My Mother-in-Law the Pudding Rapist

Wow. I knew it had been a while since I blogged, but I genuinely hadn't realized it had been over 2 months. Sorry about that. I didn't mean to take such a long break, but once I stepped back from the screen to take a breather I found it really difficult to return. Rather than write a big long whingy apology though, how about I just jump right back into it? Right. Here goes.

My mother-in-law is a Pudding Rapist. (This is pudding in the English sense, meaning all things desserty, not just the stuff Bill Cosby sells.)

Pirate and I were up at the in-laws for 2 weeks over Easter, during which time my MIL fed us pudding every day at lunch AND dinner. Argh! After 4 days I thought I would explode. The problem is I know she only does it because I'm there. If it was just Pirate visiting his parents she would make a pud the first night and leave it at that. But because I'm there she makes one every night. And since she's doing it for me I feel obligated out of a sense of hospitality to accept, and then she says "See, I knew you really did want it" and makes another one the next night. And then pourse double cream all over everything! GROOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!

So, yes, the Pudding Rapist. Becuase in her mind "no" means "yes" and no matter how much you scream and kick and protest that you don't want any more, she knows you secretly do, and gives it to you.

Thank you, NRA

Keep up the good work.

Exhausted

It's taken me 3 days to clean up the nasty-ass fucking mess my disgusting flatmates left behind for me to deal with.

I had to mop the kitchen floor 5 times. (The third time I did it the water was still black at the end, and the kitchen is less than 10x10 feet.) There were rotting vegetables in the fridge drawers, the bottom of the fridge was full of fetid water. There was rancid yogurt spilled all over the shelves. There were EMPTY wrappers from smoked fish tucked away in the back. Yes, at some point someone unwrapped some smoked fish and put the oily WRAPPER back in the fridge.

There was grease all over everything -- that filmy grease that floats in the air from deep frying and settles everywhere. They left me pots, pans, cutlery, plates, dishes, bowls, mugs, chopsticks, 8 tubes of assorted plastic wrap and tin foil, knives, and rusty rice steamers to deal with. They took their trash out of their bedrooms and left it in bags on the kitchen floor for me to take out to the dumpster. In the last 48 hours I have removed 9 full bags of garbage, none of which was mine.

The kitchen is finally done. I am shattered. I've barely slept in 3 days. Last night I finally had 8 hours to myself, and one of my bridesmaids sent me a text at 6 am, waking me up. Instantly my mind started spinning with everything I had to do today, and it became impossible to get back to sleep.

I'm so tired I'm ill. I don't feel awake, but my adreneline is keeping me going. Living on adrenaline is not fun. It gives me the shakes, like too much caffeine, and I feel agitated and jumpy. I've got a pounding headache (also from the adrenaline) and I feel slightly nauseas. I just want to go to sleep.

Now I get to clean my room -- it will take about an hour to vacuum and wipe all the surfaces and clean the bathroom -- and then I move out of here altogether. When that happens I will move in to the hotel for the rest of the week, at which point I won't have email. It's unlikely I'll post again until after the wedding, or even have a chance to read your blogs. If Pirate's done his job and gotten the internet hooked up in Plymouth I should be back online sometime next week, a married woman.

Stay tuned.

And yes, there will be photographs.

Crisis du Moment, III

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

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.

I blame the sea gulls

for the absolutely shitty morning I had.

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

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

Which caused to lose both my balance and my consciousness

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

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

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

Which caused me to get all hot and feverish and nauseous

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

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

All because of the GODDAMN FUCKING NOISY SEAGULLS.


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

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?

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.

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:'

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.

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.

Oh that DOES it

I have had it up to *here*

You know I've been going out of my mind with the wedding plans, right? And I've only been telling you a tiny bit. In addition:

I've been on the phone with my mom more than 2 hours a day for the past 3 weeks.

Last night, after I was in bed (I hate being awakend when I have to be up at 6 am for training), I got a phone call from my father telling me that my mom was upset because I had pushed her out of the wedding plans and she wanted to be more involved!

I pushed her out???? SHE'S FUCKING TAKING OVER! SHE'S MORE INVOLVED THAN THE PIRATE!!!!! I've been reduced to meer middleman, conveying her wishes and commands to the various parties.

Not only that, but there are numerous issues over which she and the Pirate disagreed, and with few (1) exceptions, she has entirely gotten her way. This weekend I got really weepy with the Pirate because I felt that I was being torn apart, and there was absolutely no way I could keep both him and my mother happy, and that if it came down to it, he's more important and his wishes take priority, but I don't (didn't) want to have to be that blunt with my mother.

And then she has the balls to get upset with me. I went livid.

I spent 30 minutes on the phone with dad explaining all of this. He was incredibly sympathetic, and at the end of my tirade said, "You've got me convinced. She's the one out of control." He was about to attempt to deal with her diplomatically and explain my feelings (she's running me ragged micromanaging everything), when she heard him on the phone and exclaimed "Oh, so now I'm the enemy!"

Great. just fucking great.

So what did I do? I rolled over and played dead like I have since I was a kid. I learned very young that you don't win arguements with my mom. No one does. They are pointless. In 29 years she's never once said "I was wrong" about anything. Ever. So I sat there listening to her tell me how much I had hurt her by leaving her out of the wedding (I still have genuinely no idea how she can possibly feel this way) and I wound up aplogizing to her.

God I'm spineless.

I told her how I feel. But did she aplogize? Did she fuck. She doesn't apologize because she is never wrong. It's that simple.

So I aplogized to her. She feels better. I'm still seething. I can't convey how angry I am. And I strenuoulsy resent the fact that she has made planning my wedding into a minor war, fought with emotional manipulation and guilt. Finally at 1:30 in the morning I hung up the phone, took a double dose of sleeping pills, and cried myself to sleep.

On Thrusday (Valentine's Day), Pirate and I are leaving to spend 2 1/2 weeks in Capetown, South Africa. Hopefully in that interval I will be able to calm down and come back feeling refreshed and actually enjoy the wedding planning again. But I'm not hopefull. Pirate and I will be seriously discussing the possibility of eloping.

I can't take this any more, and there's still more than 7 months to go.