Middle Class

So there we were, the Pirate and I, listening to the test match* on the radio, playing Boggle, and eating strawberries.


When the revolution comes, we are fucked.






*That's cricket, for you football-watching Philistines.

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?...

Mega-girly Girliness

Not my normal scene, I know. But yesterday I had an uber-girly day out with one of my bridesmaids. After a nice lunch of posh salads and white wine in the Slug & Lettuce we went lingerie shopping for The Big Day.

I bought an ivory satin bosque that has more lift than a Saturn 5 rocket. It turns out I have tits.* Who knew?!

Then we went to see Prince Caspian and drool over the hot kid with the faux Spanish accent playing PC. *fans face* The really sad and surprising thing is that despite PC's hotness it was the wet-chinned public school prat playing Peter who got me going in the scene where he fights Usurper Shiraz. I mean god DAMN I loves me a shiny suit of armor. *fans faster* Really, it wasn't Peter, just the way he wore that tin can with the red tabard and looked all "I'm about to die but I'm so taking you with me you fake-accented fucker." Mmmm.

(this pic would be better if he wasn't pouting. that's susan's job anyway)

Then there was more food at Frankie & Bennies where we ordered some very contrived menu item calling itself 'The Americana.' I don't know what made it American, but it were tastee. Also more wine.

w00t for (occassional) girlyness and very decadent 2-meals-out days.




*Really awesome ones

FREE JEWELRY!!!

I'm not making this up. All you pay is shipping and handling, which is not expensive.

The US site.

The international site.

There's no limit and no strings. Get involved, bitches.

Leavin' on a jet plane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

High seas blogging

Hi all! I'm blogging from the high seas, being tossed and turned and tumbled in family, food, and affection. Mrs. Pirate hasn't left the galley since we arrived, and the edibles have been endless. Pirate is currently trying to get his little brother's old dinghy in working order so we can go for a bit of exercise in the cold sunshine and shed a few calories in the process, but it appears to be a lost cause; i don't think the little craft has been water-tight for years. It's more than a morning's work to get operational.

We sailed up on Friday in Pirate's big, splashy classic yacht, and after leaving the fog in Brizzle had clear water the whole way. Mr. and Mrs. Pirate were ecstatic to see us, and after raising several toasts to everything Mr. Pirate could think to name, the two of us (Pirate and his mum being teatotal) drowned the majority of the ship's supply of bubbly rum. We nearly burnt the ship down that evening in an attempt to roast some chestnuts, but after some quick action on the Pirate's part there were only a few singed sails to tell the tail.

I've been sleeping like a rock in the big double hammock in the guest saloon, rocked gently each night by the movement of the vessel, and Pirate has completely abandoned the moratorium on non-married people sleeping together and has crawled into my hammock every night. Thus far a very successful visit indeed.

Tomorrow we are all sailing north to the paternal gran's port, where there will be a big clan gathering, roast turkey, and pressies galore. Stay tuned for the swashbuckling update!

Manliness

So one weekend earlier this fall (I forgot to blog it at the time, but it's worth telling), Pirate and I were driving down a country road in his new/old 1973 AM Vantage. It was a beautiful, clear day; great day for a run in The Big Car.

I was dressed up, wearing a purple dress with longish (mid-calf) A-line skirt with buttons all down the front, proper stockings, and heels. (This is important to the punchline, I swear.)

I was sitting in the bucket seat to Pirate's left, my right leg crossed over my left at the knee. (There's a lot of leg-room in that car. me likes.)

We hit a stretch of open road, and with no traffic in sight, Pirate put the boot down. That car moves. It doesn't strain, it just responds. I felt myself pressed backwards into the seat from the acceleration. As the car thrust forward the hem of my skirt, which had been just resting at the top of my right knee, was also pulled backwards toward the seat, causing it to slide up my leg and reveal my thigh and the top of my stocking.

Pirate, upon seeing that the acceleration of the car was responsible for uncovering the smooth, firm, muscled flesh of my thigh, declared proudly: "I am such a man."

Frivolous II: The Guilt Strikes Back

Seeking advise from those I trust most, here are the words of my dear pater:

You may want to read Ann Rand's book on selfishness for a bit of philosophy on human nature and why it may not be so bad as it first appears by my and your Christian moral heritage. Also, there is an issue of pleasing the father and looking accomplished in his eyes, but that's probably well buried deep in the Pirates's sense of worth or accomplishment. I bought a Rambler sedan rather than the Jag I really wanted when I came home from Vietnam, looking back I would have been no worse off and would have had many happy hours cruising in the Jag vs the more rational Rambler. You have a limited time on earth so perhaps, when you're young is the best time to reach for the brass ring and damn the consequences. Enjoy the ride, don't worry too much about the trade-offs.... both his and your economic potential over the next 50 years is very substantial, you are poor as a church mouse now, but that is a temporary affliction.

Love,
Dad

Perhaps a touch of hedonism isn't a bad thing. Again, as with all things, it's a matter of scale. Dad is also of the ilk that my feelings are the result of my temporary poverty, and such feelings will disperse when I'm back on a more sound economic footing. This may be partially true, but I'm pretty sure that even if/when I have that kind of money, I would still consider that level of luxury unecessary and decadant.

I've been giving this whole issue a LOT of thought lately, in an attempt to understand exactly what is upsetting me, why, and what steps, if any, I should take. Here are some ideas that have occured to me:

It may simply be human nature to view all those with less than us as unfortunate and underpriveledged, while those with more than us are spoiled, greedy, mean, priveledged, etc. I think every one of us feels that our personal balance between frugality and indulgence is an appropriate balance, and anyone differing significantly from out own spending habits is in the wrong, one way or t'other.

It may also be partly due to the fact that growing up in a very working-class and pro-labor household I was taught to resent on some level those people who were more affluent than myself. Furthermore, such people were often described in terms of their material wealth, such as "people who live in houses like that X___." or "people who drive cars like that Y___" etc. I think the unfortunate coincidence that Pirate has purchased an item which in my youth was made out to be an indicator of greed and selfishness is, when I really think about it, at the bottom of what's troubling me.

So I'm left to reconcile the apparent paradox that either my parents were wrong and wealthy people with unnecessary and expensive cars aren't necessarily the greedy bastards who are the source of all the world's ailments,
or
I have critically misjudged the Pirate and actually he's not the amazing guy I thought he was, but actually he's one of the rich, greedy baddies. (I am exaggering slightly for the sake of clarity, but I think you can forgive me for that.)

On the surface this doesn't appear very difficult. The first statement assumes a lot of absolutes (all problems are caused by rich people, all people who drive nice cars are rich, it's easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle, etc.), and absolutes are rarely true. So it should be easy to write an addendum to that philosophy pertaining to exceptions and accept that my parents are not always right and that wealthy people can be good people.

It should be easy. But accepting a change in your views, a change in a philosophy that has colored the way you've seen the world since you were old enough to open your eyes, rarely is. In some ways it would be easier for me to admit that I was wrong about the Pirate, because that's a view that I've only had for a year, as opposed to a lifetime. Furthermore, changing your view about one person does not shatter one's whole socio-economic mindset.

But of course I love the Pirate deeply and I don't want to be wrong about him. I want to continue to believe that he is a good, moral, ethical, generous, honest man. As I've often pointed out before, though, wishing don't make it so, and wanting to believe something, even believing it, doesn't make it true.

Do I really think that buying a car suggests that I've grossly misjudged the Pirate's character? No, not really. I'm just trying to explain to you lot why this whole situation has made me squirm so much. Fundamentally it boiled down to me being wrong about something, either the strong, anti-money values I'd been raised with, or my assessment of Pirate's character. And that, I think, is what this whole thing is all about. It's forced me to confront and re-evaluate some of the assumptions I make about people and the world regarding material wealth. And questioning one's fundamental assumptions about the world is a very squirmy process indeed.

the new Pirate Ship: HMS Frivolous

The Pirate just bought a new ship. It's this:


Not to replace his nice, practical little Skoda, mind. In addition to. For fun on weekends and for something to tinker with and restore. (The structure and engine are sound, but it needs a load of cosmetic detail work. The perfect fixer-upper.)

I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I'm happy for him. He's been an Aston Martin freak all his life (inherited from his father), and he's just bought his first, his very own, AM. (It's a 1973 Vantage.) Yay for him.

But it's such a total frivolity. To behonest, I'm just not comfortable with that level of decadance. Even if I had a million pounds, I probably wouldn't buy something that totally unnecessary.

But is that me being a hypocrite? I'm pretty sure that if I had a million quid I would buy something unnecessary, probably several somethings. So is it that I'm genuinely uncomfortable with this kind of decacance in a world where so many people are suffering, or is that I just prefer differenct luxuries, like a giant garden, my own scull, 4 dogs and a cider press?

Is it fair to make a distinction between small luxuries (like a really nice meal out), medium luxuries (like a new scull), and huge luxuries (like a sports car)? It's just a matter of scale, really.

It seems to me that for people our age (30 minus a tad), spending money on non-necessities isn't wise. The time value of money makes clear that saving now will pay off hugely in the future. So if I'm rich when I'm 50 and have no money worries, then will I be comfortable with decadance? Or am I just too tight-fisted by nature (having grown up in a home that was super-frugal by necessity) to ever feel comfortable with spending such large sums on things that aren't needed? And is that a bad thing? What are the implications of that for our long-term relationship?

I suppose I'll have to express these feelings to the Pirate at some point, but he's so damn happy, I really hate to rain on his parade. I surely don't want him to think I'm being disaproving or trying to make him feel guilty.

Or is that exactly what I'm doing?...

One year on... The Big Night

So there I was, in lobster-red, blistering agony from dallying with the sun without protection.

The irony was that I had been so careful in the past 3 weeks to make sure my back and shoulders, which had had no sun exposure yet this year, matched my arms, which (thanks to spectating Pirate's cricket matches) had a lovely brown, terminating in a white line just before my shoulders where my T-shirt begins. Yes, I had a farmer's tan. And I spent a fair penny on self-tanning prodeucts to get rid of it and get some color on my back and shoulders without looking like an oompa-loompa. And it worked. Friday night my skin looked fine. No tan lines to speak of. And saturday afternoon I blew it all to hell.

My evening gown is black, with a deep V-neck, halter straps, and totally backless right down to the top of my ass. So it showed off my bright red chest, bright red shoulders with conventional bra-strap tan lines, and bright red upper back/white lower back beatifully. (Essentially my back looked like the flag of Poland flown up-side down. Charming.)

After I endured the agony of the shower (though set at a pleasant, tepid temperature, the needle-like spray of water stabbed at my back and shoulders like being shot with a thousand poison darts) I began The Process.

Ladies, you know what this entails... mousse, hair curlers, hair drier, hair spray, blemish concealer, foundation, eye liner, eye shadow, eyelash curler, mascara, eyebrow pencil (I waxed the eyebrows earlier in the week to give the redness adequate time to fade), lipstick... it's a pain in the ass, I tell you. And though I can't stand such a time-consuming beauty regime, and despite the discomfort from my sunburn, I couldn't help but be in a good mood.

I didn't resent the sunburn because the way I see it, given the choice between doing something I enjoy and being pretty, I'll take having fun any day. So even if I'd known how burnt I would get, I wouldn't have changed a thing about the afternoon. So how could I complain, knowing full well that if I had it to do over, I would do it all again, with the same results? Besides, I was running around the house naked with curlers in my hair, and my Pirate was sitting in the rear garden, polishing his shoes. I heard him laugh and came out to see what had tickled his imagination so. He looked up at me.

"Running around naked already? Wow. Last year* it took almost nine hours to get you to that stage. Result." He grinned.
I hit him.
Obviously he was in a good mood. He'd been deliberately antagonizing me all day, a behavior I have come to recognize as an indication of high spirits.

*our first date

Eventually I took out the curlers, combed out my hair, gave it one final spray, and slipped into my gown. Some sparkly doo-dads (cheap, from Claire's) for the finishing touch et voila'! One overly-made up woman with natty hair and sunburn wearing a black dress. *sigh*

While all this was taking place, Pirate was getting dressed in his room. He was attaching the cuff-links to his shirt when I cam in: a custom-made job he'd had done especially -- the sleeves and back were made from a neon pink and metallic gold pashmina that he bought in Indial last spring. The wool/silk blended material was soft as owl's feathers and shimmered when the afternoon light hit it. Over the shirt went the white waistcoat, including gold pocket watch on chain, and white DJ. The bow tie he tied himself. None of this pre-tied namby-pamby crap couteur for my man no sir-ee.

My god but he's handsome.

And with each layer of clothing you peel off, the handsomer he becomes. Like a sexy onion that makes you weep with arousal. Oh yes.


The ball was lovely. The theme this year was The War Years. We were greeted at the gate by a Winston Churchill impersonator, complete with cigar, who later gave a speech during dinner. The tents were covered in camo netting and decorated inside with red, white, and blue balloons and Union flags. The women of the waitstaff were dressed as Rosie the Rivetter, the drinks at the cocktail bar (which was surrounded by sandbags) all had names like 'Lindy-hop Lemonade' and 'Glen Miller Green Eyes,' and there were all sorts of military relics on display that they'd borrowed from some museum somewhere. Portrait photos were taken in an actual Jeep (left-hand drive), and they even got the RAF to do a fly-by in a couple of spitfires. The only thing the theme neglected was the music. It was fine, but some proper Big Band and 'Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree' would have been both better and more appropriate.

Ents for the evening included bumber cars (dodgems, to you brits), casino tables (Pirate turned 75 pounds into almost 700 pounds at the craps table. Too bad it wasn't real money), and a hot air balloon that was tethered to 3 Land Rovers. The casino was too crowded and I never manged to get into the Black Jack game, the hot air balloon only went up 20 feet and spat dirty water at the passengers, but the bumber cars were fabulous. We spent a lot of time on those. As the evening wore on the guys operating the things decided the saftey codes were really more like suggestions anyway, and turned up the juice. I have never seen bumber cars go so fast. I have wicked bruises on my knees from all the impacts and bumping the steering column. I just tell people they're from the blow jobs.

One of the more emotional moments of the evening was actually the RAF flyby. There was something not quite right about standing on the lawn in an evening gown, coctail in hand, laughing and cheering at the machines of war as they raged overhead through the blue sky. It was a beautiful evening -- blue sky, a few fluffy clouds, light breeze -- and perfect night for flying. I could tell the pilots were having fun up there. Those boys were playing with big ol' antique toys and messing about like kids in a sandbox, and that's OK. But I couldn't shake the feeling of unease; i couldn't look at those planes and block my imagination from wondering what it must have been like to be sitting in your living room in 1945 and hear them whiz by overhead, see them careening past and not know if they're yours or Hitlers. What must it have been like to live with the fear, the hunger, the constant destruction? And here we were, making a party game of it.

But was it just a party game? Or were people cheering because they remembered that these very planes were the ones that helped save them from the Nazis all those years ago? Has the memory of the horror gone, or does it linger on yet? I didn't know. It was a very strange sensation, seeing those spitfires in the blue sky, and me watching them with hardly a care in the world.

I was wondering about all these things when I realized I'd lost my date. The Pirate had abandoned me for another. I couldn't get him away from her: the chocolate fountain. I thought at one point he was just going to stick his whole head underneath. They had skewers with strawberries, raspberries, tiny donuts, jell babies, and marshmallows. I ate the berries and jelly babies and didn't have a single taste of chocolate. I got yer willpower right here, beyotch.

Dinner was amazing, as expected. The seafood buffet was well stocked, although the salmon was over cooked and I really need to introduce the Engligh to proper cocktail sauce. Now hear this: ketchup and mayonaise is NOT coctail sauce. Ketchup and horseradish, that's cocktail sauce. Following the seafood bar was the main course, which paid tribute to vegetables by having a bowl with a couple pieces of lettuce in it if anyone insisted, but we just at the pork with hot apple sauce, beef stew, chicken skewers, and pork sausages. It was not a good night to be a vegetarian.

And just in case the completely free coctail bar wasn't enough, there was ample wine on the table. And there were only 6 of us at a table for 10, and Pirate doesn't drink, so we had twice the allowance of wine. Woot!

Don't even get me started on dessert.

This has mostly just been a catalogue of the nights sensory pleasures -- the visuals, the tastes, the sounds -- but that's really only the surface, the very outer edge of my perception that evening. I've described these features because they are easy to communicate. As a reader you have no trouble visualizing a tent or a table laden with rich puddings or even Winston Churchill. You know what music sounds like and are familiar with the experience of dancing. I could even describe for you the smell of the fuel in the hot air balloon, the warm choclate from the fountain, and dew on the grass, and you could understand that easily as well. But how to describe what was really going on in my head and in my heart?

How can I articulate the warmth in my cheeks and ears when I looked at the Pirate? Or the conflicting sense of total comfort and familiarity with the exitement of newness and exoticism when we danced? Can you begin to empathize with the confusion of feeling totally out of place in that contrived, concocted environment, but yet feeling as that I was exactly where I belonged whenever the Pirate spoke to me? And do you know what it feels like to have tears of joy come to your eyes in those silent moments of shared understanding when not a word is spoken, and without evening looking at one another so as to give the impression to others that our attention is elsewhere, hands meet knowingly in the middle, sure of themselves and each other, gently caressing and tickling the other's fingers? Do you know that feeling? Can I possibly explain it?

We didn't close the place down this year. After a couple slow songs (where my bracelet kept catching threads on the back of his new shirt), our bodies pressed obscenely close together, only making the barest pretence of dancing, we left. This time there was none of that awkward silence, none of the games, no one trying to prolong the night. We knew why we were leaving. And given the way were were dancing, frankly so did everyone else there.


Tune in tomorrow for Part XXX: The Dirty Bits.