Friday December 1st

Yes, yes - rumbled, the entry below is new to this upload as well, but I left it sitting open for three days without the mental energy to write it, so I thought I'd just leave it alone and start another. As you can see, I'm back on the freeserve site, so everyone can breathe a huge sigh of relief about not getting those horrendous, "YOU, yes YOU have been selected to play for a BILLION dollars! Yes we said a BILLION!" - I mean, how offensive. This does of course mean less regular updates since I can't do them myself but I do think it's the only way to go, since Crosswinds turned out to be so utterly shite.

So, Grandma and Grandfather Hand have left town, I have my bed back; I took full advantage of the situation by going to sleep in it every hour or so today - that might also have been the upshot of the severe lack of sleep I've had in recent nights, or the cold I think I'm coming down with (sniffle) - but whatever it was, I have a bed again! It was quite sad to see them go, since this really is the longest time I've ever spent with them. Grandma Hand reeked of garlic, after eating an entire bulb of it at last night's farewell dinner - which was eaten at a very expensive restaurant which turned out to be worth every penny, from the margarita (YES! I *can* drink tequila without throwing up! That was an exciting discovery) to the truffle cake. Afterwards we wandered around the casino shops, they had this very cool Make-Your-Own-Teddy-Bear shop, where you chose your bear and they stuffed it for you and then you made a birth certificate and then you could choose clothes for it or put a voice in it or whatever you wanted. It was all so sweet it touched even my blackened heart and I quite suprisingly did not want to vomit, even when I saw a bunch of brats running around with pandas dressed in little angel outfits. They had this very cool bunny...but no, I don't think I could go as far as to actually buy something there. But it was a most interesting shop - check them out here.

It happened that I was showering at midday today - this is a cautionary tale - because the water had been switched off when I first crawled off of my sofa at 9am - and I was taking full advantage of the empty flat with all the doors open and the music on overly loud - when I reached for the towel and the thing I was leaning on (the shower curtain...more substantial than most people think) suddenly fell down, along with the rail, on top of my head, shedding a lot of water onto the floor. Blinded, I stumbled over the edge of the bath and promptly slipped in the water and so ended up in an extremely undignified (and yet, I imagine, pornstaresque) splits position. And then what happened? How could we ice this cake of clumsiness..well, there was a knock on the door - maintenance had come around to change the filter, or something. I was in a terrible panic that he was just going to let himself in and see me through the open bathroom door wrestling with the shower curtain in a puddle on the floor, and then make me feel even more stupid by offering to help, but luckily he waited for me to answer the door. Learn from this, (a) not to shower with the door open unless you're sure nobody's going to show up and (b) not to lean on shower curtains, which may be in fact less solid than they actually seem.

That's enough feverish ramblings from me, anyway. I'm sort of at a loss for words this week (look at sky) (whistle)

Saturday December 2nd

I was reading over my old diario last night in a fit of insomnia and it came to my attention that, since I arrived here, I appear to have lost my writing skills, well, such as they were to begin with at any rate. I do apologise, I'll make every effort to rectify this as soon as possible.

Some months ago, I mentioned in passing my voodoo avocado plants and then said I would explain exactly what they were when I had more time. That's now! I don't want people to think I'm a scary witch doctor wannabe or anything so I will just say now, that I do not believe for one second that there is anything mystical connected to this, it's just a bit of fun, and it's sort of a family tradition since we've been growing named avocadoes for years.

For those who do not know - which I suspect is the majority - if you take a stone from an avocado and stick cocktail sticks into it (three is the perfect number) and then balance it upright over a glass of water, eventually it will sprout a root (ain't nature wonderful!) and then you can plant it and it will grow, eventually, into a nice leafy green plant, although you'll be lucky to get an avocado on it unless you live somewhere tropical. The cool thing about these plants is that they grow to enormous heights if left unpruned; Father Hand's used to be taller than me, he had to keep them in his office because the ceilings at home weren't high enough. I have taken to naming mine after people I know and interpreting the rate of growth as indicative of the state of my relationship with the person the plant is named for - so if the plant flourishes, it's all good...you get the point. I have 4 such plants at the moment, living with Mother Hand. They're very therapeutic - when I finally stopped speaking to the Thug, I repotted his in a smaller pot to stunt its growth, in a fit of pique - apparently it's still healthy (the plant, I mean...the real Thug is healthy too though, though, I hear - he's getting married, but let's not dwell on that) - but it hasn't grown at all. I used to keep them on the kitchen windowsill and talk to them when I was cooking. Well...I practically lived on my own, I was lonely (shuffle).

The reason I'm bringing all this up is because Mother Hand wrote to me this week to scold me for being an "extravagant miss" (is that like, "Extravagant Miss Hand, the Engineer's Daughter?") for sending her flowers (that's a whole other story, I'll get to that in a moment). In her letter she mentioned in passing Voodoo Avocado Exhibit D (D because it was the 4th one), which had been lounging on my windowsill for (counts fingers) actually an entire year without so much as showing a root. I had almost given it up as a dead seed and thrown it away but then just before I moved out of my last place it grew 6 inch roots practically overnight, so I left it in Mother Hand's capable...hands and told her to plant it and water it and talk to it and love it like it was her own, which she duly did.

Now for the ironic, scary, voodoo part. I sadly cannot tell you exactly why it is ironic, scary *or* voodoo, because I promised I wouldn't, so you'll just have to take my word for it and fill in your own blanks.

After languishing in its new soil for a couple of months, Voodoo Avocado Exhibit D was sadly not growing, Mother Hand wrote to me, and she didn't know what to do (I maintain she wasn't talking to it enough) so she put it on the boiler (where I'm sure my cat talked to it lots, in between chewing the leaves), and it started growing - like the AudreyII after being fed on the blood of the population of China (for Little Shop of Horror fans) - very fast (for everyone else). And in real life, in relation to the person Voodoo Avocado Exhibit D is named for, events took a surprising turn for the very much better, at least from my point of view. So maybe they do work, after all.

Now, for the story of my extravagant missishness - poor Mother Hand got into a nasty accident a few weeks ago, she tripped over an iron peg stuck in the ground whilst delivering a birthday card in the dark (?! Typically Mother Hand). Because she had her hands in her pockets, she fell flat on her face with nothing to break her fall and then skidded on the concrete a bit, so her face was all sliced up and the doctors thought she'd broken her nose (although it turned out to be just badly cut). Luckily she lost no teeth, but she put her teeth through her lips on impact, and had to drink everything through a straw for a while. She was generally feeling quite miserable, so I sent her some flowers to cheer her up. They must have looked expensive, I don't have the heart to tell her they were the second cheapest arrangement with purple flowers in that I could find (grin).

Good for brownie points, anyway - although it later emerged that I must have plenty already since she sent me a Christmas stocking over with my grandparents. At least - she sent me the items to fill my Christmas stocking - which I have hung up all year round just on the offchance. Why is it that people think adults can't have Christmas stockings? My brother gets all embarrassed when she tries to do one for him, but I have to say that if it wasn't for that I'd never have any new socks, since I never buy them. Last year I did *her* a Christmas stocking and she was really pleased. This year, Grandfather and Granny Hand have followed her cue and done one for Father Hand (but it's a secret, so don't tell him). I don't think Christmas stockings should have an age limit, or a "Belief in Santa" clause (groan).

I went to a lecture last week on Lenin and contemporary culture in Las Vegas, where we were invited to "step behind the Irony Curtain" (a remarkably good joke for an American, I thought) and examine the ironies of Mandalay Bay casino erecting a 20 foot statue of Lenin outside their Red Square restaurant. It was the most informative hour I have spent since I arrived here (with the possible exception of an hour in the afternoon last Wednesday but again, I've got to keep my mouth shut about that one - tisk, censorship, 'sa terrible business). Apparently, when they put the statue up they received a record number of complaints from various Vegas residents, including a Ukrainian ex-pat who complained that Lenin was "the bloodiest dictator in history" (hadn't he ever heard of Stalin?!). The lecturer suggested it was ironic that a statue of Lenin offended sensibilities in a city where they have drive through wedding chapels complete with mechanical arms which throw rice on your windscreen. She also pointed out the irony of a larger-than-life statue of a Marxist hero being present in the capitalist playground of the world. I won't go into it, but if anyone wants to know more, I took 5 pages of notes (laugh) I think I must be really missing uni.

Another thing I noticed when I came to read back over my diary is that for someone who regularly speaks out so cynically against marriage, I talk about it an awful lot. After careful consideration, I have decided that this is not because I am in denial and secretly long to get married - certainly not, white's not my colour and I dread Father Hand's speech. No, instead I have attributed it to pressure. It's a scary fact that by the time Mother Hand was my age, she had been married for 3 years. Jen's always sending me pictures of wedding dresses and telling me I need to get married so I can be her Maid of Honour (why can't I just be her "Old Maid of Honour"?). Kez, of course, will be getting married in about a year if everything goes according to plan with LER, and she's a year and 5 days younger than me! And now, the Thug, of ALL people....So, even though the thought promising the rest of my life to someone terrifies me, maybe I sub-consciously think that that's what I should be aiming for if I want to be "normal".

Hmmm...but I don't know if I want to be normal. I might have to stop wearing my Santa hat when I cook, finding the brown and sticky joke funny even when I'm sober, knowing the words and dances to Steps songs, looking forward to my birthday, publishing my life on the internet (but if you think I'm too honest - check this guy out), having the serious goal of being part of an elite crime fighting squad funded by a reclusive millionaire (yep - saw Charlie's Angels last week - loved it), eating frozen peas, and growing voodoo avocadoes. Maybe that is normal. I don't know. Don't blame me - somebody complained I hadn't been updating regularly enough so now I'm rambling pointlessly to make up for it. Let me get back to my important, serious rambling (snaps Bernie (laugh)).

Interestingly, now I come to think of it, all of my friends who are considering getting married at this age have parents who are still together. That means I must fit some stereotype of a child from a broken home. How irritating!

I take it all back. I love the idea of marriage. First man I see tomorrow, I'm going to club over the head and drive through the wedding chapel with me. Everybody send me a toaster.

In terms of inspirational marriages, my grandparents come to mind. They've been married for 51 years; they met when they were pre-teen; and they have little private jokes that go back to before Father Hand was even born, it's so cool. For example, we were at the restaurant the other night at the farewell dinner and Granny Hand was trying to eat her chicken without using her fingers..
Granny Hand: This isn't like that other chicken I had!
Me: (thinks she must mean some chicken she ate last month, or something)
Grandfather Hand: (laughs)
Granny Hand: (laughs too)
Father Hand and me: (raised eyebrows)
Grandfather Hand: Oh yes..back when we lived in Swindon (ie, 40 years ago) the youth leaders at church went out to dinner at this Chinese place and we went with them, and Granny Hand had this chicken that was all bone...
I mean, how cool to have shared experiences going back that far. And they still bicker and argue playfully like they're newlyweds. It appears that what they have is as good as it gets, in which case it doesn't seem to be a bad thing to have.

There! A long update to make up for the terribly sporadic ones during November. I do believe I've found my words again (grin)

Wednesday December 6th

Jen's been saying that if I twinkle anymore, I'm going to turn into a Christmas tree...actually, to use her exact words, "A bloody Christmas tree, woman!" So, to get my own back for her sticking her fingers down her throat every time I open my mouth...er, keyboard...I thought I would publish this extremely fetching picture of her demonstrating the number 1 use for out of date condoms - with myself (not very) carefully edited out, of course (wink) - and then try very hard to think of things to whinge about just to prove that I can still whinge when I'm happy, since I am multi-talented.

I couldn't come up with much, so this might be a bit lame.

(I just added this line because I wanted to start the whinging off below the picture and I didn't know how to do this)

5 reasons why I hate Dawson's Creek
1. Dawson's a baby faced spoiled brat, Pacey's a god and Joey is a blind idiot for not realising that sooner
2. They're all 17, and yet display numerous arrogant preconceptions about relationships (which I probably indeed shared at 17, which might be why it makes me want to throw things at the TV)
3. It's the only show where, if I miss 2 episodes, I have absolutely no idea what's going on
4. When the end credits roll, I vow never to watch it again, but I always end up doing so
5. It's on the WB network which we get terrible reception for, so everyone has a shadow (I told you it would be lame)

Today, Joey decided to sail off into the sunset for a 3 month boating trip with Pacey. I was all at once pleased because she finally stop her pathetic dithering and came to the conclusion that any sane person would have reached months ago - that Dawson is whiney, pretentious, and will be unlikely to amount to anything without plenty of help from his parents, and the smart money would be on Pacey (it has nothing to do with me preferring men with brown hair...at all). However, I was also left ranting at my candy-cane-with-eyes for quite 10 minutes because she jumped on the boat after yapping "Ooooo Pacey I think I'm in love with you!" (well DUH!) in this extremely thin-looking t-shirt, with no bag, no coat, no change of clothes, and not a word to her poor family who will now be left with no help at all to run their B&B (stop saying Fiction/Reality - you think I care? I talk to candy canes!) and this just does not make sense for a three month sailing trip to Florida.

I'm really scraping the bottom of the barrel. I can think of very little to whinge about.

Here's something a bit freakish. Yesterday, when I was hiding out in the gym again trying not to die on that damned stair climbing thing, this strange man turned up. I tried to be pleasant about it - scowling hard at the last one didn't make him go away, and even though I am trying to mentally convince the management to put up a big sign saying "Closed to everyone except Sally between 11pm-12am" they still haven't done it yet, so I cannot complain, since it is supposed to be for everyone. Anyway, like I said, I tried to be nice - I even said I didn't mind if he put the lights on (dark is good, dark has a veiling effect), to which he replied that he too preferred it in the dark. Alarm bells sort of went off then and I regretted not bringing my trusty first-date knife (alright, alright, it's a letter opener, but I'd probably end up stabbing only myself if I carried a real knife) with me soon after, because all he did was walk to and fro, to and fro, right in front of the door, to and fro, to and fro. I concluded that he could not be having some sort of sick field day watching me try and get to the top of the stairs (I never manage it, tisk) since it was dark, and after 15 minutes it became obvious he couldn't be waiting for somebody, so I decided he was either waiting to rape me, or he liked to exercise naked and was waiting for me to leave. Neither of these prospects made him a very healthy person to be locked in a room with so I finished up quicker and left without stretching which was irritating because it's my favourite part and so it felt like I'd wasted the whole hour, but I was nither raped nor forced to watch...(shudder) let's not spell that one out, so I suppose it wasn't a complete loss. Tonight I'm going to take along my cloak of invisibility so that nobody can see me.

Bonus! I was just lying on the floor trying to think of something else to write, and I found one of my socks under the couch! It's the funny thing about socks, they have their own secret life that nobody knows about, I'm sure. They run off to sock balls when we're not looking, only they can't hold their drink very well, so a lot of them end up in comas and don't come back for months at a time, if ever. That's why there are so many odd socks in the world, well, in my world, anyway. It could be true. We could all be cucumber-loving cats and not even realise it. Stranger things have happened. If anybody knows of any, please let me know.

Father Hand informed me today that he thinks he ought to give up smoking (a fact those of us who hear him cough in the mornings have known for several years) so this might be a good time to do so. I said I supposed I should join him in this endeavour, although it will involve me finishing my carton (7 and a half packs to go) before New Year and smoking menthols has already given me a cough. However, he then said maybe he would just give up smoking during the day (and then couldn't understand why I literally fell backwards off my stool laughing).

While I think of it, if this sentence makes any sense to you, please explain it to me - "ice cream can't be ice cream because you aren't trying to convince yourself of anything, just other people". Nope, thought not.

I finally got around to mailing my Girl Scout application forms today - although I took them to the Post Office and then forgot to post them, go figure, I must have been distracted - so now I just have to sit tight and wait to see what they say. I cannot believe it is already nearly the end of the year, and if I want to stay another 6 months after March I need to put my extension plea in at the end of next month (chew nails) and of course, if I don't get hired for the camp there's no way I can stay since I won't be able to afford to come back by September (if you see what I mean), but then, that might not be such a bad thing.

SUDDEN NEWS FLASH - the freaky man at the gym turned up again tonight, where I went before finishing this, and did exactly the same thing. I had remembered my cell phone today and almost called my dad to come and walk me back over but then I decided if he was really that scary he'd be as likely to mug me for my phone as anything else, so I just sort of sidled out again. It's very strange. Maybe I should stop going altogether, wouldn't that be a shame

Sunday December 9th

Jen insisted that it wasn't fair that I put up that picture of her with me cut out of it. Under normal circumstances I would have ignored her complaints, but then she reminded me that practically every photograph I have ever taken is currently stashed in a box in the house she is living in, so I have relented and added the unedited version, in spite of the fact I look like I'm hypnotised. I should also point out that it was taken relatively late at night, and Jen was recently out of the bath, hence the wet hair and totally makeupless look. On her, anyway - I have no excuse. I do remember now that we found the #1 use for out-of-date condoms very therapeutic once we'd got rid of that yeurghy lubricating stuff, and that when Zoe came home and discovered us squinting at Chuckie Egg on Jen's laptop with them in our mouths, she was convinced we were drunk and pretty disgusted when she found out that we weren't (wine-inna-box ain't what it used to be, eh Jen *winkwink*). I've got the picture stuck next to my computer now. Frankie's littlest treasure, Alex, remarked on us "sucking balloons" when he was round the other day. Oh, how I laughed. Quietly.

I'm quite miserably ill. I whinged to someone yesterday that I was sick of this nasty sinus thing and I wished it would just be a real cold and get it over with. Famous last words - I haven't been able to stop sneezing all day, and my nose looks like something that might be served on a combo platter with shrimp at Red Lobster. I'm so ill, we went grocery shopping today and I barely even looked at the cheesecakes. I'm permanently dehydrated and the pseudoephedrine only makes it worse so I can't even take that. Today I went to the English shop and bought some Robinson's Lemon Barley, to be drunk hot, in copious amounts, so maybe that will help, although what I really want is a 24-pack of Nurofen Cold&Flu, some Blistex for my poor nose, a bottle of honey vodka (purely medicinal), three movies I know by heart, and my old bed from London. I'm spending stupid amounts of time huddled under a blanket on the couch mumbling feverishly to myself, drifting into sleep, and then waking up to find I'm swallowing my own tongue. I may never say this again, so make a note - I miss Mother Hand. Even though she'd be trying to pour that vomit-inducing Benylin down my throat, she's good for sympathy, and she's the only person I can take it seriously from. If anyone else tries to be sympathetic I usually think they're taking the piss. Father Hand isn't sympathetic, but then I'm not when he's ill - he had to have an emergency root canal on Monday - I think my words of comfort consisted largely of "Nyah" and "Oh dear..."

On Thursday, he got the bill for the cell phones (his, and what was Mrs Hand#2's but is now mine) and since Mrs Hand#2 had run up about $200 on it, he spent quite half an hour stamping around yelling, "She spent 200 dollars PHONING HER OWN HOME! That boyfriend of hers mustn't have a job! NO WONDER I'm still paying her bills! (insert various insults)". Then he settled down and played Civilisation from 4000BC until 1861, which took him about 6 hours, and then he got up and started stamping around again, and was only distracted by making some sort of stand for Frankie's Christmas present, which involved rigging up tiny yet excruciatingly bright LEDs and getting me to look directly at them. At that point I made a break for it and went to bed. I haven't seen him so annoyed since he reached across the table one Sunday lunchtime and nicked my tissue to wipe his hands on, and then realised I'd recently sneezed into it, and that was at least 12 years ago.

Oh dear, just thinking about that has sent me off into hysterics. He didn't even realise and Mother Hand, Tim and I were sat around the table staring at him until one of us started laughing and he realised. The look on his face...priceless.

Enough of such foolishness.

Frankie took me shopping yesterday. I was not looking forward to it since I hate shopping but I was pleasantly surprised to find not only a lot of garments that fit, but a lot that were too big. I feel relatively thin, now. I think I tried on about 15 different "nice" dresses - the object of the trip being to find something suitable for the JCM Christmas party I am attending next week as "Peter's daughter". Frankie lured me away from the pink things and the pinafores (hey, if I've got to wear a dress I thought I might as well have gone the whole way) and was trying to convince me to get this lilac, lacy, frilly thing, with a high neckline, which came to my ankles, thus defying both of my cardinal rules about dresses, but undoubtedly fulfilling all the requirements of "something nice". Well, I mean, it was pretty, but then, that's not me. Frankie insisted that "it did something good for my face" - distracted attention away from it, presumably - but its only redeeming quality in my opinion was that you could see my underwear through it. I had instead chosen this long bottle green thing with beads on, a sort of very-rich-peasant look, but then we discovered something better on the way to pay. Granted, it's 3 sizes too big (!!! On me! Something 3 sizes too big!) but cutting the Dynasty-shoulderpads out and tying a scarf around my ribs makes it look "very elegant" apparently - oh cackle cackle, I just know I'm going to end up falling over or opening my mouth and ruining it. This also has beads on it - so probably what will happen is that I will squirm out of my chair without thinking, half the beads will fall off and somebody will fall over on them and break a leg, like Felicia in The Witches of Eastwick. Then I'll get sued and have to come back to England. But that wouldn't be such a bad thing (B-P).

We had to go out again for shoes today, since my ludicrously wide feet meant the only good fits we could find in the regular stores were fuzzy ladybird slippers (I was very, very tempted), flipflops or biker boots, and Frankie wouldn't let me. If I ever have children, I'm not going to let them run around with nothing on their feet when they're growing up, or they're going to end up in my predicament. I should have brought my Spice shoes from England, but I only packed sensible shoes (and while I'm about it - just because I like sensible shoes, this does *not* mean I am a lesbian, it just means I like sensible shoes). We visited a shoe store for people with wide feet, but apparently shoe designers have cottoned onto the fact that certain types of shoe just do not suit wide feet and are fiendishly only making wide shoes in these designs. Sure, I found a lot of shoes that fit but they made my feet look even wider, and the only pair that even came close to being suitable were 90 dollars (I wouldn't even pay 90 dollars for a night with Pacey) and they were completely flat. If I have to wear "something nice" the very smallest concession should be that I am allowed to tower over everybody in the vicinity.

Happily, I found a shiny, grey pair in the next shop, with the flimsiest of straps and four inch heels, so unsuitable that it was pretty much love at first sight; when I found out they were on sale at 12 dollars, I was ready to commit to them for the rest of my life, or theirs, whichever is shorter. As I remarked around the time of my last unsuitable shoe purchase, it's so great being a girl - even with a nasty cold, silly shoes will make you happy.

Update on the freaky gym man, since Lisa wrote today and said that he was undoubtedly planning criminal activities "not least of which involve stealing your virginity :o)" (my ribs still ache). He did turn up again the next night, so the night after (Friday) I went 15 minutes earlier, except that at that time there was somebody else in there, and he had all the lights on and my cloak of invisibility needed new batteries, so I ended up not going at all, and I've been too ill to go since then. So all quiet on that front, but I shall write more if and when he turns up with a pitchfork

Monday December 18th

Here is the result of my multiple shopping trips. Sadly, the digital camera doesn't have a flash on it so the colours came out kind of strange, but it looks OK on the grey scale, don't you think? And my dress is grey anyway so it's not that important (grin). The party was a lot of fun, I did drink a lot but I didn't fall over and none of the beads fell off of my dress, and I behaved in a very out-of-character, ladylike manner, apart from when Father Hand's boss, who was drunk, came over and asked me how long I was staying here and I told him he ought to give me a job. Luckily he thought I was joking. There were a couple of other sticky moments - firstly, somebody thought I was Father Hand's wife, this in spite of the fact he turned up with Frankie on his arm and was holding hands with her for most of the evening, (here is a picture of Father Hand and Frankie, again, it's not very clear, but oh well) PLUS of course he looks at the very LEAST 20 years older than me. Secondly, I went to the bar to order yet another cosmopolitan (hey, they were free), so I stood next to the man who was already ordering, only he had also ordered a cosmopolitan, and the barman thought that I was with him, and served me his drink, because he knew I had been drinking the same thing all night. Then when he realised his mistake he started apologising very loudly - all this in the middle of the boss's big speech - and so everyone turned around and looked at us. But at least I made an impression. Frankie informed me that most people don't know much about Father Hand's private life (they obviously don't read this, har har) and so I was something of a novelty. Still, I spent most of the evening sending psychic SOS messages to...someone...in vain, alas, and the first thing I did when we got home was take off my dress and discover multiple ladders in my tights (happily only one visible one) so maybe I'm not that different to the way I always was.

I went shopping again this week, on Friday (it's getting to be a habit) with Heidi and her stripper flatmate, who was pretty flush after making a grand the night before merely by going out to dinner with some lonely rich bloke she'd met at her place of work. Why don't these things ever happen to me? I could do with a grand, even if I'm not blonde and only take my clothes off for fun, not money. But I digress. I forget if I mentioned Heidi's shock pregnancy - she found out the day before Thanksgiving, and is due some time in May, making the father one Brian aka "Bubba the construction guy", who is coincidentally the bloke Frankie wanted to set me up with when I first got here, except that I scowled and mumbled a lot about that so she didn't. Lucky for all concerned that I hate being set up, because they're getting married next weekend, in order to give the baby the best possible chance for the future.

Anyway, I'm getting better at this shopping business since I came home with quite an armful of bags, and forked out for some jeans, even though I haven't worn them since I moved out of Mother Hand's house. The reason for this (soapbox moment) is that Levi's changed the cut on their women's 501s so that they were cut the same as men's 501s, which you might not think is a big thing - indeed, Zoe went out and bought several pairs immediately. But then, Zoe has the hips of a 12 year old boy. For those of us for whom labour is *not* going to be an excruciating ordeal (ie, those of us with "good child bearing hips"), the new 501s rested uncomfortably low and while that might have been a good thing if I had a pierced navel, or at the very least a stomach that doesn't make me flinch every time I think somebody's looking at it, they proved to be just all bad. Hence, I swore off jeans in protest until they changed the cut back again, and started wearing black bootflares instead (I am now onto my 5th pair and have an unhealthy aversion to anything remotely tapered), and, post-Fenwick, skirts. However, my resolve crumbled in the face of the eternal "nothing to wear" dilemma - exacerbated by the fact that Vegas is often too hot for black and the lack of M&S makes skirt wearing impossible unless I try and start a new bare lagged trend (and everybody knows that's just so 1999). I can't help it - I'm a traditionalist when it comes to tights, they have to involve acres of opaque black lycra and last at least 5 washes before I put a hole in them, or they're just not worth buying. And sadly, M&S brand are the only tights that cut it, since I usually mistreat them badly and put fingernails or, until it broke, the pointy bit on my favourite ring through them. *Sigh* I still miss that pointy bit when it comes to opening parcels, nothing so easily to hand cuts through sellotape in quite the same manner.

Blah blah...what was I talking about? Oh yes, jeans. Well, I caved and bought a pair, and (look at feet) they are bloke jeans, too, but cut better than Levis. I'm not a snob about these things, you understand - I am a purist. They shouldn't change something which I grew up in just to suit the hipster fashion of the day. Plus, as with the tights, I expect a lot from my jeans, and I found other brands had an alarming tendency to rip or acquire holes in pockets. Mother Hand is always suggesting that "I expect a lot from things" - she mentioned it again in September when I bought a new bag - my first sensible bag purchase in a year (we're not counting the marvellous gingham number because I liked it too much). "Not *another* new bag," she tutted, conveniently forgetting I had paid for it with the Fenwick vouchers I got as my leaving present. "Mind you, you do put them through the wringer, you're so heavy handed, why can't you be gentle and ladylike and thus the expected daughter of mine loins?" Alright, I made that last part up, but the inferrance was in the sigh after the heavy handed part. I suppose she may have a point. I did, for example, break the legs off my bed by jumping up and down on it too much. This at the age of 20. My shoes usually look as though somebody's run over them with a tank a few times within a few days of being in my possession, and people are always complaining that I slam their car doors too hard. I ended up having to do a sneaky returns number over my personal stereo, since I dropped it so many times in 4 months that it looked as though it too had been run over my a tank and sounded like it as well. But I think I'm improving. I haven't broken anything since I got here, anyway.

Freaky Gym Man update - I went over there on Tuesday, and FGM did indeed show up, as per usual, about 15 minutes before I was finished, but then ASU Man (I dunno, he was wearing an ASU shirt) showed up about 15 minutes before *him* and put all the lights on, so it wasn't too weird. I was most entertained by the pantomime which then took place - ASUM would fiddle with the weights machine and then use it, whilst FGM just paced up and down as usual, and then ASUM would get up to get some water or go and look at his arms in the mirror (tisk, men are so vain) and FGM would quickly take his spot, reset the weights machine, do about 3 repetitions and then get up and start pacing again, whereupon ASUM would go back over, reset the weights machine *again*...and so on, and so on. When I left, they were both pacing. They were probably making blokish grunting sounds at each other and discussing the sizes of their cars, but I had my personal stereo on so I couldn't hear. Then the next night, I went to sleep at 7pm and woke up at midnight, so I didn't go at all, and Thursday and Friday nights, well, I really couldn't be bothered, so I didn't go back until Sunday, when ASUM didn't show and FGM showed late and actually left early. He left about 30 seconds before me, and I didn't even notice, so when I was leaving I couldn't see where he was and had a momentary fit of panic that he was hiding behind the coke machine ready to leap out and attack me. But no. I think he's just got bored with it. Father Hand asked me the other day, as I bitched about it *again*, whether he was "Very weird, or just weird - like, if he asked you on a date, would you say no?" to which I replied "..........." I mean, please. He doesn't seem to understand *bite tongue* nevermind.

I don't know whether all this gym stuff is actually physically benefitting me, since I go out of my way to *never* discover how much I weigh (much easier now the hospital aren't keeping tabs on me over my unique kidney diesease), but actually, it cheers me up. Sunday night, for example, I was all depressive-slumpy, lying on the couch snacking on the garlic toast things out of the Chex mix (we need more Chex mix now, I think I ate them all, only the pretzels and the shreddie-type things are left and I don't like those as much) and watching TV, but I forced myself out and felt so much better for it. So I suppose the mental benefits are obvious. Plus, whether there have been any physical benefits or not, I do like what I see in the mirror more these days. But that could be due to a number of factors, not least of these the mental boost. What an interesting idea.

I am beginning to think that phones are the instruments Satan is employing these days to keep me from getting a decent amount of sleep. On Sunday, I was woken up at 7am by Tony (Frankie's babysitter - more on this in a moment) and then at 10am somebody called my cell phone
Me: (Trying very hard to sound like I've been awake for hours) Hello?
Bloke: Hello?
Me: Hello?
Bloke: Hello?
Me: Hello?
Bloke: Hello?
Me: (thinks) I'm certainly not going to tell you who I am, since you're calling me you should know
Me: (says) Hello?
Bloke: Errr....I think I've got the wrong number, sorry about that (click)
Me: (to dial tone) Was it the third or the fourth "hello" that gave it away, you complete idiot?!

Then, this morning, somebody called at 7am *again*
Bloke: Hello, can I speak to Chris Hughes please?
Me: (thinks I might have misheard him say "Sally Hand" or "Peter Hand") Who?
Bloke: Chris Hughes, I'd like to speak with Chris Hughes, please
Me: No, I think you must have the wrong number, sorry
Bloke: Oh no, wait...is this 365-****? (he repeats our phone number)
Me: Well yes but...
Bloke: Then let me speak to Chris Hughes!
Me: There's nobody of that name here, I'm sor...
Bloke: (exasperated sound) *click*
Not even so much as a "Sorry to have bothered you at such an unearthly hour when you've only been asleep for 2 hours"! Bloody rude Americans. I should take a leaf out of Father Hand's book and turn the ringer off on the phone in my room. I think the mysterious Chris Hughes must have given his employers the wrong phone number so that when he felt like bunking off work they wouldn't be able to get hold of him. Utter git. As if it isn't enough that I should have to toss and turn for quite two and a half hours before I manage to get any sleep, I have to deal with hissy Americans 2 hours later and then they drive a fire truck past my window 2 hours after that. I despair. Tomorrow I have to be up at the crack of dawn *again* since Father Hand has just bought a new VCR on the web and I have to be awake when they deliver it or he might quite possibly send me back to England.

Father Hand has been wanting to buy this VCR for quite some time, you see, since it not only plays videos in NTSC *and* PAL standards, it records in either one and converts between the two, enabling me *cough* I mean him to rip off all my favourite films for me to take home. He was practically hyper-ventilating as he clicked on the purchase button, but then tried to reason that he'd saved 30 dollars in tax by buying it online. I, being my father's daughter (the same father that waves boxes of muffins at me and whispers "Just ONE won't hurt") pointed out that the shipping & handling had cost 27 dollars so really that wasn't much of a saving. I relented though since he appeared to be about to cry at the shame of having spent 500 dollars on himself (quite right! He could have bought me an MP3 player for the same price!) (no, I'm just kidding, I think he should buy himself a decent present since nobody else can afford to) and pointed out that (a) since MrsHand#2 will shortly cease to be MrsHand#2 and become ExMrsHand#2, he won't have to make her car payments anymore, and that (b) he's hardly been out gambling at all in the past couple of months and therefore has the money to spare. Both of these were met with explosive "Yes! You're Right!"s and much pointing of fingers, so I think he finally became convinced it was OK. He's been online looking up its progress every day since he ordered it, "It's in New York now!" "It's nearly here!" "It's arriving on Tuesday!" and buying yards of cable to hook it up, it's all very boy-before-Christmas.

Now, the story of Tony ringing at 7am - Frankie was sadly burgled on Saturday night. They cut the screen door at the back of her apartment, and lifted her TV, VCR and the boys' Play Station, not to mention Ryan's bike. Of course, they reported it to the police, and then just a few hours later found some bloke out behind the apartment complex trying to sell the bike (what a total melon!). However, when the police took him aside for questioning, he claimed that Tony had invited him into the apartment to take whatever he wanted in exchange for some crack, so the useless police tried to arrest Tony instead. They then refused to search the bloke who was selling Ryan's bike, on the basis that "there wasn't enough evidence". HE WAS TRYING TO SELL RYAN'S BIKE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! Added to that, if the story about Tony was true (and there's no way it's true, Tony spends almost as much time on that Play Station as the boys) then there was a very distinct possibility that the culprit would have been a crack dealer, and is that not an arrestable offence? The whole world's gone mad. The sooner Frankie and Father Hand get a place of their own somewhere far away from Frankie's present neighbourhood, the better, even if it does mean I will have to live with children for a few months.

The second thorn in today's crown relates to poor Uncle Dave, whose Vegas girlfriend unceremoniously dumped him recently, in spite of the fact he'd already bought plane tickets to come over here. Luckily, I don't think he's too gutted about it since it transpires that he was going to break up with her anyway - he was just going to enjoy the holiday first. But it does mean he's not coming out for Christmas, so I will remain here with nobody to go out drinking with (and I know I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel a bit there, but Father Hand is diabetic and Frankie is allergic to alcohol - did I already say that?) so it's shaping up to be a very sober Christmas *grimace* Although hopefully New Year should make up for it, since there's going to be a massive firework display. And I'm hoping to take off on a US tour of some description from late February until some time in March, so I can make up for my sobriety then. Mardi Gras...here I come

Monday December 25th

"Angelllls we have heeeard on hiiigh, tell them to go oooout, and BUY..." It is finally that time of year again that everyone's been talking about. My day has consisted of present unwrapping, eating, and sleeping, in the tradition of Christmases past. I got some fine golden antlers from Mother Hand (in amongst the socks, knickers, and gifts I put in her stockings last year rewrapped), and money for my trip from Father Hand and Frankie (more on this later), and I'm still holding my breath over Jen's "surprise". Additionally, Father Hand got some marmite and I got some dairy milk so we're all ex-pat happy.

I was trying to remember how many years it has been since I did not attend the pub on Christmas Eve, and I have a feeling it might not be as many as I think. But anyway, I did not attend the pub last night, although I was cruelly made to sit in the car and look at it for about 5 minutes whilst we waited for a light to change; instead, we went to church. It was quite fun - church is always fun at Christmas - although the vicar looked suspiciously like the bad-guy blonde from Die Hard and the communion wine tasted like honey and lemon cough mixture. Thankfully I did not pass out at the communion rail this time - as I did in Granma Burfield's church when I was younger (I have always worried about that - I was wearing red underwear and a dimunitive skirt and I dread to think what they must have thought) - but stayed conscious long enough for the filing-out-with-a-candle part, although these candles were of the electric torch variety (nice touch, I thought). Frankie and the Little Treasures stayed here for the night, and we sat around playing Pictionary (first prize to Alex for getting "train" just from Frankie drawing a line) in the manner of families great and small. This is somewhat sifferent from my last Christmas - the only game we played then was "pass the (cigarette shaped and pungent smelling) parcel" *cough* but oh well, I suppose everyone has to go through the Christmas period sober at some point during their lives.

People like Mother Hand's "special friend" Keith, for example, who - and let's all get our violins out - was sentenced to 60 days in prison on Mother Hand's birthday (Dec 11th) for drink driving and will thus be sober for the first Christmas since I have known him. Let us all do a happy dance and laugh heartily at his misfortune. Now, we don't believe here in laughing at others' misfortune on account of the karma, but we think we owe him one...no, not one, maybe one thousand *ponder* I mean, you'd think he'd learn! He had only just got his license back from it being revoked for 3 years after I shopped him for turning up drunk when Mother Hand was away, stealing the keys and then backing the car out of the drive, into a Jag, and driving away on the pavement. You'd think there'd be some kind of learning curve there somewhere, nobody who has lived as long as he has can be entirely without brains, although I have seen little demonstration of them so far, and I've known him for 7 years (and that's 6 years, 11 months and 30 days too long). We don't like drink drivers in Bunnyland. We set the sheep on them.

Enough of such nasty topics, anyway. Where was I...oh yes, my Grand Tour. Which puts me in mind to add a quote which tickled the travel writing side of my brain, "In those days rich young men from Ankh-Morpork used to go on what we called the Grand Sneer, visiting far-flung countries and cities in order to see at first hand how inferior they were. Or so it seemed, at any rate" - I do have the say, that if I read more then one Terry Pratchett book a month I get bored with him but sometimes he's just spot on. But I digress. On disovering that a 45 day go-anywhere bus pass for the entire country would cost only double what a return ticket to New Orleans would cost, I have decided to make Mardi Gras the beginning of a round-America tour. This will involve visiting Lisa in Pittsburgh, Zeebrock in Chicago and Yogi in Yellowstone, with a tent and an extra large packet of peanut butter M&Ms to keep the wolf from the door...sorry, flap. I have been carefully mapping my route and came home from the library the other day with a veritable armful of books with such titles as "Washington DC for free", "Bargain holidays in America" and "New York on a tight git budget". It's all very exciting apart from the fact that I will be away from my computer for 6 entire weeks, the very thought of which makes me start to shake and hyperventilate, but I'm sure it can't be that difficult. I suppose I could always nick Father Hand's crash-every-15-minutes laptop. Smiley suggested I set it up to run off my cellphone and take a portable TV with me, but then I can't really see the point of leaving if I'm going to do that. I'm sure Forest chat can do without me for a few weeks. And as long as I can find a computer somewhere I can keep this updated, at least.

Anyway, I think that everyone should go and look at these pictures and then try telling me these things don't need to be seen first hand. I think I'm going to have to do a lot of walking - I can't bring myself to use the word "hiking" in the same sentence as a personal pronoun - although Father Hand has expressed an interest in coming with me for the Yellowstone part so we'll see.

I gave Father Hand a black carnival mask for Christmas and he's been wearing it with a makeshift black hood and taking pictures of himself and digitally reddening his eyes and the like, for much of the day. His VCR turned up eventually last Tuesday and he finally got to play this PAL tape he's had for years, only to find it holds "Greatest video hits of 1990" - complete with Danni Minogue, David Hasselhoff and Chesney Hawkes (Chesney Hawkes! my entire youth flashed before my eyes), so that was a bit of a disappointment for him. I have two father-related amusing anecdotes to relate - one embarrassing to him, and one to me, just to be fair. Firstly, I made this huge batch of tuna stuff last Monday (it was very like the tuna stuff I lived on last summer) and I put it in the fridgeto eat for lunch during the week. The very next morning, I woke up at the crack of dawn, starving, and thought, "Oh yey, I made that tuna stuff, I don't have to actually exert much effort to eat breakfast today" (yes, tuna for breakfast - surely it's one step up from cheese and tomato toasted sandwiches?) So, I leapt out of bed (alright, crawled) and bounced to the fridge (yes alright, moped) but I couldn't find the tuna stuff anywhere. It simply wasn't there, and since the fridge was practically empty I couldn't see how I could have missed it. I found the container empty in the sink though, and wondered if Father Hand and his non-fishy palate had accidentally used it for sandwiches, but when I rang him up it turned out he took one look at it, became convinced it was mouldy potatoes left over from Thanksgiving (that says a lot for my cooking) and bunged the whole lot down the waste disposal. He was terribly embarrassed, of course, but I thought it was quite amusing on the whole, although hungry.

Secondly, discussions have been had here (probably more than I know about, too) about the possibility of me having a visitor for Christmas. I can't say who but *better* than Santa Claus (less of a beard...presumably). Anyway, the last time the discussion came up the following conversation was part of it..
Father Hand: I'm having Frankie and the boys over the stay on Christmas Eve...but the boys can sleep out here, unless you were planning to make him sleep out here...
Me: No! Er *cough* I mean...well I don't think so...I dunno, I hadn't really given it much thought (I'm going straight to hell for that one)
Father Hand: Oh well, once you've tried to fuck him on that airbed you might reconsider (evil smirk)
Me: Oh. Yes. Ha ha ha.
Me: (practically faints as all the blood rushes away from my vital organs and into my face).

I don't think it's fair. I mean, I've practiced not being embarrassed easily by things for a long time now, I've got really good at it. Family members should not be able to change the rules! *Sulk* Still, I suppose the lack of taboos is nice.

After a 4 hour fiddle, I finally broke up the entire diario (all 98,000 words of it *gasp*) into manageable chunks, indexed chronologically here so if you want to look past entries up, this might make it easier. I was considering having people pick out their favourite quotes for a "best of" part but I don't think anybody would mail me anything, apart from Jen picking out "Evils of Alcohol". But - surprise me, if I get enough suggestions it might just work

Friday December 29th

Behold, a tale to warm the heart of even the greenest of grinches (possibly).

A couple of entries ago I wrote about Frankie being burgled; I also wrote that the police were idiots because they tried to arrest Tony, the babysitter. It is now time for me to eat my words - because it transpired that Little Treasure Alex got up to use the bathroom at 4am, found the house empty, and on returning to bed, heard Tony come in through the front door with somebody and then go in and out several times - presumably as he carried stuff out. Everyone was in shock upon hearing this; Brian - Heidi's cousin - Tony's friend - promptly packed up all of Tony's stuff from Heidi's apartment, took it down to where he works and told him he wasn't welcome anywhere. So (hopefully) he had a shitty Christmas.

Anyway (this is the heart warming bit), it got round at JCM that Frankie had been burgled, and just before Christmas, Frankie's supervisor called her into his office to talk about it and then insisted on driving her to his home so that he could give her his spare TV. But that's not all. On her return, she was handed an envelope containing $260, collected by the staff so that she could go out and buy the Little Treasures another Playstation. But that's not all. Yesterday, the boss of the whole company called her up into his office (on the phone he said, "You're in big trouble, come up here right now!" so she was suitably scared), had her sit and tell him all about it, and then gave her a VCR, still in its box. But that's not all. Today when she went to work one of the sales managers gave her his old computer. And that's about all, so far. So she has managed to replace everything she lost, in some cases with better quality stuff. Heidi and I think she should start a rumour that she's having car trouble and see if someone gives her a convertible. Isn't that a nice story? What a great bunch of people.