Hi all! I'm sorry I haven't been able to blog. As you know, I moved out of my flat last Wednesday week. The days leading up to the wedding were manic, despite my best efforts at preparation and organization. (Remind me to tell you about baking the cake.)
The wedding last Friday we beautiful. After 4 months of rain and grey and utterly shit weather, the sun broke through and we we had absolutely spectacular weather. My bridesmaids were fantastic, and as we walked to the church with all our flowers, me on my father's arm, I felt like a queen. (Looked like one, too. Might as well be honest.)
The service was lovely. Even the minister said it was the nicest wedding she'd ever presided. The light was blazing in through the stained glass, and all the church was aglow with autum flowers and amber light. I will post photos as soon as I have some. I, obviously, wasn't taking pictures, so I don't have any off my own camera to upload.
The reception was a blast, and by 11 pm the dancing was getting very silly indeed. I got thrown from person to person during Cotton-eyed Joe until I passed out, and Pirate's sea-faring friends did some very inappropriate things with his mother. Oh, and I have to tell you about the paper airplanes!
During dinner Pirate began writing his speech (nothing like a little preparation, is there?). He had a pad of paper, which promptly got confiscated by his mates for paper airplanes, which were thrown all over the room. There were dozens of them going back and forth, landing in people's food, the candles, hitting people in the head, etc. It was a great laugh. Then when it was time for speeches, when Pirate stood up the entire room threw all their paper airplanes at him, as well as a few napkins and anything else they could lay hands on. It was absolutely hilarious. Despite having the air of complete spontenaity, we found out later that my dad had orchestrated the whole thing during dinner with a particularly effective game of 'telephone'!
Anyway, now that i'm back online I'll have lots more stories to tell, and hopefully some pictures soon.
Married life is great! xoxooxoxox
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Friday, September 26, 2008
Monday, December 03, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Our heroine returns!
Cycling down the A4 this morning, clad in my flourescent-yellow armor -- whose magical, light-bending properties make me impervious to the advances of speeding lorries, over-confident bus-drivers, harried commuters, and road-kill -- I mused over the events of the weekend.
Friday night on the way to the Pirate's i blew a tire. Not just a puncture in the inner-tube -- that is a small matter i have dealth with many times before -- but an actual tire blow-out, where the tire itself split and left an inch-long hole. I was only 2 miles from home and still 24 miles from the Pirate (who was at the archery range doing some standing-still practice), so i stuck a sock between the tire and the tube to protect the tube from gravel and road flotsam and crossed my fingers it would be enough to get me the rest of the way. it was.
Saturday was a bright, blue, beautiful day. We slept in late and made love in the sunshine.
Blue, beautiful day. (I took this photo of the sunflower fields about half a mile from the Pirate's house.
First stop was to the bike shop where we procured a new tire for my ride. Next stop was the car shop where we procured shampoo, polish, wax, and chamois cloth for the Pirate's new baby (known henceforth as The Big Car, because referring to it as The Aston is "just too pretentious for words," so sayeth the Pirate).
We got back and set to work at our respective tasks, me repairing my bike, putting the second canteen rack on, adjusting the derailer (which comes out of alignment every 100 miles or so, which for me is about 2 weeks) and generally tightening up things that work themselves lose from the vibrations. Also adding more reflective tape to things. Because one can never have too much reflective tape, can one?
Pirate set to work, whistling all the while, cleaning and shining the wire wheels on The Big Car and making everything sparkle. We admired our work. I put my car away and we climbed in his to go into the village, where we got ground sirloin, buns, and bleu cheese for burgers, and fresh corn and tomatoes at the farm stall. Dinner that night was burgers on the grill, sweetcorn, tomatoes, and beer, and we sat at the table in the back garden was watched the sun sink below the trees.
What struck me over and over again through the course of the day was just how normal it seemed. It was the most natural thing in the world, him playing with his car, me puttering around with my bike, shopping together, I cooked dinner (this is not an endorsement of a patriarchal culture -- I really really really love cooking and Pirate hates it, so this is just one of our divisions of labor: i cook, he cleans. We're both happy with this arrangement. The feminists can stop growling now) and we sat at the table and enjoyed the food, the surroundings, the season, and the company. For that evening I was in paradise, with not a care in the world that needed immediate attention beyond the fact that I overcooked the burgers slightly, and I had a glimpse of what live could (and hopefully will be) like. That's not to say that I expect every evening to be perfect like that one, but there's no reason why some of them can't be.
I proposed a stroll after dinner to aid the digestion and enjoy the last of the dwindling light. Pirate countered with a bike ride, which would do the same but be slightly more vigorous. I readily agreed, and we took a lovely 11k ride around the plateau where he lives, careening around quiet country lanes overlooking the most glorious vistas and valleys, spilled over with the golden evening sun. We picked some late season blackberries and sucked their juice. And anyone who thinks they need an afterlife and 72 virgins or harp-wielding angels to find paradise or true happiness has never been in love, or been loved.
Apricot light; end of day, end of summer.
I'm not trying to say that my life is perfect or better than anyone else's so nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-NYAH-NYAH or anything. I'm only trying to make the point that the world and our place in it is what we make it, and there's no reason to wait for the next life to be happy; it can be found in the here and now.
Anyway.
Sunday was a cricket day, and dawned clear and blue again. I've seen some of the most picturesque bits of the English countryside from her cricket fields, and yesterday was no exception. The game went well, with the Pirate getting run out at 96 runs. I was gutted. He hasn't had a century all season, and this was the very last game of the summer. I really wanted him to make his ton, but it didn't happen. As it was, it was still his best score of the season, so that was OK, and they won the game. His team mates were still talking about his performance the previous week, where a mighty 6 off his bat sailed over the clubhouse and won the game in the penultimate ball.
The Pirate bowling.
You can just make out red ball (click for bigness) on the left of the pic. He took a wicket with that one. Note for cricketers: as you can see he's bowling right-handed, which means he ran up on the left of the stumps. Look where his feet are. He's not standing on the wrong side of the track; he's more than a foot in the air.
(Better view: the scenic side of The Pirate.)
Toward the end of the match an amazing thing happened: the emergence of the crane flies. Crane flies are nasty, horrible, disgusting things. I don't like them. I acknowledge they have place in the world, but that place is in Pirate's carnivorous plants, not all over my legs and feet.
Exhibit A: one of Pirate's fly traps eating a crane fly. Yummers!
Crane flies lay their eggs in the grass where they become grubs which eat the roots (cricket pitch grass is, i'm told, especially delicious to them) and then emerge from the ground as adults to boink and make more flies. What no one told me is that they emerge all at once.
It was like a fucking Hitchcock movie. There we were sitting on the porch of the pavilion watching the sun set behind the last few overs of the match (which they won thanks to Pirate bowling 3 consecutive maidens and making the rate unacheivable for the opposition), when a lone crane fly crawled up over the wooden step onto the porch and approached my feet. I stepped on it. Then another one came. I stepped on that one too. Soon there were several. The women on the bench beside me started stepping on them. We looked down and there were dozens of them, all walking towards us. Actually, they were being blown gently by the wind, but we were facing square into the wind, so they came straight at us.
Then I looked up. The sun had burst through from behind the clouds creating the most spectacular sunset (also creating impossible condidtions for the poor batsmen), and what I saw next shocked, horrified, and captivated me. The low-angle of the sunlight was glinting off the wings of the crane flies as they emerged from the ground, and the criket pitch sparkled like a snow-field. There were millions of them, glittering and dancing in the sunset. It was at once one of the most beautiful and most disgusting things I have ever seen. I was not able to capture the effect on my camera.
We stopped in the pub across the street with the rest of the team and had dinner. (Chicken, bacon, and leek pies. Mmmm.) before heading home.
After a snuggly night I packed up my things, stuffed them in my sunflower-yellow paniers, and hit the highway, like a bee with giant pollen sacs heading back to the hive.
OOh, I almost forgot to mention: Pirate's boss asked the People In Charge if he could keep Pirate for a few extra months, so he won't be moving at the first of the year as planned. Instead he'll stay where he is (within cycling distance) for an extra three months! YAAAAAAAAY!!!!)
Friday night on the way to the Pirate's i blew a tire. Not just a puncture in the inner-tube -- that is a small matter i have dealth with many times before -- but an actual tire blow-out, where the tire itself split and left an inch-long hole. I was only 2 miles from home and still 24 miles from the Pirate (who was at the archery range doing some standing-still practice), so i stuck a sock between the tire and the tube to protect the tube from gravel and road flotsam and crossed my fingers it would be enough to get me the rest of the way. it was.
Saturday was a bright, blue, beautiful day. We slept in late and made love in the sunshine.
Blue, beautiful day. I did not nick this from teh interwebs.)
First stop was to the bike shop where we procured a new tire for my ride. Next stop was the car shop where we procured shampoo, polish, wax, and chamois cloth for the Pirate's new baby (known henceforth as The Big Car, because referring to it as The Aston is "just too pretentious for words," so sayeth the Pirate).
We got back and set to work at our respective tasks, me repairing my bike, putting the second canteen rack on, adjusting the derailer (which comes out of alignment every 100 miles or so, which for me is about 2 weeks) and generally tightening up things that work themselves lose from the vibrations. Also adding more reflective tape to things. Because one can never have too much reflective tape, can one?
Pirate set to work, whistling all the while, cleaning and shining the wire wheels on The Big Car and making everything sparkle. We admired our work. I put my car away and we climbed in his to go into the village, where we got ground sirloin, buns, and bleu cheese for burgers, and fresh corn and tomatoes at the farm stall. Dinner that night was burgers on the grill, sweetcorn, tomatoes, and beer, and we sat at the table in the back garden was watched the sun sink below the trees.
What struck me over and over again through the course of the day was just how normal it seemed. It was the most natural thing in the world, him playing with his car, me puttering around with my bike, shopping together, I cooked dinner (this is not an endorsement of a patriarchal culture -- I really really really love cooking and Pirate hates it, so this is just one of our divisions of labor: i cook, he cleans. We're both happy with this arrangement. The feminists can stop growling now) and we sat at the table and enjoyed the food, the surroundings, the season, and the company. For that evening I was in paradise, with not a care in the world that needed immediate attention beyond the fact that I overcooked the burgers slightly, and I had a glimpse of what live could (and hopefully will be) like. That's not to say that I expect every evening to be perfect like that one, but there's no reason why some of them can't be.
I proposed a stroll after dinner to aid the digestion and enjoy the last of the dwindling light. Pirate countered with a bike ride, which would do the same but be slightly more vigorous. I readily agreed, and we took a lovely 11k ride around the plateau where he lives, careening around quiet country lanes overlooking the most glorious vistas and valleys, spilled over with the golden evening sun. We picked some late season blackberries and sucked their juice. And anyone who thinks they need an afterlife and 72 virgins or harp-wielding angels to find paradise or true happiness has never been in love, or been loved.
Apricot light; end of day, end of summer.I'm not trying to say that my life is perfect or better than anyone else's so nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-NYAH-NYAH or anything. I'm only trying to make the point that the world and our place in it is what we make it, and there's no reason to wait for the next life to be happy; it can be found in the here and now.
Anyway.
Sunday was a cricket day, and dawned clear and blue again. I've seen some of the most picturesque bits of the English countryside from her cricket fields, and yesterday was no exception. The game went well, with the Pirate getting run out at 96 runs. I was gutted. He hasn't had a century all season, and this was the very last game of the summer. I really wanted him to make his ton, but it didn't happen. As it was, it was still his best score of the season, so that was OK, and they won the game. His team mates were still talking about his performance the previous week, where a mighty 6 off his bat sailed over the clubhouse and won the game in the penultimate ball.
The Pirate bowling. You can just make out red ball (click for bigness) on the left of the pic. He took a wicket with that one. Note for cricketers: as you can see he's bowling right-handed, which means he ran up on the left of the stumps. Look where his feet are. He's not standing on the wrong side of the track; he's more than a foot in the air.
(Better view: the scenic side of The Pirate.)(and people wonder why I like cricket.)
Toward the end of the match an amazing thing happened: the emergence of the crane flies. Crane flies are nasty, horrible, disgusting things. I don't like them. I acknowledge they have place in the world, but that place is in Pirate's carnivorous plants, not all over my legs and feet.
Exhibit A: one of Pirate's fly traps eating a crane fly. Yummers!Crane flies lay their eggs in the grass where they become grubs which eat the roots (cricket pitch grass is, i'm told, especially delicious to them) and then emerge from the ground as adults to boink and make more flies. What no one told me is that they emerge all at once.
It was like a fucking Hitchcock movie. There we were sitting on the porch of the pavilion watching the sun set behind the last few overs of the match (which they won thanks to Pirate bowling 3 consecutive maidens and making the rate unacheivable for the opposition), when a lone crane fly crawled up over the wooden step onto the porch and approached my feet. I stepped on it. Then another one came. I stepped on that one too. Soon there were several. The women on the bench beside me started stepping on them. We looked down and there were dozens of them, all walking towards us. Actually, they were being blown gently by the wind, but we were facing square into the wind, so they came straight at us.
Then I looked up. The sun had burst through from behind the clouds creating the most spectacular sunset (also creating impossible condidtions for the poor batsmen), and what I saw next shocked, horrified, and captivated me. The low-angle of the sunlight was glinting off the wings of the crane flies as they emerged from the ground, and the criket pitch sparkled like a snow-field. There were millions of them, glittering and dancing in the sunset. It was at once one of the most beautiful and most disgusting things I have ever seen. I was not able to capture the effect on my camera.
We stopped in the pub across the street with the rest of the team and had dinner. (Chicken, bacon, and leek pies. Mmmm.) before heading home.
After a snuggly night I packed up my things, stuffed them in my sunflower-yellow paniers, and hit the highway, like a bee with giant pollen sacs heading back to the hive.
OOh, I almost forgot to mention: Pirate's boss asked the People In Charge if he could keep Pirate for a few extra months, so he won't be moving at the first of the year as planned. Instead he'll stay where he is (within cycling distance) for an extra three months! YAAAAAAAAY!!!!)
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
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.
One year on... The Run-Up
This past weekend was my one-year anniversary with the Pirate. I'm going to desribe the events and feelings of the weekend in agonizing detail, because I want to be sure that in 50 years I still have a record of it to fill in the gaps in my happy, hazy memories, and because there are a lot of bits that I'm sure you lot will enjoy. This will likely be spread out over several posts...
We had a big weekend planned, but it kept growing and growing. Every moment was gorgeous, joyous, and filled with mental sunshine.
Friday he popped into Brizzle to pick me up. I would have been happy to cycle, but I needed to bring all the bits and bobs to make me beautiful for the ball on Saturday night, and I couldn't carry everything I needed on my own. I got out of work, threw the last few things in my bags (I began packing 3 days early), and waited downstairs. I had just sat down on the steps and opened my book when I heard his car horn outside. We listened to The Now Show on Radio 4 and laughed ourselves all the way to his place. (Marcus Brigstock is GOD.)
I had a nice dinner planned, so when we arrived at HMS Lovenest (as the Pirate's home shall henceforth be known) I immediately hit the galley. "It's been raining for a month and the grass has grown a foot. I'm going to go out back and destroy the garden while you're burning the sausages," he said. He donned the Yard Work Shoes (old trainers with holes that were once employed in the service of a Rocky Horror costume and spray-painted metallic gold), and I slipped into an apron. It was such a picture of domesticity even I couldn't help but laugh. We've properly turned into June and Ward Cleaver. I listened to the venison sausages sizzle and the lanwmower hum outside, and smiled.
Saturday was an early start. Pirate and I had to drive to some place south of London to check out a classic Aston Martin he's thinking about buying. We were out the door at 7:30. Ouch.
The drive was pleasant and we enjoyed the first sunshine we'd seen in weeks. The directions were complicated but detailed (I always get nervous when directions include items like "turn left by the high hedgerow"), and we found the place with no difficulty. If only the broker selling the car was as thorough with his automobiles as he is with his directions. I believed him when he said "I really believed the car was in operating condidtion. If I'd known it wasn't I would have phoned you and told you not to come," but if he'd bothered to get the thing out of the back of the garadge a day or two early and dust it off he would have known that it barely started and only engaged 4 of the 6 cylinders. We had to abandon the test drive after less than 100 yards. Trip wasted. Understandably, Pirate was not in a good mood. His bitterness at the waste of time was amplified by the let-down. After years of searching he thought he'd finally come across the model he wanted with the features he wanted in his price rance. Alas, it was not to be. We got back in his Skoda Dinghy and left.
On the way to the car place we'd spotted a PYO berry farm advertising ripe raspberries, the Pirate's second-fav fruit (blackberries being the first). We decided to make a spontaneous detour and pick some berries. This had the triple beneficial effect of 1, making the trip seem slightly less futile; 2, extending the break between outward and return drives; and 3, giving us an excuse to get out and enjoy the sunshine.
And enjoy it, we did. I was wearing a cute little sundress and frolicked, yes, frolicked, around the fields. They had far more than just raspberries -- they had loganberries and tayeberries as well. I'd never heard of either of the latter. P had heard of loganberries but had never tried them. We sampled a few plump specimines of each and became immediately enamoured, me with the loganberries and P with the tayeberries. We grabbed our baskets and began picking. An hour later we had more berries than we could carry, and had to make several trips from the fields to the car. I put my nose right down to one of the larger punnetts I'd picked and inhaled deeply. The fruit was warm and gave off a thick, intoxicating smell. Some things smell of summer because you associate them with summer (sunblock, burgers grilling, etc.). I had never smelled this smell in my life, but somewhere deep in my DNA I knew that this was the smell of summer.
Back on the road again we passed a sign that said "British Wildlife Centre." Que spontaneous detour numero dos. The place was much larger and more extensive (and expensive) that I would have guessed from the inauspiscous signage. In addition to the Scotish Wildcat breeding program, the herds of red and roe deer, the stoats, foxes, otters (Lutra lutra), bees, birds, and butterflies, there was a barn owl who slept on a perch in the visitors' center and danced in his sleep when you stroked his feathers (which were the softest thing I've ever touched), a tiny harvest mouse who clambered up and down the blades of grass in his cage, and a wild male pheasant who kept trying to break in to the pheasant enclosure to romance the hens therein. Hehehe.
Before we got to the water vole exhibit I could feel my shoulders getting hot. By the time we'd made it 'round to the eagle owl I knew I was toasting, and badly. I told the Pirate I needed to get under cover, and soon.
We'd seen pretty much everything, and needed to be getting back to the HMS Lovenest anyway so I would have ample time to bee-ootify myself for the evening's festivities: a formal ball. Back in the car, and this time no more procrastinating. We hit the highway and made tracks west.
At Reading P needed a short break and a nap in order to continue driving safely, so we pulled into a service center. I could already feel the burn coming up on my shoulders and decided to go inside to buy some aftersun. The first horrible thing about this stop was that when I got out of the car I left a significant portion of the skin from the back of my legs attached to the vinyl seat. That hurt like a bitch. The second horrible thing was that at a huge service center situated directly next door to a Travelodge there was no place to buy a toothbrush or any other toiletry basics, never mind a simple bottle of lotion. I got back in the car and put my feet up on the dashboard to prevent my thighs from coming into any further contact with the seat.
"Why are you sitting like that?" asked the Pirate.
I explained.
"Is the seat OK?"
I have not the words.
We arrived back that the L.N. at 5 pm with a freshly aquired bottle of after sun aloe gel, courtesy of the local supermarket. Time to get in the shower and begin preparing for the Big Event!
Stay tuned for Part 2, where our heroine addresses issues like
We had a big weekend planned, but it kept growing and growing. Every moment was gorgeous, joyous, and filled with mental sunshine.
Friday he popped into Brizzle to pick me up. I would have been happy to cycle, but I needed to bring all the bits and bobs to make me beautiful for the ball on Saturday night, and I couldn't carry everything I needed on my own. I got out of work, threw the last few things in my bags (I began packing 3 days early), and waited downstairs. I had just sat down on the steps and opened my book when I heard his car horn outside. We listened to The Now Show on Radio 4 and laughed ourselves all the way to his place. (Marcus Brigstock is GOD.)
I had a nice dinner planned, so when we arrived at HMS Lovenest (as the Pirate's home shall henceforth be known) I immediately hit the galley. "It's been raining for a month and the grass has grown a foot. I'm going to go out back and destroy the garden while you're burning the sausages," he said. He donned the Yard Work Shoes (old trainers with holes that were once employed in the service of a Rocky Horror costume and spray-painted metallic gold), and I slipped into an apron. It was such a picture of domesticity even I couldn't help but laugh. We've properly turned into June and Ward Cleaver. I listened to the venison sausages sizzle and the lanwmower hum outside, and smiled.
Saturday was an early start. Pirate and I had to drive to some place south of London to check out a classic Aston Martin he's thinking about buying. We were out the door at 7:30. Ouch.
The drive was pleasant and we enjoyed the first sunshine we'd seen in weeks. The directions were complicated but detailed (I always get nervous when directions include items like "turn left by the high hedgerow"), and we found the place with no difficulty. If only the broker selling the car was as thorough with his automobiles as he is with his directions. I believed him when he said "I really believed the car was in operating condidtion. If I'd known it wasn't I would have phoned you and told you not to come," but if he'd bothered to get the thing out of the back of the garadge a day or two early and dust it off he would have known that it barely started and only engaged 4 of the 6 cylinders. We had to abandon the test drive after less than 100 yards. Trip wasted. Understandably, Pirate was not in a good mood. His bitterness at the waste of time was amplified by the let-down. After years of searching he thought he'd finally come across the model he wanted with the features he wanted in his price rance. Alas, it was not to be. We got back in his Skoda Dinghy and left.
On the way to the car place we'd spotted a PYO berry farm advertising ripe raspberries, the Pirate's second-fav fruit (blackberries being the first). We decided to make a spontaneous detour and pick some berries. This had the triple beneficial effect of 1, making the trip seem slightly less futile; 2, extending the break between outward and return drives; and 3, giving us an excuse to get out and enjoy the sunshine.
And enjoy it, we did. I was wearing a cute little sundress and frolicked, yes, frolicked, around the fields. They had far more than just raspberries -- they had loganberries and tayeberries as well. I'd never heard of either of the latter. P had heard of loganberries but had never tried them. We sampled a few plump specimines of each and became immediately enamoured, me with the loganberries and P with the tayeberries. We grabbed our baskets and began picking. An hour later we had more berries than we could carry, and had to make several trips from the fields to the car. I put my nose right down to one of the larger punnetts I'd picked and inhaled deeply. The fruit was warm and gave off a thick, intoxicating smell. Some things smell of summer because you associate them with summer (sunblock, burgers grilling, etc.). I had never smelled this smell in my life, but somewhere deep in my DNA I knew that this was the smell of summer.
Back on the road again we passed a sign that said "British Wildlife Centre." Que spontaneous detour numero dos. The place was much larger and more extensive (and expensive) that I would have guessed from the inauspiscous signage. In addition to the Scotish Wildcat breeding program, the herds of red and roe deer, the stoats, foxes, otters (Lutra lutra), bees, birds, and butterflies, there was a barn owl who slept on a perch in the visitors' center and danced in his sleep when you stroked his feathers (which were the softest thing I've ever touched), a tiny harvest mouse who clambered up and down the blades of grass in his cage, and a wild male pheasant who kept trying to break in to the pheasant enclosure to romance the hens therein. Hehehe.
Before we got to the water vole exhibit I could feel my shoulders getting hot. By the time we'd made it 'round to the eagle owl I knew I was toasting, and badly. I told the Pirate I needed to get under cover, and soon.
We'd seen pretty much everything, and needed to be getting back to the HMS Lovenest anyway so I would have ample time to bee-ootify myself for the evening's festivities: a formal ball. Back in the car, and this time no more procrastinating. We hit the highway and made tracks west.
At Reading P needed a short break and a nap in order to continue driving safely, so we pulled into a service center. I could already feel the burn coming up on my shoulders and decided to go inside to buy some aftersun. The first horrible thing about this stop was that when I got out of the car I left a significant portion of the skin from the back of my legs attached to the vinyl seat. That hurt like a bitch. The second horrible thing was that at a huge service center situated directly next door to a Travelodge there was no place to buy a toothbrush or any other toiletry basics, never mind a simple bottle of lotion. I got back in the car and put my feet up on the dashboard to prevent my thighs from coming into any further contact with the seat.
"Why are you sitting like that?" asked the Pirate.
I explained.
"Is the seat OK?"
I have not the words.
We arrived back that the L.N. at 5 pm with a freshly aquired bottle of after sun aloe gel, courtesy of the local supermarket. Time to get in the shower and begin preparing for the Big Event!
Stay tuned for Part 2, where our heroine addresses issues like
- trying to create a hairstyle that doesn't say "a diseased rodent died on my head"
- coping with sunburn and tan lines while wearing a new, sexy, backless ball gown
- being dumped by one's date, who suddenly decides he prefers the company of another... !
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Bring on the Yeasty Beasties!
or: Confessions of an Inadequate Drinker of More Than Adequate Beer, and the Unfortunate Consequences,
or: How I Made a Right Tart of Myself on Sunday Night
UPDATE: (at bottom of post)
This is pretty personal and pretty detailed, which is why i didn't post it right away, but i've decided that it was an emotionally significant event and i could really use your thoughts. Sadly, in order to fully convey my horror at what transpired Sunday evening, I have to give you some pretty grapic details. Sorry. (Warning: disgusting details and whinging inferiority complex imminent!)
I have never been so embarassed in my entire life.
Sunday the Pirate's cricket game was cancelled because of the rain, which gave us the whole day to do whatever the fuck we pleased. Rainy sundays are great. Rainy sundays when i'm on the rag are considerably less great. So much for the usual Olympic marathon bedroom gymnastics. Bah. So we had to find other ways to amuse ourselves indoors.
So we did pleasant Domestic Things. We went to the outdoors store and got ourselves some necessary bicycle bits and parts, went to the grocery store for milk and toilet paper (that most necessary accessory for modern life), and stopped by the pet store to procure me a new fish (photos to follow shortly, after i get my camera batteries charged). That killed half the day.
So I rang up some pals to see if anyone wanted to go bowling. i managed to get flatmate B, former flatmate Welsh Cake, and her boyf the Yorkshire Pudding on board. (Me, i'm the American Pie, and Pirate is known in these parts as my Lancashire Hotpot. Getting the Hotpot and the Pud together is always great fun; they can spend hours insulting each other's heritage -- it's brilliant!)
We had So. Much. Fun. The bowling alley is shite, and the laminate floors (as opposed to polished wood) mean i get absolutely no slide, so my scores were shite too, but that wasn't the point. The Welsh Cake is the worst bowler I've ever seen -- bless her cotton socks -- so when she finally got a strike we all jumped up and danced like Muppets. Not muppets in the generic sense, i mean Muppets, those wonderful creations of Jim Henson's with their very distictive dancing style (head thrown back, arms straight out in front, hips and hands girating back and forth). Even the Pirate got in. Actually, he started it. and i LOVE that he is the sort of man who will go out in public with his girlfriend and her friends and has no compuntions whatsoever about looking like a complete tit and dancing in a bowling alley. god i love that man. he's more man than any man i've ever met, and he's still a complete kid inside, too.
We had so much fun we didn't want the fun to end, so after our 2 games we piled into the car and went to The Mall in Clifton Village, my favorite pub in Bristol. It's got a great vibe, great ambience, great music, comfy furniture, and the best selection of Belgian beers on draught of any pub I've seen (in a country other than Belgium).
I started going there for the Hoegaarden, but one day when they were out i discoverd the Leffe. Oh sweet mother of god that's good beer. And very strong. They normally only serve it in half pints, but the (Belgian lesbian) barmaid who served me (and tried to chat me up) was perfectly happy to pull me a pint. Whee! At 6.5% that went down too fast and too smooth. So i moved on to a pint of Fruli -- a strawberry wheat beer that actually contains strawberries, and not just strawberry cough syrup. That's good beer, too.
Then for some reason i decided I wanted a half pint of the Schneider Weisse, another lovely brew. Except aforementioned lesbian Belgian barmaid pulled me a whole pint. Did i only drink half? Did i fuck.
Normally 3 pints, even three strong pints, wouldn't be enough to make me more than slightly tipsy, so i didn't worry too much. I'm Polish, remember? But i had forgotten about dual facts that a, i havn't drunk much in the past several months, so i don't have much of a tolerance, and b, all i'd eaten since lunch time was a 6" sandwich at Subway, and that was several hours past already (pre-bowling). So i had NO food in my stomach to sop up the deliscious yeasty beasties.
When we got back to my place and bid the Cake, the Pud, and B goodnight and closed the door, then did i begin to realize how far gone i truely was. i told the Pirate i wanted to clear my head, and went downstairs to walk around the block. It was raining, but i jogged 4 laps around the block anyway, hoping to speed up my metablolism and process the alcohol a bit faster. (I never get drunk when I'm dancing no matter how much i drink, so i figured this should work.) It didn't. I was drunk and wet. I went back upstairs where the Pirate had laid out the air mattress and sleeping bag for me (it was my turn on the floor -- he's had it the past 3 weekends), along with my teddy bear and feather pillow and filled 2 pint glasses with water, which he ordered me to drink.
(Warning to male readers: details of menstrual condidtion imminent!) Now, because Aunt Flow was visiting we hadn't had any nookie all weekend, and because last weekend we were so fucking sick and and exhausted, it had been a while. I was randy. really, really randy. But the good news was that i hadn't had a drop of blood since the previous night. I had considered jumping the Pirate in the morning, but decided to give it another day just to be sure. By sunday evening when i was still clean i decided the coast was clear and announced such. Someone was very happy indeed. Two someones, really. (Attention male readers: you can open your eyes now.)
This is where my memory starts to get a bit fuzzy, but i remember most everything. I hope.
We started kissing, but every time I closed my eyes i got really dizzy and nauseous. We tried to lie down on the bed but being horizontal was a Bad Idea and my equilibrium told me so. So we stood up and i tried to go down on the P, but after a few seconds the nausea became too great and i had to bolt for the bathroom, where i threw up three times.
The Pirate asked if i was OK, and i said that honestly yes, i felt much better having emptied my system, and i did. So we carried on, standing up. It was all going terribly well, and we had a lovely time. After everyone was satisfied, tired, and happy, i got off and...
(warning: gross bit coming up)... there was blood everywhere. I was mortified. I have never made such a mess in my life. I'm not opposed to shagging while ragging in principle, and have done it before -- taking appropriate measures, such as a thick black towel on the bed -- but the Pirate is not a fan. This is ok with me, and i respect his feelings on this matter. But even i have never seen such a mess. It was disgusting, and it was everywhere.
Pirate went into the bathroom to clean up, while i sat on the bed amidst a pool of sticky embarassment. When he came out i went to get cleaned up, was overcome with nausea again (i was still rather drunk) and proceeded to throw up again. and again.
I honestly don't know which embarassed me more, the blood or the puking. Either one would have been enough make me want to move to another country and never show my face again, but both in one night is almost more than i can bear. Pirate was incredibly understanding, and wiped away my tears and told me everything was fine and he didn't care and just wanted to make sure i was OK.
The following morning (managed to dodge the hangover; i think the yakking helped there), i was still crying from embarassment, and again Pirate told me to stop being silly that everything was fine, and gently wiped the tears from my face, told me that of course he forgives me when i asked him, and kissed me.
But (in a stupid, backwards, totally illogical way) this just makes everything worse!
He's so goddamn perfect! if he would do something assenine, just once, he would be easier to believe. Even if he said something like "yup, you really fucked up, and there is nothing sexy about a bleeding, barfing drunk woman, but you are still a wonderful person and i still love you," i could take that. But he doesn't even acknowledge that i did anything wrong, which makes me wonder "What is he really thinking??? What is he not telling me???" No one can possibly be that understanding.
Can they?
That's the other possibilty: he really is that sympathetic and understanding, which makes me feel all the more inadequate. He's just too good for me. He's the most wonderful man alive, treats me like a queen, and how do i repay him? By bleeding and barfing all over him. Fucking great girlfriend i am.
So HOW CAN I STOP FEELING GUILTY????
UPDATE: All afternoon while i've been sitting here writing this and feeling like a giant disgusting shit, do you know what the Pirate was doing? This was our text conversation:
P: Having a productive day?... [stuff about his day]
me: Hullo! I'm fine. I got my bike back from the shop. Whee!
P: Good stuff. I'm off out to pick you a carrier bag of wild garlic. How long does it go in the oven for?
That's right. While I've been sitting here feeling like a monster, he was out wandering the wild woods of Wiltshire to pick me loads of wild garlic for my cooking.
I can't get over how sweet that is. That's right up there with the omelette for thoughtful gestures. He's not going to use it -- he hates cooking! He's doing it entirely for me! It also sends the message of how much he appreciates my cooking, and wants to do something to contribute.
He's too good for me. I don't deserve him. I bleed and barf all over him and what does he do? He spends an evening gathering me a bag of wild cooking herbs. I don't think I can ever be good enough for him, but i desperately want to spend the rest of my life trying.
or: How I Made a Right Tart of Myself on Sunday Night
UPDATE: (at bottom of post)
This is pretty personal and pretty detailed, which is why i didn't post it right away, but i've decided that it was an emotionally significant event and i could really use your thoughts. Sadly, in order to fully convey my horror at what transpired Sunday evening, I have to give you some pretty grapic details. Sorry. (Warning: disgusting details and whinging inferiority complex imminent!)
I have never been so embarassed in my entire life.
Sunday the Pirate's cricket game was cancelled because of the rain, which gave us the whole day to do whatever the fuck we pleased. Rainy sundays are great. Rainy sundays when i'm on the rag are considerably less great. So much for the usual Olympic marathon bedroom gymnastics. Bah. So we had to find other ways to amuse ourselves indoors.
So we did pleasant Domestic Things. We went to the outdoors store and got ourselves some necessary bicycle bits and parts, went to the grocery store for milk and toilet paper (that most necessary accessory for modern life), and stopped by the pet store to procure me a new fish (photos to follow shortly, after i get my camera batteries charged). That killed half the day.
So I rang up some pals to see if anyone wanted to go bowling. i managed to get flatmate B, former flatmate Welsh Cake, and her boyf the Yorkshire Pudding on board. (Me, i'm the American Pie, and Pirate is known in these parts as my Lancashire Hotpot. Getting the Hotpot and the Pud together is always great fun; they can spend hours insulting each other's heritage -- it's brilliant!)
We had So. Much. Fun. The bowling alley is shite, and the laminate floors (as opposed to polished wood) mean i get absolutely no slide, so my scores were shite too, but that wasn't the point. The Welsh Cake is the worst bowler I've ever seen -- bless her cotton socks -- so when she finally got a strike we all jumped up and danced like Muppets. Not muppets in the generic sense, i mean Muppets, those wonderful creations of Jim Henson's with their very distictive dancing style (head thrown back, arms straight out in front, hips and hands girating back and forth). Even the Pirate got in. Actually, he started it. and i LOVE that he is the sort of man who will go out in public with his girlfriend and her friends and has no compuntions whatsoever about looking like a complete tit and dancing in a bowling alley. god i love that man. he's more man than any man i've ever met, and he's still a complete kid inside, too.
We had so much fun we didn't want the fun to end, so after our 2 games we piled into the car and went to The Mall in Clifton Village, my favorite pub in Bristol. It's got a great vibe, great ambience, great music, comfy furniture, and the best selection of Belgian beers on draught of any pub I've seen (in a country other than Belgium).
I started going there for the Hoegaarden, but one day when they were out i discoverd the Leffe. Oh sweet mother of god that's good beer. And very strong. They normally only serve it in half pints, but the (Belgian lesbian) barmaid who served me (and tried to chat me up) was perfectly happy to pull me a pint. Whee! At 6.5% that went down too fast and too smooth. So i moved on to a pint of Fruli -- a strawberry wheat beer that actually contains strawberries, and not just strawberry cough syrup. That's good beer, too.
Then for some reason i decided I wanted a half pint of the Schneider Weisse, another lovely brew. Except aforementioned lesbian Belgian barmaid pulled me a whole pint. Did i only drink half? Did i fuck.
Normally 3 pints, even three strong pints, wouldn't be enough to make me more than slightly tipsy, so i didn't worry too much. I'm Polish, remember? But i had forgotten about dual facts that a, i havn't drunk much in the past several months, so i don't have much of a tolerance, and b, all i'd eaten since lunch time was a 6" sandwich at Subway, and that was several hours past already (pre-bowling). So i had NO food in my stomach to sop up the deliscious yeasty beasties.
When we got back to my place and bid the Cake, the Pud, and B goodnight and closed the door, then did i begin to realize how far gone i truely was. i told the Pirate i wanted to clear my head, and went downstairs to walk around the block. It was raining, but i jogged 4 laps around the block anyway, hoping to speed up my metablolism and process the alcohol a bit faster. (I never get drunk when I'm dancing no matter how much i drink, so i figured this should work.) It didn't. I was drunk and wet. I went back upstairs where the Pirate had laid out the air mattress and sleeping bag for me (it was my turn on the floor -- he's had it the past 3 weekends), along with my teddy bear and feather pillow and filled 2 pint glasses with water, which he ordered me to drink.
(Warning to male readers: details of menstrual condidtion imminent!) Now, because Aunt Flow was visiting we hadn't had any nookie all weekend, and because last weekend we were so fucking sick and and exhausted, it had been a while. I was randy. really, really randy. But the good news was that i hadn't had a drop of blood since the previous night. I had considered jumping the Pirate in the morning, but decided to give it another day just to be sure. By sunday evening when i was still clean i decided the coast was clear and announced such. Someone was very happy indeed. Two someones, really. (Attention male readers: you can open your eyes now.)
This is where my memory starts to get a bit fuzzy, but i remember most everything. I hope.
We started kissing, but every time I closed my eyes i got really dizzy and nauseous. We tried to lie down on the bed but being horizontal was a Bad Idea and my equilibrium told me so. So we stood up and i tried to go down on the P, but after a few seconds the nausea became too great and i had to bolt for the bathroom, where i threw up three times.
The Pirate asked if i was OK, and i said that honestly yes, i felt much better having emptied my system, and i did. So we carried on, standing up. It was all going terribly well, and we had a lovely time. After everyone was satisfied, tired, and happy, i got off and...
(warning: gross bit coming up)... there was blood everywhere. I was mortified. I have never made such a mess in my life. I'm not opposed to shagging while ragging in principle, and have done it before -- taking appropriate measures, such as a thick black towel on the bed -- but the Pirate is not a fan. This is ok with me, and i respect his feelings on this matter. But even i have never seen such a mess. It was disgusting, and it was everywhere.
Pirate went into the bathroom to clean up, while i sat on the bed amidst a pool of sticky embarassment. When he came out i went to get cleaned up, was overcome with nausea again (i was still rather drunk) and proceeded to throw up again. and again.
I honestly don't know which embarassed me more, the blood or the puking. Either one would have been enough make me want to move to another country and never show my face again, but both in one night is almost more than i can bear. Pirate was incredibly understanding, and wiped away my tears and told me everything was fine and he didn't care and just wanted to make sure i was OK.
The following morning (managed to dodge the hangover; i think the yakking helped there), i was still crying from embarassment, and again Pirate told me to stop being silly that everything was fine, and gently wiped the tears from my face, told me that of course he forgives me when i asked him, and kissed me.
But (in a stupid, backwards, totally illogical way) this just makes everything worse!
He's so goddamn perfect! if he would do something assenine, just once, he would be easier to believe. Even if he said something like "yup, you really fucked up, and there is nothing sexy about a bleeding, barfing drunk woman, but you are still a wonderful person and i still love you," i could take that. But he doesn't even acknowledge that i did anything wrong, which makes me wonder "What is he really thinking??? What is he not telling me???" No one can possibly be that understanding.
Can they?
That's the other possibilty: he really is that sympathetic and understanding, which makes me feel all the more inadequate. He's just too good for me. He's the most wonderful man alive, treats me like a queen, and how do i repay him? By bleeding and barfing all over him. Fucking great girlfriend i am.
So HOW CAN I STOP FEELING GUILTY????
UPDATE: All afternoon while i've been sitting here writing this and feeling like a giant disgusting shit, do you know what the Pirate was doing? This was our text conversation:
P: Having a productive day?... [stuff about his day]
me: Hullo! I'm fine. I got my bike back from the shop. Whee!
P: Good stuff. I'm off out to pick you a carrier bag of wild garlic. How long does it go in the oven for?
That's right. While I've been sitting here feeling like a monster, he was out wandering the wild woods of Wiltshire to pick me loads of wild garlic for my cooking.
I can't get over how sweet that is. That's right up there with the omelette for thoughtful gestures. He's not going to use it -- he hates cooking! He's doing it entirely for me! It also sends the message of how much he appreciates my cooking, and wants to do something to contribute.
He's too good for me. I don't deserve him. I bleed and barf all over him and what does he do? He spends an evening gathering me a bag of wild cooking herbs. I don't think I can ever be good enough for him, but i desperately want to spend the rest of my life trying.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The Unceasing Wonderfulness of the Pirate
Last week was shit. It was worse than shit. It was the bacteria on the shit. It was the shit from the shit-muching bacteria. (Hence the lack of posting.)
"Why was your week shit from shit-munching bacteria?" I hear you all ask.
Let me tell you.
Largely, it was the pain issue. Since December my back had been getting a lot better, and only popped and hurt occasionally. I was even doing some light sculling. (This was back in March.) Then, a couple weeks before Easter, things started going downhill, and fast.
By last Tuesday I was in constant, splitting pain. It was as bad as it had been back in November at the time of the initial injury. I had gone all the way back to square one.
Phyically, I was less than useless. I couldn't sit at a desk, which made working impossible. I couldn't bend over, which made everyday life impossible. And I was in constant agony. None of the painkillers I had helped. Wednesday I actually called in sick to my temp agency and told them I couldn't do the job they had scheduled for me. I felt like a complete heel.
And psychologically I was falling to pieces.
(Ironic aside: the people at the office where I work every Friday told me the love because I'm always so cheerful and sunny, unlike the girl who holds my post monday through thursday, who is apparently depressed and does nothing but whine all the time. It seems I manage a pretty good facade.)
I've been afraid to share these feeling with the Pirate because I don't want him to think I'm a nutter as well as damaged goods.
Friday I finally went for a mental health evaluation. I decided there was no point in living like this if I didn't have to. I filled out their forms and told them everything I've told you (and then some), and my GP's conclusion was that I am "significantly depressed."
Finally the NHS gets something right!
So now I'm on happy pills! whee.
Are you wondering about the title yet? So far this has all been "woe is me," and not much "hail the Pirate."
So Friday night the P came over, as usual. He knew it had been a rough week, (he even brought me strawberries to cheer me up) but he really didn't have any idea how bad I was. He found out pretty quickly when he arrived and I burst out into tears. I told him everything, including being on anti-depressant meds, which he seemed ok with.
I was in no condition to cook, so he took me for dinner to an Italian restaurant I like. Unfortunatley something I ate had a violent arguement with my stomach because I had barely finished my cappuchino when the churning started. I almost didn't make it home before the trots began.
Not being able to bend over, I had difficulty getting myself undressed, so the P helped me out of my clothes (he's got some experience at that), and got me into some loose, comfy jammies. Every Friday we listen to replays of our favorite radio programs on my computer (available from the BBC Radio 4 website), so he put on some soft lights, got the programs playing (The News Quiz and Genius), and settled himself on my bed where he let me lay against his chest, all propped up with pillows to make me still and comfy. And for 2 hours I just lay there, stomach churning, back aching, half-listening to the radio and crying quietly while he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead. Eventually the meds took hold and I fell asleep in his arms. At some point he got up and laid out the bedroll and sleeping bag for himself and went to sleep on the floor, but I was long since unconscious.
The following day, Saturday, was much better. The muscle-relaxant really seemed to help and for the first time in a week I wasn't in pain. Pirate had a cricket match, but I wanted to stay in Bristol to watch the Varstiy Boat Race between Bristol and UWE.
It was a glorious day to be down by the harborside. The sun was shining, there was a light breeze, conditions on the water were excellent, and University of Bristol Boat club kicked ass. We won 4 out of 5 races, the senior women being the only Bristol crew that lost. (I maintain this is becuase I was on the bank and not in the boat where I should have been.)
I felt wonderful. I could move and bend and stand and sit without stabbing pain. I shouted myself hoarse cheering for my team mates, and saw loads of friends I havn't spoke to in ages, some of them in years. I even ran into a old team mate of mine from Manchester, Speedy. I havn't seen Speedy in over 3 years. What a coincidence! It was a great day. I was only sorry the P couldn't be there with me to share it.
Then I set out on my bike to the P's house. It's about 23 miles, but it's a really nice journey. Unless of course you get two punctures in your rear tire, you realize that your rear wheel is so warped that the brakes can't work properly. (See previous post.)
When the Pirate came to collect me I felt really guilty. (When I called he was hanging out at the club watching the world cup final on the big projection TV.) He was so cheerful about it, though. He pulled up to the curb, kissed me, and gave me an orange and a banana to much on while he futzed around putting the back seat down in the car and loading the bike in.
As we headed off home he said, "Right! Here's the plan: when we get home, you're going to get in the shower and get cleaned up while I unload the bike and put the car to rights. Then we're going back down to the club to watch Sri Lanka kick the Australians' smug asses on the big projection TV."
Problem: I hadn't packed any clothes!!!!!
I knew I'd be arriving late in the evening, and that I'd be leaving first thing in the morning for the boathouse, where I'd just be wearing my stanking cycling clothes again, and going straight home from there. So I didn't see the need to pack real clothes. All I had was my pyjamas.
"No problem!" came the reply from our cheerful hero. "You can wear mine! Lucky we're the same size, eh?"
So there I was at the Pirate's local cricket club wearing his black track-suit bottoms and a T-shirt that's slightly tight on him. They fit pefectly. Scary.
When the (disappointing) outcome of the match became apparent we went home and looked at the bike, where the (disappointing) state of the bike became apparent. Time for bed.
Sunday promised to be another lovely day. I was still feeling pretty good, not much pain, but the combination of the valium and co-codomol at night make it pretty hard to come awake in the morning. It doesnt' help that the happy pills i take in the morning also make me groggy. It's a bit like walking underwater all the time.
Normally when I have to get up early and the P doesn't I just get dressed, fix myself some breakfast, and sneak out. This time the P got up with me and fixed me an omlette for breakfast.
The significance of this is not to be overlooked.
In the 9 months we've been together, the number of times he's cooked for me can be counted on one hand, and he's never, ever made me breakfast. (Unless you count slicing the bread for my toast for me.)
But sunday he made me an honest-to-god omlette. It's the little things; it really is. That omlette said "I love you" more than a fancy gift ever could.
"Why was your week shit from shit-munching bacteria?" I hear you all ask.
Let me tell you.
Largely, it was the pain issue. Since December my back had been getting a lot better, and only popped and hurt occasionally. I was even doing some light sculling. (This was back in March.) Then, a couple weeks before Easter, things started going downhill, and fast.
By last Tuesday I was in constant, splitting pain. It was as bad as it had been back in November at the time of the initial injury. I had gone all the way back to square one.
Phyically, I was less than useless. I couldn't sit at a desk, which made working impossible. I couldn't bend over, which made everyday life impossible. And I was in constant agony. None of the painkillers I had helped. Wednesday I actually called in sick to my temp agency and told them I couldn't do the job they had scheduled for me. I felt like a complete heel.
And psychologically I was falling to pieces.
- I hadn't rowed or been on the water for ages, which was making me miserable.
- I hadn't been able to do any other significant exercise as a substitute, so I wasn't getting my usual regular doses of seratonin endorphins or whatever the hell the brain chemical is that's stimulated during exercise. That stuff is critical to my mental health, and I bloody well know it.
- My inability to go about my daily life without assistance has been making me fell broken and a burden to those around me, espeically the Pirate. I've been fearful that he might leave me because he deserves a woman who is strong and healthy and who doesn't need looking after. I know this is irrational, but knowing it's irrational doesn't make the feeling go away.
- My inability to sit and work for any long period of time was making getting research done difficult to say the least, and when I was sitting I was in pain which was making it all but impossible to focus.
- Falling behind in the work was stressing me out.
- My aunt fell and broke both her feet. She's 74 and morbidly obese. This is a problem.
- My dad has just been in for surgery (well, you already know about that bit).
- My other aunt has a lump and has to have a biopsy to determine malignancy.
- The kid in the flat next door to mine dropped dead in the shower last sunday. We were friends. He was 23. Heart attack. No one saw it coming.
- Did I mention my back hurts?
(Ironic aside: the people at the office where I work every Friday told me the love because I'm always so cheerful and sunny, unlike the girl who holds my post monday through thursday, who is apparently depressed and does nothing but whine all the time. It seems I manage a pretty good facade.)
I've been afraid to share these feeling with the Pirate because I don't want him to think I'm a nutter as well as damaged goods.
Friday I finally went for a mental health evaluation. I decided there was no point in living like this if I didn't have to. I filled out their forms and told them everything I've told you (and then some), and my GP's conclusion was that I am "significantly depressed."
Finally the NHS gets something right!
So now I'm on happy pills! whee.
Are you wondering about the title yet? So far this has all been "woe is me," and not much "hail the Pirate."
So Friday night the P came over, as usual. He knew it had been a rough week, (he even brought me strawberries to cheer me up) but he really didn't have any idea how bad I was. He found out pretty quickly when he arrived and I burst out into tears. I told him everything, including being on anti-depressant meds, which he seemed ok with.
I was in no condition to cook, so he took me for dinner to an Italian restaurant I like. Unfortunatley something I ate had a violent arguement with my stomach because I had barely finished my cappuchino when the churning started. I almost didn't make it home before the trots began.
Not being able to bend over, I had difficulty getting myself undressed, so the P helped me out of my clothes (he's got some experience at that), and got me into some loose, comfy jammies. Every Friday we listen to replays of our favorite radio programs on my computer (available from the BBC Radio 4 website), so he put on some soft lights, got the programs playing (The News Quiz and Genius), and settled himself on my bed where he let me lay against his chest, all propped up with pillows to make me still and comfy. And for 2 hours I just lay there, stomach churning, back aching, half-listening to the radio and crying quietly while he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead. Eventually the meds took hold and I fell asleep in his arms. At some point he got up and laid out the bedroll and sleeping bag for himself and went to sleep on the floor, but I was long since unconscious.
The following day, Saturday, was much better. The muscle-relaxant really seemed to help and for the first time in a week I wasn't in pain. Pirate had a cricket match, but I wanted to stay in Bristol to watch the Varstiy Boat Race between Bristol and UWE.
It was a glorious day to be down by the harborside. The sun was shining, there was a light breeze, conditions on the water were excellent, and University of Bristol Boat club kicked ass. We won 4 out of 5 races, the senior women being the only Bristol crew that lost. (I maintain this is becuase I was on the bank and not in the boat where I should have been.)
I felt wonderful. I could move and bend and stand and sit without stabbing pain. I shouted myself hoarse cheering for my team mates, and saw loads of friends I havn't spoke to in ages, some of them in years. I even ran into a old team mate of mine from Manchester, Speedy. I havn't seen Speedy in over 3 years. What a coincidence! It was a great day. I was only sorry the P couldn't be there with me to share it.
Then I set out on my bike to the P's house. It's about 23 miles, but it's a really nice journey. Unless of course you get two punctures in your rear tire, you realize that your rear wheel is so warped that the brakes can't work properly. (See previous post.)
When the Pirate came to collect me I felt really guilty. (When I called he was hanging out at the club watching the world cup final on the big projection TV.) He was so cheerful about it, though. He pulled up to the curb, kissed me, and gave me an orange and a banana to much on while he futzed around putting the back seat down in the car and loading the bike in.
As we headed off home he said, "Right! Here's the plan: when we get home, you're going to get in the shower and get cleaned up while I unload the bike and put the car to rights. Then we're going back down to the club to watch Sri Lanka kick the Australians' smug asses on the big projection TV."
Problem: I hadn't packed any clothes!!!!!
I knew I'd be arriving late in the evening, and that I'd be leaving first thing in the morning for the boathouse, where I'd just be wearing my stanking cycling clothes again, and going straight home from there. So I didn't see the need to pack real clothes. All I had was my pyjamas.
"No problem!" came the reply from our cheerful hero. "You can wear mine! Lucky we're the same size, eh?"
So there I was at the Pirate's local cricket club wearing his black track-suit bottoms and a T-shirt that's slightly tight on him. They fit pefectly. Scary.
When the (disappointing) outcome of the match became apparent we went home and looked at the bike, where the (disappointing) state of the bike became apparent. Time for bed.
Sunday promised to be another lovely day. I was still feeling pretty good, not much pain, but the combination of the valium and co-codomol at night make it pretty hard to come awake in the morning. It doesnt' help that the happy pills i take in the morning also make me groggy. It's a bit like walking underwater all the time.
Normally when I have to get up early and the P doesn't I just get dressed, fix myself some breakfast, and sneak out. This time the P got up with me and fixed me an omlette for breakfast.
The significance of this is not to be overlooked.
In the 9 months we've been together, the number of times he's cooked for me can be counted on one hand, and he's never, ever made me breakfast. (Unless you count slicing the bread for my toast for me.)
But sunday he made me an honest-to-god omlette. It's the little things; it really is. That omlette said "I love you" more than a fancy gift ever could.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Personal to Emily Post: Fuck Off
A charming individual calling him/herself Emily Post had this to say in response to my post, Happy VD.
"he had the good sense to take me at my word. "
The fact that you had the need to write about it, just to say it out loud: I don't mind that he didn't do anything for me on V-Day, sort of shows how you did mind, and deep down, you wish he did something.
Regardless of the occasion, love is present. Therefore, to pay special attention to a particular day (however cheesy or overrated it is) to celebrate love just for the heck of it, means something.
Everyone wants fireworks. Even married couples who go out of their way to revive the fires that have somewhat been watered down over time.
You should be more upfront about your feelings. And he should stop treating you like one of the guys.
You're right, dear. I should be more upfront about my feelings.** Starting now.
Fuck right off, you patronizing, sanctimonious, self-important cunt!!!
Ooh, that felt good.
I know I shouldn't let verbal feces deposited in my comments box by an anonymous wanker get to me, but this was personal. This is someone telling me how I should feel and and how I and my absolutely wonderful, affectionate, generous boyfriend should act.
See Emily, here's the thing. Bitches like you are the reason it's so hard for women like me to convince men that there are honest women in the world who speak their mind and don't play the manipulative games you condone. You find it unfathomable that someone could actually mean what they say. You automatically assume I must have some kind of hidden motive. You assume this because that is exactly how you behave.
You're right about one thing: love is present, regardless of the day. That is precisely why the day is so superfluous! When I say that every weekend with the Pirate is like Christmas, my birthday, Valentine's and the Fourth of July rolled into one, it's because he really IS that generous all the time. What would you rather have: a boyfriend who takes you to a gorgeous, very posh, romantic, candlelight dinner on Valentine's day, or a boyfriend who does it on a random saturday just because? Exactly.
And what the fuck makes you think we don't have fireworks???! You're making an awful lot of personal, and rather ballsy, assumptions for someone who has never met either one of us.
Your comment about him treating me "like one of the boys" is offensive on several levels. They are as follows:
**Anyone out there who thinks I'm not upfront about my feelings, raise your hand.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
"he had the good sense to take me at my word. "
The fact that you had the need to write about it, just to say it out loud: I don't mind that he didn't do anything for me on V-Day, sort of shows how you did mind, and deep down, you wish he did something.
Regardless of the occasion, love is present. Therefore, to pay special attention to a particular day (however cheesy or overrated it is) to celebrate love just for the heck of it, means something.
Everyone wants fireworks. Even married couples who go out of their way to revive the fires that have somewhat been watered down over time.
You should be more upfront about your feelings. And he should stop treating you like one of the guys.
You're right, dear. I should be more upfront about my feelings.** Starting now.
Fuck right off, you patronizing, sanctimonious, self-important cunt!!!
Ooh, that felt good.
I know I shouldn't let verbal feces deposited in my comments box by an anonymous wanker get to me, but this was personal. This is someone telling me how I should feel and and how I and my absolutely wonderful, affectionate, generous boyfriend should act.
See Emily, here's the thing. Bitches like you are the reason it's so hard for women like me to convince men that there are honest women in the world who speak their mind and don't play the manipulative games you condone. You find it unfathomable that someone could actually mean what they say. You automatically assume I must have some kind of hidden motive. You assume this because that is exactly how you behave.
You're right about one thing: love is present, regardless of the day. That is precisely why the day is so superfluous! When I say that every weekend with the Pirate is like Christmas, my birthday, Valentine's and the Fourth of July rolled into one, it's because he really IS that generous all the time. What would you rather have: a boyfriend who takes you to a gorgeous, very posh, romantic, candlelight dinner on Valentine's day, or a boyfriend who does it on a random saturday just because? Exactly.
And what the fuck makes you think we don't have fireworks???! You're making an awful lot of personal, and rather ballsy, assumptions for someone who has never met either one of us.
Your comment about him treating me "like one of the boys" is offensive on several levels. They are as follows:
- There is nothing wrong with spending time with one's boyfriend while talking about/watching/playing sports, talking cars, playing video games, or doing the other things you imagine boys do. There is nothing wrong with this because first and foremost we are best friends, and that, more than anything else, is why we will still love each other and love being with each other when we're old and grey and broken.
- The flippancy of your tone insults men everywhere, and suggests that the bonds formed between heterosexual males are somehow weaker or less valid than those formed between sexual partners. I have observed that many men form incredibly strong attachments with their mates, often a loyalty surpassing that of their loyalty to a sexual partner. If this is the sort of deep, fraternal bond the Pirate feels toward me I would not feel slighted in the least.
- You are making an assertion about the nature of the relationship between me and my boyfriend based on absolutely no evidence because, as I pointed out earlier, you've never me either one of us.
- You not only assume you know something about me/us that you don't, but you presume to tell my boyfriend how to behave towards me! This I find utterly appalling. Based on what you've written above, I can safely say that if the Pirate were to follow any of your advice, it would be a significant decline in the quality of our relationship. If you have a boyfriend, I pity him. I would rather roll in broken glass and swim in a pool of lemon juice than spend 5 minutes in a room with you.
**Anyone out there who thinks I'm not upfront about my feelings, raise your hand.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Happy VD
Does anyone out there actually like VD? Everyone I know complains about it. So why do we perpetuate this unwanted, unwelcomed, angst and guilt-ridden commercial holiday by buying roses, chocolates, cards and jewelry?
Here's the fundamental problem: happy, loving couples don't need a cheesy, fake, commerical holiday to express their affection and devotion, and lonely people really don't want their noses rubbed in their singlehood. So who is this for???
I'm almost disappointed that the Pirate is coming over tomorrow night. He was going to come over tonight, and I was going to spend VD learning programming in Basic from Flatmate B, with the aim of teaching me how to write software programs that assist my linguistic analysis of medieval texts. I thought learning about computer programming sounded like an awesome way to spend VD. But it turns out that tonight is inconvenient for the Pirate, so he's coming around tomoz instead. That's ok. He knows how I feel about the day, and he won't do anything. Becuase when I told him "I hate VD, I don't celebrate it or mark it in any way (except to complain a bit more than usual), so please don't buy me anything or do anything special," he had the good sense to take me at my word.
When I told him, "don't buy me anything for Christmas becuase you're spending a fortune on a plane ticket and having you there is the best gift you could possibly give me," he believed me. And I LOVED that he believed me. He didn't assume that I was saying one thing while meaning another. He respected me enough to know that I was honest with him and not playing mind games. And you can't imagine what a relief that is. I've finally found someone who doesn't assume I'm playing mind games just becuase 99.9% of women do and think it's acceptable. News flash: it's not. Cut it the fuck out.
So VD will be just like any other evening with the Pirate: relaxed, fun, romantic, and a wee bit silly. Because every day I spend with him is like Christmas, my Birthday, VD, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one. It's wonderful beacuse it's about him and me and our bond, and artificial, arbitrary holidays have nothing to do with it.
Here's the fundamental problem: happy, loving couples don't need a cheesy, fake, commerical holiday to express their affection and devotion, and lonely people really don't want their noses rubbed in their singlehood. So who is this for???
I'm almost disappointed that the Pirate is coming over tomorrow night. He was going to come over tonight, and I was going to spend VD learning programming in Basic from Flatmate B, with the aim of teaching me how to write software programs that assist my linguistic analysis of medieval texts. I thought learning about computer programming sounded like an awesome way to spend VD. But it turns out that tonight is inconvenient for the Pirate, so he's coming around tomoz instead. That's ok. He knows how I feel about the day, and he won't do anything. Becuase when I told him "I hate VD, I don't celebrate it or mark it in any way (except to complain a bit more than usual), so please don't buy me anything or do anything special," he had the good sense to take me at my word.
When I told him, "don't buy me anything for Christmas becuase you're spending a fortune on a plane ticket and having you there is the best gift you could possibly give me," he believed me. And I LOVED that he believed me. He didn't assume that I was saying one thing while meaning another. He respected me enough to know that I was honest with him and not playing mind games. And you can't imagine what a relief that is. I've finally found someone who doesn't assume I'm playing mind games just becuase 99.9% of women do and think it's acceptable. News flash: it's not. Cut it the fuck out.
So VD will be just like any other evening with the Pirate: relaxed, fun, romantic, and a wee bit silly. Because every day I spend with him is like Christmas, my Birthday, VD, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one. It's wonderful beacuse it's about him and me and our bond, and artificial, arbitrary holidays have nothing to do with it.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
etc.
Thanks guys for all your love and support. (Anyone passing a hat around yet?*)
Hey, did anyone else notice I passed 30,000 hits today? Yay! It's sad that that stupid ticker should make me feel loved and validated, and yet...
So plans are in the works. I've applied for a few part time jobs, I've sorted out arrangements with my landlord so I don't get evicted, I've sent apps for a few emergency scholarships and hardship funds, and while those are cooking I'll continue to look for more.
It's a pisser that I won't be able to compete at rowing this spring. You lot know how much I love it -- it's in my blood, a burning desire, a religious need -- but at the end of the day it's only one season, and if the worst thing that happens to me is that I miss out one season of racing while working a p/t job, well, I'm still pretty fucking fortunate. Sure a lot of people have it a fuck lot easier than me, but a lot of people have it worse, too.
I read the letter I received rescinding my scholarship to my mum. It began "Dear (my name)." I didn't tell her what it was beforehand, I just started reading it, and her first reaction was that the Pirate was dumping me in a letter. That got me thinking, watching 5 grand dry up and blow away sucks big time, but i'd rather lose 5 large than the P any day. I'd rather lose any amount of money than him. I think as long as I have him to love and be loved by I can survive anything. And that's an encouraging thought.
So it's not the end of the world. It just requires a little adjusting of the schedule for the next few months, and it means I'll have a bit less fun. But it's not the end of the world. (I keep telling myself that.)
The other silver lining is that my parents are coming to Brizzle for a visit next September, so that'll be fun.
Ooh, and if you're really really really really really bored, go back a few posts and check out the comments thread on I Can't Let This One Slide. It's gotten wicked out of hand.
*Just kidding.**
**actually no, i'm not kidding.
Hey, did anyone else notice I passed 30,000 hits today? Yay! It's sad that that stupid ticker should make me feel loved and validated, and yet...
So plans are in the works. I've applied for a few part time jobs, I've sorted out arrangements with my landlord so I don't get evicted, I've sent apps for a few emergency scholarships and hardship funds, and while those are cooking I'll continue to look for more.
It's a pisser that I won't be able to compete at rowing this spring. You lot know how much I love it -- it's in my blood, a burning desire, a religious need -- but at the end of the day it's only one season, and if the worst thing that happens to me is that I miss out one season of racing while working a p/t job, well, I'm still pretty fucking fortunate. Sure a lot of people have it a fuck lot easier than me, but a lot of people have it worse, too.
I read the letter I received rescinding my scholarship to my mum. It began "Dear (my name)." I didn't tell her what it was beforehand, I just started reading it, and her first reaction was that the Pirate was dumping me in a letter. That got me thinking, watching 5 grand dry up and blow away sucks big time, but i'd rather lose 5 large than the P any day. I'd rather lose any amount of money than him. I think as long as I have him to love and be loved by I can survive anything. And that's an encouraging thought.
So it's not the end of the world. It just requires a little adjusting of the schedule for the next few months, and it means I'll have a bit less fun. But it's not the end of the world. (I keep telling myself that.)
The other silver lining is that my parents are coming to Brizzle for a visit next September, so that'll be fun.
Ooh, and if you're really really really really really bored, go back a few posts and check out the comments thread on I Can't Let This One Slide. It's gotten wicked out of hand.
*Just kidding.**
**actually no, i'm not kidding.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Birthday musings
It was my birthday last Friday. (hence the reason I didn't get any blogging done over the weekend. There were too many goings-on.) I am 28.
It's not that I object to being 28 per se. It's that I object to being just 2 years shy of 30. Something about that "3" just gives me the willies.
Since my b-day follows right on the heels of the new year, I spend a lot of time in January navel-gazing. New year, another year older, etc etc. This year I am astonished at how much my life has changed in such a short time. I can't help but look at where I was this time last year an be astonished at everything that's happened since then.
Last year at the New Year i didn't make any resolutions. I was depressed. I was in Bristol, in England, doing what I wanted to do, but I was profoundly lonely. I had very nice flatmates, all of whom were in relationships. I had very nice friends in my department, all of whom were in relationships. I was still recovering from the emotional trauma of being deported from England, and the worse trauma of not getting the warm reception from my friends that I desperately wanted. When I arrived in Bristol I hoped that the almost-flames I left behind in Manchester would rev up in a proper conflagration, but alas no. Nothin' doin'. I was depressed, convinced I would be alone forever, and focused on my work because I had nothing else besides my research and rowing. I hadn't been kissed or on any kind of a date in over 8 years.
It was on my birthday last year that one of my flatmates dragged me out to a club to get drunk and dance. It was on that night I met The Hot Scot, and pulled for the first time ever. THS made me realize what I'd been missing out on. It was that snog (and lord, what a snog!) that inspired me to join a dating service.
It was on that dating service that I met the Hairy Man, and I began to know was it was to be happy.
And it was the confidece I gained from my relationship with the Hairy Man that made my relationship with the Pirate possible. I am convinced that had I been at the party where the P and I met in my pre-Hairy state of depression that he never would have found me even the least bit attractive.
I am reminded in this saga of a book my mom used to read me call "The Little Bug That Went Ah-Choo!" In the book a bug sneezes and the result of that sneeze, by the last page of the story, is the most extaordinary parade the town has ever seen. In my case, it all started because I went to a club with my flatmate on my 27th birthday. On the 28th birtday I sat in my kitchen, looking across the counter at most wonderful man I've ever met (as he devoured the chicken and dumplings I fixed for dinner), and thought, I'm happy.
I hope 2007 brings you all as much joy and wonderfment as 2006 brought me. xxoo
It's not that I object to being 28 per se. It's that I object to being just 2 years shy of 30. Something about that "3" just gives me the willies.
Since my b-day follows right on the heels of the new year, I spend a lot of time in January navel-gazing. New year, another year older, etc etc. This year I am astonished at how much my life has changed in such a short time. I can't help but look at where I was this time last year an be astonished at everything that's happened since then.
Last year at the New Year i didn't make any resolutions. I was depressed. I was in Bristol, in England, doing what I wanted to do, but I was profoundly lonely. I had very nice flatmates, all of whom were in relationships. I had very nice friends in my department, all of whom were in relationships. I was still recovering from the emotional trauma of being deported from England, and the worse trauma of not getting the warm reception from my friends that I desperately wanted. When I arrived in Bristol I hoped that the almost-flames I left behind in Manchester would rev up in a proper conflagration, but alas no. Nothin' doin'. I was depressed, convinced I would be alone forever, and focused on my work because I had nothing else besides my research and rowing. I hadn't been kissed or on any kind of a date in over 8 years.
It was on my birthday last year that one of my flatmates dragged me out to a club to get drunk and dance. It was on that night I met The Hot Scot, and pulled for the first time ever. THS made me realize what I'd been missing out on. It was that snog (and lord, what a snog!) that inspired me to join a dating service.
It was on that dating service that I met the Hairy Man, and I began to know was it was to be happy.
And it was the confidece I gained from my relationship with the Hairy Man that made my relationship with the Pirate possible. I am convinced that had I been at the party where the P and I met in my pre-Hairy state of depression that he never would have found me even the least bit attractive.
I am reminded in this saga of a book my mom used to read me call "The Little Bug That Went Ah-Choo!" In the book a bug sneezes and the result of that sneeze, by the last page of the story, is the most extaordinary parade the town has ever seen. In my case, it all started because I went to a club with my flatmate on my 27th birthday. On the 28th birtday I sat in my kitchen, looking across the counter at most wonderful man I've ever met (as he devoured the chicken and dumplings I fixed for dinner), and thought, I'm happy.
I hope 2007 brings you all as much joy and wonderfment as 2006 brought me. xxoo
Monday, September 11, 2006
A Farewell to Arms
...and hands and shoulders, to hard thighs, bristly cheeks, and gentle lips. Farewell to laughter, hugs, late-night chats, stimulating conversations, romantic dinners, and fantastic sex. Farewell to happiness: The Pirate is gone.
Just moments ago he set sail for distant lands of exotic climes. He will, perhaps, return in a couple months' time, but all is uncertainty. As it stands, by the current plan he will return at the end of November. But pirates change their plans more often than their knickers, so who knows.
What a send-off, though. He arrived here Friday night, and after a meal of my preparation we drove to his house, where the showers are hotter and the beds are more spacious. And then we spent the entire weekend together, talking about world events and laughing at our own idiocies and others'.
We went to the zoo on Saturday afternoon. I had hoped to spy one of the monkeys doing something that would inspire the parents to shield their children's eyes. Instead i got a whole zoofull of monkey engaged in such activities. FanTAStic. I love monkeys. That evening we went for an uber romantic dinner at a hotel near his house. It was the kind of place where the waiter puts the napkin on your lap for you. We gazed at each other through the glow of the candles and talked about our future plans.
Sunday morning we went to Church. The Vicar spied a new, young coupe in the congregation and immediately, like all good clergymen, smelled blood in the water. He cornered us (very cordially) on the way out, welcomed us, asked if we were married and, upon hearing our reply ("No"), suggested we tie the knot right there at St. Bart's.
We left the church and spent the afternoon up at Ashton Court, lazing around in the tall grass of the meadows, lying in the sun, dozing, talking, and flicking spiders off one another. A more lazy and enjoyable day I have never had. Sunday evening we came back to mine and sat around watching Jeeves and Wooster.
And this morning he was gone.
Funny thing is, I don't feel empty or alone or morose at all. Though it is disappointing to know that it will be some months before my eyes again enjoy the delight of his smile, I know that he keeps me in his heart, and that ultimately our relationship is based on far more than geography, and so this temporary geographical inconvenience is of little concern.
You will, of course, be the first to know when he gets back. Meanwhile, you'll have to put up with months and months worth of whiney, sexless posts. Ta!
Just moments ago he set sail for distant lands of exotic climes. He will, perhaps, return in a couple months' time, but all is uncertainty. As it stands, by the current plan he will return at the end of November. But pirates change their plans more often than their knickers, so who knows.
What a send-off, though. He arrived here Friday night, and after a meal of my preparation we drove to his house, where the showers are hotter and the beds are more spacious. And then we spent the entire weekend together, talking about world events and laughing at our own idiocies and others'.
We went to the zoo on Saturday afternoon. I had hoped to spy one of the monkeys doing something that would inspire the parents to shield their children's eyes. Instead i got a whole zoofull of monkey engaged in such activities. FanTAStic. I love monkeys. That evening we went for an uber romantic dinner at a hotel near his house. It was the kind of place where the waiter puts the napkin on your lap for you. We gazed at each other through the glow of the candles and talked about our future plans.
Sunday morning we went to Church. The Vicar spied a new, young coupe in the congregation and immediately, like all good clergymen, smelled blood in the water. He cornered us (very cordially) on the way out, welcomed us, asked if we were married and, upon hearing our reply ("No"), suggested we tie the knot right there at St. Bart's.
We left the church and spent the afternoon up at Ashton Court, lazing around in the tall grass of the meadows, lying in the sun, dozing, talking, and flicking spiders off one another. A more lazy and enjoyable day I have never had. Sunday evening we came back to mine and sat around watching Jeeves and Wooster.
And this morning he was gone.
Funny thing is, I don't feel empty or alone or morose at all. Though it is disappointing to know that it will be some months before my eyes again enjoy the delight of his smile, I know that he keeps me in his heart, and that ultimately our relationship is based on far more than geography, and so this temporary geographical inconvenience is of little concern.
You will, of course, be the first to know when he gets back. Meanwhile, you'll have to put up with months and months worth of whiney, sexless posts. Ta!
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Food for thought, and food for eating
You will never believe what I got in the post yesterday. Go on, guess. You'll never guess. OK, I'll tell you: a love letter. A fucking love letter. Ah, but from whom? I hear you ask. I'll tell you this much: I didn't need to look at the signature to know who sent it. All I needed to see was the stationery on which it was written. Black paper. Black paper written on with silver ink. What sort of man sends a love letter on black paper?! The sort of man who goes to Egypt on holiday and brings his girlfriend back a stone sculpture of a pre-dynastic fertility god complete with giant erect phallus, that's who. A man with style. A man with penache'. A man who went from happily getting all he could manage and then some to lonely bastard in the space of half a pint.
It was really moving. I really had no idea he felt that way. He's not one to express his emotions in words, but I think at this point he figured he had nothing left to lose. For the sake of fairness, because I previously published a list of all the things he did that bugged me, I'll let you read a bit of the letter, to leave you with a more balanced and favorable impression of his character.
...I dreamed of serenading you with my guitar under your balcony last night, except you don't have a balcony. If I could actually play the guitar I could play through the intercom system, but I guess that would distort the sound and you wouldn't understand me. (laughing hysterically)
I could send you a love poem but I guess you'd recognize my plagarism and laugh.
The fact is I feel compelled to write to you with all my heart... (getting choked up)
...there are many things I love and admire about you even though I never took the opportunity to tell you. When we're out walking I love it when you seem to just disappear when i turn around I discover you have stopped to smell a lily about 50 metres back along the path. The confidence in your voice and the sound of you speaking puts me at ease... (cue the weeping)
...CB, I love the way a little sigh escapes your mouth when you seem peased or contented. I love the smell of your hair (that's not just a line, he really did smell my hair a lot)... I love the way your skin feels when I touch your arms, shoulders, and back. I like the way your bum wobbles when you go out jogging and I love it that you don't seem to care. Most of all I love it when I wake up and find you lying there beside me...
There was more to it than that. Some bits too personal to publish here, some too mundane, questions he would like answered, etc., but anyway. I had to respond; couldn't just let that one lie. I sent him a response, 3 pages typed, single spaced. Too many times in my life I've heard the phrase "I love you, but..." This has led me to conclude that "but" is the most wretched word in the English language. I never thought I'd hear myself say it. Today I hate myself.
Was out with the Pirate last night. Saw "Cars." Cute flick, but I have some issues with it. Maybe I'll do more with that later.
Right now, I promised you food for eating. I have had several requests lately for recipes for light, summer fare. First Nations is in the process of re-learning how to cook, the Great She Elephant is looking to slim down a wee notch, and I'm sure I remember HC asking me for some salad recipes. So for the next few weeks I'll be posting a recipe ever couple days or so. These are all light, easy, and really super yummy. If you try them and have any suggestions as to how they can be improved, by all means leave your thoughts in the comments. Bon appetite!
Mediterranean Salad
Ripe baby plum or cherry tomatoes
Feta cheese
Greek olives (optional)
Fresh basil
Olive oil
Balsamic vinegar
Salt/pepper
Slice the tomatoes into quarters. Coarsely chop the basil. Mix the tomatoes, basil, and olives in a bowl. Drizzle with oil, vinegar (be spare with the vinegar. seriously, less is more). Season to taste. Crumble the feta cheese. (Always add the feta last or the balsamic vinegar makes it go a wonky, unnattractive colour.) Serve immediately, room temp.
Because this salad is so simple, the key here is good ingredients. The basil MUST be fresh. Dried basil has no flavor. You can buy a pot of fresh basil at Sainsbury's for a pound. No excuses. Use really ripe tomatoes, good olive oil, and a fairly sweet feta. (Most fetas are too salty for me. If you can't find a feta you like, give it a whirl with goat cheese or mozzarella.) Enjoy!
It was really moving. I really had no idea he felt that way. He's not one to express his emotions in words, but I think at this point he figured he had nothing left to lose. For the sake of fairness, because I previously published a list of all the things he did that bugged me, I'll let you read a bit of the letter, to leave you with a more balanced and favorable impression of his character.
...I dreamed of serenading you with my guitar under your balcony last night, except you don't have a balcony. If I could actually play the guitar I could play through the intercom system, but I guess that would distort the sound and you wouldn't understand me. (laughing hysterically)
I could send you a love poem but I guess you'd recognize my plagarism and laugh.
The fact is I feel compelled to write to you with all my heart... (getting choked up)
...there are many things I love and admire about you even though I never took the opportunity to tell you. When we're out walking I love it when you seem to just disappear when i turn around I discover you have stopped to smell a lily about 50 metres back along the path. The confidence in your voice and the sound of you speaking puts me at ease... (cue the weeping)
...CB, I love the way a little sigh escapes your mouth when you seem peased or contented. I love the smell of your hair (that's not just a line, he really did smell my hair a lot)... I love the way your skin feels when I touch your arms, shoulders, and back. I like the way your bum wobbles when you go out jogging and I love it that you don't seem to care. Most of all I love it when I wake up and find you lying there beside me...
There was more to it than that. Some bits too personal to publish here, some too mundane, questions he would like answered, etc., but anyway. I had to respond; couldn't just let that one lie. I sent him a response, 3 pages typed, single spaced. Too many times in my life I've heard the phrase "I love you, but..." This has led me to conclude that "but" is the most wretched word in the English language. I never thought I'd hear myself say it. Today I hate myself.
Was out with the Pirate last night. Saw "Cars." Cute flick, but I have some issues with it. Maybe I'll do more with that later.
Right now, I promised you food for eating. I have had several requests lately for recipes for light, summer fare. First Nations is in the process of re-learning how to cook, the Great She Elephant is looking to slim down a wee notch, and I'm sure I remember HC asking me for some salad recipes. So for the next few weeks I'll be posting a recipe ever couple days or so. These are all light, easy, and really super yummy. If you try them and have any suggestions as to how they can be improved, by all means leave your thoughts in the comments. Bon appetite!
Mediterranean Salad
Ripe baby plum or cherry tomatoes
Feta cheese
Greek olives (optional)
Fresh basil
Olive oil
Balsamic vinegar
Salt/pepper
Slice the tomatoes into quarters. Coarsely chop the basil. Mix the tomatoes, basil, and olives in a bowl. Drizzle with oil, vinegar (be spare with the vinegar. seriously, less is more). Season to taste. Crumble the feta cheese. (Always add the feta last or the balsamic vinegar makes it go a wonky, unnattractive colour.) Serve immediately, room temp.
Because this salad is so simple, the key here is good ingredients. The basil MUST be fresh. Dried basil has no flavor. You can buy a pot of fresh basil at Sainsbury's for a pound. No excuses. Use really ripe tomatoes, good olive oil, and a fairly sweet feta. (Most fetas are too salty for me. If you can't find a feta you like, give it a whirl with goat cheese or mozzarella.) Enjoy!
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Oh, fudge.
I have no concentration. No focus, no brain function -- I can barely put together a coherent sentence. He has reduced my mental capacity to unadulterated mush. I must be in love.
The Pirate came over for dinner friday (lasange, greek salad, homemade garlic bread, and strawberry shortcake if you must know). We talked, we laughed, we picked each other's brains.
Our minds fit together as beautifully as our bodies.
On saturday he had to go to a wedding. I was sorry I couldn't go with him. It was his best mate's. He was the best man. I want to meet his friends, and I wanted to see him dressed up (my god but he's handsome), and I know that he's great fun to dance with. But alas, it was not possible. Instead, I went to the fireworks display over the harbor, part of the Bristol Harbour Festival. Great fireworks. I stood in front of Lloyd's, face to the sky, laughing and gleeful at the sight of the twinkling explosions, dripping with Brizzle drizzle and my own tears, which flowed freely when they used Unchained Melody for the final number of the show. At that moment I missed him so much it hurt, and I'd only said goodbye to him that morning, and i knew i would see him again the following day.
But on saturday I had a revelation. Without revealing too many specifics (as the anonymity of the Pirate's identity is of paramount importance), i shall tell you briefly the situation that was on my mind: We are both very ambitious people. We both have strong careers ahead of us, and our chosen careers are important to our senses of self-worth and indeed our very identities. Sadly, our careers are also totally and utterly incompatible. There is no way for him to do what he does and for me to do what I do (or will do when I graduate) and for us to have a life together.
I've been asking myself if there is any point in investing myself heavily in a relationship that as far as i can tell must needs be a dead end.
Or if i would actually be willing to completely abandon my career as an academic for a man that i love.
Because lets face it, it would be me to sacrifice the career. Why is it always the woman!?!? But it would be. I do want to stay home for a few years to raise babies, so what would be the point of him quitting his job and then have me quit mine anyway for kids? But more importantly, he loves his job. I can see it in his face whenever he talks about it; he lights up like a christmas tree. I don't want him to quit. I don't want to take that from him. I would never ask a man to be less than he is for my sake. To do so would be to kill a small part of him, to deminish him in ways I can't imagine, to ruin him, if only a little bit. Like removing a pane of stained glass from a church window. No, I won't ask him to sacrifice his career.
But the same would be true of me. To give up my career I would be surrendering a small piece of myself forever. And part of that piece would be my self-respect. I would resent that i caved, that i did what i always (as the daughter of feminists) swore i would never do: give up my career for man.
But what's worse: to live without a job you love, or to live without the man you love?
Well that's obvious, isn't it?
And that's what I've been wondering: Is there any way that I can have him and keep myself, too?
That was the one thought that was preventing me from handing over my heart to him lock, stock, and barrel; the one thing that was holding me back, making me doubt the wisdom of the whole relationship.
And then on saturday I had a revelation. I saw a way out. My god, there just might be a way to pull this off. I can't tell you the details, because there would just be too many clues that might lead you back to the Pirate's identity, but I thought of a way that we can both keep our careers and build a life together. It's a long shot, and it might not work, but it's possible. More importantly, though, it's convinced me that there might be still other potential solutions that i havn't yet considered, that the situation isn't hopeless! And that's the key: now i know the situation isn't utterly irreconcilable. Nothing is impossible.
And now that i know that, the last barrier between my heart and his has crumbled to dust at my feet. Knowing that, I resolved yesterday afternoon that if (ahem, *when*) he should ask, I can answer without hesitation, doubt, or resentment.
So there I was at the fireworks, knowing for the fist time with absolute certainty my answer to The Great Unasked Question, missing him like hell. I've lost all patience.
Billy Crystal said it best in When Harry Met Sally: When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to begin as soon as possible.
Couldn't have put it any better.
He came over this morning. Got here about 10. He got on the lift and handed me a small parcel wrapped in a napkin. "I missed you last night," he said. "I brought you this." It was a piece of the wedding cake.
We came up to my room. He closed the door behind him. "Oh, and I've got something else for you."
He pulled a small box out of his pocket. It was about 2x2x2 inches, wrapped in white paper and tied with a pale blue ribbon. My heart stopped dead. This is it, I thought. I knew it. My eyes began to well up. I untied the ribbon, lifted the top of the box, fully expecting to find a small velvet box inside.
I peered in. It was a piece of fudge.
FUDGE I tell you.
"It was my favor from the wedding last night. There was one on every guest's plate. I know hoe much you love chocolate, so I saved it for you." He beamed at his own thoughtfullness.
For fuck's sake.
The Pirate came over for dinner friday (lasange, greek salad, homemade garlic bread, and strawberry shortcake if you must know). We talked, we laughed, we picked each other's brains.
Our minds fit together as beautifully as our bodies.
On saturday he had to go to a wedding. I was sorry I couldn't go with him. It was his best mate's. He was the best man. I want to meet his friends, and I wanted to see him dressed up (my god but he's handsome), and I know that he's great fun to dance with. But alas, it was not possible. Instead, I went to the fireworks display over the harbor, part of the Bristol Harbour Festival. Great fireworks. I stood in front of Lloyd's, face to the sky, laughing and gleeful at the sight of the twinkling explosions, dripping with Brizzle drizzle and my own tears, which flowed freely when they used Unchained Melody for the final number of the show. At that moment I missed him so much it hurt, and I'd only said goodbye to him that morning, and i knew i would see him again the following day.
But on saturday I had a revelation. Without revealing too many specifics (as the anonymity of the Pirate's identity is of paramount importance), i shall tell you briefly the situation that was on my mind: We are both very ambitious people. We both have strong careers ahead of us, and our chosen careers are important to our senses of self-worth and indeed our very identities. Sadly, our careers are also totally and utterly incompatible. There is no way for him to do what he does and for me to do what I do (or will do when I graduate) and for us to have a life together.
I've been asking myself if there is any point in investing myself heavily in a relationship that as far as i can tell must needs be a dead end.
Or if i would actually be willing to completely abandon my career as an academic for a man that i love.
Because lets face it, it would be me to sacrifice the career. Why is it always the woman!?!? But it would be. I do want to stay home for a few years to raise babies, so what would be the point of him quitting his job and then have me quit mine anyway for kids? But more importantly, he loves his job. I can see it in his face whenever he talks about it; he lights up like a christmas tree. I don't want him to quit. I don't want to take that from him. I would never ask a man to be less than he is for my sake. To do so would be to kill a small part of him, to deminish him in ways I can't imagine, to ruin him, if only a little bit. Like removing a pane of stained glass from a church window. No, I won't ask him to sacrifice his career.
But the same would be true of me. To give up my career I would be surrendering a small piece of myself forever. And part of that piece would be my self-respect. I would resent that i caved, that i did what i always (as the daughter of feminists) swore i would never do: give up my career for man.
But what's worse: to live without a job you love, or to live without the man you love?
Well that's obvious, isn't it?
And that's what I've been wondering: Is there any way that I can have him and keep myself, too?
That was the one thought that was preventing me from handing over my heart to him lock, stock, and barrel; the one thing that was holding me back, making me doubt the wisdom of the whole relationship.
And then on saturday I had a revelation. I saw a way out. My god, there just might be a way to pull this off. I can't tell you the details, because there would just be too many clues that might lead you back to the Pirate's identity, but I thought of a way that we can both keep our careers and build a life together. It's a long shot, and it might not work, but it's possible. More importantly, though, it's convinced me that there might be still other potential solutions that i havn't yet considered, that the situation isn't hopeless! And that's the key: now i know the situation isn't utterly irreconcilable. Nothing is impossible.
And now that i know that, the last barrier between my heart and his has crumbled to dust at my feet. Knowing that, I resolved yesterday afternoon that if (ahem, *when*) he should ask, I can answer without hesitation, doubt, or resentment.
So there I was at the fireworks, knowing for the fist time with absolute certainty my answer to The Great Unasked Question, missing him like hell. I've lost all patience.
Billy Crystal said it best in When Harry Met Sally: When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to begin as soon as possible.
Couldn't have put it any better.
He came over this morning. Got here about 10. He got on the lift and handed me a small parcel wrapped in a napkin. "I missed you last night," he said. "I brought you this." It was a piece of the wedding cake.
We came up to my room. He closed the door behind him. "Oh, and I've got something else for you."
He pulled a small box out of his pocket. It was about 2x2x2 inches, wrapped in white paper and tied with a pale blue ribbon. My heart stopped dead. This is it, I thought. I knew it. My eyes began to well up. I untied the ribbon, lifted the top of the box, fully expecting to find a small velvet box inside.
I peered in. It was a piece of fudge.
FUDGE I tell you.
"It was my favor from the wedding last night. There was one on every guest's plate. I know hoe much you love chocolate, so I saved it for you." He beamed at his own thoughtfullness.
For fuck's sake.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
I'M AN AUNTIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh my god I'm an auntie! I have just learned that my wonderful amazing most bestest friend of all time gave birth to her first ever baby. Meet Wally, just 1 day old!!! 8lbs, 10oz, 21" long. A big, pink, study little lad.
He's got toes!!! 10 of them! How cool is that! Aren't they adorable! (You'll note that's not acually a question. I'm not asking for your opinion on the adorability of Wally's toes, I'm giving it to you.)
Mother and son are doing fine.
Look at that hair! Have you ever seen a baby with so much hair in your life? This is a newborn! (Well, just look at mom, there. He comes by it honestly, that's fo sho.)
Wally (Big Wally, the father) and Vi have been waiting for this for a long time. Well, ok, only the usual 9 months, but it took rather a lot of effort to get to that point. They're going to make great parents. If I ever have kids, they will so be the godparents.
Sadly for me, Wally and Vi (and now L'il Wally!) live back in the states. I'm gutted that I missed the birth. Since receiving the news I've been alternating between weeping with joy for my friends and bawling with sorrow that I'm missing celebrating this with them. I'm going home in a month to visit, but I want to be there now now now! It kills me to think that I'll miss seeing him grow up. I get to be the crazy eccentric aunt, but how often? Will he even know me? I want to be a part of this kid's life. I don't just want to be some goofy half-relative that pops in for a day or two a year and gives him books that he'll never read.
This weekend I'm putting together a mix CD to send to Wally and Vi, aka mom and dad (!!!). I want to pick songs that evoke the feelings they have for their new son. It's not easy. Here's the list so far:
1. For Unto Us A Child Is Born, The Roches
2. Baby I Love You, The Ronettes
3. (Everything I Do) I Do For You, Bryan Adams
4. You're a Wonderful One, Art Garfunkel
5. Heaven Is A Place On Earth, Belinda Carslile
6. Lean On Me, Bill Withers
7. Baby Baby, Amy Grant
8. The Air That I Breathe, The Hollies
9. Have I Told You Lately, Rod Stewart
10. Good Morning Starshine, Oliver
11. From Me to You, The Beatles
12. Sunshine On My Shoulders, John Denver
13. Reach Out, The Four Tops
14. Rhythm of Life, Diana Ross
15. Bridge Over Troubled Water, Simon and Garfunkel (I don't think I've ever created a mix playlist that didn't include Simon and Garfunkel somewhere.)
16. Rock Me Gently, Ron Dante
17. Be My Baby, The Ronettes
18. I'll Be There, Jackson 5
19. Benediction, Toni Nation
20. Day Is Done, Peter Paul & Mary
Any suggestions? Love songs are good, but I don't want any that are specifically directed at a female, or are blatantly about sexual relationships. A lot of stuff that hints at sex can be intepreted in numerous ways, so as long as there's a reasonable platonic/parental reading, that's cool.
*Yeah, that's a bit over the top, but it will make Vi laugh her pants off.
He's got toes!!! 10 of them! How cool is that! Aren't they adorable! (You'll note that's not acually a question. I'm not asking for your opinion on the adorability of Wally's toes, I'm giving it to you.)
Mother and son are doing fine.
Look at that hair! Have you ever seen a baby with so much hair in your life? This is a newborn! (Well, just look at mom, there. He comes by it honestly, that's fo sho.)
Wally (Big Wally, the father) and Vi have been waiting for this for a long time. Well, ok, only the usual 9 months, but it took rather a lot of effort to get to that point. They're going to make great parents. If I ever have kids, they will so be the godparents.
Sadly for me, Wally and Vi (and now L'il Wally!) live back in the states. I'm gutted that I missed the birth. Since receiving the news I've been alternating between weeping with joy for my friends and bawling with sorrow that I'm missing celebrating this with them. I'm going home in a month to visit, but I want to be there now now now! It kills me to think that I'll miss seeing him grow up. I get to be the crazy eccentric aunt, but how often? Will he even know me? I want to be a part of this kid's life. I don't just want to be some goofy half-relative that pops in for a day or two a year and gives him books that he'll never read.
This weekend I'm putting together a mix CD to send to Wally and Vi, aka mom and dad (!!!). I want to pick songs that evoke the feelings they have for their new son. It's not easy. Here's the list so far:
1. For Unto Us A Child Is Born, The Roches
2. Baby I Love You, The Ronettes
3. (Everything I Do) I Do For You, Bryan Adams
4. You're a Wonderful One, Art Garfunkel
5. Heaven Is A Place On Earth, Belinda Carslile
6. Lean On Me, Bill Withers
7. Baby Baby, Amy Grant
8. The Air That I Breathe, The Hollies
9. Have I Told You Lately, Rod Stewart
10. Good Morning Starshine, Oliver
11. From Me to You, The Beatles
12. Sunshine On My Shoulders, John Denver
13. Reach Out, The Four Tops
14. Rhythm of Life, Diana Ross
15. Bridge Over Troubled Water, Simon and Garfunkel (I don't think I've ever created a mix playlist that didn't include Simon and Garfunkel somewhere.)
16. Rock Me Gently, Ron Dante
17. Be My Baby, The Ronettes
18. I'll Be There, Jackson 5
19. Benediction, Toni Nation
20. Day Is Done, Peter Paul & Mary
Any suggestions? Love songs are good, but I don't want any that are specifically directed at a female, or are blatantly about sexual relationships. A lot of stuff that hints at sex can be intepreted in numerous ways, so as long as there's a reasonable platonic/parental reading, that's cool.
*Yeah, that's a bit over the top, but it will make Vi laugh her pants off.
Friday, July 21, 2006
The View from the Top
When you're standing on the summit of Everest, looking out across the expanse of the globe, so high you can see the curvature of the Earth and your heart is leaping and laughing within your chest, you don't need to climb every other mountain in the world to know that this is as high as it gets; you just know it.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Blogamonio
I am at "home."
I use the term ironically, because it really isn't my home anymore. Turtle-like, I carry my home on my back and set up shop wherever I land. And land I did. Very bumpily. In a gusty (ie unpredictable) crosswind that smacked the plane around like a tetherball in a prison yard. And that was the better of the two landings. I threw up on the first one. As did several other people. Then I laid down on the floor of Liberty Airport in New Jersey to try to recover my equilibrium, which I'd almost succeed in doing before they stuck me on the second flight of my sojourn which ended in the aforementioned crosswind that reduced pitch control to a figment of the pilot's imagination. (The bruises on my arm where the stranger sitting next to me clutched me for dear life have nearly faded.)
That was tuesday before last. Got home, slept, woke up, unpacked, repacked, got in the car and drove to Wisconsin. Whew!
Now, I must at this point go into a wee bit of detail about the drive. Normally I wouldn't deign to bore you with such minutae, but in this case i'm afraid it's rather critical to the plot. And the title of the blog.
So we're toodling along down highway 60 through some beautiful spring countryside, admiring the redbuds in bloom and that lovely light shade of chartreuse green that's dusting the early-leafing shrubs and trees. The fields are tilled and planted and smooth, but little green shoots have yet to make an appearance; the soil is dark and rich and eager.
Due to the impending birth of several babies, the mothers of which we are aquainted, we got on the subject of children's literature. I mention that my favorite book was Vanuk Vanuk. This comes as high praise indeed, as I am someone who knows from children's literature and can recite The Lorax and The Giant Jam Sandwich from memory.
Vanuk Vanuk was an awesome book. Once in a great while near the village a huge flower would srping forth from the ground with a tremendous "BOK!," all at once like, and this was cause for great rejoicing among the villagers. But the Sacrapanti would hear the BOK! and come and steal the flower, which is VERY BAD. So the villagers decided to build a huge cage over the next flower that bloomed and then drop it over the invading Sacrapanti when they came to steal it. The villagers called this cage The Trapamonio.
The mention of this book, a long-time fave with my parents as well at myself (it was very satirical of western society), got us all suffixing everything with blank-"amonio!" It became a running gag throughout the weekend's festivities. We declared it the jokamonio. (You can see where this is going, can't you?)
So we're tootling along, and we see some cows. "Cowamonio!" we cheer. We see some (really tacky*) modern sculpture. "Artamonio!" we declared.
yeah. that's my family. and we weren't even drunk. (yet.)
so,
we arrive at the hotel (of which we've booked 3/4 of the total rooms for guests of Marley's wedding). We begin unloading luggage. Mom is carrying her dumbells.
"I never argue with a woman who packs her own weights," sayeth the night clerk at the desk. Good policy, me amigo. Me pater and I exchange conspiratorial glances. "Bitchamonio" we agree, smiling.
My parents, being the bloody eskimos they are, immediately turned on the air-conditioner and opened the windows in an attempt to get the temperature of the room down to a balmy 50 degrees. Farenheit. (That's 10 Celcisus for all you metric-Nazis.) I kid you not.
Sadly, this hotel room only had 1 bed. I got to sleep on the pull-out couch. Not a problem, except that the pull-out doesn't come with a duvet, only one of those icky, hotel-foam blankets. Touching them creeps me out. And they aren't very warm.
I immediately began shivering. Mom, in a streak of unprescedented generosity, offered to get me my own room. She even went to the desk to check the availability. They had 1 room left. Did I take it? You bet your sweet bippy I didn't. Oh, no. Me and my fucking Catholic guilt. I didn't want to be a nuissance or a burden to my parents. I wanted to be grateful for what I had. I went to the front desk to get 2 more gross hotel-foam blankets. I was fine with this decision until 2 nights later when I had a hot, single groomsman in my clutches but both of us were sharing rooms and had no place to go. God. Fucking. Damnit.
Ahem.**
that was wednesday. thursday went by in a bit of a haze. I know i went over to the lake and ran around it a couple times (5 miles total). Oh, and I spent most of the day wrapping gifts for the bride. Not gifts to be given to her, but gifts she was giving to everyone who helped with the wedding but she didn't have time to wrap them. It took me 6 hours, 2 trips to Che Target for more supplies, and about 70 yards of ribbon, but they all got wrapped and dressed with hand-tied bows. None of this pre-packaged buisness for my new sister-in-law. That would be tacky. And clash with the cheese cubes they served at the reception.*** I do remember going with my dad and the bride's dad for lunch to a german brat haus. There are a lot of germans in Wisconsin. I don't know why either. But i'm not complaining. I "heart" wurst. All kinds of wurst. Big, thick, long, meaty, juicy...
erm, yeah.
so anyway...
Friday. The rehersal. I was assigned the tasks of a) carrying the crucifix at the head of the procession, and b) reading the first reading.
Fr. Nazi (more about that later) expressed concern that a woman was carrying the crucifix. Apparently it's rather heavy, and as a rule he only allows men to carry it.
"Fr. Nazi, I'd like you to meet my ego, and it's girlfriend, my right bicep."
"You really think you can carry it? You have to hold it quite high, for effect and all. And it is rather heavy."
"I lift weights."
"How much can you bench press?"
"How much do you weigh?"
"Are you suggesting you can bench press my weight?"
"Why don't you lie down 0n the floor just there and we'll find out."
"Um, perhaps you should just carry the cross."
"That might be simplest."
It went downhill from there. My relationship with Fr. Nazi, that is. The rest of the rehersal went fine. ish.
Fr. Nazi likes having the ENTIRE wedding party standing around the bride and groom while they exchange their vows. I think this is silly. I think it distracts the attention and focus away from the bride and groom. I think it makes the wedding ceremony look like a Homecoming Court at a high school football game. But no one asked me.
So there's Fr. Nazi lining up all the bride's maids and groom's men in a V-type formation that made them look like migrating geese. I've know some of the groomsmen for 15 years or more, and I was seated quite close by, so naturally I started whispering snide remarks to them for their amusement. While Fr. Nazi was adjusting the formation (he spent 20 minutes of a 60 minute rehersal telling groomsmen to move a foot to the left or take a step back, then he'd walk to the back of the church, gaze upon his hadiework, and mutter things like "no, it's not quite right." it took a third of the rehersal because obviously whether the best man is standing behind or next to the potted plant is the most important part of any wedding), I was saying things like "the problem here is that we don't have any hash marks." This is funny because the dude to whom i was whispering this was the one who had to go to band camp a day early every year to paint the hash marks on the field. he thought this comment was hilarious. when fr. Nazi told them to all turn to the left, i gave the old command: "Band! Left hase!" And the ex-bandis in the wedding party all whispered back "Left hase, one, two!" and then had giggle fits. Good times.****
Did I mention I looked great? Yeah, I looked great. I know so because Flirty Groomsman (the one I nearly managed to score on the wedding night and who henceforth shall be referred to as FG) told me so repeatedly. Right after he pulled my chair out for me at the rehearsal dinner. I always said the best thing about having an older brother was his friends. (Flirtamonio!)
FG and I have known each other for ages, but we only see each other about once every 2 years or so. We've always gotten along, and he's a hell of a flirt. I'm not nearly the flirt I used to be, but FG brings out the best in me.
(I thought you might appreciate a visual aid at this point. FG is the chummy-looking bloke in the red shirt. I'm the stunner next to him in the halter dress. That's Fr. Nazi on the left in the yellow shirt, and the very arian couple beside him are the bride and groom.)
So we're at the rehearsal dinner (fantastic German resturaunt), and the maid of honor and I managed to scare Fr. Nazi away from the table with our lewdness. I think it was the comment about the Groom's Dancers (bridesmaids designated to get nasty with him on the dance floor after the parents have left the party) rubbing up against him (the Groom, not Fr. Nazi) that was the last nail in the coffin. We didn't see him again after that. He just sort of disappeared suddenly. *taps fingers together* Excellent, Smithers.
Saturday. The Big Day. First order of business: hair. (naturally)
The bride made arrangements for every female even remotely connected with the wedding to get her hair done on saturday morning at a salon that served champagned and danishes to really large groups getting primped for a special occasion. I did not want to be foofed, teased, primped, or crimped. I just wanted a hair cut. I hadn't had one since december and my hair looked like a diseased marsupial climbed on my head and died there. After I had consumed an appropriate amount of alcohol and danish (it was only 9 am), it was my turn. (*mentally play opening chords of Beethoven's Fifth at this point.*) (Hey, how appropriate. Beethoven had a fifth, and so did I that morning.)
She gave me a really good cut, I can't deny that. But I have short hair, so I couldn't get the big sausage curls and wipsy tendril thingys that the other girls were getting. My stylist asked me if I wanted it more curly or smooth. "Smooth" I said. "Very sleek, very shiek. NOTHING POOFY."
You should have seen her definition of "nothing poofy." I looked like a poodle that stuck it's toe in a light socket. Welcome to the Midwest, i thought.
Still, all the other girls were telling me how great it looked. I'm genrally pretty resistant to change when it comes to my appearance, but I thought "hell, they all seem to think it's nice. maybe i'll leave it, just for today." (Blech- hairamonio.)
So I'm sitting with the bride while she's getting her makeup done, merrily having a one-way conversation, when one of the other stylists walks past. "Aren't you getting your hair done, dear?" she enquired.
"I've just had it done," I replied.
"Oh," she said.
Well that clinched it. Yikesamonio. As soon as i got back to the hotel I hit the shower (for the second time that morning) and attempted to scrub all the hairspray and mousse out. I had to stand under the jet of water for 5 minutes before my hair was even wet, it was that heavily coated and sealed with all-weather, tefflon, extra-super-hold product crap. Seriously, that shit was more water-proof than the under-body sealant coating on my Subaru.
So anyway...
Back at the hotel the bride had arranged to have lunch delivered to everyone in their rooms, so people helping with the wedding wouldn't have to go out in search of food. Very thoughtful. (I should mention that my brother and his wife are so totally fucking organized that at the rehersal they actually handed out an Excel spreadsheet with all the times and places that everyone had to be and when on the day of the wedding. So not only did each person know exactly where he or she needed bo be at any given time, but could also look and see where everyone else was. Holy type-A personalities, Batman! Talk about analmonio.) So i'm getting ready and there's a knock on the door and my sushi arrives. It sounded like a really good idea the night before. I really like sushi. But raw fish is not something one wants to confront when one's stomach is already in knots. I admit it; i was nervous.
The church. The Big Moment. (*mentally play opening chords of Get Smart*)
The best man and the groomsmen were absolutely charming. They greeted, they ushed, they knocked us all over with thier dapper good looks. What a great group of guys.
I led of the parade, erm, procession with the crucifix. (It was heavy, but that's ok. It made my biceps ripple in the sunlight. I figured if it got too heavy I could always hoist it over my shoulder for that authentic look. Actually, it would have been worth doing just to see the look on Fr. Nazi's face. But I wouldn't do anything to disrupt my big brother's big day. And believe me, that was the only thing that kept my tongue and behaviour in line!) Everything went fine. The music was uninspired but inoffensive, and basically the ceremony was ho-hum, but it wasn't acutally the fiasco the mater and i were anticipating.
To be fair, the exchange of vows was very moving, and that is, of course, the most important bit. Thankfully it was the bit they got really really right. Both Marley and Miss Happy said their vows calmly, sincerely, and with great self-assuredness. They both sounded as though they knew exactly what they were doing and meant to do it. Of course I cried. I kept looking at this blonde, balding man in a tuxedo standing in front of me and thinking "This is the same person who used to push me off the dock into the lake at summer camp. This is the same guy I built blanket forts with on snow days. This is the guy who taught me how to decorate my bicycle with crepe paper and ribbons for the 4th of July Bicycle Parade, who gave me bunny ears in every family photograph. How can this be that guy? Where did he go?" And then I started giggling. Wanna know what set me off? One word that crept into my head, univited:
(wait for it...)
Matrimonio!
*cough*
Moving swiftly on.
The Party.
Damn, what a party!
The reception was fabulous. My prime rib was over-cooked (if your prime rib doesn't arrive mooing and sitting in a pool of blood, it's over-cooked), and there were cheese cubes (foul abominations of nature), but that shit doesn't matter. What I remember is how much love there was in that room. If you just sat back and listened, everyone was having a good time, everyone was happy. There was great dancing. Lots of old stuff - Sinatra, Armstrong, etc. I danced with my dad for the first time in my life, and with my godfather, and my great uncle Frank (88 years old and flew up from Arizona for the occasion). I polkad with my mom and my brother (bless him he can't dance), and everyone was just so full of love and joy I don't know how to describe it. It was good family fun. The flower girl danced on her grandfather's shoes, there was a couple dancing with their 6-month old baby. Everyone was happy. The whole thing was just so, I don't know, life-affirming. It was a celebration of life, and a celebration of the only thing that makes life worth living, love. Life and love. And free booze. Now that's what I call a party.
This was my first time at a family wedding. Marley and I are the only children of our generation in the family, so there hasn't been a wedding in the family since my parents got hitched in 1972. Great uncle Frank came because, as he put it, "we need to get the family together for something besides funerals." Amen, uncle frank; amen.
It was teriffic. After the old folks left the DJ put the house on and wedding party, twenty-somethings, and other singles got down to the serious drinking and dancing. I'm not posting those photos. I still have my dignity, you know.
And that was it. I wish I had some big, grandiose, profound, "My Best Friend's Wedding"-esque conclusion, but I'm not a very good story-teller and there's really nothing exceptional or extraordinary about this wedding (except that it involved my nerdy big brother that no one ever thought would get married). It was a nice wedding, everyone had fun, and the happy couple are, at this moment, driving around Ireland in a rented Toyota Prius and stopping periodically to admire the sheep.
The fam, including my new sister. From left to right are dad, mom (hiding), Aunt Sr. Pain-In-The-Ass of Manchester fame, Mrs. Happy, Marley, yours truly, and Aunt Nene (second old nunny bunny in the fam and life-long partner of Aunt Sr. PITA).
*this particular piece of sculpture by the roadside came complete with its own life-size bronze admirers. I kid you not. I wish to GOD i'd had my camera. They actually made people standing around gazing at the sculpture. Barfamonio.
**yes, i blatantly stole the "ahem" technique thingy from Babs. What can i say? Immitation is the highest form of plagarism.
***Cheese should never. under any circumstances. be SQUARE. end of chat.
****If you are not, or have never been, in marching band, you won't understand any of this. Just trust me that it was hysterical. I give you my word as a section leader.
I use the term ironically, because it really isn't my home anymore. Turtle-like, I carry my home on my back and set up shop wherever I land. And land I did. Very bumpily. In a gusty (ie unpredictable) crosswind that smacked the plane around like a tetherball in a prison yard. And that was the better of the two landings. I threw up on the first one. As did several other people. Then I laid down on the floor of Liberty Airport in New Jersey to try to recover my equilibrium, which I'd almost succeed in doing before they stuck me on the second flight of my sojourn which ended in the aforementioned crosswind that reduced pitch control to a figment of the pilot's imagination. (The bruises on my arm where the stranger sitting next to me clutched me for dear life have nearly faded.)
That was tuesday before last. Got home, slept, woke up, unpacked, repacked, got in the car and drove to Wisconsin. Whew!
Now, I must at this point go into a wee bit of detail about the drive. Normally I wouldn't deign to bore you with such minutae, but in this case i'm afraid it's rather critical to the plot. And the title of the blog.
So we're toodling along down highway 60 through some beautiful spring countryside, admiring the redbuds in bloom and that lovely light shade of chartreuse green that's dusting the early-leafing shrubs and trees. The fields are tilled and planted and smooth, but little green shoots have yet to make an appearance; the soil is dark and rich and eager.
Due to the impending birth of several babies, the mothers of which we are aquainted, we got on the subject of children's literature. I mention that my favorite book was Vanuk Vanuk. This comes as high praise indeed, as I am someone who knows from children's literature and can recite The Lorax and The Giant Jam Sandwich from memory.
Vanuk Vanuk was an awesome book. Once in a great while near the village a huge flower would srping forth from the ground with a tremendous "BOK!," all at once like, and this was cause for great rejoicing among the villagers. But the Sacrapanti would hear the BOK! and come and steal the flower, which is VERY BAD. So the villagers decided to build a huge cage over the next flower that bloomed and then drop it over the invading Sacrapanti when they came to steal it. The villagers called this cage The Trapamonio.
The mention of this book, a long-time fave with my parents as well at myself (it was very satirical of western society), got us all suffixing everything with blank-"amonio!" It became a running gag throughout the weekend's festivities. We declared it the jokamonio. (You can see where this is going, can't you?)
So we're tootling along, and we see some cows. "Cowamonio!" we cheer. We see some (really tacky*) modern sculpture. "Artamonio!" we declared.
yeah. that's my family. and we weren't even drunk. (yet.)
so,
we arrive at the hotel (of which we've booked 3/4 of the total rooms for guests of Marley's wedding). We begin unloading luggage. Mom is carrying her dumbells.
"I never argue with a woman who packs her own weights," sayeth the night clerk at the desk. Good policy, me amigo. Me pater and I exchange conspiratorial glances. "Bitchamonio" we agree, smiling.
My parents, being the bloody eskimos they are, immediately turned on the air-conditioner and opened the windows in an attempt to get the temperature of the room down to a balmy 50 degrees. Farenheit. (That's 10 Celcisus for all you metric-Nazis.) I kid you not.
Sadly, this hotel room only had 1 bed. I got to sleep on the pull-out couch. Not a problem, except that the pull-out doesn't come with a duvet, only one of those icky, hotel-foam blankets. Touching them creeps me out. And they aren't very warm.
I immediately began shivering. Mom, in a streak of unprescedented generosity, offered to get me my own room. She even went to the desk to check the availability. They had 1 room left. Did I take it? You bet your sweet bippy I didn't. Oh, no. Me and my fucking Catholic guilt. I didn't want to be a nuissance or a burden to my parents. I wanted to be grateful for what I had. I went to the front desk to get 2 more gross hotel-foam blankets. I was fine with this decision until 2 nights later when I had a hot, single groomsman in my clutches but both of us were sharing rooms and had no place to go. God. Fucking. Damnit.
Ahem.**
that was wednesday. thursday went by in a bit of a haze. I know i went over to the lake and ran around it a couple times (5 miles total). Oh, and I spent most of the day wrapping gifts for the bride. Not gifts to be given to her, but gifts she was giving to everyone who helped with the wedding but she didn't have time to wrap them. It took me 6 hours, 2 trips to Che Target for more supplies, and about 70 yards of ribbon, but they all got wrapped and dressed with hand-tied bows. None of this pre-packaged buisness for my new sister-in-law. That would be tacky. And clash with the cheese cubes they served at the reception.*** I do remember going with my dad and the bride's dad for lunch to a german brat haus. There are a lot of germans in Wisconsin. I don't know why either. But i'm not complaining. I "heart" wurst. All kinds of wurst. Big, thick, long, meaty, juicy...
erm, yeah.
so anyway...
Friday. The rehersal. I was assigned the tasks of a) carrying the crucifix at the head of the procession, and b) reading the first reading.
Fr. Nazi (more about that later) expressed concern that a woman was carrying the crucifix. Apparently it's rather heavy, and as a rule he only allows men to carry it.
"Fr. Nazi, I'd like you to meet my ego, and it's girlfriend, my right bicep."
"You really think you can carry it? You have to hold it quite high, for effect and all. And it is rather heavy."
"I lift weights."
"How much can you bench press?"
"How much do you weigh?"
"Are you suggesting you can bench press my weight?"
"Why don't you lie down 0n the floor just there and we'll find out."
"Um, perhaps you should just carry the cross."
"That might be simplest."
It went downhill from there. My relationship with Fr. Nazi, that is. The rest of the rehersal went fine. ish.
Fr. Nazi likes having the ENTIRE wedding party standing around the bride and groom while they exchange their vows. I think this is silly. I think it distracts the attention and focus away from the bride and groom. I think it makes the wedding ceremony look like a Homecoming Court at a high school football game. But no one asked me.
So there's Fr. Nazi lining up all the bride's maids and groom's men in a V-type formation that made them look like migrating geese. I've know some of the groomsmen for 15 years or more, and I was seated quite close by, so naturally I started whispering snide remarks to them for their amusement. While Fr. Nazi was adjusting the formation (he spent 20 minutes of a 60 minute rehersal telling groomsmen to move a foot to the left or take a step back, then he'd walk to the back of the church, gaze upon his hadiework, and mutter things like "no, it's not quite right." it took a third of the rehersal because obviously whether the best man is standing behind or next to the potted plant is the most important part of any wedding), I was saying things like "the problem here is that we don't have any hash marks." This is funny because the dude to whom i was whispering this was the one who had to go to band camp a day early every year to paint the hash marks on the field. he thought this comment was hilarious. when fr. Nazi told them to all turn to the left, i gave the old command: "Band! Left hase!" And the ex-bandis in the wedding party all whispered back "Left hase, one, two!" and then had giggle fits. Good times.****
Did I mention I looked great? Yeah, I looked great. I know so because Flirty Groomsman (the one I nearly managed to score on the wedding night and who henceforth shall be referred to as FG) told me so repeatedly. Right after he pulled my chair out for me at the rehearsal dinner. I always said the best thing about having an older brother was his friends. (Flirtamonio!)
FG and I have known each other for ages, but we only see each other about once every 2 years or so. We've always gotten along, and he's a hell of a flirt. I'm not nearly the flirt I used to be, but FG brings out the best in me.(I thought you might appreciate a visual aid at this point. FG is the chummy-looking bloke in the red shirt. I'm the stunner next to him in the halter dress. That's Fr. Nazi on the left in the yellow shirt, and the very arian couple beside him are the bride and groom.)
So we're at the rehearsal dinner (fantastic German resturaunt), and the maid of honor and I managed to scare Fr. Nazi away from the table with our lewdness. I think it was the comment about the Groom's Dancers (bridesmaids designated to get nasty with him on the dance floor after the parents have left the party) rubbing up against him (the Groom, not Fr. Nazi) that was the last nail in the coffin. We didn't see him again after that. He just sort of disappeared suddenly. *taps fingers together* Excellent, Smithers.
Saturday. The Big Day. First order of business: hair. (naturally)
The bride made arrangements for every female even remotely connected with the wedding to get her hair done on saturday morning at a salon that served champagned and danishes to really large groups getting primped for a special occasion. I did not want to be foofed, teased, primped, or crimped. I just wanted a hair cut. I hadn't had one since december and my hair looked like a diseased marsupial climbed on my head and died there. After I had consumed an appropriate amount of alcohol and danish (it was only 9 am), it was my turn. (*mentally play opening chords of Beethoven's Fifth at this point.*) (Hey, how appropriate. Beethoven had a fifth, and so did I that morning.)
She gave me a really good cut, I can't deny that. But I have short hair, so I couldn't get the big sausage curls and wipsy tendril thingys that the other girls were getting. My stylist asked me if I wanted it more curly or smooth. "Smooth" I said. "Very sleek, very shiek. NOTHING POOFY."
You should have seen her definition of "nothing poofy." I looked like a poodle that stuck it's toe in a light socket. Welcome to the Midwest, i thought.
Still, all the other girls were telling me how great it looked. I'm genrally pretty resistant to change when it comes to my appearance, but I thought "hell, they all seem to think it's nice. maybe i'll leave it, just for today." (Blech- hairamonio.)
So I'm sitting with the bride while she's getting her makeup done, merrily having a one-way conversation, when one of the other stylists walks past. "Aren't you getting your hair done, dear?" she enquired.
"I've just had it done," I replied.
"Oh," she said.
Well that clinched it. Yikesamonio. As soon as i got back to the hotel I hit the shower (for the second time that morning) and attempted to scrub all the hairspray and mousse out. I had to stand under the jet of water for 5 minutes before my hair was even wet, it was that heavily coated and sealed with all-weather, tefflon, extra-super-hold product crap. Seriously, that shit was more water-proof than the under-body sealant coating on my Subaru.
So anyway...
Back at the hotel the bride had arranged to have lunch delivered to everyone in their rooms, so people helping with the wedding wouldn't have to go out in search of food. Very thoughtful. (I should mention that my brother and his wife are so totally fucking organized that at the rehersal they actually handed out an Excel spreadsheet with all the times and places that everyone had to be and when on the day of the wedding. So not only did each person know exactly where he or she needed bo be at any given time, but could also look and see where everyone else was. Holy type-A personalities, Batman! Talk about analmonio.) So i'm getting ready and there's a knock on the door and my sushi arrives. It sounded like a really good idea the night before. I really like sushi. But raw fish is not something one wants to confront when one's stomach is already in knots. I admit it; i was nervous.
The church. The Big Moment. (*mentally play opening chords of Get Smart*)
The best man and the groomsmen were absolutely charming. They greeted, they ushed, they knocked us all over with thier dapper good looks. What a great group of guys.
I led of the parade, erm, procession with the crucifix. (It was heavy, but that's ok. It made my biceps ripple in the sunlight. I figured if it got too heavy I could always hoist it over my shoulder for that authentic look. Actually, it would have been worth doing just to see the look on Fr. Nazi's face. But I wouldn't do anything to disrupt my big brother's big day. And believe me, that was the only thing that kept my tongue and behaviour in line!) Everything went fine. The music was uninspired but inoffensive, and basically the ceremony was ho-hum, but it wasn't acutally the fiasco the mater and i were anticipating.
To be fair, the exchange of vows was very moving, and that is, of course, the most important bit. Thankfully it was the bit they got really really right. Both Marley and Miss Happy said their vows calmly, sincerely, and with great self-assuredness. They both sounded as though they knew exactly what they were doing and meant to do it. Of course I cried. I kept looking at this blonde, balding man in a tuxedo standing in front of me and thinking "This is the same person who used to push me off the dock into the lake at summer camp. This is the same guy I built blanket forts with on snow days. This is the guy who taught me how to decorate my bicycle with crepe paper and ribbons for the 4th of July Bicycle Parade, who gave me bunny ears in every family photograph. How can this be that guy? Where did he go?" And then I started giggling. Wanna know what set me off? One word that crept into my head, univited:(wait for it...)
Matrimonio!
*cough*
Moving swiftly on.
The Party.
Damn, what a party!
The reception was fabulous. My prime rib was over-cooked (if your prime rib doesn't arrive mooing and sitting in a pool of blood, it's over-cooked), and there were cheese cubes (foul abominations of nature), but that shit doesn't matter. What I remember is how much love there was in that room. If you just sat back and listened, everyone was having a good time, everyone was happy. There was great dancing. Lots of old stuff - Sinatra, Armstrong, etc. I danced with my dad for the first time in my life, and with my godfather, and my great uncle Frank (88 years old and flew up from Arizona for the occasion). I polkad with my mom and my brother (bless him he can't dance), and everyone was just so full of love and joy I don't know how to describe it. It was good family fun. The flower girl danced on her grandfather's shoes, there was a couple dancing with their 6-month old baby. Everyone was happy. The whole thing was just so, I don't know, life-affirming. It was a celebration of life, and a celebration of the only thing that makes life worth living, love. Life and love. And free booze. Now that's what I call a party.
This was my first time at a family wedding. Marley and I are the only children of our generation in the family, so there hasn't been a wedding in the family since my parents got hitched in 1972. Great uncle Frank came because, as he put it, "we need to get the family together for something besides funerals." Amen, uncle frank; amen.
It was teriffic. After the old folks left the DJ put the house on and wedding party, twenty-somethings, and other singles got down to the serious drinking and dancing. I'm not posting those photos. I still have my dignity, you know.
And that was it. I wish I had some big, grandiose, profound, "My Best Friend's Wedding"-esque conclusion, but I'm not a very good story-teller and there's really nothing exceptional or extraordinary about this wedding (except that it involved my nerdy big brother that no one ever thought would get married). It was a nice wedding, everyone had fun, and the happy couple are, at this moment, driving around Ireland in a rented Toyota Prius and stopping periodically to admire the sheep.
The fam, including my new sister. From left to right are dad, mom (hiding), Aunt Sr. Pain-In-The-Ass of Manchester fame, Mrs. Happy, Marley, yours truly, and Aunt Nene (second old nunny bunny in the fam and life-long partner of Aunt Sr. PITA).*this particular piece of sculpture by the roadside came complete with its own life-size bronze admirers. I kid you not. I wish to GOD i'd had my camera. They actually made people standing around gazing at the sculpture. Barfamonio.
**yes, i blatantly stole the "ahem" technique thingy from Babs. What can i say? Immitation is the highest form of plagarism.
***Cheese should never. under any circumstances. be SQUARE. end of chat.
****If you are not, or have never been, in marching band, you won't understand any of this. Just trust me that it was hysterical. I give you my word as a section leader.
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