And the beat goes on

I've finally done it. I've finally pursuaded the Pirate to let me lose the patch and allow nature to take it's course.

Damnit, I'm going to be 31 in just a couple days! fuck me that sounds OLD.

Part of me is rejoicing, but part of me is still really worried. He doesn't seem happy with the idea, just resigned to it. I don't want it to be like that. I want it to be a happy occurance (when it eventually occurs). Having a baby should be full of joy, not resignation to your wife's biological clock.

I want him to want what I want, but life just doesn't work that way.

So I finally got what I want, but I can't bring myself to be happy about it. Fuck.

And I'm about to turn 31.

(Jesus, have I ever sounded more like Herebe? Now there's a frightening thought.)

Haunted

I figured out what was wrong with me.

The house is killing me.

Here's how it works. Do you remember the incident last October, shortly after we moved in, when the whole left side of my face ballooned up and my eye was swollen shut for 3 days and the doctors (yes, plural) never did figure out what caused it? They couldn't figure out if it was bacterial, viral, or an allergic reaction to some environmental factor, and it was getting worse so rapidly there wasn't time to try different medications in succession (also, I was half blind and itching like i had fleas in my eyeballs), so they put me on antibiotics, antivirals, AND antihistemines all at once. One of them worked because I began to get better shortly thereafter, but it's still a medical mystery.

Now bear in mind that we moved in here on September 20, I immediately got a head cold, and then the eye thing started on October 5.

Please also bear in mind that all last autumn I had one head cold after another, such that we estimate I've been sick about 50% of the time since we got married.

Except for the 6 weeks I was stuck in Michigan waiting on my spousal visa. For those 6 weeks I was completely fine; not a sniffle.

I got back home to Cornwall at the end of January, and within two weeks I had another mysterious illness. This is the short version:

Friday: sore throat

Early Saturday morning: most painful sore throat in history of humanity, body aches all over, throbbing pounding headache. Essentially pain. Ultimately, the only symptom I had was pain. Conspicuously absent: fever, congestion, sneezing, coughing, runny nose, or ANYTHING that might indicate a viral or bacterial infection.

Sunday: Body ache gone, throat still sore but sufficiently better that I can eat solid food again, headache more bearable but still present.

Today (Monday): Sore throat all but gone, headache back with a vengeance, accompanied by mild nausea.

This morning I walked to the pharmacy to buy some of the effervescent cocodamo*l tablets the nurse on the NHS helpline told me about on sunday morning. My throat was better, but i'm not convinced it won't happen again, so i decide it's a good idea to have some in the house.

My head was throbbing. It didn't hurt more if i bent over or looked down, but as soon as i straightened up again it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into my brain stem. I thought my brain would explode from the pressure. The ferocity of the pain was such that I actually cried out loud a couple of times while walking home. I wasn't sure I would make it. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and eventually I got home. (It's only one bloody mile.)

I decided to take one dose of the cocodamol for the headache. It helped the headache, but gave me a mild psychotic reaction. I was utterly convinced for 3 hours that there was someone else in the room with me, and i was being WATCHED. I can't tell you how freaky this is. Thankfully about 3% of my brain was holding down the sanity fort and constantly reminding me that I was alone, in no danger, and this was clearly a reaction to the drug.

So what the fuck caused me to have an incredibly sore, swollen, inflamed throat and migraine-level headache pain with no other sign of infection? The House.

Think about it. Shortly after we move in i get some weird, undiagnosable condition. I am sick on and off the entire autumn. I leave for Christmas and enjoy 6 weeks of perfect health. I return and within 2 weeks (roughly the same amount of time between moving in last September and the first medical crisis) I have some other weird, undiagnosable condition. Unless someone else out there has had a bout of tonsilitis that lasted 2 days and went away on its own, my leading theory right now is that there is some environmental factor in the house that's making me ill.

Am I crazy? It just seems unlikely that this is a coincidence.

Pirate is not affected by it, but I'm in the house ALL THE TIME, whereas he only comes here to eat, shag, and sleep. He's out for 12 hours a day at work. I'm not. I'm here, dying by inches.

I've dismissed CO, as we have a dector that says there's no CO in the house.
I've dismissed radon, even though Cornwall is full of it, because radon toxicity takes years of exposure to produce symptoms.
Right now I'm thinking some kind of mold or fungus. I shall begin to investigate and see what I turn up.

*Tylenol 3 with codeine, and it's available over the counter here. Take that, you sorry Americans!

It's finaly happened.

I've actually begun dreaming about the election.

In my dream last night Obama won the popular vote but the electoral college was tied. Since I have no idea what happens in that (highly unlikely) scenario, my dream came to a screeching halt as my brain tried to figure out where to take the plot next.

Does anyone know what happens if the electoral college ties???

A Pirate's Wedding, Part II: Full Speed Ahead

Gak! I wanted to get loads of beauty sleep the night before my wedding. I wanted to relax, read my new issue of New Scientist, maybe blog a bit, or spend some time in the spa that is in the hotel. Alas, to no avail. I didn't even have time to go for a swim in the pool in the bathroom that was masquerading as a tub. (The hotel really came up trumps with the room, and gave us this gargantuan suite with a superking bed and shower you could throw a party in. And it was cheap. They really treated us like royalty.*

No, instead I was up dealing with cake things until bloody midnight. Miss Melville SHOULD have stayed over with me, instead she wound up taking a cab back to her hotel and breaking inn. (Did you see what I did there?) Ask her nicely and she'll tell you all about it.

After printing off the readings for the service tomorrow (which I'd completely forgotten to do beforehand, sending me into a panic about what other totally obvious things I might have forgotten), I took a sleeping pill and went to bed, worrying about the cake in the fridge downstairs and whether the soupy frosting would set overnight to something useable. (It didn't.)

I woke up, took a shower, pinned my hair up, put on some jeans (thank got the wedding wasn't until 3 pm), and went downstairs for breakfast, where I was assaulted by my family, all my parents' friends, my future in-laws, and all their friends. It took me 30 minutes to extricate myself and I never did manage to eat anything. 9 am is WAY too early in the day for social niceities.

I got the marvelous people at the hotel to get the cake out for me and take it up to the Forrest Suite, where the reception would be held. The frosting was still soup. I called The Cake on my mobile. "Cake, we need more frosting. Can you run to Sainsbury's and buy 6 tubs of whatever they have that's white?"
The Cake: "No, because I'm so bloated I can't zip my dress up. I have to go into town to buy expensive suck-me-in underwear. I'll send The Pud."

The Pud, bless his heart, showed up with 6 tubs of Betty Crocker vanilla frosting. Perfect. (I still haven't paid him back for that. I really must remember to do that.)

Big Wally kept Smally Wally entertained while Vi, MM and I frosted and assembled the cake. Except for the 2nd tier, which was too big and rather misshapen, it looked great. That took a while. My brother and Sister-in-law set up the place cards and favors, and MM took my phone away from me and made herself my P.A. for the day, so I wouldn't have to answer the 4,000 phone calls that came in.

Eventually I had to go get my hair done. The cake was assembled, but I hadn't put the crystallized flowers on it yet. MM and I ran to the hairdressers, where Zoe did an absolutely AMAZING job. It looked so beautiful I lost the plot right there in the salon and broke down in tears for the first time that day. I'd never felt so pretty in my life. It cost a bleeding fortune, but it was worth every penny.

It was a stunningly gorgeous blue fall day. After the shit pissing wet summer we've had, with cold and rain and blowing every day, the sun broke through and it was utterly glorious. MM and I walked back from the hair dressers holding hands and singing "Going to the chapel" and "Get me to the church on time" with the sun on our faces. I'm sure the local onlookers though we were lesbians. I'm OK with that.

Then I ran back up to the Forrest Suite to put the candied pansies on the cake. By now it was after 2, the service was at 3, and I hadn't even started getting dressed yet!

My dad came up (looking very dapper I might add) and took the flowers away from me, saying he'd finish it for me (which was great because he's probably the only person in the world I would trust to do that) and ordered me to go get dressed.

When I got to my room it was a frenzy of half-naked bridesmaids throwing clothes around and attempting to apply makeup while stuffing me and themselves into a variety of cumbersome dresses.

I put on my makeup (very minimal, only took 5 minutes), and then someone had to help me into my underwear. My aunt and my mother showed up at this point, and so got an awesome view of my uber-sexing wedding-night smalls as The Cake (and this bit is absolutely HEROIC) spent 10 minutes on her knees behind be, my ass full in her face, as she attempted to connect the tops of my stockings to the little garter strap thingys. The woman is a saint. MM can attest to this.

I did not feel at all on display while this was going on and random family members came in to watch. No, not at all. Why is it that watching a bride get dressed is such a big damn deal? Why do people feel the need to be a part of the audience??? You wouldn't believe how long it took me to convince the videographer and photographer that I didn't want them in there. They refused to believe me. The photographer showed up anyway and I sent him away and told him to get pictures of the guests arriving at the church. Argh.

Eventually we were all ready. I have no idea what time it was, nor did I care. (It's not like they were going to start with out me.) Dad, who was standing patiently outside the door and only knocked every 23 seconds to see if I was ready yet, gave me his arm and we, accompanied by my bridesmaids, headed over to the church.

Stay tuned for Part III!



*I'm accustomed to staying in youth hostels and cheap roadside motels, so it was a rather novel experience for me to be able to pick up the phone by the bed (the room was so big it came with TWO phones!) and say to the French accent at reception "This is room 504. Could you please arrange a taxi for me and send someone up with a luggage trolley right away? Thanks." And it would happen. Just like that. Ask, and it shall be done. It was frightening how fast I got used to being waited on hand and foot. Maybe obscene wealth isn't such a bad thing after all?...

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:

1. (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.)
2. 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???)
3. 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).

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.

Why I'm going insane

Last night I received a 4 page document from my parents. It was a giant list of questions about the wedding. 4 pages. single spaced. Here is a sample of the questions contained therein:

• Where will [bridesmaid from Scotland] stay? When will she arrive?
• When and how will you collect your dress from the dressmaker? [the dressmaker is half a block from where I live.]
• When will the rehearsal be held? How long will it last? Where will we go to eat afterwards? How will we get there?
• What is [Best Man’s] availability? Who will ensure that he gets to where he needs to be, when he needs to be there and dressed as he needs to be? [He's an adult for Christ's sake! Do you want me to wipe his ass for him, too?!]
• What symbol will you put on the place cards to indicate to the serving staff what meal people have ordered? [I'm not kidding. The wedding is more than 7 months away and they are already worried about the fucking place cards.]
• Who will be your Trail BOSS, someone who will ride herd on and coordinate all the activities for the day? Let wedding party and guests know when and where to be, insuring guests get in from the airport in good order. Insures everything goes as planned. THIS is a tough role. [Sister in law] did it using an excel spreadsheet and minute to minute planning to help but still had glitches.
• Where will you dress for the wedding? At the hotel? At the church? How many hours ahead of time should dressing begin? If dressing at the hotel, how will you get to the church? Walking will be very risky. [it's across the street.] In whose car? Will a cab work for such a short fare
• Pirate won’t arrive until the day of the wedding. Where will he go? He shouldn’t see you in your dress before the ceremony. Could he dress and groom in his parents' room at the hotel? How and when does he go to the church? Who sees to it? [are you fucking kidding me? He gets himself to the church. By walking! He's not a fucking child!!!]

And it goes on. and on. Can you see why I'm going nuts?!?!? These people are out of their minds. They are micromanaging me into insanity.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The present dilemma

What do you do when you get a really really rediculous Christmas present that you don't want and for which you have no use, that you could exchange for something genuinely useful, but you don't want to hurt the feelings of the giver (who think they got you the greatest present on earth) and there's a reasonable chance that if you swapped it, the giver would find out (call it a 30% chance)? Christmas politics: ack!

What the wedding WON'T be:

• ostentatious
• snotty
• generic
• like something out of a magazine
• the product of one of those big "how to plan the perfect wedding" books

and most of all...

• the cake will NOT smell of explosives.

So we know what it won't be, but we're still not sure what it will be. Oh, well; we'll figure it out eventually. Process of elimination and all that.