I've found my home

an apology

I can't post. Tried to start three different posts and failed miserably. Can't get the sentences to join. Can't get an idea to flow. Can't express what I want.

I'm going to blame fatigue. The academic year finished yesterday. Last week was a long wind down from the Lion King, through graduation, academic post mortems, to a last day meeting. Last night I had a very enjoyable evening out in the company of friends - five hours that felt like one. Physically I just want to sleep, mentally I need to detox. Writing posts seems impossible.

Have read Housekeeping vs The Dirt (excellent) and Lucifer:Crux (so-so). Dipped into Engulfed in Flames (luvverly and funny). Tearing my way through The Yiddish Policeman's Union (genius).

Listening to the new Coldplay album (learning to love it) and rocking away to the new Weezer album (brilliant).

Seen WALL-E (fantastic) and Wanted (awful).

Worrying about the finalists of Hell's Kitchen and So You Think You Can Dance (I have become this shallow).

Started a new diet in order to control my IBS which has flared up again.

But most of all I need to sleep. I need to rest. I just don't have the words.

I am still alive, still happy, still madly in love, still in Mexico.

Regular service will be returned once I've recharged.

and now a word from our sponsor

So, Jen got evicted from Hell's Kitchen! Hurray! What? You weren't watching? Why the @#$% not? Actually, more to the point, why the fuck was I watching? Oh, I know, because the thermometer has hit 38°C (that's just over 100°F for those of you still dealing in old money). If you haven't lived in a world where the temperature is 38°C from midday onwards (and it rises, believe me, it rises) then, crap television programmes are a godsend. You get home from work, you peal (that's peal) off your shirt, your vest, your socks, your underpants, and you lie nekkid in front of the television, sucking on anything (anything) that will keep you hydrated (I've been drinking water! Yes, water. Who'd have thunked it!).

Anyhoo, crap television is a godsend. And there is very little that approaches crap television as well as Fox TV does. Seriously, this is mind-switched-off-cos-your-brain-is-fried television. It is simply the best. I'm even looking forward to Fringe - although, I realise that a series that starts in Fall (that's Autumn to those of us who speak the queen's Ingerlish) might suffer from the ability to think. However, until more sensible temperatures return, you will find me nekkid, bag of cheesy-puffs beside me, sucking on a frozen bottle of water, staring (glassy eyed) at Fox TV.

So, Jen got evicted. Serves her right, the bitch! And I know she's a bitch because I watch Fox TV! And I am sure that the station that brings me "balanced news" wouldn't lie to me. Damn my liberal tendencies. Damn my theories about Mr. Murdock! When the temperature outside rises to above the temperature inside my body, everything goes out the window. Hell, maybe that's what neo-facism should think about. Bugger liberal idealism, what the world really needs is global warming. If they can get the world's temperature to rise above body temperature they will rule the world (they being capitalistic bastards). Keep raising the temperature and I might start wearing Nike trainers and eating Nestle products. Oh! Damn!! I am wearing Nike and eating Nestle. They are winning! I think I've cracked their code.

Anyhoo, Jen got evicted. And what the hell is Cat Deeley doing on American television? Not only presenting "So You Think You Can Dance" but also doing the voice-overs for Victoria Secrets underwear adverts! It is driving me spare. Maria spends ages trying to see what shoes she is wearing - and then demands (demands I say) that I buy her the same shoes!

Hang on! Stop! This post has lost its thread - which I know, for both my readers, is nothing unusual, but I had a point. Damn, this heat! Quick, check the title of the post and...

Adverts. Adverts on American television are the bestest. Actually, that's not true. You know how some people say that the best things on television are the adverts? Well, they are wrong. The best things on television (normally) have HBO somewhere in the titles (unless it is West Wing). Nope, some of the worst things in television are the adverts. But, here's the kicker, some adverts are totally unbelievable.

America - a country that is trying to ban smoking in your own car, a country that believes that if you have two drinks a day you are an alcoholic, a country whose citizens will sue at the drop of a hat (that hat-dropping scared me so badly that I lost my job, lost my family, lost my hair and I need [at least] five million to compensate) - advertises prescription drugs.

Most advert breaks feature one (or two [or if it is a programme watched by old people - think Jeopardy or Countdown - six) advert(s) about prescription drugs. These are adverts that encourage (nay, demand) that, the next time you visit your doctor, you demand (nay, demand) you receive this drug!

But, the bestest thing ever, about these adverts is that they have (HAVE) to include the side effects that might (might) occur. In other words, a thirty second advert spends ten seconds telling you how X might improve your life, and then twenty seconds telling you how X might fuck up your life.

Have you ever had to leave your grandchild's recital just before they hit the stage? Worried that the bingo caller says your number while you are in the toilet? When Matlock finally reveals the murderer are you trying to dry that embarrassing stain? No longer! You can ask your doctor to prescribe you Pee-Alevee. Pee-Alevee means that you can live a normal life.

Warning: Pee-Alevee has been shown to cause constipation is some sufferers. If your left eye ball explodes, consult a doctor. Also, if your left leg falls off you might not be the person to take Pee-Alevee. Pee-Alevee has been know to cause erections that last longer than six hours. This is not a good thing! Especially in women. If you find yourself erect for longer than six hours, consult a doctor or a prostitute. Pee-Alevee is not to be used by Bingo addicts. Pee-Alevee will not let you win more often. Also note, Pee-Alevee does not make Matlock more interesting! If you intend to walk on the beach, the wind blowing in your hair, the sand between your toes, the manufactures of Pee-Alevee suggest that you carry a catheter with you.

Pee-Alevee, giving you a life that is more normal. Please ignore the second head that is growing out of your shoulders.

All the people in this advert are actors and should not be confused with real people.

Gotta lurve American adverts.

[This post has been brought to you by the power of Dos Equis Lager. Dos Equis Lager will make you feel more witty, more clever, and more sarcastic than any other lager. Plus it will also improve your charm. If you drink more than four Dos Equis you will think that you are the most witty, handsome, sexy, attractive man on the planet. Failure to get an erection is just the way it is and should not be a case for suing Dos Equis. Stay thirsty my friends.]

posts I didn't write

Tee hee! Hi, my name's Will and I'm a bad blogger. Actually, I'm a much better blogger than you'd realise - I have written posts in the last week [checks list and discovers three drafts that haven't been finished], however, it has been one of those weeks that I just haven't got round to finishing a thought, never mind a post. So, here is a list of posts that I didn't write during the last seven days.

W*dnesd*y: Kids will drive us apart (to paraphrase Ian Curtis)

Thanks to the kids being with us our morning routine is destroyed. I don't get the opportunity to go back to bed in the morning, for that moment when I hold her, kiss her. This makes the rest of the day seem incredibly long. When I get home, at night in the afternoon, there is no chance to be alone with her. It is only when we finally get to shut the bedroom door that we are alone. I miss her so much during the day.

Thursday: Insanity is hereditary - it is passed from child to parent [sic]

I honestly believe that my IQ is falling. I have now watched more television in the past four days than in the previous four months. What is worse is that I am enjoying it. I am emotionally involved with the contestants on So You Think You Can Dance? I really wanted Vicki(? I just remember it began with a V - so maybe I'm not that involved)) eliminated from Hell's Kitchen but understood, totally, why Gordon Ramsey got rid of Bobby. I can't believe the idiocy of the contestants on Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? And The Moment of Truth is just car-crash television! You know you should look away, you know that you should move on, but somehow you are drawn totally to watching the disaster enfold in front of your eyes.

Friday: Look what I got in the post

I got a CD from Alan! I also got two books (the next episode of Lucifer and another Nick Hornby article collection). But, I got a CD from Alan!! Isn't getting parcels in the post the bestest!!! Especially ones that you didn't order yourself.

Saturday: I think I'm going to explode

You know how after eating a Chinese meal you are supposed to be hungry 30 minutes later? I over ate! I'm not saying that I was a big, fat, bloated organism, laying around the flat - but three environmentalists tried to drag me back into the sea, to release me back into the wild.

Sunday: I miss my dad, I miss being a dad

Thank goodness I didn't finish this post! This was one of those very dark, very depressing posts. Luckily the day was saved from total disaster when I received a card from Dani. Sometimes you can't see the good things in life until they smack you in the face.

Monday: seriously, they are that enthused?

The tickets for the Lion King went on sale, at school, Saturday morning at 8:30am. That explains the the seven parents who slept overnight outside the school gates. That also explains the sixty-five parents who were already queueing at 5:51am. Do you start to feel that I might be under a little pressure?

Tuesday: no sleep 'til brooklyn (I think I've used this title before)

The email I got from La Directore at 9:45pm was enough to ensure that I didn't fall asleep until 1am. The power cut at 2am meant that I spent the rest of the night not sleeping, scared that I would not hear my watch alarm, my mobile alarm, because there was no CD alarm to wake me up.

So, there you go. Seven posts that I didn't write. Aren't you glad you didn't have to wade through that stream of unconsciousness this past seven days? And that is without talking about "national stupid driving day" or "the exhibition of cows". Anyhoo, gotta go. The kids have left which means that I should be spending time with Maria, not sitting at the computer. Mind you, it's too hot to do anything - so I might just lie on the sofa and watch television. Can't remember if it's So You Think You can Dance? or Hell's Kitchen tonight. But you can bet I'll be there whichever one it is!

tell me why I don't like w*dnesd*ys

[I have just sat down at the keyboard, intending to write a post. My mind was settled on an idea, it was going to be a good post (honest). On the way to the computer I happened to pass Maria. I don't walk past Maria! I stopped and kissed her. We kissed. In the background Radio 4 (BBC) was playing. Radio 4 informed us, as we were kissing, that certain French kings were "well known because of their body odour". There are certain things that can kill a moment. There is nothing romantic about kissing your lover while a woman (with a BBC accent) informs you about the bathing habits of 17th Century people. I still want to write the post I sat down to do but my mind has moved to a joke:
A customs officer is inspecting a French woman's luggage. Inside he finds 7 sets of underwear. The French woman points out that she changes her underwear every day. Seven sets of underwear, seven days. The next person is an Italian woman. She only possesses five sets of underwear. When asked why she replies.: "One for each day of the week - and I wear no underwear at the weekend!" In the next suitcase, that he inspects, he finds only four sets of underwear. He enquires, of the English woman, why she only has four sets of underwear and is informed: "Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter!"
Sorry.]

In The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Arthur Dent, as the planet Earth is destroyed, comments: "It must be a Thursday. I've never got the hang of Thursdays." For me it's W*dnesd*ys. Long time readers (both of you) will know why the vowels in W*dn*sd*y are blanked off (it has to do with a certain football team in Sheffield). One person knows why the "e" was allowed back into the word. But, the truth is, "I have never got the hang of W*dnesd*ys", and it has nothing to do with football teams. I am going to assume that you all have a list, in your mind, of your favourite days of the week. This means that (think about it) you also have a list of the days of the week that are your least favourite. In my case I hate W*dnesd*ys. They just never go right for me. Mondays are just Mondays. Tuesdays and Thursdays are a bit crap but only because they aren't Fridays. Saturdays are my favourite day. Not too keen on Sundays because of the threat of the next day. And I still have to work on a Friday. But W*dnesd*ys suck!

And then there was today - W*dnesd*y - which was fucking brilliant!

On Tuesday we went across the border. According to my sexy new phone (turn green (s)wine) I walked over 15000 paces, 19km (there was a visit to IKEA involved). As I went to sleep, my feet were throbbing, I was tired. I slept really, really well.

I woke, well rested. I kissed Maria, I held Maria. I went out, on to the balcony, for the first cigarette of the morning. I hadn't checked my lemon seeds for over 24 hours. There were 5 (five!) shoots. Three more than the last time I checked them! I was so excited that I decided to check my avocado pit. As I picked it up, by one of the cocktail sticks stuck in it, it fell in half. I killed my avocado! It was then that I realised it was W*dnesd*y and it was probably all downhill from here on in.

Do you know that moment when you teach a killer lesson? Ok, so maybe only a couple of readers know that moment - but it is that moment when everything goes fantastically right. You want to bottle it. You want to know why it doesn't work like that every time. All your aims and objectives are surpassed, all the kids "get it", you throw in a couple of extra things. At the end of the lesson, when you fill in your notes, you just write: "Brilliant!". From that lesson I went to a rehearsal. The rehearsal (at least my parts) flowed perfectly. So perfectly that there was actual applause from kids, from colleagues. But that wasn't the best bit.

Kindergarten is a separate section to the school, I don't really come into contact with the children in Kindergarten that often. When I do I am normally being LOUD. At the sports day (Olympics), at the special assemblies, I am normally playing a role, being loud. There is a girl in Kindergarten who cries whenever she has to pass into the elementary part of the school. And the reason she cries? Me. She is frightened of me. Monday and Tuesday I have tried to "bond" with this child. Monday there was still floods of tears. Tuesday was a bit more settled. And then today. Today there was no tears. Today I actually talked to her and she talked to me - not a long, deep conversation, I said "Hello" she said "hello". But we talked without tears. And it meant everything to me!

I taught another lesson - and it was brilliant. Who'd have thought that a lesson on "double bar charts" could go so well? After the lesson I spent the rest of the day involved in politics. But they were politics that went well, without any problems.

At home, Maria had built the furniture bought at IKEA and it is great. It fits perfectly. It makes the house more of a home. She has worked on the house all day and it would be a shame to eat, to cause washing up, to do anything else that would mean tomorrow there would be something to clean up. So, we are off out. We'll eat. We'll come home. We'll flop in front of the tele and eat ice cream (did I mention I'd found some fantastic dairy-free ice cream?). We'll go to bed.

Has there ever been a better day? And it's a W*dnesd*y. How much better does life get?

the kiss of death

[This isn't really about football, so you don't have to panic. Just skim read the first paragraph.]

Incident One

It's been building since Sunday. The excitement. The tension. We haven't said anything to each other because we didn't want to jinx it, but it has hovered between us, unspoken. Maria has supported the mighty Santos Laguna all her life, and all her life has been filled with disappointment after disappointment. Oh, there was 1996 and 2001, when they actually won the Championship, but, on the whole it hasn't been great fun to be a mighty Santos follower. They finished 2006 with the threat of relegation. And then I appeared on the scene! Suddenly their fortunes have changed. I have supported a team that wins - wins big and wins often. When we watch matches together, there are two totally different supporters in the room. One (Maria) is full of doom and gloom, waiting for the inevitable collapse, the crushing heartache. The other (me) is full of optimism, waiting for the equaliser, the hat-trick, the annihilation of the opposition. On Sunday the mighty Santos, 92 minutes into a 90 minute game (go figure) managed to squeeze into the finals [and yes, by that point, one person was crying into her pillow waiting the inevitable defeat, one person was sat on the edge of his seat waiting for the inevitable victory].

So, we haven't talked about the football. Thursday night (the first game in a two leg series) has been hanging over us.

We got back home, from work, at about 3pm. The match kicked off at 6pm. Neither of us said anything about the game, it was just there, hanging between us. We talked about inconsequential things. By 5:30pm I was sat at the computer, wasting time, and Maria wandered into the television room, to put on the pre-game show.

Maria: Will, come here.

Me: Ummm. [not moving]. There's a problem?

Maria: Will, come here!

Me: What? [not moving] Is the game not on?

Maria: WILL! COME HERE!!

I move, fast! This sounds like a cockroach problem. I should have been more sensitive in my listening!!

Me: What? Where? I'll get it!!

Maria: Look.

Me: Where?

Maria: There.

Me: WHERE?

Maria: At the tv.

Me: WHAT?? There is nothing on the tele. I can't see the cockroach!!

Maria: What cockroach?

Me: Well, what the hell have you called me in here for?

Maria: To look at the tv! LOOK AT THE TV!!

Me: There's nothing to see on the television. There's nothing to se....oh!

Maria: YES! OH!! There's no picture on the tv!

Me: What have you done?

Maria: I don't know. I do know. I'm sorry. It's me. I've killed the television.

Me: What? Why? What? No, let's go with: WHY?

Maria: It's me. I have the kiss of death. I killed the television. I noticed it this morning. It was on but there was no picture. I switched it off. Switched it on. There was a picture. Switched it off. Switched it on again, just now. There is no picture. I've killed the television!

Me: No. It's fine. Just switch it off. Switch it back on. It'll be fine.

Maria: It won't. [switches the tele off and on again - there is still no picture] I took the wrong television.

Me: What?

Maria: Four years ago I killed this television. It imploded. My ex went at it with a soldering iron, fixed it, and announced that it would last another two years. That was four years ago. When I left him I took the wrong television. I should have taken the new one. But it weighed 80kg. When you are running away it is probably not a good idea to run with an 80kg television.

Me: But the match! The match!?! What are we going to do about the match????

Maria: No. This is worse. IT is back.

Me: What's back?

Maria: The Kiss of Death. I have the kiss of death. I've killed the television. Oh god, oh god, oh god. What will be next?

Incident Two

The next day. [For those of you keeping tabs - the mighty Santos won the game 2-1. The second match is on Sunday. There is a whole different story about how we got to watch the second half of the game but I'm not telling it now.] I'm in the middle of a rehearsal, arguing with the dance teacher. She wants the actors to start their dance laying on the floor. There is no logical reason for this to happen. I have no idea how to get the actors from a standing position, into a prone position, to leap to their feet, back into a standing position. It makes no sense. Unfortunately  the dance teacher speaks no English and the (little) Spanish I speak means that I can: order beer and tacos: ask after a person's health: inform someone that their mother is a whore and I know this for a fact because I slept with her last night, me and thirty other men - oh, and she wasn't that good in bed either, well, not as good as the person's sister, whom I had had the pleasure of taking the night before! I'm not sure that any of these conversational gambits will be of much use (although the third one would give me a certain amount of stress relief), when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Text from Maria: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I have the kiss of death!

Text to Maria: What's happened?

Text from Maria: I killed the iron.

Text to Maria: Are you ok?

Text from Maria: No. I've got the kiss of death. What else will go wrong?

Text to Maria: Stay away from the microwave.

as the big J didn't say

Blessed are the meek geeks, for they shall inherit the earth.

We come out of Iron Man and Maria is ranting, ranting about this, that, the other and specifically ranting about "that old bloke - you know, the one in the cave with (the gorgeous)* Robert Downey at the beginning. WTF was that all about? It was so wrong, so very wrong, so unbelievably wrong! What were they thinking?" So, I told her. I told her how, unlike most super heroes, Iron Man didn't particularly have that driving force to do good - you know, like a dead mum/dad/planet/uncle - all he had was shrapnel in his heart. What he needed was a conscience. The old man was supposed to be his Jiminy Cricket. This then led to a fifteen minute lecture on Iron Man's history, his problems with alcohol, his problems with Jim Rhodes, his problems with The Armour Wars, his problems with super hero registration, his problems with erectile dysfunction (I made the last one up - but I want Maria to associate erectile dysfunction with Robert Downey...I can be that bitter).

At the end of my fifteen minute expose on the life and times of Iron Man, Maria commented that she didn't know I read Iron Man, was such a fan. I replied, I don't, I'm not. I'm a geek.

Say it loud, say it proud: I'm a geek!

For many years this was not a good thing to be, not a title that I would wear proudly. However, as much as I hate Vista, it is probably time to thank Bill Gates for allowing people like me to come out of our closet. You see, as much as Mr. Gates was probably the person "most likely to be smacked around at school", he has become a shining knight, an answer to all those put downs that geeks receive. Obviously no-one really wants to grow up a nerd**, but geeks are a whole different breed. Geeks can be cool. Geeks can get girls. And then there is the whole Trivial Pursuit phenomenon.

At first, when Trivial Pursuit hit the market, random knowledge wasn't that important. But, somehow, Trivial Pursuit built a totally different subculture that went onto to pervade the rest of society. Don't believe me? Think back to the early 1980s. A time before pub quizzes, a time before quiz shows with million pound prizes, a time when Ann Robinson was just an annoying git (oh, hang on, she still is!). However, the point I am trying to make (yes there is one), is that knowledge is good. Knowing stuff is cool. And it isn't knowing the intellectual stuff, it is knowing the pop culture stuff.

And then, yesterday, I heard the best news ever. While surfing through 100 television channels (and there was nothing on), I landed at VH1, where they were showing a clip. 'Twas Bow Wow Wow singing "I Want Candy". For no particular reason, I announced out loud:

You know, Bow Wow Wow are made up from the backing band for Adam and the Ants. Malcolm McLaren, once he'd lost The Sex Pistols, was brought in to help Adam and the Ants. His advice to the group was to ditch their lead singer, Adam Ant. He then took all the musicians, added a 14 year old girl that he'd found in a laundrette, and thus you have Bow Wow Wow. Of course, Adam Ant also went on to become a huge star in the UK. With a new band.

At that point, I turned and looked at Maria. There was a big grin on her face. Her eyes were shining. She told me that she loved me. I asked why? Thinking it might be my incredible charm, my good looks, my sexy hat that was perched jauntily (exceedingly jauntily) on my head. No, she informed me. It was none of those things.

It's because you don't have Alzheimer's.

It appears that a knowledge of trivial facts, the ability to recall those facts, is a good sign that I don't have Alzheimer's. You see, being a geek is a good thing. All that stuff packed inside my head is what is keeping me sane! One day, I will inherit the earth.

Of course, I'm not sure that I have got my head around the fact that Maria thinks I am a candidate for Alzheimer's. Is it 'cos I is old????

*she might not have actually said the gorgeous but it was implied - or inferred. Nope, think it was implied!!

**let's be totally clear about this. There is a world of difference between geeks and nerds. I am not a nerd!

I want my...

My mum was very particular about the television programmes I (we) could watch as children. Every Thursday we would get the Radio Times, which only told you about the BBC, and I would go through it, picking the programmes that I wanted to watch - preparing my arguments for why I should watch them. Our television was in a cabinet with a sliding door and that door would be shut! It was only, after hours of arguments, that it could be pulled back, and television could be ingested. My father was allowed to watch what he wanted. However, that doesn't mean that we were allowed to stay in the living room and watch. No, my mum would send us to the study and we would have to read (or in the case of my younger brother, look at pictures in books!). From the age of 13 onwards, I was at a boarding school and there was little chance to actually sit in front of a television. At university, no television.

Anyhoo, trying to cut a long story short, I don't watch a lot of television. Not actual live television. I watch a lot of DVD collections, collections of series, but I really don't watch stuff on television while it is happening.

For reasons that will remain obscure (mainly because I don't know how they happened) I have been watching television in the last couple of days (I think it is because I have been avoiding things - mainly the t'internet. Me, I blame Croila [not neil h. for once]. She mentioned in an email to Maria that she was surprised with how much I wrote and was (doubly) surprised at how interesting it was. This, of course, was the kiss of death. I stopped writing and now find myself not very interesting. So, I was avoiding the t'internet.)

Two nights ago I had a dream - actually, that's a daft statement. I dream most nights but, more often than not, can't remember what I dreamed. However, two nights ago I had a dream that I remember! In my dream I was trying to explain to my mum The Price Is Right. Now, there is a chance that my mum knows The Price Is Right because it does exist on British television. But it is nothing like The Price Is Right on American television. On American television it is fucking mental! It is beyond belief - well, I say beyond belief from my stand point. Maria found the whole thing acceptable. But seriously. One of the games (I use the term loosely) was: here is a car - the car is worth $24,786 or $27,486; pick which one you think; you win the car! And this was a game before the final showcase! I tried to explain 3-2-1 to Maria, I tried to explain BullsEye (let's see what you could have won!). I even tried to explain The Price Is Right with Lesley Crowther. It made no sense to her - pretty much in the same way that American game shows make no sense to me.

For the last couple of days we have watched The People's Court. This is a programme that I also don't understand. I realised I didn't understand it when Maria caught me stood on the sofa, shouting at the television. She describes the programme as: Where the hopeless sue the miserable for the ridiculous. I can't describe it as anything but annoying. Except, it is car-crash television. I find myself hooked.

Last night I watched Deal or No Deal - Multi Million Dollar Madness. And the words escape me to describe what I went through while watching this. Shouting at the tele, shouting at the woman, shouting, I was shouting. And it made no sense to me. Oh, I understood the programme, I understood what was happening, but, seriously, is any programme really that balls up confident to offer 7 (seven) prizes of one million dollars. Well, the answer is, yes. And, not only do they have the balls to do it, the have the gumption to get away with it too.

I don't watch much television and I realise that that comment makes me sound like a snob. I have just written about television programmes and I realise that I am a snob. But, for those of you living in the UK, no matter what you think about television over there - you ain't seen nothing! How I just had a dream, rather than a nightmare, is beyond me. And yes, I am a snob.

I'm awat from the computer now. The television is calling me. Can't decide if I should watch the second season of Gavin and Stacy or the fourth season of West Wing. While I try to decide...I might just surf.

So what is it with may 23rd?

Happy b'day Nancy.

Happy  b'day J.A.

And, you know, stuff :^)

normal service has been resumed

...which probably means nothing - as I am not totally convinced what goes for normal round these parts...

It's Sunday, 9:40am, the thermometer has already hit 30 and is threatening to rise even further. This, suggests to the kids, that we should be going to the beach. The good news for me is that Maria is still feeling under the weather. This is good news for me because (seriously) I don't like the beach, not at Playas. My idea of fun is not sitting around, on a beach, burning/melting. The beach in San Diego offers some shade, I can sit under a tree, but the kids don't have their passports. So the only choice is the beach here in Mexico - which means death to me. It doesn't matter that I use SF60, mentally I still freak if I am out for longer than 15 minutes. I will spend the whole time trying to keep my skin covered with clothing, finding a position to sit in, making sure that the sun hits only protected parts of my body. And then I will sweat. And, no matter how much clothing I wear, sand tends to "walk" up sleeves, up trouser legs, down through collars, and before you know it, I am covered in sand! Gah! I hate the beach!! Bah-humbug!!!

(Croila, you can ignore this paragraph - nothing of interest here for you) And there is football to watch today! The mighty Santos Laguna are into the play-offs for the title. It is the quarter finals, second round, and the mighty Santos go into the game with a 2-1 lead! Even betterer are the facts that (1) America never even made the play-offs and (b) Chivas (the red-hot favourites to win) went down 4-1 in the first leg, needing to score 4 goals in the second leg, which they did, except they conceded 4, losing 8-5, meaning they are out!!! (Pretty sure that the punctuation in that previous sentence was awful - so let's hope Nancy didn't read this paragraph either!) Anyhoo, the intention was to go round to friends (fellow mighty Santos supporters) and cheer the mighty Santos on to the semi-finals. Unfortunately, with Maria feeling a bit under the weather, this ain't gonna happen. But I will still be cheering on the mighty Santos! Oh, and while we are on the subject of footy, there was probably some happiness in chez Alan yesterday, congratulations.

An English exam will be writted [sic] today, not because it has to be (it is supposed to be done by Monday) but because it will be.

Oh, and this morning I got some (what I first thought of as) good news. However, the more I think about it, the worse the news gets. Fraggle Rock is one of those programs that hovers somewhere at the back of my mind. I am convinced that I loved it. I know that I still love The Muppets, so I am fairly convinced that I loved Fraggle Rock. So, for 15 seconds, after Maria told me that a Fraggle Rock philum was in production, I was really happy. And then I started to think (without taking a shower!) - maybe Fraggle Rock was good back then. Maybe I enjoyed it then, back in 1983, when I was still a student, with a one year old daughter. Maybe now...actually, the more I think about it - it is bad news. I get the feeling that it will be another good memory destroyed! Ah, well.

Right, onward and upward. I have forgotten to take the chicken out the freezer - I got distracted and ended up doing the washing up instead - and there are worlds to conquer, places to go, people to see, sofas to be laid on. Have a good Sunday, catch you on the flipside.

the unwritten list

Originally, when Maria organised this trip, it was going to be a quick in-and-out. She'd leave Friday afternoon, be back Sunday morning. She was nervous about the whole trip and, the last think she needed, to add to her worries, was me. So my activities were planned:

She'd drive me to work in the morning.
I'd get a lift back from school.
I'd enter the flat.
Lock the door.
Never leave.

Whilst in the flat I was not to shower, not to shave, not to drink to excess, not to watch "Field of Dreams" (or any other film that would make me morose - so, no "Fiddler on the Roof" either).
Ideally, I should get home, crawl into bed and not move.

These plans when slightly AWOL the minute the Governor got involved. He wanted to be present at the meeting Maria had to attend. He couldn't make Saturday, so the meeting was changed to Sunday. There are no flights out of Torreon on Monday or Tuesday, the first flight was W*dnesd*y. Suddenly it became a whole different ballgame.

I would have to drive. I had to get to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to shower. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to shave. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to leave the flat. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.

I promised that I would not get involved in accidents whilst driving. I wouldn't light cigarettes, answer my mobile, and drink coke whilst trying to negotiate a roundabout. I wouldn't drive like an Englishman (because I'd end up in a road-rage incident) and I wouldn't drive like a Mexican (because I can't). I wouldn't drive anywhere else other than school. There would be no popping-out to the shops. No cruising the mean streets. No drag racing. I would drive to school, I would drive home from school, I would not drive any other time!

I promised that I would not dance in the shower. Nor would I drop the soap, accidentally step on it, go arse-over-elbow, and break my neck. I would not drink the shampoo. I would not wash the soles of my feet. I would not take a football into the shower and practise my keepie-uppies.

I promised that I would only shave on Monday morning. I would use the blade that is in my razor, not put a new blade in nor use an old blunt blade. If, five minutes after shaving, I found that one area I had missed (which always happens), I would not rush back into the bathroom and attempt to shave the whole side of my face off. I would live with the irritating patch until W*dnesd*y.

I promised that I would only watch films that were positive, upbeat, included lots of violence (yeah, I see the irony), and had no connection to either my father or my children. Anything with Schwarzenegger was good, anything with father/son, father/daughter, family relationships in them was evil.

I promised that if, for any reason at all - and it had better be a fuck of a good one, I had to leave the flat to purchase anything, I would to go round the corner. No further.

Now, I realise that this set of rules sounds a bit lot like (1) I am a total idiot, incapable of being left alone and (b) Maria is a total control freak who doesn't trust me to be left alone. However, in her defence, she didn't make the rules. I did. I am a total idiot. She knows this, I know this - hell, you probably know it as well. I am also a magnet for trouble/problems. I have discovered, in my long (long) life that, if anything can go wrong, it invariably does. [However, don't get me wrong, I am an optimist. When things go wrong I normally end up saving the day with a winning smile, my good looks, and soft English hair. Also I get some great stories to tell!] I love Maria and would never cause her any pain, if possible. So, to help set her mind (partially) at ease, I made this list of rules and promised to adhere to them totally and utterly! I am a good boyfriend!

And it all went to plan! I drove to school, no problems. I drove back from school, no problems. I spent a couple of hours in the internet. I had two beers (on a Friday night). I cooked ribs and fat chips. I settled down in front of Invincible (don't watch it - it is turgid  crap). I was settled for the night.

And then the phone rang.

I left the flat just after 9pm and got back just after 2:30am.

No broken bones. No police incidents. Safe and sound. In fact, no interesting stories to tell. I had a good night, a fun night - gotta lurve people who take pity on the foreigner stuck at home all alone.

But I broke my promise. I broke my rules. I am not a good boyfriend.

Time to start all over again. I have May's lessons to plan. I have The Longest Yard and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels to watch. I have an internet to surf. I have blogs to read. I have emails to write. I have a bed to sleep in.

Now I just have to wait to see what else can go wrong with my plans :^)