLAYING LOUD MUSIC???
If only they responded to seagull complaints. Oy vey.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Stay off the roads
for I am having my first driving lesson on Saturday.
Now, I can drive perfectly well. I've had a valid driving license for 13 years, with a near perfect record (1 speeding ticket, which was so long ago it's now off my record).
The trouble is that I've only ever driven an automatic transmission. Well, that's not completely true. I drove a manual (an old Chevy S-10 pickmeup truck) for one month my senior year of high school. I hated that truck and begged my parents to sell it, which they finally did to shut me up. (The replacement was a gas-guzzling 1987 Buick LeSabre which promptly received the nickname "Manatee Mobile" for it's flat grey color and gentle, lumbering, boat-like ride.)
But now that I'm in England I have to learn to drive a manual properly, for the simple reason that Pirate's car is a manual and he, quite understandably, does not want me to be dependent on him for lifts. Nor do I wish to be dependent. I can cope quite nicely with a bicycle, thank you.
But there will be times when I will simply need to be able to drive his car, and to do that I need to be able to drive a manual well and safely.
The problem is that I fundamentally resent the need to learn. As far as I can tell there is no need whatsoever for manuals transmissions to exist anywhere outside of professional racing vehicles. I grant you it's probably very helpful for Louis Hamilton. I'm sure he's better at shifting than any automatic, and in his profession fractions of a second matter.
But for the average idiot going to work and the shops there is no need for it whatsoever. It is a dangerous, archaic technology that could and should be completely replaced by newer advances. There are a myriad of alternatives, every single one of which is preferable to a standard stick shift, but which are perplexingly slow to catch on. They are:
But instead of any of these sensible alternatives, I am forced by the nature of circumstances to exert time, money, and mental energy (none of which I have in excess) to learn to use a dangerous and outmoted technology.
I repeat: Stay off the roads (of Bristol this Saturday from noon to 2).
Now, I can drive perfectly well. I've had a valid driving license for 13 years, with a near perfect record (1 speeding ticket, which was so long ago it's now off my record).
The trouble is that I've only ever driven an automatic transmission. Well, that's not completely true. I drove a manual (an old Chevy S-10 pickmeup truck) for one month my senior year of high school. I hated that truck and begged my parents to sell it, which they finally did to shut me up. (The replacement was a gas-guzzling 1987 Buick LeSabre which promptly received the nickname "Manatee Mobile" for it's flat grey color and gentle, lumbering, boat-like ride.)
But now that I'm in England I have to learn to drive a manual properly, for the simple reason that Pirate's car is a manual and he, quite understandably, does not want me to be dependent on him for lifts. Nor do I wish to be dependent. I can cope quite nicely with a bicycle, thank you.
But there will be times when I will simply need to be able to drive his car, and to do that I need to be able to drive a manual well and safely.
The problem is that I fundamentally resent the need to learn. As far as I can tell there is no need whatsoever for manuals transmissions to exist anywhere outside of professional racing vehicles. I grant you it's probably very helpful for Louis Hamilton. I'm sure he's better at shifting than any automatic, and in his profession fractions of a second matter.
But for the average idiot going to work and the shops there is no need for it whatsoever. It is a dangerous, archaic technology that could and should be completely replaced by newer advances. There are a myriad of alternatives, every single one of which is preferable to a standard stick shift, but which are perplexingly slow to catch on. They are:
- (the obvious) automatic transmission (A surprising number of people don't know that every car with an automatic can be put manually into a low gear for when you need it, such as descending steep inclines or getting out of snow banks. You've got more control than you think.)
- clutchless manual (This is an option on both the Smart Car and the Toyota Yaris. You still change gear when you want to, but there is no clutch to operate. The car does the clutching for you. Much easier to drive, and still affords all the control of a stick. WHY OH WHY HASN"T THIS CAUGHT ON YET???)
- spiral transmission, such as are found on the Toyota Prius and several Lexus models. This is not an automatic transmission because there are no gears to transmit. Instead of gears of different sizes, the transmission is one, great, conical gear with a spiral arrangement of teeth. When you accelerate from a stop it is completely smooth. This freaked the hell out of the Pirate when he rode in my parents' Prius 2 years ago at christmas. I think ultimately this will be the winner in the transmission war (that I'm attempting to start).
But instead of any of these sensible alternatives, I am forced by the nature of circumstances to exert time, money, and mental energy (none of which I have in excess) to learn to use a dangerous and outmoted technology.
I repeat: Stay off the roads (of Bristol this Saturday from noon to 2).
Monday, June 30, 2008
Just because it's football doesn't make it OK
I arrived home yesterday evening from Salisbury to find Bristol in an uproar -- riots in the streets. There were dozens of people screaming, shouting, chanting, cars incessantly honking horns. I had no idea what was going on.
I arrived at my flat and phoned the police. The 999 operator said "is your life in immediate danger?"
"No" I said.
She hung up.
There are plenty of legitimate reasons for phoning the police when one's life is not in immediate danger!
So I looked up the non-emergency number on the web and spoke with a constible. I explained that I was afraid to leave my flat again, and that from my window I could hear the shouting and chanting and horns and the noise was a significant disturbance of the peace, and asked them to intervene.
"It's just the football," he said. "They're just celebrating. We don't want to spoil their fun."
???
If I threw a party for some -- any -- reason and caused that kind of disturbance the police would surely have broken it up. How come it's acceptible if it's football?
*grumble grumble*
another fucking sleepless night.
I am SO sick of this bleeding city.
I arrived at my flat and phoned the police. The 999 operator said "is your life in immediate danger?"
"No" I said.
She hung up.
There are plenty of legitimate reasons for phoning the police when one's life is not in immediate danger!
So I looked up the non-emergency number on the web and spoke with a constible. I explained that I was afraid to leave my flat again, and that from my window I could hear the shouting and chanting and horns and the noise was a significant disturbance of the peace, and asked them to intervene.
"It's just the football," he said. "They're just celebrating. We don't want to spoil their fun."
???
If I threw a party for some -- any -- reason and caused that kind of disturbance the police would surely have broken it up. How come it's acceptible if it's football?
*grumble grumble*
another fucking sleepless night.
I am SO sick of this bleeding city.
Monday, June 16, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
I LOVE THIS MAN.*
I love him.
Why isn't the rest of America saying these things? Why is Keith Olberman the only voice I hear (on TV) expressing this outrage? The only thing that confuses me more than Bush is the apathy and indeed admiration that many still hold.
*Look for the clip titled "Olberman: Bush Interview Unforgivable" if it doesn't come straight up.
I love him.
Why isn't the rest of America saying these things? Why is Keith Olberman the only voice I hear (on TV) expressing this outrage? The only thing that confuses me more than Bush is the apathy and indeed admiration that many still hold.
*Look for the clip titled "Olberman: Bush Interview Unforgivable" if it doesn't come straight up.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Kick me when I'm down
They ate my Oreos, the cunting fucking cunts!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I don't have words to express my outrage. It was bad enough deciding to race a boat that they knew I couldn't participate in, and in doing so effectively kicked me out of the boat club and cut me off from racing in what would have been my last competitive season. That was bad enough. That was heart-breaking.
I left training camp early and came back to Bristol, but I left behind in Reading the cooking equipment that I'd brought along. We were staying in University of Reading dorms, which are self-catered (ie you cook your own food rather than eat in caffeterias), but we had to bring our own pots and pans. I brought the biggest pots and pans. I brought the only pot that was big enough to cook pasta for 8 people, and the only pan that was wide enough to saute enough ground beef for spaghetti sauce for pasta for 8 people. So as a favor, as a fucking favor to the fucking cunts who kicked me off the team, I left my giant pots, pans, strainers, mixing bowls and wooden utensils behind for them to use for the remainder of the week. I also left behind some food that I'd bought but wouldn't be eating and couldn't be arsed to carry back to Bristol.
And then there were the Oreos.
I love Oreos, and they're one of the foods that (as you know) I've whinged that I can't get in the UK. At least not in any of the stores around here.
While in Reading we shopped at a gigantic 24-hour Tesco, and while walking down the cookie isle looking for caramel digestives and jaffa cakes, I saw them. Their gleaming blue, black and white packaging containing the promise of bitter, crumbly, fake-chocolate cookies sandwiching tasteless filling of lard and sugar within. Heaven. The kind of heaven that soaks up cold milk like Jeebus-krispie soaks up gay-hate rhetoric from the foaming mouth of Pat Robertson and turns into a slimy, mushy, fake-cocoa and fatty, sugary pile of slop on your tongue and leaves little black crumbs in the bottom of the milk. That kind of heaven. I bought a bag. (Obv.)
I made a big deal out of how I happy I was that I had found Oreos. Everyone knew of my Oreo obsession. When I left I made it extremely clear to everyone exactly which food I was leaving behind that was to be designated "communal." I even wrote down exactly what was mine and what they were entitled to. That was in one area of the kitchen. In another area, in a different cupboard, I forgot my beloved Oreos. It was a frantic, emotional morning, out of sight out of mind and all that. And I'm notorious for forgetting shit, just ask my 10th grade art teacher.
Before I'd left, but after it was too late to go back for the Oreos, I smacked my forehead and realized my error. I was really pissed off at myself, both for general stupidity and because I was looking forward to getting home, having a serious cry, and tucking in to a bag of the least nutritious, best-tasting comfort food that Ceiling Cat ever put on the face of the Earth, and now through my own idiocy I was depriving myself of one of the only comforts I had to look forward to.
I made a big wail over the whole thing and begged my Captain L and Coach O to bring my Oreos back to Bristol on the weekend with the rest of my cookware. This was not a case of accidental misunderstanding. They promised.
AND THEN THE FUCKING CUNTS ATE MY OREOS AND THEY CAN ALL DIE AND ROT IN HELL THE GODDAMN FUCKING ASSHOLES.
I know it's just a bag of cookies, but talk about adding insult to injury. First they gave me the broken heart of a lifetime when they told me they were racing a boat that I couldn't row and were thereby depriving me of the triumphal comeback that had been my sole motivation to keep training since I wrecked my back,
and then, in my moment of despair, they took away my one stupid comfort, a taste of home that I hadn't had in years. A simple, simple joy; a taste of home. The cunts ate my Oreos.
How could they?
I don't have words to express my outrage. It was bad enough deciding to race a boat that they knew I couldn't participate in, and in doing so effectively kicked me out of the boat club and cut me off from racing in what would have been my last competitive season. That was bad enough. That was heart-breaking.I left training camp early and came back to Bristol, but I left behind in Reading the cooking equipment that I'd brought along. We were staying in University of Reading dorms, which are self-catered (ie you cook your own food rather than eat in caffeterias), but we had to bring our own pots and pans. I brought the biggest pots and pans. I brought the only pot that was big enough to cook pasta for 8 people, and the only pan that was wide enough to saute enough ground beef for spaghetti sauce for pasta for 8 people. So as a favor, as a fucking favor to the fucking cunts who kicked me off the team, I left my giant pots, pans, strainers, mixing bowls and wooden utensils behind for them to use for the remainder of the week. I also left behind some food that I'd bought but wouldn't be eating and couldn't be arsed to carry back to Bristol.
And then there were the Oreos.
I love Oreos, and they're one of the foods that (as you know) I've whinged that I can't get in the UK. At least not in any of the stores around here.
While in Reading we shopped at a gigantic 24-hour Tesco, and while walking down the cookie isle looking for caramel digestives and jaffa cakes, I saw them. Their gleaming blue, black and white packaging containing the promise of bitter, crumbly, fake-chocolate cookies sandwiching tasteless filling of lard and sugar within. Heaven. The kind of heaven that soaks up cold milk like Jeebus-krispie soaks up gay-hate rhetoric from the foaming mouth of Pat Robertson and turns into a slimy, mushy, fake-cocoa and fatty, sugary pile of slop on your tongue and leaves little black crumbs in the bottom of the milk. That kind of heaven. I bought a bag. (Obv.)
I made a big deal out of how I happy I was that I had found Oreos. Everyone knew of my Oreo obsession. When I left I made it extremely clear to everyone exactly which food I was leaving behind that was to be designated "communal." I even wrote down exactly what was mine and what they were entitled to. That was in one area of the kitchen. In another area, in a different cupboard, I forgot my beloved Oreos. It was a frantic, emotional morning, out of sight out of mind and all that. And I'm notorious for forgetting shit, just ask my 10th grade art teacher.Before I'd left, but after it was too late to go back for the Oreos, I smacked my forehead and realized my error. I was really pissed off at myself, both for general stupidity and because I was looking forward to getting home, having a serious cry, and tucking in to a bag of the least nutritious, best-tasting comfort food that Ceiling Cat ever put on the face of the Earth, and now through my own idiocy I was depriving myself of one of the only comforts I had to look forward to.
I made a big wail over the whole thing and begged my Captain L and Coach O to bring my Oreos back to Bristol on the weekend with the rest of my cookware. This was not a case of accidental misunderstanding. They promised.
AND THEN THE FUCKING CUNTS ATE MY OREOS AND THEY CAN ALL DIE AND ROT IN HELL THE GODDAMN FUCKING ASSHOLES.
I know it's just a bag of cookies, but talk about adding insult to injury. First they gave me the broken heart of a lifetime when they told me they were racing a boat that I couldn't row and were thereby depriving me of the triumphal comeback that had been my sole motivation to keep training since I wrecked my back,
and then, in my moment of despair, they took away my one stupid comfort, a taste of home that I hadn't had in years. A simple, simple joy; a taste of home. The cunts ate my Oreos.
How could they?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Everyone's an expert
If you suffer from back pain or have recently given birth, you've no doubt experienced this phenomenon: everyone, absolutely bloody everyone, has an opinion on your condition (or how you should be raising your baby), and they are all convinced that there opinions are more correct than the countless medical professionals you've been seeing. And then they get pissy when you ignore them or tell them to mind their own beeswax.
And before you get all huffy, this isn't just about unsolicited advice in the comments box, it's about every fucking person I meet who feels they have to give me their 2 cents worth, and then by way of legal disclaimer, point out that if I ignore their advice and suffer a re-injury that it's my own fucking fault and all sympathy goes out the window. That's my favorite part. The old "if you don't do as I (random person who's never met me and has no medical qualifications) say you'll suffer for it and it will be your fault for not taking my advice, which is obviously so much better than everyone elses!"
So for the benefit of anyone else out there thinking of telling me exactly what I'm doing wrong regarding my back:
Anyone else have any advice for me? Thought so.
And before you get all huffy, this isn't just about unsolicited advice in the comments box, it's about every fucking person I meet who feels they have to give me their 2 cents worth, and then by way of legal disclaimer, point out that if I ignore their advice and suffer a re-injury that it's my own fucking fault and all sympathy goes out the window. That's my favorite part. The old "if you don't do as I (random person who's never met me and has no medical qualifications) say you'll suffer for it and it will be your fault for not taking my advice, which is obviously so much better than everyone elses!"
So for the benefit of anyone else out there thinking of telling me exactly what I'm doing wrong regarding my back:
- I'm not doing nothing about it. After regular physical therapy, pilates, and an on-going course of chirpractic therapy and daily exercise and stretching I am at a point that I could live a completely normal life with only a few tiny adjustments (such as not carrying a heavy grocery bag in one hand, but using 2 lighter ones to balance the load instead).
- I know problems don't clear up overnight (how could I not???), but symptoms sometimes do.
- If any medical professional, at any time had ever said to me "if you go back to rowing you'll damage your back forever and i strongly advise against any further rowing or sculling" I would have taken that very seriously indeed. But every medical pro I have seen has strongly advised me to continue!!!!
- This is because of the nature of my injury. I have a degenerate disk. That means one of my spinal disks has no fluid in it. The fluid is what makes the disk firm. Now it's wilted and soggy and cannot, on it's own, maintain the proper spacing between the vertebrae (L4 and L5, specifically). "On it's own" means that I need my core muscles to compensate by holding my spine up properly. Rowing is an excellent core-strengthening exercise, and keeps a lot of movement in the back. I've now had 2 professionals tell me that the best thing I can do for my back is keep rowing.
- Of course I have considered the problem of pregnancy and child-rearing, and asked my doctor and my chiropractor about it. They both said that I will likely suffer fewer back back problems during pregnancy than the average woman for the very reason that I'm doing so much to strengthen my back and my core now. As for babies, same rules for lifting heavy objects apply.
Anyone else have any advice for me? Thought so.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Allow me to clarify
I wasn't taken out of the boat because my back was acting up and they considered me a liability. My back didn't start hurting until Monday, and the Henley decision was announced on Sunday night, shortly after my coach admitted that "the quad is going more quickly than I expected."
The decision to put a coxed 4 in Henley rather than a quad had nothing to do with my condition. It was based on the fact that in the coxed 4 category there is an "Intermediate Division," whereas with the quad sculls the lowest division you can enter is "Elite." Coach wanted to put our boat against the softest available competition. That was the ONLY reason, never mind that it just happened to fuck over one of the longest-serving and hardest-training (by his own admission) members of the squad.
And as for my back, it gave me problems purely because training camp is an extra-intense training environment. I hadn't been on the water in a few few weeks (because the university was on spring break), and though i'd been doing a lot of land training (cycling, hill sprints, etc.), my back objected to going from no rowing to rowing 3x a day overnight with no buildup. I predicted that would happen, and so was not surprised. I was surprised by the cascade of other problems it created.
After I got back from camp I went to see my chiropractor ("Miracle Mike"), who massaged out my hip flexor properly, put things back where they belong, and within minutes I was fine. The next day I was back to fighting fit. So I'm fine, it was just a case of over-doing things a bit, and I'm back to training. But not back in the boat, of course.
I'm currently in the process of looking for a partner to double with me at Henley. Tonight I'm going on the water with a woman from a neighboring boat club who is also looking for a doubles partner. We'll see how it goes.
The Bristol Uni boat club may have effectively thrown me off their team, but I am determined to make that THEIR loss, not mine. Bristol uni can go to hell.
The decision to put a coxed 4 in Henley rather than a quad had nothing to do with my condition. It was based on the fact that in the coxed 4 category there is an "Intermediate Division," whereas with the quad sculls the lowest division you can enter is "Elite." Coach wanted to put our boat against the softest available competition. That was the ONLY reason, never mind that it just happened to fuck over one of the longest-serving and hardest-training (by his own admission) members of the squad.
And as for my back, it gave me problems purely because training camp is an extra-intense training environment. I hadn't been on the water in a few few weeks (because the university was on spring break), and though i'd been doing a lot of land training (cycling, hill sprints, etc.), my back objected to going from no rowing to rowing 3x a day overnight with no buildup. I predicted that would happen, and so was not surprised. I was surprised by the cascade of other problems it created.
After I got back from camp I went to see my chiropractor ("Miracle Mike"), who massaged out my hip flexor properly, put things back where they belong, and within minutes I was fine. The next day I was back to fighting fit. So I'm fine, it was just a case of over-doing things a bit, and I'm back to training. But not back in the boat, of course.
I'm currently in the process of looking for a partner to double with me at Henley. Tonight I'm going on the water with a woman from a neighboring boat club who is also looking for a doubles partner. We'll see how it goes.
The Bristol Uni boat club may have effectively thrown me off their team, but I am determined to make that THEIR loss, not mine. Bristol uni can go to hell.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Back early
If the point of training camp is to experience pain in places you didn't know you had places, then this one was a cracking great success. On every other level, it must be said, it was a pathetic and agonizing failure.
It started out well enough. On Sunday I took my single out in the morning and racked up 16k before either the double or the coxless 4 managed the same distance. I felt good. In the afternoon I went out with the quad scull. God it felt great to go fast again! My back was pretty stiff, but I still managed a good outing with some race starts. By the end of it, though, my back had gone into complete spasm and I couldn't move. Coach O had to carry the boat for me.
That night it was announced that the top crew boat the club would be racing would be a coxed 4. That would be the Henley crew. This is fine, except I can't row in a coxed 4. A coxed 4 ("4+") is a sweep-rowed boat, not a scull. And because of my back problems, I will probably never sweep again. I am now, and for the rest of my life, a sculler. So what it boiled down to is I had just been thrown out of the Henley crew in my final year at Bristol and my last ever year to row competitively at Henley. "Heartbroken" doesn't begin to describe it. I was devastated. I sat in my room alone all night and cried.
Monday morning I was still crying, and had a chat with O. He understood how felt, but had to make decisions that were best for the team, and he thought the team stood the best chance of winning in a 4+ (never mind the fact that we don't actually have a coxwain, that's just an insignificant detail!), and it was a shame that a, I had been left out of it and b, that I train the hardest out of anyone on the crew. He promised me that if I could find a doubling partner from another club that he would do everything he could to help us with training and drive us and our boat to practice regattas. I personally am of the opinion that it's absolutely SHIT that
a, I have been with Bristol for 3 years and now, at the end of my career, i have been effectively abandoned by my squad. There is no more racing for me with Bristol.
b, participation is not a factor in selecting crews. When I was an undergrad it would have been inconceivable that someone who spent 3 years on the squad and did all the training would be denied even a chance in competition.
c, apparently all the hard work and painful physical therapy I've put myself through since I ruptured my disk back in November of 2006 has been for JACK. SHIT. All that effort, and here at the end I get NOT. A. FUCKING. THING. The only thing I got was screwed.
After having this out with O (who is, goddamnit, a really nice guy and yelling at him is like kicking a puppy; i just can't do it), I was still a bit stiff, but took my single out again. I could only do short distances and had to come back to the pontoon frequently to stretch. I tried to do some short pieces to burn off the aggression, but only succeeded in pulling my left hip flexor. By Monday evening I was not only discouraged, I was in serious pain. Sitting in a chair, I was unable to raise my left knee off the floor. I could not walk up stairs. Another night passed crying alone in my room.
Tuesday morning I was somewhat better for a bit of rest, but I was still stiff and sore. I tried going out in the single, and actually went in circles. I had lost at least 30% power in my left leg, maybe more. The strength just wasn't there.
(Now, you have to understand my relationship with my legs. They are huge. They are like tree trunks. They are not attractive, but damnit, they work. They work hard, and they have never, ever let me down. They take everything I throw at them, and they give as good as they get. They are the one bit of my body that I can absolutely, unequivocally depend upon. To be betrayed by one's own body in the pursuit of one's dream is traumatic at best. To be betrayed by my legs is like, well, imagine if Pirate left me and married my sister. That kind of betrayal. I have never been so angry at my own body. It's difficult to know what to do with that kind of anger.)
After 2k of trying to compensate by sculling primarily with my right leg, I had a massive knot in my right lumbar spine, at the top of my glut. I came back in and rang my chiropractor, Miracle Mike. He said he could fit me in Thursday morning.
I announced to the rest of the crew that I was leaving camp early, quitting the Bristol boat club, and they could all please go fuck themselves. With a pineapple. Sideways.
The End.
It started out well enough. On Sunday I took my single out in the morning and racked up 16k before either the double or the coxless 4 managed the same distance. I felt good. In the afternoon I went out with the quad scull. God it felt great to go fast again! My back was pretty stiff, but I still managed a good outing with some race starts. By the end of it, though, my back had gone into complete spasm and I couldn't move. Coach O had to carry the boat for me.
That night it was announced that the top crew boat the club would be racing would be a coxed 4. That would be the Henley crew. This is fine, except I can't row in a coxed 4. A coxed 4 ("4+") is a sweep-rowed boat, not a scull. And because of my back problems, I will probably never sweep again. I am now, and for the rest of my life, a sculler. So what it boiled down to is I had just been thrown out of the Henley crew in my final year at Bristol and my last ever year to row competitively at Henley. "Heartbroken" doesn't begin to describe it. I was devastated. I sat in my room alone all night and cried.
Monday morning I was still crying, and had a chat with O. He understood how felt, but had to make decisions that were best for the team, and he thought the team stood the best chance of winning in a 4+ (never mind the fact that we don't actually have a coxwain, that's just an insignificant detail!), and it was a shame that a, I had been left out of it and b, that I train the hardest out of anyone on the crew. He promised me that if I could find a doubling partner from another club that he would do everything he could to help us with training and drive us and our boat to practice regattas. I personally am of the opinion that it's absolutely SHIT that
a, I have been with Bristol for 3 years and now, at the end of my career, i have been effectively abandoned by my squad. There is no more racing for me with Bristol.
b, participation is not a factor in selecting crews. When I was an undergrad it would have been inconceivable that someone who spent 3 years on the squad and did all the training would be denied even a chance in competition.
c, apparently all the hard work and painful physical therapy I've put myself through since I ruptured my disk back in November of 2006 has been for JACK. SHIT. All that effort, and here at the end I get NOT. A. FUCKING. THING. The only thing I got was screwed.
After having this out with O (who is, goddamnit, a really nice guy and yelling at him is like kicking a puppy; i just can't do it), I was still a bit stiff, but took my single out again. I could only do short distances and had to come back to the pontoon frequently to stretch. I tried to do some short pieces to burn off the aggression, but only succeeded in pulling my left hip flexor. By Monday evening I was not only discouraged, I was in serious pain. Sitting in a chair, I was unable to raise my left knee off the floor. I could not walk up stairs. Another night passed crying alone in my room.
Tuesday morning I was somewhat better for a bit of rest, but I was still stiff and sore. I tried going out in the single, and actually went in circles. I had lost at least 30% power in my left leg, maybe more. The strength just wasn't there.
(Now, you have to understand my relationship with my legs. They are huge. They are like tree trunks. They are not attractive, but damnit, they work. They work hard, and they have never, ever let me down. They take everything I throw at them, and they give as good as they get. They are the one bit of my body that I can absolutely, unequivocally depend upon. To be betrayed by one's own body in the pursuit of one's dream is traumatic at best. To be betrayed by my legs is like, well, imagine if Pirate left me and married my sister. That kind of betrayal. I have never been so angry at my own body. It's difficult to know what to do with that kind of anger.)
After 2k of trying to compensate by sculling primarily with my right leg, I had a massive knot in my right lumbar spine, at the top of my glut. I came back in and rang my chiropractor, Miracle Mike. He said he could fit me in Thursday morning.
I announced to the rest of the crew that I was leaving camp early, quitting the Bristol boat club, and they could all please go fuck themselves. With a pineapple. Sideways.
The End.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
M.E. Special Report: Dick Cheney
We interrupt the usual inane babblings about insignificant personal minutae to bring you this special update: Dick Cheney, the President of Vice in the USA, has flatly stated that he does not care what the American people think. Following is a brief transcript of Cheney being interviewed on 'Good Morning America:'
Click the link. Watch the video. And then send the link to EVERYONE YOU KNOW. Maybe finally this will be the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back and generates among the American public the political will to impeach the sunuvabitch.CHENEY: On the security front, I think there’s a general consensus that we’ve made major progress, that the surge has worked. That’s been a major success.
RADDATZ: Two-third of Americans say it’s not worth fighting.
CHENEY: So?
RADDATZ So? You don’t care what the American people think?
CHENEY: No. I think you cannot be blown off course by the fluctuations in the public opinion polls.
Monday, March 17, 2008
American food that I miss in the UK
Miracle Whip. I've learned to tolerate mayo, but it just doesn't have that tangy zip, ya know?
Root beer. Good root beer. Real root beer. This root beer.
And Vernor's, naturally.
And as long as we're on the subject of pop, Faygo. Espeically Redpop. Yes, ''red" is a flavor.
And distilled white vinegar. Despite being made by Heinz, and despite Heinz food products being all over the UK like tattoos on sailors, they don't sell their distilled white vinegar here. (I know because I asked them.) I can't describe to you what it tastes like, but it's not wine vinegar and it's not cider vinegar, or malt vinegar. It's unlike anything else, and in most cases you can't substitute anything else. I may never eat coleslaw again ('specially since the second ingred in the dressing is Miracle Whip! Double screwed!).
And why do Campbell's use different recipes for their UK soups???? I know it's nasty canned soup, but damnit I grew up eating tomato soup, and if it's good enough for Andy Warhol...
(it's also the base for the sauce for my grandmother's gallumpki recipe, another old family favorite I may never be able to make again, and it kills me that my kids won't grow up eating them for Christmas dinner every year. :o(
Oreos. Enough said.
And graham crackers. Digestive biscuits are similar, but they really aren't the same.
Grape-flavored anything. Everything here that's purple is blackcurrent flavored, even the skittles! How wrong is that!
Especially grape jelly. On a grilled bagel. With cream cheese. Oh my god you have no idea. And on PB&J. Grape is always the best on PB&J.
And speaking of bagels, good bagels would be lovely, if they could be had here. You don't have bagels in England, you have round bread. It's different. Trust me. If Einstein Bros. were to open a shop in London they'd make a killing.
And speaking of bagels, why do you not have pumpernickel??? ANYTHING???? You're closer to Germany than America is, so why is there no pumpernickel bread here???
And you'd think that in a country with enough Polish immigrants for the BNP to whinge about them at every fucking opportunity I could get a decent loaf of rye bread. You would think that, but you'd be wrong.
Speaking of Polish food, you people wouldn't know a decent dill pickle if it walked up and raped you.
Bacon. Even what you call "streaky bacon" isn't the same. It's got to be something in the curing process, because when I cook English bacon the fat turns all hard and white and rubbery. It doesn't melt away at all. Gross! How am I supposed to get bacon drippings for recipes??? (Once I was in a shop where the girl at the check-out was German, and we spent 10 minutes bitching with each other about how crap the bread and bacon in England are. At least I'm not alone. *sigh*)
Proper pizza. Real, sloppy pizza with a soft crust (as opposed to the matzah bread that passes for pizza crust in this godforsaken land), globs of spicey tomato sauce oozing all over (NOT the ketchup you people use. One word: OREGANO), and heaps of mozarella cheeze (now hear this: CHEDDAR CHEESE DOES NOT BELONG ON PIZZA!)
Getting back to the peanut butter issue, there is a decided paucity of peanut butter in the UK. Jars of it, sure no problem. But could I lay hands on a Reeses peanut butter cup if my life depended on it? Doubtful. Ditto Reeses Pieces. Ditto peanut butter Twixt.
And that's just the processed, packaged food. Let's move on to produce, shall we?
Basically during the month of August I go nuts for want to of decent produce. I grew up in an agricultural state, eating (despite what you may think based on the above diatribe) a lot of fresh fruit and veggies. Come summer time we'd go to the farm market in town, about a mile and half walk, and buy all sorts of yummy, fresh stuff that had been picked that morning by, *gasp!* the same people that grew it!!
These are some of things I miss the most...
First of all, my esteemed British readers should be aware of something: Corn on the cob should NEVER, EVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, be sold pre-shucked and packaged in shrink wrap on foam trays. This is wrong. This is evil. This is the devil's work. If you can't buy sweetcorn that looks like this, you should not buy it at all. Period.
Ripe tomatoes. It just doesn't get hot enough here for good tomatoes, even in the greenhouses.
Ditto the peaches.
Blueberries. They're available, but at about 15 times the cost of back home. A blueberry pie here sets me back about $20 or more. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
And finally, apples! The English are very proud of their apples, but the varieties available here are really, really limited. And they're all very sweet. The stores carry braeburn, gala, and cox varieties, and that's about it. You can get granny smiths (which I like for cooking) and bramelys (which the English like for cooking), but you can't get any tart red varieties. Come fall i'd cut my ear off for half a peck of northern spys or ida reds or jonathans or cortlands. mmmm, cortlands...
(Pirate has already agreed that we will be growing our own apples from older, more antique varieties, before they hybridized them for maximum fucking sugar content and they really did keep the doctor away. Maybe they still do, but brace yourself for a trip to the dentist instead! Blech.)
And lastly, while we're on the subject of apples, I MISS CIDER!!! You can get fabulous hard cider over here, and that's great. But you can't get fresh cider. It doesn't exist. I want fresh, unpasteurized, oxidized cider. In gallon jugs.
Fortunately, Pirate has agreed that once our trees are producing, we can invest in a small, one-man cider press. Whee!
Root beer. Good root beer. Real root beer. This root beer.
And Vernor's, naturally.
And as long as we're on the subject of pop, Faygo. Espeically Redpop. Yes, ''red" is a flavor.
And distilled white vinegar. Despite being made by Heinz, and despite Heinz food products being all over the UK like tattoos on sailors, they don't sell their distilled white vinegar here. (I know because I asked them.) I can't describe to you what it tastes like, but it's not wine vinegar and it's not cider vinegar, or malt vinegar. It's unlike anything else, and in most cases you can't substitute anything else. I may never eat coleslaw again ('specially since the second ingred in the dressing is Miracle Whip! Double screwed!).
And why do Campbell's use different recipes for their UK soups???? I know it's nasty canned soup, but damnit I grew up eating tomato soup, and if it's good enough for Andy Warhol...
(it's also the base for the sauce for my grandmother's gallumpki recipe, another old family favorite I may never be able to make again, and it kills me that my kids won't grow up eating them for Christmas dinner every year. :o(
Oreos. Enough said.
And graham crackers. Digestive biscuits are similar, but they really aren't the same.
Grape-flavored anything. Everything here that's purple is blackcurrent flavored, even the skittles! How wrong is that!
Especially grape jelly. On a grilled bagel. With cream cheese. Oh my god you have no idea. And on PB&J. Grape is always the best on PB&J.
And speaking of bagels, good bagels would be lovely, if they could be had here. You don't have bagels in England, you have round bread. It's different. Trust me. If Einstein Bros. were to open a shop in London they'd make a killing.
And speaking of bagels, why do you not have pumpernickel??? ANYTHING???? You're closer to Germany than America is, so why is there no pumpernickel bread here???
And you'd think that in a country with enough Polish immigrants for the BNP to whinge about them at every fucking opportunity I could get a decent loaf of rye bread. You would think that, but you'd be wrong.
Speaking of Polish food, you people wouldn't know a decent dill pickle if it walked up and raped you.
Bacon. Even what you call "streaky bacon" isn't the same. It's got to be something in the curing process, because when I cook English bacon the fat turns all hard and white and rubbery. It doesn't melt away at all. Gross! How am I supposed to get bacon drippings for recipes??? (Once I was in a shop where the girl at the check-out was German, and we spent 10 minutes bitching with each other about how crap the bread and bacon in England are. At least I'm not alone. *sigh*)
Proper pizza. Real, sloppy pizza with a soft crust (as opposed to the matzah bread that passes for pizza crust in this godforsaken land), globs of spicey tomato sauce oozing all over (NOT the ketchup you people use. One word: OREGANO), and heaps of mozarella cheeze (now hear this: CHEDDAR CHEESE DOES NOT BELONG ON PIZZA!)
Getting back to the peanut butter issue, there is a decided paucity of peanut butter in the UK. Jars of it, sure no problem. But could I lay hands on a Reeses peanut butter cup if my life depended on it? Doubtful. Ditto Reeses Pieces. Ditto peanut butter Twixt.
And that's just the processed, packaged food. Let's move on to produce, shall we?
Basically during the month of August I go nuts for want to of decent produce. I grew up in an agricultural state, eating (despite what you may think based on the above diatribe) a lot of fresh fruit and veggies. Come summer time we'd go to the farm market in town, about a mile and half walk, and buy all sorts of yummy, fresh stuff that had been picked that morning by, *gasp!* the same people that grew it!!
These are some of things I miss the most...
First of all, my esteemed British readers should be aware of something: Corn on the cob should NEVER, EVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, be sold pre-shucked and packaged in shrink wrap on foam trays. This is wrong. This is evil. This is the devil's work. If you can't buy sweetcorn that looks like this, you should not buy it at all. Period.
Ripe tomatoes. It just doesn't get hot enough here for good tomatoes, even in the greenhouses.
Ditto the peaches.
Blueberries. They're available, but at about 15 times the cost of back home. A blueberry pie here sets me back about $20 or more. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
And finally, apples! The English are very proud of their apples, but the varieties available here are really, really limited. And they're all very sweet. The stores carry braeburn, gala, and cox varieties, and that's about it. You can get granny smiths (which I like for cooking) and bramelys (which the English like for cooking), but you can't get any tart red varieties. Come fall i'd cut my ear off for half a peck of northern spys or ida reds or jonathans or cortlands. mmmm, cortlands...
(Pirate has already agreed that we will be growing our own apples from older, more antique varieties, before they hybridized them for maximum fucking sugar content and they really did keep the doctor away. Maybe they still do, but brace yourself for a trip to the dentist instead! Blech.)
And lastly, while we're on the subject of apples, I MISS CIDER!!! You can get fabulous hard cider over here, and that's great. But you can't get fresh cider. It doesn't exist. I want fresh, unpasteurized, oxidized cider. In gallon jugs.
Fortunately, Pirate has agreed that once our trees are producing, we can invest in a small, one-man cider press. Whee!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Why Philip Pullman should be SHOT,
or at the very least have all his fingers lopped off with bolt cutters so he can never write another godawful fucking horrible awful book again.
I don't have enough bad things to say about His Dark Materials, and very few good things to say about it.
After everyone told me how great they are, and given my general taste in reading, I fully expected to enjoy them. Expected it so much that I even splashed out and bought nice editions of all three books at one go, with sturdy acid-free paper and everything so they would last and be wonderful treasures on my book shelf that one day my kids could read. Really, I did.
My kids will never read these books. Not until they're at least 30.
Are you getting the sense that I didn't like them?
Minor, run-of-the-mill criticisms include trivialities such as:
THEY'RE FUCKING TERRIFYING. THEY'RE HEART-WRENCHINGLY, SICKENINGLY, NAUSEATINGLY, GUT-TWISTINGLY TERRIFYING.
When it comes to frightening children, Pullman makes Walt Disney look like Mother fucking Theresa.
Now I don't have a problem with a bit of scary stuff and suspense. You need conflict to create drama, and you need drama to make it worth reading, otherwise it's all a bunch of Dick and Jane crap. But there's a line.
Harry Potter is not the be-all and end-all of kids' adventure fiction, far from it, but for the purposes of comparing His Dark Materials with magical adventure fantasy fiction aimed at a similar age group it will suit well enough.
In Harry Potter there is a thing called a Dementor. It's a scary being that sucks people's souls out through their mouths. That's creepy. It's a fate worse than death. In His Dark Materials there's a thing called a Specter. It attacks adults and eats their consciousness effectively making them zombies. Same concept, really. The difference is that JK Rowling doesn't graphically describe scenes where a father is attacked by a dementor, but while fleeing has carried his 3-year-old son into a river, who is then dropped into said river as father becomes a zombie, and flops about, drowning, screaming, crying, begging his father to pick him up. Dad ingores the kid. Mentally, he's gone. Baby is drowning in river at his feet.
It's sick.
It's incredibly sick.
Pullman's brand of terror happens to be the one that pushes my buttons the most. It's not blood and guts and brains being spattered about. Most kids don't find that stuff scary, and neither do I. What terrifies me is separation. I had wicked separation anxiety as a kid, and still struggle with it from time to time. This was triggered by a traumatic event that happened when I was 2 or 3, where I thought my mom was being taken from me forever. What Pullman does is to think of every kind of painful separation -- physical, emotional, spiritual, whatever -- and then throw it at you, over and over again in waves, in every conceivable permutation: children being separated from parents, friends from friends, people from daemons (souls), you name it, he takes it away.
I'm still angry at Pullman because I can't get these images out of my head. I wanted some light reading for the holidays. I chose some "children's" literature that had been recommended to me by several people whose judgement I generally trust. Damn near ruined my Christmas. I spent every day in tears, shaking with terror.
The only reason I read all three was that by the end of the first book, if I had stopped, it would have been like turning off a horror movie at the scariest part, which I know is the worst thing you can. You have to watch to the end so you can see everything comes out OK eventually. That was the one and only reason I kept reading.
I still have every book I've ever owned. When I read a book, I keep it (unless it's a library book, obv). These are the first ever books I've deliberately gotten rid of. When I got back from Pirate's I woke up, grabbed the books, and took them straight up to Oxfam. I don't even want them on my shelves. I don't want to look at them. Fucking awful books.
I don't have enough bad things to say about His Dark Materials, and very few good things to say about it.
(Warning: Spoilers Ahead)
After everyone told me how great they are, and given my general taste in reading, I fully expected to enjoy them. Expected it so much that I even splashed out and bought nice editions of all three books at one go, with sturdy acid-free paper and everything so they would last and be wonderful treasures on my book shelf that one day my kids could read. Really, I did.
My kids will never read these books. Not until they're at least 30.
Are you getting the sense that I didn't like them?
Minor, run-of-the-mill criticisms include trivialities such as:
- the main character wasn't terribly likeable or sympathetic
- in fact, most of the human characters were complete cunts (except for Lee Scoresby, who gets killed for the very reason that he's the only decent dude therein, and in Pullman's world we kill off all the nice characters just make sure you cry that little bit extra)
- The plot wasn't tied together very well at the end. You read and read and read looking to see how it all connects, and there's this never-ending section of crap to slog through that isn't really relevant, and then one character shows up on the last page and explains everything in 4 sentences. Not the best story-telling in the world.
- Several key things never get explained (like how the knife came into being), and are just left dangling
- they weren't nearly as anti-religion as I had been led to believe
THEY'RE FUCKING TERRIFYING. THEY'RE HEART-WRENCHINGLY, SICKENINGLY, NAUSEATINGLY, GUT-TWISTINGLY TERRIFYING.
When it comes to frightening children, Pullman makes Walt Disney look like Mother fucking Theresa.
Now I don't have a problem with a bit of scary stuff and suspense. You need conflict to create drama, and you need drama to make it worth reading, otherwise it's all a bunch of Dick and Jane crap. But there's a line.
Harry Potter is not the be-all and end-all of kids' adventure fiction, far from it, but for the purposes of comparing His Dark Materials with magical adventure fantasy fiction aimed at a similar age group it will suit well enough.
In Harry Potter there is a thing called a Dementor. It's a scary being that sucks people's souls out through their mouths. That's creepy. It's a fate worse than death. In His Dark Materials there's a thing called a Specter. It attacks adults and eats their consciousness effectively making them zombies. Same concept, really. The difference is that JK Rowling doesn't graphically describe scenes where a father is attacked by a dementor, but while fleeing has carried his 3-year-old son into a river, who is then dropped into said river as father becomes a zombie, and flops about, drowning, screaming, crying, begging his father to pick him up. Dad ingores the kid. Mentally, he's gone. Baby is drowning in river at his feet.
It's sick.
It's incredibly sick.
Pullman's brand of terror happens to be the one that pushes my buttons the most. It's not blood and guts and brains being spattered about. Most kids don't find that stuff scary, and neither do I. What terrifies me is separation. I had wicked separation anxiety as a kid, and still struggle with it from time to time. This was triggered by a traumatic event that happened when I was 2 or 3, where I thought my mom was being taken from me forever. What Pullman does is to think of every kind of painful separation -- physical, emotional, spiritual, whatever -- and then throw it at you, over and over again in waves, in every conceivable permutation: children being separated from parents, friends from friends, people from daemons (souls), you name it, he takes it away.
I'm still angry at Pullman because I can't get these images out of my head. I wanted some light reading for the holidays. I chose some "children's" literature that had been recommended to me by several people whose judgement I generally trust. Damn near ruined my Christmas. I spent every day in tears, shaking with terror.
The only reason I read all three was that by the end of the first book, if I had stopped, it would have been like turning off a horror movie at the scariest part, which I know is the worst thing you can. You have to watch to the end so you can see everything comes out OK eventually. That was the one and only reason I kept reading.
I still have every book I've ever owned. When I read a book, I keep it (unless it's a library book, obv). These are the first ever books I've deliberately gotten rid of. When I got back from Pirate's I woke up, grabbed the books, and took them straight up to Oxfam. I don't even want them on my shelves. I don't want to look at them. Fucking awful books.
Friday, November 30, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Ack!
Bad Idea! Bad Idea! Danger, danger Will Robinson! *waves arms mechanically in air*
This is so backwards I don't know where to begin. (I was going to post this on QE, but I just wrote a new post there, so I'll stick it here instead.)
More faith schools are NOT the answer! This is the government passing off it's responsibility to provide decent education. Fix the bloody schools, you cowards, instead of turning them over to the hands of people who will use them to confuse science and religion in the minds of young people and indoctrinate them into silly ideologies they can use as justifications for killing each other later.
Help me, Obi-Wan Dawkins; you're my only hope!
This is so backwards I don't know where to begin. (I was going to post this on QE, but I just wrote a new post there, so I'll stick it here instead.)
More faith schools are NOT the answer! This is the government passing off it's responsibility to provide decent education. Fix the bloody schools, you cowards, instead of turning them over to the hands of people who will use them to confuse science and religion in the minds of young people and indoctrinate them into silly ideologies they can use as justifications for killing each other later.
Help me, Obi-Wan Dawkins; you're my only hope!
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Goat fixes airplane. Or does it?
Read this article, and see what you think:
Goat Sacrificed to fix Nepal Jet
now scroll down.
Were you shocked? Are you apalled that there are people in this world who think the best way to go about repairing a technological device is to sacrifice an animal to appease a god?
Next question:
Do you profess to be a person of faith? Do you follow any religion?
Because if you do, if you genuinely believe in divine intervention, than this story should be perfectly reasonable to you. But would you get on that plane? I'm betting not. I would wager that even those among you who practice a religion find this sort of behavior rediculous, as well you should.
But that should tell you something about just how much you actually believe in supernatual, superstitious, religious hocus-pocus.
If you really, truly, deeply, at the very heart of your being, think that there is/are sky fairies who watch our every move, pay attention to what we are doing, give a shit about what we are doing, answer prayers, intevervene, and all the rest of that, than there should be nothing at all strange about how the Nepalese maintenance went about repairing a malfunctioning jet.
If you really believe in god, put your money where your mouth is: fly Air Nepal.
Goat Sacrificed to fix Nepal Jet
now scroll down.
Were you shocked? Are you apalled that there are people in this world who think the best way to go about repairing a technological device is to sacrifice an animal to appease a god?
Next question:
Do you profess to be a person of faith? Do you follow any religion?
Because if you do, if you genuinely believe in divine intervention, than this story should be perfectly reasonable to you. But would you get on that plane? I'm betting not. I would wager that even those among you who practice a religion find this sort of behavior rediculous, as well you should.
But that should tell you something about just how much you actually believe in supernatual, superstitious, religious hocus-pocus.
If you really, truly, deeply, at the very heart of your being, think that there is/are sky fairies who watch our every move, pay attention to what we are doing, give a shit about what we are doing, answer prayers, intevervene, and all the rest of that, than there should be nothing at all strange about how the Nepalese maintenance went about repairing a malfunctioning jet.
If you really believe in god, put your money where your mouth is: fly Air Nepal.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Suburban, white hypocrisy
Continuing with the theme of racism from over at Q.E., have a look at this article from the BBC website about the sub-prime lending fiasco over in the states that's mucking up the world's finacial markets:
Shrewd Lenders Spark US Mortgage Chaos
Scroll down a bit and you'll find a quote from a journalist at the Milwaukee Sentinal Journal, the city's major newspaper, explaining just how serious the problem has become:
"This is not a poor, black, or Hispanic thing," explains Michelle Derus from the Milwaukee Sentinel Journal, who has been following the growth of sub-prime loans for more than two years. "This is a suburban white problem."
You can almost hear her add "so we know it's gotten really serious."
The thing is, I bet you a million bucks that if you asked this woman she would swear she's not racist. Yet here she is explicitly stating that because a problem has spread from the black and Hispanic communities into the white middle-classes, it is a serious problem. She is using the concept of white people suffering synonymously with significant suffering. Clearly if the problem had remained a black and Hispanic problem she wouldn't be bothered.
Do not make excuses for this woman. This is a racist statement born of a racist mind, and anyone who fails to observe the blatant racism contained therein is equally racist. The fact that so few Americans will observe this is proof of how far we have to go to overcome racism.
Don't ever let anyone tell you the battle is won.
Shrewd Lenders Spark US Mortgage Chaos
Scroll down a bit and you'll find a quote from a journalist at the Milwaukee Sentinal Journal, the city's major newspaper, explaining just how serious the problem has become:
"This is not a poor, black, or Hispanic thing," explains Michelle Derus from the Milwaukee Sentinel Journal, who has been following the growth of sub-prime loans for more than two years. "This is a suburban white problem."
You can almost hear her add "so we know it's gotten really serious."
The thing is, I bet you a million bucks that if you asked this woman she would swear she's not racist. Yet here she is explicitly stating that because a problem has spread from the black and Hispanic communities into the white middle-classes, it is a serious problem. She is using the concept of white people suffering synonymously with significant suffering. Clearly if the problem had remained a black and Hispanic problem she wouldn't be bothered.
Do not make excuses for this woman. This is a racist statement born of a racist mind, and anyone who fails to observe the blatant racism contained therein is equally racist. The fact that so few Americans will observe this is proof of how far we have to go to overcome racism.
Don't ever let anyone tell you the battle is won.
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