Joss Whedon's endorsement of Mitt Romney

Dubious Usefulness

Le sigh.  I currently have no passport, Adam has no passport, and I spent over £7 on copies (and £991 in application fees) this weekend to send in my visa application so as to stay legal and not get deported.  Given that this entire process will cost us around £1200, it's a wonder than I bothered.  It's also not the best way to crack down on illegal immigration (which is not as prevalent ANYWHERE as people seem to think, and certainly isn't the economic problem people want it to be).

But that's not what this post is about.  This post is about the entire "Life in the UK" process, or what I like to call a gigantic financial, mental, and temporal cesspool.  Yeah, that's right.  It took my money, my brainpower, and my time, and stuck them all in a pile of shit.

First, the fact that I--or really anyone--needs to take the test is insulting, as the study book (more on that in a moment) claims that England is proud of its multiculturalism (protip: it's not).  But ignoring that, I can live with the idea of the test.  You want to live somewhere, you should have a token grasp of how that place works.  Sadly, that's not what the test is about.  Let me quote for you:

This handbook contains all the answers to the questions that may be asked in the Life in the UK test.  The questions will all be based on chapters 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 of the handbook.  You do not have to study the other chapters in order to be able to pass the test, but we hope and believe that they will be of interest and practical value to many readers and they will certainly help your understanding of the chapters you will be tested on.

Next, let me list the Table of Contents for you (with selected sub-sections):

CHAPTER 1: THE MAKING OF THE UNITED KINGDOM
(sub-sections omitted)
pages 7-25
CHAPTER 2: A CHANGING SOCIETY
Migration to Britain; The changing role of women; Children, family and young people
pages 27-33
CHAPTER 3: UK TODAY: A PROFILE
Population; The nations and regions of the UK; Religion; Customs and traditions
pages 35-41
CHAPTER 4: HOW THE UNITED KINGDOM IS GOVERNED
The British Constitution; The UK in Europe and the World
pages 43-53
CHAPTER 5: EVERYDAY NEEDS
Housing; Services in and for the home; Money and credit; Health; Education; Leisure; Travel and transport
pages 55-73
CHAPTER 6: EMPLOYMENT
Looking for work; Equal rights and discrimination; At work; Working for yourself; Childcare and children at work
pages 75-85
CHAPTER 7: KNOWING THE LAW
(sub-sections omitted)
pages 87-99
CHAPTER 8: SOURCES OF HELP AND INFORMATION
(sub-sections omitted)
pages 101-105
CHAPTER 9: BUILDING BETTER COMMUNITIES
pages 107-113
GLOSSARY

Now, scroll on back up there and see what chapters they test on.  Right, I'll just tell you.  Chapters 2-6.  Now look at the titles of chapters 1 and 7.  Wait, what?  They don't test on British history or, perhaps of more importance, British law?  How can that be?!  Oh wait.  Because by the time you're taking this test, you've lived here close to a minimum of 2 years (likely with the right to work), so now's the time to tell people how to get a job and what the minimum wage is.  Except the book was published in 2007 and the minimum wage goes up nearly every year.  As does the population.  And a variety of other things that change regularly as well.  But by god, they'll test you on information that's half a decade out of date.

I find it galling that I had to read pages on how to get a job, how to send a child to school, how to buy a home, and so forth, but I wasn't required to know a damn thing about crime, my rights under the law (except as to how they apply to working), the court system, and whatever else is covered in the law section.  No, I didn't read anything other than chapters 2-6.  Funny enough, I had no problems with the test.  

It's offensive.  I really am not opposed to the idea of the test, but I am galled at the contents of the test.  24 questions, 18 required to pass (they don't tell you how many you got correct at the end).  The only section that I found to be truly worthwhile was the government section, but that was filled with unnecessary numbers.  Fair enough, needing to know that there are 646 parliamentary seats in the House of Commons, but unless you live in Wales, Scotland, or Northern Ireland, you don't need to know how many seats they all have for their respective ruling bodies.  And why do I think that's not important?  Because the book told me that most ethnic minorities (and thus immigrants, though that is not explicitly said) live in England, and most of those live in London.  So who the fuck cares that the (suspended) Northern Ireland Assembly has 108 members?  Especially since it's suspended!

Here's the worst part.  My in-laws were afraid that I wouldn't pass.  They took a test online and they didn't pass, therefore I wouldn't.  The lack of faith is appalling.  I had the book.  I'm also really good at remembering useless crap, especially for short amounts of time, and good at taking tests (except for the GRE English, but we don't speak of that.  EVER.)

Actually, that's not the worst part.  The worst part is that there was a girl in there who was taking the test for the second time, since she failed the first time.  She also failed the second time.  Another lass failed as well, because--and I quote--"there were at least 10 questions on there that weren't on the practice tests."  And I'm guessing a third guy failed, because he scheduled the test and then bought the book.  Because our testing was so screwed up (massive computer and server failures meant they had to keep restarting/reloading) they were being lax at the test centre, and he kept going into the post-test waiting room to "get some water" to ask those of us who finished for answers.  His problem?  I wasn't helping him, and the two who were both failed.  Ooops.

~~~~~

In somewhat related news, someone I care very deeply for (not my husband*) told me that the English, when they go other places, make an effort to learn and fit into that culture, particularly if they're moving there.  This was in reference to Muslims or those of Asian extraction** I presume.  But I disagree: a culture whose primary goal for centuries was to acquire as many countries as possible*** and enforce Britishness on them doesn't get the right to say that.  Besides, Brits are roundly hated when they go to restaurants in the States because they "don't know" that they're supposed to tip.****  Bullshit.  They know.  They just pretend ignorance because they're cheap.  Everybody knows that Americans are so cheap that they won't pay their waitstaff a livable wage so they depend on those tips to keep the lights on and food on the table.

*I do care very deeply for my husband, but he's not the person who said this.

**In this case, Asian means Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, etc.  This is England, not the west coast of the States, where I take Asian to mean Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, etc (sorry to everyone I lumped into "etc.," but I can't see my map from here and that was the one part of the world where we didn't study geography in middle school).

***Do you have a flag?

****They're also hated in France, but that's a long standing feud and the feeling is mutual.

Trash Day

So my parents chose, for some ungodly reason, to get married on February 14, 1980.  For those keeping score, no, I was not premature, and no, it wasn't a shotgun wedding (or at least if it was, I haven't been informed of that fact).  Both of my parents have a strong sense of the absurd, so I'm sure that lent itself to the choice of date, but if you ask my father, he'll tell you they got married on trash day.  Trash day as in the day the garbage men/women/people come by and collect the trash for disposal.

Glad to see the romance was dead at the start :)  Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.  And for everyone else, I leave you with a great comic from xkcd, which is a completely awesome and very smart web comic.  You should go read all of his stuff.

The mouseover text* reads "The worst resolution to the Valentine Prisoner's Dilemma when YOU decide not to give your partner a present but your PARTNER decides to testify against you in the armed robbery case."

*All xkcd comics have mouseover text--to read it, just hold the mouse still over the image and it will appear.

Bad Dreams

So I've been having problems sleeping.  Don't know if it's my back, our crappy bed, an inability to turn my mind off, staying in bed too long in the mornings, or what, but sleep has been rather elusive of late, which is frustrating.  It's even more frustrating when the neighbors' dog starts yapping at 6:30am.  For 5 hours straight.  And no, I'm not joking about that.  When the little bastard decides to start barking he doesn't stop. I chalk it up to poor (or most likely non-existent) training, no regular incentives to not bark, and the fact that it's a bloody Jack Russell and all those little shits do is bark.

But I digress.  The dog generally doesn't bark in the middle of the night, which is when we go to bed.  So last night, after I eventually fell asleep, I had a bad dream.  To call it a nightmare would be inaccurate; it wasn't even frightening to me, per se, just irritating.  Maybe a little frightening, but not terrifying (and please try not to laugh too hard when you read the next paragraph).

I dreamed I was back in high school, which to some may be terrifying enough, but wasn't so much the problem.  The problem was that I was, once again taking Functions, Statistics, and Trigonometry (better known as FST, since the textbook couldn't bother to write it all out on the cover).  I was struggling mightily with the problems, which was even worse because the answers were in the back of the book, but I was having so many problems getting it that I couldn't even copy the answers correctly.  Seriously, it was so confusing to me that I couldn't look at the full problem and answer written out in the back of the book--everything that I needed to put on my homework--and copy it verbatim onto my page.  I kept trying and screwing it up, erasing it over and over, while getting more and more confused, frustrated, and scared.  Thankfully Dad (and Adam, who, oddly enough, was there and was my husband even though I was in high school--although I was also about 24) told me it was ok to drop the course; I'd already been accepted to university, and dropping the course wouldn't affect that, and it wouldn't mess up my GPA.  But it was still a sad and confusing ending to the dream, and didn't lessen my frustration of being so completely lost that I couldn't even cheat properly.

In reality, FST, which I took the first half of my junior year, was the first high school class in which I didn't get an A.  When I found out I was getting a B--and that there was nothing I could do to change that, despite begging to do extra credit or redo the project (which we were allowed to do for our portfolios, but it wouldn't change the grade)--I had a meltdown.  An absolute nervous breakdown.  Additionally, I was angry because in the math classes, 88% constituted an A.  I believe I had something like 91.4% before the final project of the term, and that final project was weighted so heavily that my final grade for the term was around 84%.  A term's worth of nightly homework, weekly tests, and other projects was overshadowed by one project.  A project of such importance to the world, let alone the class, that I couldn't tell you for the life of me what it was, except that we worked on it as a group and it dropped my final grade by over 7%.

Things didn't improve the next semester.  My spirit was broken.  Mock me if you will, but getting all As was important to me for some ungodly reason (if only this determination had continued into my PLU years).  I got a B in the next term of FST as well, and a B in the second half of my beloved Philosophy in Literature course (no idea on that one).  Again, I really do think my spirit was broken.

Over a decade on and in hindsight, I'm less upset about the Bs in FST.  To this day, I do not understand functions, and I couldn't tell you what they are, why we need them, how to use them, or anything else.  I've always struggled a bit with math, but never like I did with functions.  Everything else I could fake my way through until I eventually understood it, but I never understood functions.  I fared slightly better in statistics--I couldn't have done worse--but I did spent the entirety of that section muttering "three types of lies."  In hindsight, it occurs to me that perhaps the teacher heard me, and that's why my grade suffered so badly.  Anyway, I never would have thought that trigonometry would be my savior.  That was old stuff, having studied it in Algebra II (why there were are sections of algebra I don't know, nor do I understand why they are split up by geometry, but thankfully I understood algebra the second time it came around, since I didn't the first time).  I think it was probably much harder in FST, but after functions and the only slightly improved statistics, trig really was my savior.

Needless to say, FST is where I ended my high school math career.  PDM (which had the same naming issue as FST, and I believe stands for Pre-Discrete Mathematics, or maybe Pre-Calculus and Discrete Mathematics; ask someone who took it for the official name, since we all called it pre-calc) was not going to see me after the failure of FST, and I was trying to take so many other classes anyway.

It's interesting to me the strange thoughts about my past that have been going through my head because of one miserable dream.  It's been a day of reminiscing.

Cheerleading Fail

playing Lord of the Rings Online, whilst wrapped like a mummy in a duvet

"Do you need any help with the chicken?"

"Not really.  It's a one person job."

"Good, I'm warm in my duvet."

"Gee, thanks."

"Well, I can be your cheerleader.  Give me a C!  Give me a K!"

he pauses


"That's not how you spell chicken."

sad face


"I suck as a cheerleader."

Nice marmot, dude

I don't think there's anything I can add that will top this.

Man with dead weasel accused of assault

– Wed Jun 8, 3:25 pm ET

HOQUIAM, Wash. – Police say a man was carrying a dead weasel when he burst into an apartment and assaulted a man in Washington state.

The victim asked, "Why are you carrying a weasel?" Police said the attacker answered, "It's not a weasel, it's a marten," then punched him in the nose and fled.

The attacker was apparently looking for his girlfriend and had gone to her former boyfriend's apartment Monday where the victim was a guest.

KXRO reports he left the carcass behind.

Police later found the 33-year-old Hoquiam man arguing with his girlfriend at another location and arrested him after a fight.

He said he had found the marten dead near Hoquiam, but police don't know why he carried it with him.

A marten is a member of the weasel family.

From here.

Uhh...what?

"You know I got some of your birthday presents used, right?"
"It's not condoms, is it?"

This is what I live with.

Finally, I'm the Hero

So for what might possibly be the first time in our relationship, I got to be the hero.  Normally, Adam is the hero.  He's the one with the job (which meant that I could quit my crappy one).  He's the one who takes out (both) the giant-ass spiders (and the little ones).  He . . . ok, well, that's all I've got right now.

But yesterday, yesterday I got to be a hero for the first time (buying an overpriced undershirt probably doesn't count).  Where I'm afraid of spiders--mortally, irrationally, overreactionally afraid of spiders--slugs ook him out.  A lot.  He swears they don't scare him, just gross him out, but the boy backs way out of the way, and usually out of visual range, when there's a slug to be found.  Also, his toes curl under (way under).

This made his Monday morning shower a bit more interesting.  For those not in the know, our Lewisham Road flat is an underdwelling, or what others might call a daylight basement.  Our bedroom and bathroom are both below street level, though both do have windows, and an extraction fan in the bathroom.  Given the rather cheap construction of our flat (and due to necessity, to be fair) our extraction fan is essentially a large, mostly open pipe at head level in our shower.  As in, during the day, I can see daylight and plant life through it.  There is a bit of a grill on each end, but it doesn't exactly block anything.  In this case, what it did not block was a slug.

It wasn't a very big slug, to be fair.  As such things go, it might even have been a cute slug (I'm not afraid of them, but I'm not convinced of their "cuteness" either.  It's a slug.  Eugene girl or not, the Slug Queen is only awesome because it's a guy in drag.  Usually a hairy guy.).  What it was was an industrious slug. It had ventured in from the vent, up the tiles then across the tiles and down behind Adam's shampoo and conditioner bottles (Dove, if you're keeping score.  I use generic Boots or Morrison's knockoff of Herbal Essences.).  Behind his shampoo and conditioner is where he found it.  And the pile of eggs it was laying.

To his eternal credit, he did not scream.  He did, however, take what might be the fastest shower he's taken in the 5.5 years we've been together.  Shortly after the shower turned off, the door opened.  This was common at Titanic--we'd let the steam out and not worry about flashing the locals, since the bathroom opened into the hallway.  But here the bathroom is right across from our living room windows, which open onto a very busy alley.  So no opening of the door, meaning I was a bit surprised that the door opened so quickly.  He did not have enough time to do his hair (a much longer process than mine, in part because he has longer hair, and in part because he's weird), shave (for Monday is a shaving day), or brush his teeth (no explanation needed, except for structural symmetry here).

He came very quickly out of the bathroom, found me, and said, "I need you to take care of the slug in the shower.  And the eggs."  He was very calm about it.  Until I looked at his toes.  They were curled under, somewhere in the region of his heels.  But, hero though I got to be, I must give him credit.  If I felt the way he did, I'd have been out of there like a shot, screaming for him.  He finished his shower.  In record time, perhaps, and neither one of us is sure he got all the soap rinsed off, but he did finish his shower, even after finding his nemesis in the corner behind his shampoo and conditioner, spewing eggs out at a remarkable rate.

I am most proud of Adam.  Jealous at his calm, collected demeanor--excepting his hiding in the corner of the bedroom whilst I removed the offender and where he asked me to examine the entire house for slugs (which I actually did)--but proud.  And for once, I got to be the hero.

You want how much?!

or

Why I had to buy a £10.90 men's undershirt.

As you may or may not recall, Adam's brother Mark got married two weeks ago.  As you also may or may not be aware of, my husband only wears black clothes.  That said, on very rare occasions (graduation, weddings--namely ours and Mark's) he'll wear a white dress shirt with a suit.  In part, this is due to the fact that he doesn't have any black shirts that are nice enough to wear with his suits.

When we got married, Adam didn't own a white undershirt.  My father, on the other hand, owns many of them; I think he bought a caseload of them just before he retired and didn't wear them.  So Adam borrowed one of Dad's, and I asked Dad if Adam could keep it.  Not a problem.

Except Adam didn't want it.  And for some reason, I didn't argue with him, or just keep it myself and give it to him later.  This turned out to be a mistake.  A costly mistake.

When we started getting dressed the morning of Mark's wedding, Adam put on his white shirt.  Sadly, once it was on, it turned a bit pink, except for the nippular region, which was a dark round patch.  After I finished snickering (and trying to purple his nurples), I suggested he try wearing his wedding shirt.  The results were better, but not by much.

Since I was already dressed and ready to go, I volunteered to see if the menswear shop in Slaithwaite (yay for amenities, just around the corner from Lewisham Road!) was open and stocked tee-shirts.  Luckily, it was and it does.  When I walked in, a stodgy, stuffing looking Captain Peacock type fellow came out of the back and asked if he could help me.  I asked him if he stocked white undershirts.  He gave me a rather askance look, and asked me what size, so I told him, "uh, large, I guess."  He pulled a box out of the drawer that said Jockey, showed it to me, and asked if that's what I was looking for.  I should have known that if wouldn't hand me the box to look at something was wrong.

He rang it up and told me the price.  The price being £10.90.  There was only one tee-shirt in the box.  Now, as you may know, I get frustrated when people ask "how much is that in dollars?"  The answer is that generally it doesn't matter; a dollar and a pound spend in basically the same way--a meal you would spend $12 on costs about £12.  That said, sometimes price conversion is useful.  As of writing this, £1 is equal to $1.63.

Now, take both of those financial comparisons into account, and look at how much I paid for the undershirt.

...

...

...

Yeah.  That's right.  Depending on how you look at it, I spent £11, $11, or $17.75 on a single, goddamned white undershirt.  All because my husband wouldn't keep one of my father's.

The good news?  It's very comfortable.  Soft and fitted, but not too tight, and moves nicely with him.  All I have to say?  It had damned well better!

Attack of the Zombie Spider

So there was another spider inicident the other day.  I've encountered several more (both before and after the "towel incident," documented here), but this one was, once again, the size of my head.*  Kristan actually asked me--while shrieking with (justified) laughter--if it wasn't actually someone's pet tarantula that escaped and I murdered, but it wasn't.  Wolf spider, I"m fairly certain.  Adam saw this other one as well, since he was home, so I have proof of not being crazy, or at least of not lying about its size.  I grabbed the kettle and turned on the tap to fill it so I could make tea, when suddenly there was a brown fuzzy thing scrabbling at the edge of the sink, trying to get away from the water.  I turned off the water--no idea how, probably as a matter of self defence since the spider was now extra determined to escape its prison since it was now flooding--set/dropped the kettle on the counter, and screamed.  Actually, I'm fairly certain I screamed first, and continued throughout my other actions.  Adam came to my rescue from the bathroom, with a towel wrapped around his waist.  He saw the spider, said "oh, I thought it was something important," and went to finish his ablutions.  Then he grabbed a glass, a flyer from our ISP, and asked me to open the door so he could release it back into the wild, where it is now probably terrorizing the neighbors.  Which is fine, as long it's not terrorizing me.

Otherwise, the parental units have been and gone.  They seemed to have a nice time; I hope so, as we had a nice time with them (drinking, eating, playing Settlers).  Beyond that, I've applied for a job that I haven't heard back from yet, which blows because it's right around the corner from us.  Seriously, it's probably a 35 second walk (or less, but I'm taking into account locking the door and setting the alarm code).  I'll have to contact them again shortly and ask what the status is, because I think I'd like this job.  At the very least it's an income that doesn't involve me making sandwiches.

I'm also working on editing a paper that some of us from Girl Museum submitted for last summer, and we just heard back about.  They accepted it, but with major revisions.  Because none of us understood the philosophy involved (it's for a Deleuzian publication), it was a bit sketchy, and our format didn't really work.  Since everyone else is employed, and mostly because I didn't say no, the job of editing fell to me.  It's hard work, but I'm actually really enjoying it, and I also seem to better understand what Deleuze and Guattari were talking about.  I think they were mostly full of crap, but at least I better understand it now.  I still have about 3/4 of the paper left (and a whole bunch of citations to find and insert), but the shape seems to be pretty solid now, and the flow will be better, with far less repetition.  My goal is to finish the second section today.  Since I think I'm only going to be combining the work of two authors there, it--crossed fingers--won't be too horrible.  As I learned on Saturday (with one primary author and about 2 paragraphs from my section plus the additions I had to write in), if you were to plot number of authors on one axis and time on the other, you'll get an exponential curve.

Lastly, there are two weddings this week.  First is the royal wedding on Friday.  And--along with laughing about the spider--Kristan may have mocked me for knowing when the date was, but I challenge you to live in the UK and not know.  Or to spend any time on Yahoo's homepage looking at their "news" articles (I read the Yahoo US site, by the way, not the Yahoo UK site, so you can't blame it on that).  And then on Saturday my brother in law is getting married, which should be a good time.  People keep asking me what I'm wearing, and then announce that I should wear my wedding dress.  No, I will not wear my wedding dress to someone else's wedding, that's just tacky, even if my dress didn't look like a wedding dress.  In short, I don't know, because I acquired a plague on my left arm from sitting in the sun (can't determine if it's a heat rash or a slight sun allergy, but I also can't be bothered to see a doctor since it's not debilitating, just itchy and ugly).  Should be healed by Saturday though, so hopefully that won't affect my wardrobe choice.  Still, I can't understand why people care what I'm wearing to a wedding that isn't mine and I'm not a member of the wedding party.

Now that I've procrastinated enough, back to editing, since I also have to make pasta dough, pasta sauce, and brownies.  And possibly a potato tart for tomorrow.

*Actually, I think this one was a tiny bit smaller than the first one, but not much.  But then, when you find a giant spider in your towel, one that isn't so actively threatening your life won't seem quite as large.  Either way, still huge.  Adam was impressed by its size as well.

Whew!

So we're finally moved and settled in here on Lewisham Road.  I guess.  It's quite a change, and I don't dislike it, but I don't love it, either.  Adam likes it more, he thinks, but I miss our classy (looking . . . looking, not in actuality) Titanic Mill flat.  It had a working washing machine and dryer (all-in-one), and this place has a broken (soon to be replaced) washer only, that sucks.  Hopefully the new one will be better.  Hopefully the new one will also have a built-in dryer, as it takes a week for clothes to dry, which means they smell by the time they're dry.  However, we're not holding out much hope for that, as the landlord basically told us it comes down to cost, so they'll probably get the cheapest one possible.  Still, he's a nice guy, so I can't say too much.  Besides, he's probably a bit pissed that in less than a month of our taking residence he has to replace it.  Not our fault it's broken.  I did actually break the handle off, and was going to pay to get that replaced, but the repairman discovered the control board was busted (we could get it to work, but it was a pain), said "it's cheaper to get a new one" and took off with both the new and old door.

Titanic also had those two joys that are either impossible to find, or damn close.  First is the dishwasher.  We knew that when we talked about moving we wouldn't have one, most rentals don't.  It's not killing me yet, but I miss the ease of cramming it full and hoping for the best.  I also really really really miss the garbage disposal.  Those don't seem to exist outside of North America, so it was a pleasure and a joy to be able to peel veg and apples into the sink, throw eggshells in, or dump coffee grounds (which Adam still does) and then just cram it down the drain with lots of cold water.  Even Adam--who was afraid of the disposal slightly at Titanic--misses it a bit.

There are some other changes that take getting used to.  One of the biggies is that the floor is not level.  Not at all.  Not in the slightest.  Not even if you squint and don't look too closely.  You can actually feel in your legs that you're walking uphill from the door to the kitchen counter opposite (which is maybe 15 feet).  I'd guess it's 2-3 inches higher.  I'm also not convinced that the bedroom, bathroom, and landing are level either, but it's not so obvious.  It's also hard to get used to a carpeted bathroom.  I'm very not pleased about that, but nothing we can do.  But seriously, what moron carpets a bathroom?!  Ironically, it's also the nicest carpet in the house (the entirety of which is carpeted).

We also have to get used to living below someone.  We were on the top floor at Titanic, and there was no one below us, as they hadn't finished developing the final phase--they did some of it in 2009, so by the time we moved out, 1, 2, and 5 were done, but I believe 3 and 4 were unfinished.  4 certainly was, meaning that I could jump around like a moron (it's called exercise...) and not disturb anyone below us.  Being in an underdwelling means we can't disturb anyone below us, but since we live under a physiotherapist, well...we get disturbed a lot.  And there's no insulation, meaning we get all the stomping of them walking around and doing their therapies, as well as all the noise of them talking and running the hoover (which they do in a very weird manner).  Nor do they keep normal hours, but are mostly by appointment.  This is good in the sense that we don't get woken up every day at 8:20 (just some days), but they were there for 12 hours the other day, and most of it seemed to be them sitting around shooting the shit.  Loudly.  With lots of laughing.  So I started laughing whenever they did.

Adam and I both understand that we knowingly moved in under them, but we assumed that a) there was at least some insulation and b) well, mostly that there would be insulation.  We're contemplating making a recording of us having sex (or simulating having sex, which would probably be more fun) and playing it very loudly when they get to be too noisy.  Slamming the cupboard doors lots, screaming "use the whip!" moaning and grunting and such, and finally yelling a safety word ("cucumber" and "microwave" have both been suggested).  I've also thought about taking up the accordion and playing (badly, very badly) whenever they're up there, doing cover songs (badly, very badly) of a wide range of music (Canon in D, Coldplay, jazz standards, etc).  I also thought about the tuba.  Adam suggested I take up the bass drum, and just beat out basic rhythms (which is just about all a bass drum ever does).  Then we thought about putting a single song on constant repeat very very loudly.  "Paperback Writer" by The Beatles and "Blood" by My Chemical Romance are both front runners.  Both great songs, but not in large doses.

The last problem we've encountered Adam has mostly missed out on.  I, on the other hand, ended up in hysteria last night, and it probably took an hour before my adrenaline slowed.  Titanic had a limited bug problem; one of the advantages of being 5 floors up.  We got flies (dunno where from half the time, probably the vents), and if the doors were open, wasps and other flying things (hence why we bought and velcroed up a screen over the door frame).  I found a few spiders, maybe as many as 5 in two years.  We did have gnat-type things; but those came from our potting soil and plants.  But here, in two weeks, I've killed a weird flying ant thing (I think; couldn't see it that well), found a potato bug/roly-poly/wood louse, and found 3 spiders.  Make that four.

Last night I had the incredibly unpleasant discovery of the world's largest mother fucking spider.  In my towel.  While I was trying to dry off.  Luckily, it didn't end up on me.  I grabbed my towel off the wall, started to dry my left, freshly shaven leg (the right was freshly shaved too, before you ask), and as I moved and the towel flipped out I heard that plopping sound of something not too heavy landing on carpet (but heavy enough to make a sound).  It was--and I'm truly not exaggerating, because I just checked on a measuring tape--at least 2 inches across.  The body was probably a centimeter and a half across, plus those massive scary legs (and body...the whole thing was fucking terrifying).

I'm assuming it was a wolf spider.  I don't know.  But I screamed so fucking loud that I'm sure they heard me in Lancashire (that's the next county over for you non-UK county knowing people).  Did I mention that it was in my towel?  The one that I was using to dry myself with at the time?  After being flung out, it left the bathroom, and crawled under the small bookcase just outside the bathroom door.  I hurriedly finished my drying (yeah, same towel, but I sure as hell wasn't going to try for a second towel at that point), threw lotion on my face and even decided to comb my hair--all in record time, I might add. Then I carefully examined the floor and walls as I leapt from same place to safe place to get onto the bed (also examined before being leapt upon, but with a white duvet this fucker would have shown up like a bloodstain).  From the comparative safety of the bed, I carefully shook out my slippers and then looked inside each of them before putting them on.  Feeling slightly more protected, I grabbed a shoe (the widest I own) and went hunting.

The creature was no longer under the bookcase, which pissed me off because that meant I didn't know where it was.  I found it fairly quickly however, in the corner of one of the stairs between the landing and the living room.  So I grabbed my can of bug spray and sprayed it til it moved (trust me, this shit wouldn't have killed it, it's wasp/flying thing killer, and if I'd have thrown the can at it, it probably would have thrown it back--with better aim).  As it slowly descended the stairs then rather quickly started scuttling across the floor, I sucked it up and whacked it with my shoe--and then ran back really fast after dropping the shoe.  Wussy, perhaps, but seriously, this thing was huge and nearly as wide as my shoe, so if I hadn't hit it hard enough I didn't want to risk it holding onto my shoe and thus being basically on me and well, really, it was a fucking big spider and I was scared and didn't want to be that close to it.

Even dead, the bastard was huge  (yes, I one-hit killed it).  I refused to touch it.  So I grabbed the vacuum and sucked it up.  I'm making Adam empty the hoover next.  Screw his asthma, I felt the damn thing go up the hose so I won't empty the canister.  If it turns into a zombie spider he can deal with it.

I'm sure loads of you are laughing, and that's fine.  It's awesome actually, and part of writing this was that I know it's funny to others.  But I really can't convey the absolute, abject terror that gripped me.  I haven't seen a spider that big since 2004, when I (sorta) helped Jason pack up his stuff so he could move to a new house with Jimmy and I.  He had several very large spiders hiding in that room.  I was outside and halfway across the lawn in about 3 seconds.  And before that, the last horrible spider experience was in a "mine" in Italy, and I refuse to recount that story, because it's neither funny nor dramatic, just super-creepy to me.

Welcome to my new home!

Jokes

A new joke I learned today:

Q.  What did the Tea Partier get on his IQ Test?
A.  Drool.

A joke I learned while in Leicester (if somewhat misogynistic):

Q.  How is a woman like a hurricane?
A.  At first she's wet and wild, but then she leaves with your house and car.

And my most favoritist joke of all time (that's not TOO dirty):

A pirate walks into a bar, and has a massive ship's wheel sticking out of his trousers.  The bartender looks at it and asks "Hey, doesn't that thing bother you?"  The pirate replies "Yarrr, it's driving me nuts!"

Flatulence and Marriage

I would like to state for the record, clearly and unequivocally, that I have gas.  Lots of it, and much of the time.  Like so many things in my life, I blame this on my mother (sorry Mom).  To continue in the realm of slightly awkward, and moving quickly toward far too much personal information territory, if not just downright uncomfortable, I'm beginning to think that this is because neither of us takes a dump on a daily basis.  I crap, at best 3-4 times a week.  Sometimes, it's only once a week.  Contrary to my husband's opinion, I am not constipated.  I just don't crap much.

Sidenote: This served me well in college.  I suffer from performance anxiety, and accepting that people will sometimes hear me wee was only overcome sometime in high school (in public bathrooms I always peed when it was either empty, a toilet was flushing, or the person in the stall next to me was peeing).  I still have only fractionally overcome pooing when someone can hear me (and that someone is Adam).  I only crapped at PLU when it was dire--and it wasn't dire enough if people were in the bathroom.  And only once did I throw up in the bathroom when people were around, but I had food poisoning and figured that imminent death excused that aberration.  Also, I can now sorta poo in an airport restroom, but it depends on the time, location of the loos, and airport, as well as direness of my intestines.

Back on topic: Mom thinks--and I agree, though I will be the first to state that there is no research, medical diagnosis, or anything else other than our general "smarts" to back us up--that part of why we don't poo so much is because our digestive track is thorough.  It wants every last bit of nutrient and caloric goodness out of everything we consumed that it holds onto every last bit of poo until it's forced out.  She also thinks that why we carry extra weight (this may or may not be true, but either way it should be seen as an incentive to eat less.  But I digress).  Regardless, I fear that I am starting to agree with Adam that if I took a dump more often my gas would be somewhat lessened, and probably significantly less horrible.  Alas, I cannot force a turd if a turd does not wish to be.  After all, diamonds take millions of years and massive pressure to form.  Why should a turd be any different?

Of late though, my husband has taken to claiming that my gas was kept from him prior to our marriage.  This, dear readers, is a lie.  I did not hide, nor attempt to hide, minimize, or downplay the nature of my flatulence.  To do so might possibly be grounds for divorce.  I admit that, when in public, I hold the gas in (or go hide somewhere to let it out--my farts tend to be . . . shall we say, vocal?), as I did early in our relationship (for the first few months, neither of us farted around the other, resulting in interesting attempts at hiding the smells when the other person was out of the room for 30 seconds.  Adam learned that the fetal position is great for expelling large amounts of air very quickly.).  But after I farted whilst laughing when we were lying in bed, slowly the status quo became no holds barred.  This continued--and probably expanded exponentially--when I first moved out here last February.  Adam, on the other hand, claims it got worse after we got married.  It did not.  My ass has always been this horrible.

I bare my soul (and bum) to you, my faithful readers, in an attempt to prove to Adam that I did not and have not hidden the true nature of my flatulence.  To do so would have been fraudulent, and, grounds for divorce--had anything about gas been written into the marriage vows.

Naked Neighbors, Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

A week or so after the extensive nookie/ménage à quatre incident, Adam and I were sitting on our balcony in our new patio chairs (thanks Pam and Tony!).  Given that it was incredibly windy and was prone to spitting rain from time to time, I'm fairly sure all our neighbors thought we were slightly crazy.  But dammit, we've lived here for nearly a year and a half, and only just got patio furniture, so we were going to make certain we used it.  Now, there's really no place we can sit on the balcony and not see at least partially into either our neighbors on the left side (who also have a balcony, attached to ours) or on our right side (who don't have one at all, but pay the same in rent as we do, which is a total rip-off), unless we're staring straight out, which gets a bit boring.  Generally, I think everyone who has a balcony tries not to intrude, but it does happen, and movement sparks a glance.  So I'm sitting there, facing Adam, who is facing out at an angle away from our non-balcony, loud-orgy-having neighbors.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see an arm and part of an upper body that could have a pinky, fitted shirt on, or could be naked.  I can't really tell, as it was just a flash, and honestly, I don't much care.  Until a few minutes later, when I look over and see, seated on the window-seat type thing that runs the full length of the windows, an ass-crack.  A splotchy pink (not spotty--or zitty, as said in the US--just splotchy) back, and an unremarkable ass, other than it was naked.  Guy wasn't overly podgy, but wasn't fit.  Not unattractive per se, but certainly not prepossessing either.  He was merely noticeable by virtue of the fact that he was naked.  In front of a cathedral window.  That, whilst not having immediately close neighbors, does have plenty of people who can see in (again, probably using Tony's "bird-watching" binoculars).  Oh, and me.  Goody.  Because my life was clearly incomplete, not having seen vaguely douchebaggy neighbor's ass.

Admittedly, it does lend a bit of spice to Adam's and my life.  One of the crappier spices, that has limited to no use, perhaps (celery seed, maybe?  I've only ever used that twice).  And more importantly perhaps, it provides blog-fodder.  We'll see if they keep the loud sex and nakedness us.  Since summer has already passed here for all intents and purposes, I'll be holding out for next year--skylights are closed more now, and these flats do not exactly get or stay warm in winter.  In fact, we're looking at moving most of our lives upstairs, where it should be easier to stay warm.  Bathroom is downstairs, as is kitchen, but everything else can move upstairs, with the possible exception of Adam's computer--and I have a laptop, so that's not even all lost.

Naked Neighbors

As promised yesterday.

PROLOGUE

When Adam and I were living in Leicester--not together, mind you, though we did tend to alternate where we were sleeping most nights (to avoid pissing off housemates or spending too much time at any one place)--his bedroom was at the back of the house, facing over the "garden."  I use the loosest of terms here, as apparently the owner was planning on building an addition to the house there, so it was more of a dump/construction site.  My bet is that it's still not completed.  But I digress.  On the other side of the "garden" was an apartment building/complex thingy.  I'm not sure how to best describe it.  New, fairly nice looking, not very big, and probably not cheap.  However, it had its own parking under all the flats, which was a bonus in that neighborhood.  Because all the flats were on the second floor (first in UK terms) that put them on the same level as Adam's bedroom.  This only became an issue for us in June, the month before Adam was moving out of the house and back to his parents' in Meltham (but was done with exams and classes), and the month I was supposed to be working on my dissertation before moving to London for 8 weeks.  This meant we spent a lot of time together, as opposed to my actually doing any work.  Much of that time was in his bedroom, chillin' and watching movies and the like.  Because it was so bloody hot in his room--hot summer, and badly insulated room--we also spent a lot of time in front of the window, trying to catch whatever breeze we could.  This resulted in the discovery of Naked Neighbors.  Specifically, the flats across from Adam's place, which were . . . oddly . . . designed.  The bathroom window, we discovered to our amusement, was placed directly next to the toilet, and allowed for a full upper body view when someone was seated on the toilet.  It allowed for a rather more . . . extensive . . . view when standing.  Sadly, I discovered this when I saw the dude living there taking a dump (no, he didn't pee sitting down--I discovered that later).  Additionally, the lass over there didn't always wear a towel, which was cool, because she had a nice body, and neither of them seemed to ever wear more than a towel.  Nor did their bathroom seem to have curtains.  If it did, Naked Neighbors either didn't know, or didn't care.  So for one month, Adam and I got to play voyeurs.  Admittedly, this would have been a more fun pastime if we a) had some binoculars (little did we know we could have borrowed his dad's, who seems to have become a voyeur himself, given the constant presence of the binoculars on their guest bedroom bed) and b) we had a view into something other than the bathroom.  Even so, we were sad to be leaving the Naked Neighbors.

CHAPTER 1

This now brings us up to about 3 weeks or a month ago.  About 12:30am, Adam and I are getting ready for bed (he works swing, so we tend to go to bed pretty late, especially on the weekend).  Being Saturday night, this was actually pretty early for us.  It was hot, so we had the skylights open, which is an ever present struggle between fresh, cool air, the wind rattling the shade on the skylight, and the often abrupt rain showers that occur.  No rain had happened recently, and there was very little wind, so we were fine with keeping them pretty wide open.  Suddenly, we both paused as we heard a female "ahhh, ohhh, uhhh" from next store.  We smiled at each other, and--voyeurs that we are, aural or otherwise--kept quiet as we listened.  After a couple of minutes, she sounded like she had finished, so we went back about our business.  Few minutes later, she started up again.  We grinned again, and still kept quiet.  Again, after a few minutes, all was done.  But wait.  This moaning and sighing and general sounds of pleasure (if not complete fulfillment, to be fair) waxed and waned for at least 40 minutes!  We don't know if it was longer than that, since we don't know if they started well before we first heard her.

It gets better though.  We know she wasn't alone (hey, I'm fine with enjoying the solo life; not enough people do, in my opinion), because she lives there with her partner/husband/vaguely douchebaggy guy.  But more than that, Adam had to leave about 7am on Sunday so he could go kill shit dead (shit being clay pigeons, and the shooting day out being his birthday present).  I got up with him--and went back to bed shortly thereafter, to be fair--and as I was leaving the bathroom, I heard the neighbor's door open.  Nosy soul that I am, I snuck over to the door and quietly peered out the peephole.  Where, lo and behold, I saw another couple saying goodbye to the couple who lives there.  This was at about 7:20.  Yup.  Walk of shame.  Or not, as the case may be.  Either way, I found the 40+ minutes of Marvin Gaye next door significantly more plausible when more people were involved, because be honest: how long does it really take you to do the nasty most of the time?  And if the other couple wasn't involved, then the loud noises were just kinda creepy; that's seriously not being an awesome host (either keep it down, or invite them up).

As I am bored writing now, I will leave Chapter 2, and the actual visuals of the New Naked Neighbors for later.  Can anyone say unnecessary ass-crack?

And the crazy begins...

Every once in a while I talk in my sleep. So far as I can tell, this is a very rare occurence. To be fair, I don't know how often I do it, because I'm asleep. So I asked Adam, and he told me that he doesn't notice it, because he's asleep. Fair enough. I'll take that to assume I don't do it very often. I'm wondering if I started up again because of this post by Vancil.

I seem to be in a sleep-talking cycle currently. The other night I guess I muttered some unintelligble things at Adam (waking him up), and then shut up and that was that. Though in hindsight, I might have been actually awake, and thought he was, and that unitelligible muttering was me telling Adam "I love you." Hmm...oh well, doesn't much matter.

Until last night. I actually have vague memories of this event, but I don't know what I was dreaming about at the time. What woke Adam up last night was not my talking, but my pounding on the bed with a rolled-up kitchen towel.* I vaguely remember this because I had to remove it from under my neck and prop myself up to hit the bed. Apparently I also said "It won't copy!" and when Adam--presumably trying to be helpful--asked me what wouldn't copy, I just glared at him. I did, however shut up, lay back down, and went back to sleep.

What really frustrates me is all the weird dreams I had last night. I'm sure I remember this one, but I don't know which dream it would have been part of. The one where I was worried Faith was going to kill another animal (that's a later post, if I remember; if not she killed a possum the other day and brought the corpse into the house). The one where I was trying to fix the grandfather clock (which I broke more, but...)? Where I was supposed to drive my grandparents back up to Scappoose from Eugene? The one where I was at a graduation and the ensuing formal meal? I don't know.

Hopefully all of this will stop soon. Adam already found an article that claims that it's bad for couples to sleep together. Both sleep less because one waking up tends to wake up the other (they had to do a study to find that out?!). My talking--or hammering on the bed--is just more likely to end up with me on the couch and Adam in the bed. Why does he get the bed? Because he paid for it (and damn near everything else we own). Also because he works (which is how he pays for stuff). I suppose I can't fault the logic, but crap as that bed is (he doesn't make much money, mind you) it's better for my back than the couch or the floor.

Maybe I'll buy a gag...

*I really screwed my neck up somehow, and sleeping with a rolled towel under my neck instead of using a pillow (contoured or otherwise) is the only thing that's been making a difference. God knows the massages, ice, and copious application of various drugs hasn't done much.

Go pack some fudge, you damn Benedictine!*

There are people out there who seem to like how I write. Ok. That makes me happy, if, from time to time, confused. If you are one of those people, or if you have a bizarre sense of humor--or better yet, both--go read this blog post. It's written by a guy who goes by the name Riff, and he writes for Kingdom of Loathing, which is a wickedly funny and smart online game (which you should play--it's free!).

In general, Riff's blog is pretty neat, but this particular post is about changing how we insult people. I think he's on to something, and so once again, I encourage you to read his post, which can be found here.

*This insult would perhaps be funnier to more people if they knew there was an order of Benedictine monks in Oregon who make fudge.

No good deed goes unpunished

So my mother did me a lovely courtesy, and sent me a bunch of crap that I wanted. Said crap included some books (a surprising number, actually, given the size of the box), some cornbread muffin mix (to most likely be mixed with a yellow cake batter and some jalapeños for jalapeño muffins), some dried cranberries (first ingredient is NOT sugar), some Kosher salt (also can't find over here, but probably could with a better grocery store), my bermuda shorts (the weather sucks again, so ever wearing those is a fornlorn hope), and a pair of flip flops.

What's wrong with this picture?

Oh yes. I don't have two right feet. So effectively, I still don't have a pair of flip flops. Thanks...

Epic Flail

This is, perhaps, the most epic failure ever caught on tape.  Ever.

Can...not...resist...

I'm sorry, I had to post this.  I could not resist sharing something so important with my loyal readers.  For suspense purposes, I shall only post the link, not the article.

Enjoy!

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