My visit to the fabulous London Towne, where I only got ripped off twice

The first time was when I chose "for here" instead of "takeaway" as I bought a slice of pizza for lunch. The girl giving me the option didn't mention that in choosing to sit down I would be paying 3.80 instead of 1.95. The sit-down version did come with salad on the side, but I hardly felt that little bit of lettuce was worth 2 quid. It was good pizza, though.

I really wanted to see a show, but there were only a few that had Thursday matinees and the half-priced stall at Leicester Square was no help. So I gave up on that idea, and after the interview I headed for Wardour Street to eat lunch at this Thai restaurant I'd read about. On the way, I realized that I was close to the Prince Edward theatre, where the matinee of Mary Poppins: The Musical would be showing soon. I went in, picking my way through hordes of children, to ask if they had any student discount tickets left for the matinee. They did, and I was all happy because I was going to see a show, even if it meant there would be no time for Thai.

I should have stuck with the Thai.

Mary Poppins was the second rip-off of my trip, which baffles me exceedingly. When you consider the other West End/Broadway adaptations of Disney films like Beauty & the Beast, The Lion King, and Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang, it's not like I was taking some huge risk. It should have been great. And parts of it were, but in general the thing just didn't grab me, which makes me very sad. So here's a little slap-dash review of sorts that I came up with as I puzzled out why I didn't so much love this play.

Review:
First, let me point out the good things--namely the cast, the special effects, and the set design. They were great. Scarlett Strallen played Mary Poppins and was hysterically funny. She swept around with her nose in the air and spoke in a high, prissy, silvery voice. Gavin Lee was great as Bert, which was good since he quite possibly had more stage time than Mary Poppins did--it seemed like he was in nearly every scene. And a lot of the minor characters (like the housekeeper and the park warden) got quite a few of the laughs. So yes, all the actors did a good job with what they had, but they just weren't given great material.

The story was changed quite a bit, but that could have been to make it more faithful to the original story. Since I haven't read the books since I was eight, I couldn't tell you. Some of the changes were good (the parents, especially the mother, got more time--and she isn't a suffragette in this one) and others were just convoluted and a bit boring.

Eight new songs were written to pad out the script, and with the exception of one decent one ("Anything Can Happen") the rest were . . . meh. Since the play clocked in at a full 3 hours, I'm thinking they could have done without a couple of those. I even tried on the train ride home to see if I could remember any of the tunes and I couldn't. The one image that will remain seared in my brain forever, though, is the part where all of Jane & Michael's toys come alive and start terrorizing the children during the song "Temper, Temper" to show them what happens to bad little boys and girls who mistreat their toys (ie, their toys rise up and kill them). That mess creeped me out, and I'm surprised none of the 3 million children in the audience started crying. I would've. You'll notice they don't put that one on the website.

The few Magical Theatre Moments (and yes, there were some, which made me happy) happened during the familiar original songs like "Feed the Birds," "Let's Go Fly a Kite," and "Steppin' Time." A few of those didn't happen until the second act, which is the main reason I stayed through intermission (that and the obsene amount of money I'd just given them, student discount notwithstanding). You know it's bad when you consider leaving at intermission to go walk down by the river--a thing which I have never before done in my entire life.

The kids in the audience seemed to enjoy the show, though, even if some of them have been taught that any time a song with a discernable beat starts playing then they must begin clapping along immediately and then not stop, ever.

It's opening on Broadway in October. My advice is to pass and see something else instead. I take comfort in the fact that I will see Wicked in September and it will heal my wounded soul with its fabulousness.

The shakes should be starting any time now

"Misfortunes, we are told, are sent to test our fortitude . . . and may often reveal themselves as blessings in disguise."

Thank you, Mary. Now come over here so I can beat you.

Just got off the phone with my friends at Dell, and we may be closer to solving my computer problems. The downside is that the people whose wireless I've been hijacking all year have possibly wised up, because as of today I can't get on it anymore. What am I even going to do without Internet access at home????

The answer is, of course, "write that %&*^ dissertation I've been meaning to get to." This is probably God's way of getting me out of my bedroom (aka That Place Where I Waste Time) and into the computer lab (aka That Place Where Sheer Boredom Makes Dissertation Work Exciting).

Also, it could be worse. I just talked to a guy on my program today who lost 6,000 words of his dissertation (his entire literature review and more) when his computer crashed. And no, he hadn't saved a backup copy anywhere. There's nothing you can say to someone who just lost their entire literature review (except perhaps, "Holy crap, you've already written 6,000 words? I've written like 200! Of course, I still have mine, and they're saved in three different places, but wow.") All you can do is make sure there are no sharp objects or large quantities of prescription drugs lying around all appealing-like.

Tomorrow I'm heading to London to interview Cory Doctorow and have myself some London Time. Will fill you in later if I'm not dying from Internet withdrawal.

Farewell.

Pictures as promised

My dad has been asking where the pictures of the Peak District are. Only he says he doesn't need to see any more pictures of landscapes. He would rather see pictures of people, preferably people he knows. Which . . . I'm guessing is just me, unless Dad has already met the sheep.

My new goat friends, to whom I most certainly am not feeding English candy:


My Lizzie-Bennett-of-the-rocks pose as I try not to laugh:


One of those staircase thingies we had to climb, wherein I inadvertently proposed to someone by slapping my @ss.


Had to toss in a scenery shot. Because really, that was sort of why I was there.

I now have a testimony of good outdoor gear

Report on camping trip: It was lovely. I can't post pictures right now because am in computer lab and pictures are at home on Satan-possessed hard drive. They're probably being tortured by fiends with pitchforks even as we speak.

Landlady J hooked me up with all the good camping gear once she realized how hopeless I am. I didn't have a sleeping bag, or a waterproof jacket, or a rucksack, or a tent, or decent walking boots (she lent me something called "ascent shoes"). But once she was done with me I was all kitted out and looking like a real camper. The thing is, I've never had all that good stuff. I wasn't living at home when coolboy worked for Helly Hansen and was hooking up my family with discounted gear.

Here in the UK they sell these little disposable bbqs that are pretty much the cutest li'l things ever, because you're not allowed to make fires at the campsites. Otherwise, you know, all that wet grass might catch fire and rage out of control. Once we got to the campsite we took a slab of rock from a dry-stone wall (shh! We put it right back when we were finished!) and set the bbq on it. And then I may or may not have tried to burn down England when I didn't read all of the instructions and left a bit of cardboard on that shouldn't have been on. But enough of that. It took forever to cook the burgers, and we had to use flashlights to check if the meat was cooked through or not. The campsite was a field attached to a farm, but it was really pretty. We heard sheep bleating all night long.

Also, it rained during the night and for most of the morning, so that whole waterproof jacket thing turned out to have been a really good idea. Half of us (the half with waterproof stuff) decided to go on the walk and the other half went to Chatsworth. Lucky for us the rain stopped and the sun even came out just enough to burn my neck and scalp to a crisp.

We did manage the level 4 hike and it wasn't bad. It took longer than they said it would, but the views were great, especially once the sun came out. The breeze does a really good sweat-drying job, too--I've heard. At one point we were walking up this stone staircase thing for forever and I started really feeling it in my bum and hamstrings. I said as much, and gave my gluteus maximus a pat to emphasis just where the crippling burning sensation was taking hold.

The guy walking behind me said: "Um, did you just slap your @ss at me."
Me: "Huh? No, I was just . . . "
Him: "No, you did. That's okay, I'll take it."

Perhaps in English culture that means that I'm supposed to give him three sheep now. I have no idea.

Told you I am One Who Camps

I'm leaving in just a bit to go camping with some of the YSAs--we're going to the Peak District and will be staying in Castleton, part of the Hope Valley. Let's hope I get to take some pictures as pretty as this one. The forecast keeps arguing about whether or not it will rain, which means that it most likely will. And I don't actually have a rain parka. So, you know, check back in a couple of days to see pictures of me looking like some sort of rain-sodden ferret.

The plan is to camp tonight and then go hiking (English translation: walking) the next day. Finnish Friend is in charge, and he says that the difficulty of walks ranges from 1-5. He has picked a 4 and is very confident that it will be great. My confidence is . . . of a different sort than his. Some might call it pessimism.

Blackjazz was over trying to help with the piece of Satan Spawn that is my computer (I swear the other day as it inexplicably shut down it actually spat at me), and I told him I wasn't too keen on the idea of camping in the rain.

"Oh, camping in the rain's nice, though." I think he says such crazy things because he is English and fond of walking outside. And if one wants to be fond of walking outside in England one must tell oneself that tramping around in the rain is lovely. I guess it can be, too, if you have the right gear and are walking in nice places. My walking-around-in-the-English rain experiences have usually consisted of me hanging on for dear life while climbing slippery cut-out-of-the-mountain steps on the way up to see Tintagel Castle or similar and then nearly getting hypothermia from my wet jeans.

Must go pack though, cross fingers for good weather and that I don't fall into a badger hole or anything!

Turns out I'm rubbish as a football supporter

But really, is anyone here shocked?

I really was going to watch the match on Tuesday. I was. I decided to watch from the halfway point on, that way I would be sure to be there for the end. I was all excited about doing my civic duty as a temporary English person.

(Interesting aside: At Institute last night someone said that restaurants don't much business during the World Cup. But as soon as it's all over, the World Cup fans take their "football widows" for dinner to apologize for the 6 or however many weeks of neglect, and all the restaurants get slammed with reservations. Strange times we live in, friends.)

I went downstairs and turned the TV on but the reception wasn't very good, so I started flipping channels to see if I could get a better version. And of course as I was flipping I came across a film I didn't recognize. At first I just thought, "Oooh, English accents and 1940s clothes and lush green countryside, pretty! Only must get back to football, even if the reception is rubbish."

"But wait, that's Rachel Weisz!"
"And Anna Friel and Steven Mackintosh from Our Mutual Friend!"
"And wait--is that Paul Bettany? It doesn't look like Paul Bettany, but it sounds like him. Dang you bad lighting!"
"And is that the Catherine McCormack girl from Braveheart but with completely different hair?"
(These are questions that keep me up at night, people. I can't rest until I've sorted it all out.)
"What is this movie?"

Turns out it was a 1998 film called Land Girls, about three city women who went out to the countryside in Dorset to help on a farm as part of the war effort. Because I guess that was a real thing, and people did it. Who knew? They had to wear really awful knee-length trousers, that's for sure.

So, um, yes. I tried to watch the World Cup. I really did. I even flipped back to it during the commercials to keep track of the score, but it just couldn't grab me the way that English period drama with really great cinematography can, sorry.

At the end I was so, so mad (SPOILER ALERT!) at Catherine McCormack because she falls in love with the farmer boy Joe and goes to break it off with Paul Bettany (her officer fiance) but it turns out he's been wounded and is in the hospital with both his legs amputated at the knee. And he's all "You don't have to marry me anymore if you don't want to, now that I'm all shorter and stuff." So rather than add insult to injury, she flipping stays and marries him and leaves Joe all waiting at the train station and crap for her! Hate. Hate hate hate. Then you flash forward a few years once the war is over and everyone comes back to the farm for a visit and it turns out that stupid Paul Bettany is leaving her anyway for someone else, which is why we don't marry people just because we feel bad about them getting their legs blown off. And she sees Joe, who of course still loves her, but is married to someone else now and has kids. And they smile sadly and shrug their shoulders about what might have been if she hadn't been such a stupid daft coward. And that's the end.

See, much as I do love me some English period drama, we Americans just don't do endings like that--the only bittersweet we go for is the kind in our chocolate-chip cookies. None of stiff-upper-lip mess for us, thank you.

Before my eyes swell shut

Sorry this isn't going to be anything special, as I've already overslept this morning, have sneezed 19 times in 90 seconds, and am meant to be doing dissertation research.

This very cool guy has just agreed to let me interview him but it will have to be next week in London, and I don't have good questions to ask him yet! But yay for a day in London! If any of you are science-fiction fans, you may like to know that he puts copies of his books on his website for free downloading. (He also sells them in actual bookstores for those who prefer to buy them.)

Went Cerocing a few nights ago and realized I'd forgotten to tell you about The Old Men. Most of them are all very nice and lovely and grandfatherly. Almost all of them are quirky in some way, though. One thin older gentleman always wears a Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts, black dress socks, and black "spat"-style dancing shoes. Also he dances too close.

Another guy was about 4'10 with very tan skin and twinkly eyes which give the impression that he's either a leprechaun or an extra from Horatio Hornblower. As it started getting hotter in the dance hall, he began unbuttoning his shirt, and by the end of the evening it was open to his belt. I feel myself fortunate to have danced with him at the beginning rather than the end.

And now must get back to work and possibly steal some antihistamines from somewhere.

Happy Father's Day!

Disclaimer: I don't know if my friend Theric coined the term svithe himself (he probably did, he's a smartie like that) or if what I'm about to write qualifies as one. But I've been doing some thinking today, and it's more along meditative church-type lines than snarky ones. Just so you know.

In church today the kids got up and sang a song about their dads and how they want to be like them when they grow up. At least two of these kids are now being raised by their single mom after their dad left them for someone else. They're up there singing the song, though, because what else are they going to do? The Primary Children's Songbook doesn't have a song entitled "I Hope Jesus Sends Me a Decent Male Role Model Before My Formative Years Are Over Because my Own Dad is Crap." The guy who gave a talk briefly mentioned that he grew up in a single-parent home, and that the few things he did learn from his dad shouldn't really be shared in church.

The guy's talk was about fatherhood, though, and it was really, really good. He's a young dad and an American and I like him. He talked about how out of all the responsibilities he has (job, church, spouse, children, extra-curricular things, etc.), the only two things that can't be delegated are his responsibilities to his wife and his children. Someone else could do his job just fine, and other people could take over his church callings, and he can always give up extra-curricular activities, but nobody else can be his wife's husband or his daughters' dad. And he should never fool himself into thinking that church programs, or school, or friends can take his place and meet the needs of his wife & children and teach his kids what he should be teaching them. He also talked about how great it is to be a dad. His girls have this favorite bedtime story and they know all the words by heart, and reading it to them is one of the highlights of his day.

There's a young couple in my ward who were married for 8 years before they were able to have a baby. When their little girl was born this year, my friend told me that having a baby brought out a sappy side to her husband that she hadn't seen before (in 8 years of marriage, mind you) and would never have predicted. He's gone completely soft, not just on his baby but on pretty much all babies, and it's one of the sweeter things you'll ever see. It's an intriguing idea that there could be facets of your character that are just lying dormant, waiting for parenthood to bring them out. Maybe that's one more reason why we're meant to have families.

Women at church openly discuss the fact that even though we may not have children of our own, we can still put our "mothering" instincts to good use. Hello, just look at how many single gals are elementary-school teachers. In my case, I got to be Savvy's second mom-figure. And I can tell you, it does bring out new things. If you'd told me before she was born the ridiculous and unattractive lengths I would go to make her laugh I would have said you were crazy.

The thing is, I don't really hear people at church talking about fatherhood in the same way that they discuss motherhood. I've never heard anyone mention "paternal instincts," even though men do have them. Why is that?

Do the men just not talk about it?
Do they not think about it?

Church leaders keep urging the 20-something single men to get married and start a family, but it seems like it's couched in terms of This is Your Priesthood Responsibility and This is What You Should Be Doing. Yeah, can't see why they're not lining up for that. Does anyone talk about fatherhood and how great being a dad can be, and how much better it is than being alone or living with flatmates? So many single guys I know seem to see marriage and kids as this huge responsibility and The End of Fun. Is anyone (aside from my American friend with his talk today) telling them otherwise?

Those are just some thoughts swirling around up here.

I would like to wish a Happy Father's Day to my own sweet dad, who also turns to mush when babies are involved (especially when it's these ones). I'm so glad we have a good relationship. He laughs at my stories and gives me good advice and encourages me to do my best. And I'm sorry that I called him up to vent about an insignificant frustration the other day and sort of used the words of "ratbag assface." The things England will do to a lady's vocabulary, I tell you . . .

Anyway, I love you, Dad!!!

Yeah, I'm a hostess. I am one who hosts.

Last night I threw my first England dinner party, even if was a bit impromptu and scatter-brained. It still felt nice to have people over and to feed them. It began as a dinner for 2, and then 3, and then 5, and then 4, and then 5 again, all in a 24-hour period.

I went with what I had on hand, except for the fresh cilantro, because who even has something like that lying around? As the guest list grew I kept tossing in new things to make sure that people wouldn't turn on me and perhaps burn my house down if they weren't full enough at the end. Which, you know, Goldilocks is totally capable of . . .

But here was the menu, which I felt really good about until I saw what my showoffy wench of a sister was up to. Hmmph.

Anyway:

Boneless skinless chicken breasts--I marinated these in a lime/garlic/olive oil/cilantro concoction which turned out very well if I do say so myself.

Cilantro-lime rice--I got the idea from Chipotle which is not in UT yet but needs to get there, dangit. It kicks Cafe Rio's trash. And they play Pink Martini there. I love their chicken burrito bol with a pure and deep love. I made the rice like normal (I chose to burn the bottom third of the rice to the saucepan, but not everyone may feel comfortable doing this). The top two-thirds I removed and tossed with lime juice and fresh cilantro.

Cucumber-tomato salad--English cucumber and English tomato, diced, tossed in a Paul Newman vinaigrette.

Ciabatta rolls--On sale from Sainsbury's (4 for 50p), baked for 10 minutes.

Grapes and English strawberries--Obtained from market just before latest England match. Suckahs . . .

Individually packaged strawberry trifles and chocolate pudding--because I wanted dessert but couldn't be bothered to make one. Also it's just fun to eat things with those twee little dessert spoons.

Water--because I don't do that squash mess. I can find absolutely no redeeming quality to squash. There's enough there for a separate blog post, so I'll save it for later. I would have offered orange or pineapple juice or milk if I'd had any, but I didn't.

So even though I didn't have fresh-cut flowers on the table or nice jazzy music playing, and even though we had to rush to make it to a church thing afterward, and even though one friend missed her bus and thought she wasn't going to be able to make it, and even though I was still cooking when people arrive (this always happens) it was a nice time. Everyone seemed to enjoy their food, and my sweet Chinese friend even brought me a box of chocolates, which I was not expecting. It's this amazing Lindt collection and nearly every one has hazelnut of some kind in it. So yeah, heaven, pretty much. I've got to start doing that. I've written thank-you notes after dinner invites, but getting an actual present seems way better.

Happy 1st Anniversary

One year ago today I wrote my very first blog post. Awww . . . look how widdow it is . . . .

Only I don't have anything supercool or momentous to blog about today, so I guess I'll talk about the World Cup instead.

Everyone here has gone insane, y'all. Months ago I started seeing England flags. People starting hanging them on the outside of their houses and flying them on their car windows and pubs started putting up the kind of bunting and streamers that you see at car dealerships and state fairs, only it's all little England flags.

BBC news, with typical concern regarding anything that might make England look like an oppressive colonialist force, started taking polls about whether seeing English flags hanging up like that might make people uncomfortable. Because perhaps it's in poor taste to be quite so specific about which country this is. I guess possibly it could affect those who didn't realize they were in England. "Wait, I am? Huh. That explains the crappy weather." If such a survey were carried out in the US, the journalists would get a lot of blank stares. And then some righteous indignation to the effect that if people don't like being reminded that they live in God's Own Chosen Land then they can just git. One nice man interviewed on the news says that he supports England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, and that's the way it should be, because they're all British. Granted, he was English rather than Scottish, Welsh, or Irish. It's easy to be benevolent when you're part of the winning team.

Last Saturday was the first England game--they played Paraguay and won 1-0. It was a gorgeous sunny hot day and I walked into town to run some errands. Every pub I passed was completely full of people watching the game in standing-room-only conditions, yelling at the top of their lungs. Sainsbury's was blissfully cool and empty, and the checkers (who had to wear Sainsbury's uniforms rather than the red and white everyone else had on) secretly wore flashing England pins and asked customers for the update on the match. "Has Paraguay scored?"

At the market, the stall-owners weren't even pretending to sell things. They were all listening to the match on the radio, and some actually had their backs turned to us while watching on small portable TVs. At the fruit and veg stand, the owners finally gave up and started offering huge bags of grapes and peaches for 1 pound each in an effort to get rid of things so that they could head to the pub. "Look, England just scored, take it, take it!" So I got about 2 pounds of lovely red seedless grapes for next to nothing. Suckahs . . .

I walked home just as the game finished and everyone started pouring out of the pubs and the front-yard barbeques, singing and cheering and right trollied. Two girls had found an ingenius way to twist an England flag around across their breasts and fasten it behind their necks so that it became a sort of bikini/halter top. I'm sure St. George would be proud.

I can see! It's a miracle!

So it turns out there's a downside--a seamy underbelly, if you will--to these beautiful sunny English days. No one bothered to warn me, but English pollen happens to be the *&*% nastiest £$%& bunch of *^%$ you may ever come across. I'm telling you--it doesn't just want to see me uncomfortable and sneezing and weepy-eyed. It won't rest until I'm fully prostrate on the ground, sobbing and begging for mercy between sneezes as I try to claw my own eyes out.

I've been taking Claratin (the American kind) all week, but possibly England just laughs at American medications, much as it laughs at American chocolate. My American friend Goldilocks is dying, too.

In addition to the Allergies Which Threaten to Close My Throat and Kill Me Outright, there's also the heat factor. Seventy degrees in England and seventy degrees in UT are such very different things, friends. In fact, when my weather pixie showed 81 degrees yesterday I seriously thought, "Eighty-one??? Are you serious? Oh my gosh, we're all gonna die!!!" And then I had to go hide under my bed, even though there are hairy spiders the size of cats under that thing. Yes, the big spiders are back out now. And I just know that one of them is going to come out from under the bed when I'm asleep and then crawl up my nose and eat my brains. Because that's what all spiders secretly dream of.

So it's been a week of sneezing and pill-popping and sniffing and rubbing eyelids that quite possibly have shards of glass beneath them. This morning, though, I woke up feeling strangely calm and comfortable. My eyelids weren't swollen shut, and I could breathe. The air felt cool and lovely. I took some Claratin just because my momma didn't raise me to say no to pharmaceuticals, but perhaps it's going to start getting better.

Or, you know, it's just the calm before England decides to bring out the big guns and finish me off for good.

The Look

Remember back in the fall when I started doing the Ceroc dancing? Well I still really like it, and a bunch of us went on Friday and got our grooves on.

The whole thing is just so civil. Everyone asks each other to dance and it's extremely rude to say no to anyone. You meet people that you would never meet otherwise--one time I ended up chatting with some sort of French physicist who was working in Nottingham. There's one guy we call Vest Man--he's short and always wears a black tank top (UK translation: vest) and dances just a leetle bit too close. There are also the middle-aged ladies who dress like extras from Strictly Ballroom. They like to do the Dirty Dancing moves while showing off their underwear.

There's an Australian video clip on Wikipedia that shows what it looks like. Only there are no neon lights at the ones I've gone to, sorry.

On Friday I danced with one man who was about 6'5 and in his 40s. He was a very good leader, but every time he would spin me out he made this . . . face. To make this face at home, simply:

1. Place your hand upon your heart.
2. Lower your chin.
3. Tilt your head to the side.
4. Smoulder meaningfully.

Kinda made it hard for me to keep a straight face, but I managed it.

I'm a bit depressed to think that I'm going to go back to America where no one does this. My sister says I should get it started in Utah, but I wouldn't know how to teach it. Someone needs to, though, because I'm sure it would take off. Watch, I'll go into withdrawal and will have to take up Country Dancing as a substitute. Then before you know it I'll be wearing really huge belt buckles and teasing my hair way out and going to rodeos and thinking that weird little troll of a Kenny Chesney is hot. Pity me, friends.

Blissful England summer

So it's been pretty much sunny and 70 all week long.

It's great for my psyche but really bad for my dissertation. I'm seeing the English version of the Alaskan Warm Weather Syndrome, where as soon as the weather gets above freezing and the sun comes out everyone strips down and flings themselves into whatever body of water doesn't have a moose in it. (Problem: they all have moose in them. And leeches.) The English version is a bit more tame, where people buy Magnum bars and walk around in various states of undress, talking about very hot it is. I'm seeing middle-aged people riding bicycles. While smoking. Because dangit, they're going to get some fresh air.

As I walk across campus I see students lounging all around on the grass in various forms of undress. Today, which was close to 80 degrees, the boys were shirtless and the girls had halter and bikini tops on. (Editor's note: Have I mentioned that my school is the #1 athletics school in the country. Just thought I'd toss that out there. No reason.)

Even my sad white arms are starting to get a bit brown from walking around. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back outside.

Does my warranty cover that?

I'm contemplating throwing my laptop out the window.

Not to bore you all with the details, because it isn't a very exciting story, but I spent a good part of yesterday on the phone with Dell, telling them all about what was wrong with my CD drive (ie, it doesn't work and the computer pretends that it's not there) and doing what they told me to do. When I got off the phone with them, my computer decided to have a complete meltdown and pretend like I don't have a hard drive either. "Who, me? I don't know you. I'm not even a computer. I'm just a black slab, la la laaaaah . . . "

I called Dell back to tell them that they are horrible people who are going to roast slowly in hell because whatever it was they had me do actually made the whole thing worse and now my computer wouldn't do anything and my files weren't backed up and even if I wanted to back them up I couldn't, on account of the slab factor and the no-CD-drive factor. The number they told me to call had a wait, and then some automated lady got on to say that they couldn't even be bothered with putting me in the queue and just cut me off. So I called a different number, found a person, and in short, clipped, barely-keeping-it-together tones told him what happened.
He told me I should call the first number.

I told him they were refusing to speak to me.

He said he would find someone.

I said thank you, that would be good. I explained again that I had spoken with a Dell rep on the phone, they told me to do things, and now my computer gives me nothing but a black screen with a menu that says "Hah hah, you're stupid and I'm eating all of your England pictures right this very second!"

Before he transferred me, he told me that I could always try www.support.dell.com. And that's when I came about thisclose to saying the word that rhymes with canker.

"Ah, thanks for that, but I actually can't try www.support.dell.com, because my computer doesn't actually work. I can't do anything. This is why I am on the phone with you now."

It started working again on its own when I was on the phone with technical support, so I spent most of last night putting everything in "My Documents" into my Gmail account as attachments until I can do a proper backup. Today the laptop gave me these two new strange error messages and shut down. So in the morning I'm running out first thing to buy blank CDs and do the backup--if the CD drive works tomorrow.

Also, I'm thanking my lucky stars the thing still has 2 months of warranty left, because I may just tell them to send me a new one that doesn't throw unreasonable tantrums in the manner of a toddler of Satan.

Because I know how things should be done

A few months ago WR and I were having one of those big DTR-type talks (Utah slang, translation: Define The Relationship). The subject turned to what would happen if we should one day break up. It was a valid concern because of all the friends we have in common. It's not like we could just have some falling-out and decide never to see each other again, because that would result in one or both of us becoming a socially-deprived shut-in Miss Havisham-type figure.

I told him it would all be quite easy. If he ever broke up with me, it would not be a long conversation. I would say goodbye, ask my blog friends to not to talk smack about him, and then I would go get my hair cut.

WR: Your hair? Why a hair cut?

Me: Oh yeah. You get a hair cut as part of the whole "feeling good about myself again" thing and then when you're ready you head back out there, all sassy and with good hair.

WR: Huh. Guys don't do that.

Me: No, they don't. They ask out the next thing that moves in order to make themselves feel better. We get our hair cut and hang out with our girls and watch chick flicks until we're no longer a danger to ourselves and others. Because we actually have sense.

So, rather than make myself a liar when it comes to ETRs (new word invented by my mom, for which I must give her props, because that's funny), I had to do something about my hair. It is perhaps fortunate that the breakup fell at a time when I was starting to get sick of it. The last few weeks I've just been pulling the ropey dingey mass back in a ponytail because there was just too much hair to deal with, and if left to its own devices it threatened to take over my face and the whole world. You know when it's come to that stage it's bad.

I found of picture of, heaven help me, Jessica Simpson with cute hair. After conferring with Cicada on whether it was, in fact, cute, I printed it out in the computer lab, all furtive and stealthy. I took it to the beauty school at the college down the road and got a cut, style, and 2 highlight colors for 15 quid. NICE.

A young lady named Kaylee did my hair. I remember her name because it was tatooed on her lower back. And when another girl came over to help put the foils in my hair she asked if we were doing 2-brown 1-blond or the other way around. Kaylee's response was "Whoh'evah." Um, Kaylee? That is never the right answer, sweetie. I'm here to tell you. Kaylee asked if they do hair differently where I'm from, and I thought about messing with her and making up a bunch of stuff. Also her mobile went off in her pocket, which is against the rules. After swearing and digging for the phone, she set it on the table in front of me.

Me: Are you going to put it on silent?

Her: No, I can't. Now if it goes off they'll think it's yours.

The only flaw in her brilliant plan is that I would never be rude enough as to leave my phone on in a hair salon. Nor would I leave it ringing, either. Also my phone doesn't play stupid songs like hers does.

She did a good job, though. Three hours and two British fashion mags later (way dirtier than US fashion magazines, btw, I had to skip half of it) I was finished. The bad part is always when they go to style it and I end up looking like a half-drowned electrocuted person. I seem to be the only one who understands that hair isn't actually going to form attractive ringlets if people keep tugging on it and raking their fingers through it. Seriously, do they teach them nothing in these schools?

I paid my money, ran home, and stuck my head under the shower so that I could do it myself and see what it was really going to look like. And I absolutely love it. It took 5 minutes to style, and I can now comb my wet head without breaking the comb, the hair, or my neck. I'm including a picture, but it actually looks better than this, on account of the wind blew out some of the curl.

But seriously! 15 pounds! That is pretty much the best bargain ever. My ETR ritual is now complete.

Of all this I might have been mistress

Yeah. I go there.

Since I'm supposed to be taking "every opportunity to enjoy myself" and I knew the weather on Saturday was supposed to be 70 degrees and sunny, I brought up the idea of a stately homes trip and before you knew it a carload of us were off to Derbyshire to see Chatsworth.

Of course it was gorgeous. Weather like that would have made a trip out back to look at the compost heap a blissful adventure. It made a legitimately beautiful place like Chatsworth kind of sublime. And even though I didn't come across any Colin Firths wandering around in wet shirts asking if my family is in good health and could he please kiss my neck, I had a lovely time.

Here were some highlights:

The area surrounding Chatsworth is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, with hills and valleys and woods and this little village with an old church and all these stone cottages and baby lambs. (Banana: "Do you not have sheep in America or something?" Me: "No, not wandering around all cute like this. All we get is the odd deer on the freeway.") As Goldilocks and Finnish Friend and I cooed over how beautiful everything is, the two Brits on the car laughed about what it's like taking foreigners places. So Goldilocks and I pointed out that we don't have stuff this old, and FF pointed out that all the old stuff in Finland was made of wood, so they don't have that stuff anymore either.

Chatsworth is working the "Hey! We're the house from the new Pride & Prejudice! That's us! Keira Knightley was right here!" card. In the Sculpture Gallery they have a "Jane Austen at Chatsworth" section with glass-cased editions of Austen, the dress Kiera wore during the "visit to Pemberley" scene, and, yes, the bust of Mr. Darcy (not the bust of Keira, on account of she doesn't have one). Goldilocks and I took pictures of each other looking pouty and pensive at the statues like Lizzy in the film, but I'm not going to inflict those upon you. Sorry.

The Carriage House restaurant had some amazing-looking food and an even better dessert selection, with things like chocolate torte and berry cheesecake and egg custard cake and chocolate ginger cake and walnut tea cake. Since I am poor and cheap, I went for the packaged sandwiches. I approached them with much trepidation and despair, on account of English packaged sandwiches and I just don't get along. I expected the usual selection of "prawn shavings in mayo" or "soggy Ploughman in mayo" or "grated cheese in mayo." Imagine my delight when I found a beef sandwich with dark leafy greens, pickles, and this amazing coarse mustard with whole mustard seeds. The bread had bits of sundried tomatoes in. I'm telling you, not to sound like Joey Tribianni or anything, but that sandwich was great. The rest of the trip could have sucked my big toe and I would still be a fan of Chatsworth for life.

In the gift shop, a book called No Nice Girl Swears by Alice-Leone Moats caught my eye. It's an etiquette book written in 1933 and is absolutely hilarious, so I bought it. A few gems:

The technique of warding off passes is one which every girl should perfect.

It is sad but true that the more amusing the young man, the less apt he is to telephone a girl after their first meeting. For some reason the dull are always bolder.

[You] needn't make an effort to appear brilliant--brains are a handicap to a debutante.

Going home in a taxi with an inebriate also has its perils. Not only is your virtue at stake, but you are sure to get your newest Chanel torn to ribbons.

There is no doubt about it, the life of a working girl is a hard, hard one. But if you've made up your mind to embark upon a career, we can't stop you. All we can give you are the rules.

I received a lovely flower from a man I met there. And yes, in my book a 5-year-old is still a man. We met up with a friend of Banana's and her four cute kids, and they helped liven things up. Hedge mazes are more fun with kids, I've decided. Also they give you flowers and hold your hand. Which, admittedly is different than when they're 20 years older and doing it, but is still very sweet regardless.

The Cascade fountain was great. It was built in 1703 and each step is a different height so that none of the splashes sound exactly the same. Also you can wade (UK translation: paddle) in it. A man in a cart sold vanilla ice cream cones (why just vanilla, England? Seriously!) at the bottom. Only they do this fun thing where they stick a Cadbury Flake into the ice cream scoop before they hand it to you. I like that, even if Cadbury Flakes are not my favorite. If I wanted airy crumbly chocolate I would just eat a chocolate bar that's been left to sit somewhere for three years.

There were lambs everywhere. There were even big signs by the road which read LAMBS.

Turns out Chatsworth is a very dog-friendly place and actually won some sort of dog-lover award a few years ago. There was even a spigot by the entrance marked "Drinking Water for Dogs." I can get behind that.

It seems that they make good use of the money that comes into Chatsworth--there were renovations going on in the Conservatory and it looks like there's always some kind of restoration or preservation work in process. The only bit that threw me was this spot on the back side of the house that had these huge weeds growing up through the pavement. That seemed a bit out of place with how groomed everything else was. But maybe they're planning to do something different there and so aren't bothering about the weeds.

That's all I can think of right now. But it was pretty much perfect. We were there all day and there were still so many gardens we didn't get to see. We didn't make it to the Farmyard or the little village across the street, either.

Rather than dumping all my pictures in the post, I'm putting them in the dotphoto album (the link is on the sidebar). Go check out the baby lambs!

Not that anyone invited me

But I'm going to do this "7 things" meme that's been going around with the cool kids. Who didn't invite me to do it. But I forgive them. Also I'm lazy today, so this is what you're getting.

Oh! I did talk to my dissertation supervisor today about my proposal and he seems to think there's a dissertation there. So yay, that's one vote! Also he says I'm the only one who has come in to see him so far. Which I'm pretty sure means I'm the winner.

Anyway. Give in to the power of Seven. Not the kind where Brad Pitt completely loses it when he finds Gwyneth Paltrow's head in a box, though. The other kind with the lists.

7 things I cannot do:
Roll my r-r-r-r-r-rs
Play sports without humiliating myself
Resist the brie
Watch TV and talk on the phone at the same time
Touch my toes. Or my knees, for that matter.
Understand the appeal of black leggings
Stop being so absolutely fabulous all the time

7 things that attracted me to my spouse (before I had him put down):
Sense of humor
Kindness
Right-thinkingness
Shoulders
Testimony
Swashbuckling ways
Dead sexy accent

7 things I look forward to everyday:
Waking up, for starters . . .
English chocolate
English countryside views
Talking to Savvy on G-Talk
Seeing what my blog friends are up to
Checking the currency exchange
Procrastinating

7 books I love:
The Beekeeper's Apprentice
A Little Princess
Bridget Jones' Diary
The Chosen
Jamie Oliver cookbooks
The Alchemist
The one I'm going to write once I get off my lazy bum and do it. I will love that book, I think.

7 movies I could watch over and over:
Horatio Hornblower--"Fiiiiyaaaaahh!!!!!"
Pride and Prejudice--"Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth . . ."
Persuasion--"I tried to forget you. I thought I had."
Amelie--"francais francais francais"
Cold Comfort Farm--"I saw something nasty in the woodshed!"
Ocean's 11--"Did I rush it? Felt like I rushed it."
The Secret Garden--"[sound of precious baby lambs and me weeping at the sheer preciousness of it all]"

7 foods I could happily eat until I pass out:
marinated brie
masaman curry
English chocolate
Vegas roll or similar
Peanut butter & chocolate ice cream
Beef stroganoff
Homemade bread

7 things I want to do before I die:
Lose my carnal treasure
Go to Prague
Have a job that I love, possibly here. Or here. Or, failing that, here.
Give Savvy some cousins
Publish a bestseller. Or twelve.
Plant a garden that lives in spite of me
Have a dog