The phrase “going away for the weekend” generally conjures up images of cosy bed and breakfasts and leisurely walks in picturesque countryside not too terribly far from home. I however, am adding a new definition of “going away for the weekend” which includes spending more time getting to and from my destination than actually being there. I’m going to The Midwest for the weekend.
One of my friends from college is tying the knot up in Michigan, so I’m going to head on over for two days of celebrations, staying with another friend in the town I went to college in. I’m hugely excited about going back, as I haven’t been for nearly six years; I imagine the nostalgia will be quite overwhelming. So too, I imagine, the actual getting there part.

I’m not exactly a reluctant flier. Given the choice between getting on an airplane and arriving sooner or getting on a bus and arriving later, I’m probably going to choose the airplane. My main problem with airplanes, as with all forms of public transportation, is that they’re public. I’m hoping that, in secret labs somewhere, there are scientists working on technology that allows us to get from place to place, completely insulated from our fellow travellers, because, as everyone knows, all of them are assholes but you.

People seldom believe my worst transport horror story, because it doesn’t sound real. Like millions of other airline travellers, I’ve endured delays, cancellations and luggage loss, which are all pretty much par for the course. Unfortunately, my tale involves one of the aforementioned assholes.

A few years ago, I was sitting on an Iceland Air flight to Washington, nursing hopes that the empty seat next to me would remain empty when, at the last minute, a large, Icelandic businessman staggered onto the plane and dropped his enormous ass squarely in the middle of it. He smelled strongly of spirits.

As soon as we were airborne, he began pounding Screwdrivers. I’m not entirely sure if the stewardess was a complete brain donor or just looking for a quiet life, but she served him nonetheless. For the first 40 minutes of the flight to Keflavik, he was fairly innocuous, but then decided the mandatory non-annoyance period was over and turned his attentions to me.

First he asked me what I was reading. Politely, I showed him the cover of my book. I went back to reading.

Then he started patting my hand. I smiled politely again.

Then he wanted to hold my hand, which I politely but firmly declined.

Then he decided to forcibly hold my hand. At this point, I went into panic mode and just kept reading and hoping that we were fairly close to our destination. The kindly gentleman on the other side of my inebriated friend, who had just noticed what was transpiring, attempted to engage him in conversation, but unfortunately, an obviously petrified 20 something female was far more interesting than a fellow countryman.

Then he started kissing my hand at which point I told him to knock it off, which he did, for almost 5 seconds.

Then he took my book. I asked for it back and he insisted on holding my hand again.

Then he put one of my fingers in his mouth.

At this point, I screamed and burst into tears. Another kindly fellow passenger sitting behind me offered me his seat, which I took, and shook all the way into Keflavik. My unpleasant seatmate had to be restrained by three other passengers during landing as he refused to stay in his seat. The police were waiting for him at the end of the jetway.

Granted, this is a fairly advanced case of Travelling Assholeism. Normally, the worst I can expect is a fat, German lady trying out her Duty Free perfume Ode de “Dear Merciful God in a Bottle” in close proximity or someone’s bastard kid kicking me in the back for 7 hours straight.

I shall pray to be delivered from these scourges and more as I wing my way west this weekend.

I suppose it’s time to come out from behind the shadow of my pincushion. To put down the glue and sequins, stand up and say,

“Yes, world, I am a crafter! Look not on me with scorn and derision! Do not try to discourage me from taking an ordinary sweatshirt and turning it into something fun and cute with a picture of a cat and maybe a few feathers here and there! Know that I love brightly coloured pieces of paper, beads, ribbon and coloured pencils. With these instruments of creation, I shall unleash my vision, which is mediocre at best, but unleash it I shall! And I shall put so much love into my efforts that it is impossible for the recipient to throw it away. Even if they hate it. Even years laterYES WORLD, I AM A CRAFTER!”

Okay, to be fair, I’ve never created a sweatshirt with a cat on it. Not even in my weakest moments, but other than that, it’s all pretty much true.

This is a little photo of my latest crafty endeavour. It’s a bit of freeform embroidery on a pair of my old jeans. I gave the little store-bought kits a try, but even when I finished them successfully, I couldn’t help but feel that I had just coloured in someone else’s picture. I was telling The Rock Star this morning that I got seriously frustrated with colouring books as a child; I never liked filling in pre-made lines; I was only really happy when I was drawing my own. My parents finally got me the “The Anti-Coloring Book” which was a great solution. (Anyone out there who owns children should seriously have a look at these; they’re brilliant) The gist of it is, I’ve never minded staying within the lines, as long as they were MY lines.

I’ve also developed, fairly recently, a taste for scrapbooking, hobby of housewives everywhere. Not that there is anything wrong with having a hobby or being a housewife, but when you’ve got a load of pictures of your kid, you’re probably going to be more inclined toward this particular fetish. I got caught out by digital cameras and now find myself in the unenviable position of having 6 years of photos stored on disc, moving from one computer to another with no possibility of release. So, to save myself time and energy, I’m doing one scrap book for this year and one scrapbook for the last 5. It’s cheating, I know, but there’s just no way I can remember whether I’m looking at a photo from 2000 or 2003, (other than to check my waistline) so they’re all going to have to co-exist together.

If anyone is in need of a macaroni collage at any time, I’m a pretty dab hand at those too.

Hitman J had an interesting word association game that I gaked from his blog. Copy these words into a text program and then type the first thing that comes to mind.
 

1. Infiltration::
2. Nice person::
3. Debt::
4. Settle down::
5. Thomas::
6. Unforgivable::
7. Medicine::
8. A year from now::
9. Neighbors::
10. Dripping::

And now? Here are my answers. Not sure what they mean, but they disturb me slightly.

1. Infiltration:: money
   
2. Nice person:: suspicious
3. Debt:: green
4. Settle down:: reprimand
   
5. Thomas:: muffins
   
6. Unforgivable:: grey area
   
7. Medicine:: trust breach
   
8. A year from now:: house
   
9. Neighbors:: isolated
   
10. Dripping:: insomnia

Especially the thing about muffins.

Further proof that time is cruel.

I come from a family where wearing glasses is an inevitability. My mother was bespectacled before she was a teenager, my father needed them from about 40 and just about every other member of my extended tribe finds it necessary to stick some piece of prescription material directly on or in front of their eyeballs in order not to bump into things.

At the moment, I can convince myself that I only need them to work at the computer. Nothing else seems to be fuzzy save for these little pixelated meanderings on my screen. I don’t accidentally find myself talking to tall potted plants a-la Mr. Magoo, so I’ll just have to suck it up, do my best Ms. Moneypenny impression and hope it’s not too bad a look.

I’ll admit to this now as it’s been probably 10 years since I did this, but I actually used to be enough of an image spanner to wear frames with plain glass lenses because I thought they made me look “WAY more mature!” (Back in the day when I actually had to worry about looking more mature. Mostly to buy beer. I can’t tell you the last time I got carded. I also can’t tell you how depressing that is.) People used to try them on and go, “Wow, light prescription” and I’d go, “Yeah” because I knew that I was an optical fraud.

I’ve actually owned about 3 pairs of genuine glasses before now, but I’m fairly convinced that I was sold them on false pretences. The Rock Star pointed out that it seemed like a genuine conflict of interest for the places that sell you these vastly inflated snippets of wire and glass to also be the ones that carry out exams to tell you if you actually NEED them. Hmmmmm.

So, at any rate, I joined the four eyes brigade today. I’ve already almost scratched them, stepped on them and lost them on the top of my head.

Looking forward for the adjustment period to be over.

Right. I really wanted to post a response on this site, but was afraid of extreme flamage, so I thought I’d venture off on my own little tangent in safe territory. (If I get flamed on my own site, there are measures I can use to take revenge upon flamers.) Not that I don’t welcome intelligent conversation and respectful disagreement but I’m not keen on being bombarded with profanity.

This isn’t a new story. There’s this guy. And he’s walking down the high street on a Saturday morning, minding his own business, wearing a truly foul piece of clothing advertising the band “Cradle of Filth”. It features, on the front, a graphic picture of a masturbating nun and the slogan, “Jesus is a C***” on the back. Thoroughly charming. An offended woman sees this gentleman and approaches the police, who promptly arrest the guy under new anti-religious hate laws.

As an American, I believe 100% in freedom of speech. It is the best thing our Constitution affords us. (Having the right to vote is pretty cool too.) Britain has no such document guaranteeing this freedom, although, from what I gather, it IS guaranteed. Having said that (and here comes my controversial bit) it seems to me that an individual’s right to free expression ends where someone else’s begins. However, this should be no barrier to free expression if people would use an ounce of the common sense the universe bestowed on us at birth.

Should the guy wearing the filthy t-shirt have been arrested? Of course not. It was a staggering over-reaction by the police that sets a dangerous precedent. (As a matter of fact an actual MEMBER of the band was ALSO arrested for wearing the shirt in a separate incident) But here, nailed to my virtual door at Wittenberg, is my argument:

I have a television set. I watch what I want, when I want. If something offends me, I turn it off. If I thought something was inappropriate for any theoretical children I might have, I wouldn’t let them watch. Should I feel that masturbating nuns are educational or informative for me and my theoretical children, we’ll watch ‘em all day long, but if I think they’re not, I have the option to switch off the telly.

However, it is not within my power to simply switch off some guy in the high street who chooses to wear an image that is inappropriate for public display. The profanity is secondary. The religious reference is secondary. The fact is, we don’t leave copies of “Razzle” lying open in the streets for a reason. (The 1839 Profane Representation Act, specifically)

I can choose to view obscene images or not. I can choose to let my children view obscene images or not. That’s my right. But, having said that, I don’t feel that the guy wearing the t-shirt was committing an arrestable offence. If a student at my high school had turned up to class in the shirt, he’d have been asked to turn it inside out, which is EXACTLY what the officer in this case should have done, rather than making a pointless arrest on some bullshit religious hate charge.

Feel free to agree or disagree, to catch me out, to trip me up. It’s your right, 100%.

This morning, on the BBC website, they posed the question, “Is 1 million too little now to make you happy?” This is, claims Coutts & Co, now well below the amount necessary to live a luxurious life style. (This is due to a explosive 575% jump in property prices since the was last assessment of this kind.)

There are many things in the news that make me want to squeeze the screen on my laptop until it bursts and laugh mirthlessly as the black sludge within oozes all over my desktop. This is definitely one of them. Is the media so out of touch that anyone can believe that a struggling middle class family gives a rat’s ass about living a luxurious lifestyle? Does someone out there REALLY believe that the majority of us wouldn’t be over the moon with a million quid? It may not buy us that 170 ft Sun Seeker in the Caribbean we’ve always wanted, but is it not enough to pay off our debts? Is it not enough to put a down payment on a house for us and our families? Is it not enough to put money aside for retirement?

Almost to a man, this is how the comments go:

“With that I could pay off my mortgage.”

“It’s all about being able to provide.”

“I would like enough money to get on the property ladder please, about £20,000 would do it.”

“I’ve always maintained that money is a great servant, but a lousy master.”

“I could take a part-time job, spend more quality time with family and friends and actually enjoy life a tad more.”

OK! Magazine, with it’s 10 page spreads of disgusting weddings and celebrity homes has a HELL of a lot to answer for.

This morning, while wading through files, I’ve been watching pandas.

The National Zoo in Washington has been trying for a baby panda for yonks. The two ancients Ling Ling and Tsing Tsing never had a cub that survived for more than a few days, so when the two new recruits, Mei Xiang and Tian Tian had one earlier this year, no one got terribly excited. However, as the cub, Tai Shan, has just passed his first 100 days, (A Chinese milestone in panda development, apparently, after which they can be named) everyone is pretty darned pleased about it.

The National Zoo has set up a fab webcam that lets you peek into the panda den to get a glimpse of mother and baby. I’ve tried having a look at this camera at various points in the week, but the bandwidth is usually pretty heavy. However, since most of the US isn’t awake yet, the camera is streaming well and the pandas seem to be engaging in a bit of gentle smack-down wrestling.

A nice diversion if you have a few minutes! I am overcome with cute.