NHS is My Homeboy!

Sunday remained calm-just the usual sleep a bit late, read and study, talk to the parentals, etc. with a little twist. Good old G* proposed a movie so we took in the 8:00PM James Bond. Maybe it's his eyes, maybe it's his ability to correctly perform life-saving apparatus and then resume poker play but Daniel Craig is H-O-T. I never 100% got into Bond (particularly some of the last ones) but I think there might be a Bond marathon in the future...

Today was D-Day. Doctor's appointment (to see a real doctor!) followed by haircut (traumatic event for everyone). Now, one MIGHT think that if one is going to the doctor for knee pain and general misery, it MIGHT not be advisable to RUN to the clinic despite being a bit tardy. Sigh...I'll learn eventually, I suppose. I paid for a five minute jog with 20 hours of agony and throbbing. Way to be, way to be. Thirty seconds with the dorctor netted instruction and a perscription to go to the local hospital for an X-ray. Hmm, good results and still no cost at this moment. But my last trip to the emergency room (Sudafed plus glass of wine=speedball) for an emergency took 6.5 hours so God knows how long this could take...

Off to the salon to see Jaye. Two hours, an undisclosed sum and brown dye later it's off to the hospital for the wait. Wait, schwait-I was in and out in under 15 minutes. No insurance, no appointment, just stroll in, head to the X-ray lab, hand over Rx and Bob's your uncle (actually Bob is one of my uncles but I digress). While no one came screaming out of the exam room after viewing the films they did cluster five people around them at one point. Not good, not good. I did ask them to ask if I had some large tumor I should be worried about and thank God it wasn't that (unless they're lying...) So now it's the waiting game until Friday. I think I've figured out NHS. If you have LOADS of time and no committments and are EXTREMELY flexible(ahemmm....) then it's fine and dandy. Otherwise, it could be a nightmare.

Nothing else too new to report, Nite Ya'll!

Return to the Ministry of Sound


So...Number 10 happened at the doctor but I couldn't find a kneecapper willing to work for free. Thus a return on Monday to the clinic will be necessary to 'maybe' see a real doctor. I must return again to the British concept of 'Open 24 Hours' as this clinic claims to be. Now if you call to become a new NHS patient you must be there between 3-4PM with attendant paperwork. No problem. What they don't tell you is after walking 15 minutes to get there (or bum knee no less) you will find the clinic closed for lunch between the hours of noon and 4PM. Hmmmm, call the office-goes straight to voicemail. Ring the buzzer, no answer. Well, shit. Now why would a nurse insist upon an arrival between 3 and 4 if they don't intend to be there? Maybe this is the way Britain avoids having new healthcare patients. The hours on the door read: 'Medical Centre-Open 24 Hours. Surgery Hours (that's doc's hours to ya'll): Monday-Friday: 9-12, Closed for Lunch 12-4, 4-6PM except Wednesday when the office closes for the day at noon.' I must ask, CAN I PLEASE HAVE A JOB THAT TAKES A FOUR HOUR LUNCH BREAK EVERYDAY!!!! Not to mention I can bill myself as open 24/7 when in fact I'm not (see an earlier post about Tesco).
A limp and a hobble back through the gay district (didn't know Earls' Court has one) where piercings, coffee poets, erotic art for il uomo (man) and two gay clubs surround the corner I returned a bit before 4 and just leaned on the buzzer. The woman who let me in didn't respond to my slightly sarcaastic observation about making appointments between 3 and 4 (I was hungry, pissed, cold and in pain-manners were slipping a tad). Filling out paperwork in Britain is actually quite easy. To become a registered member in the NHS all I needed was name, address, number, a self-survey on famil problems and any old NHS doctors I visited. I was glad to have brought Sudoku and a book as post-Mickey Mouse paperwork it was time to wait for an hour and 15 minutes.
Now, social liberalism aside I had heard jokes and rumours about who exactly uses NHS and what kinds of doctors practice for national healthcare. A quick check on docotrs in my area confirmed that Indian, Muslim and other Asian nationalities tend to dominate the field. One friend said he always had Polish doctors but that must be for the East End. The two receptionists/nurses/paperwork ladies were headscarved and I appeared to be the only Caucasian waiting. It's like the DC Hospital at midnight I guess! The ebst moment came one Nurse A apparently didn't do something when she was supposed to and the two of them went at it. I'm all for relaxing of barriers whilst working but these two were bitching and sniping loudly for a good ten minutes, an event made even funnier by the partition which only allowed two bobbing headscarves weaving back and forth like pecking hens to be seen by the patients.
I finally was taken down scary dark stairs (it puts th lotion in the basket) which my knee found every so entertaining so a nurse could ask five questions and lead me up the stairs again. I found that she did in fact have a sense of humour when the weigh and measure portion of the program came around and I asked if I could remove my shoes, coat, sweater, earrings, underlayer, possibly cut some hair, my watch...I did find it odd that in no way would she touch me, even to take my blood pressure. I had to measure my own height and slip the cuff on. Fine and dandy but it's hard to get the height level thing straight without doing some major contortions! She did seem to find it unbelievable that I didn't smoke. In Britain I suppose this is cause for celebration but trust me, after 6 months of second-hand poisoning, you'll never want one, ever.
Her final diagnosis-Come around on Mponday morning to see the doctor and I have to get blood work done on Friday. Wait, back up a minute. Beg pardon and all that but NO. I had enough blood drawn for my tonsillectomy. Apparently, e normale to become a new patient. This free healthcare had better be worth it!

So our illegal squatter's going away party was last night in Central London. I met Ed out for sushi prior to this and we had a rousing evening of 'choose you fish from the revolving tray' and job seekers advice. I usually enjoy Yo Sushi but to the tune of 10 pounds I wasn't even remotely full. Ed ate three times that (but he is the definition of a human garbage can). From there it was to the Walkabout for some Snakebite and celebration before...a return to the Ministry of Sound.

For those keeping track T and I visited the Ministry of Sound back when we first showed up. I was a bit overserved at the time so details are hay but I remember paying 25 pounds to get in (50 bucks), standing in a group of Brazilian models (friends of T's) and felling oh so out of place, and waiting ages at a bus stop. Now the AoY doesn't normally do the trancey crazy clubs but promised free VIP entry who could refuse? We took a tube this time, walked around sketchy Elephant & Castle for a bit before figuring out where to go, went through the metal detectors and bag check (this is where not being sober helped last time-I probably would have left if I had realized this was involved) and entered bedlam. The problem with being sober is that you realize how crazy the place is. I stood around, and not being able economically or calorically afford another drink I ordered good old club soda and got tonic. Hmmm, another culture exchange netted me 2 pounds worth of old soda water from the pour (it's the US of A this stuff is free!!). A few songs, a lot of people watching as this is one of the trashier clubs in London and Ed, a few people and myself decided to call it a night. No one wanted to splurge on a cab so we waited Outside for 40 minutes for a night bus to take us to another night bus. And there we met quite possibly the dumbest girl from Australia and perhaps the World.
Girl: Oh, are you and American? (to ed)
Ed: No, I'm Irish
Girl: Are you sure you're not 1/2 American?
Ed: No, but I was born in South America.
Girl: Oh....., where?
Ed: In Brazil, San Paolo
Girl: Is that the capital?
Before Ed can answer...Girl: Oh no, Peru is the capital!
Her Friend: Idiot, Peru isn't the capital of Brazil
Girl: That's right, it's Chile right? No, it's defintely Peru I know this!
Ed and I exchange pained looks...Ed: No, Peru and Chile are countries, the capital of Brazil is Rio de Janiero
Girl: No it's so Peru right?
Ed: No.
Girl: But what's the captial of South America?
Ed and again exchange the look: Umm, South America is a continent.
Girl: I know, but so's Australian and we have a capital do you not know you're own capital?
Ed: Yes, S.A. has lots of countries that have their own capitals, there is no ONE capital for the entire continent.
Girl: It's Peru, or is Brazil the capital?
Sigh.......
This girl later went on to not know what college was (only had heard of university), never heard of DC, couldn't grasp that since I was was the EAST Coast that did not include, Los Angeles, California, San Francisco or Mexico. I swear this happened. Had never heard of Washington, DC (which IS the bloody capital), or Florida, thought New York was in California and the list continued...Ed and I couldn't decide if we were more appalled or amused by this chick.

Bus ride of nearly two hours was fine. I did meet an elderly French/Arab man named Aran on my trusty N97 bus who invited me to come to the Gloucester Road underground to a casino with his brother-in-law and some friends. As he was 75 if a day I wasn't TOO concerned but I'm not too stupid either. He gave me his number in Paris (he's a businessman there) and invited to show me and my friends around the city when we came to visit. Hmm, I think I'll stick to the Lonely Planet. Part of me is willing to do a bit of Google stalking to see if his cover as te owner of an interior design house is true, but I explained that my boyfriend was sick in bed at home and we had church the next morning (I would have whipped out a nun's habit had it proved useful) etc etc etc. Chelsea (our third roommate for the moment) came home at 5 and lights out as usual...

Oh we're off to see the Wizard/Doctor/9-Year Old posing as a professional....

The knee, attached to the infamous ankle, has gone on the DL list. Three weeks preceded by four years of persistent, nagging pain have driven me into the waters of NHS. I've tried the following: Every OTC pain pill, Percocet, heat, ice, stretching, mumbled incantations, water therapy, massage, light exercise, no exercise, chanting to my chakras, yoga, religion, liquor (internally and topically), sun, compression, wall sits, and finally...praying for the odd umbrella to knock the darn thing out from under me.

I've come to associate knee pain in three ways:

1. The constant nagging ache that makes one feel aged and keeps you awake or restless at night and shimmies a bit from the left to the right.

2. The sharp acute pain caused by: high heels, mis-stepping, sudden knee bends, doing hydraulic-like maneuvers on the dance floor (three vodka sodas and suddenly you can DANCE), and jogging/running. This is more of a sickening nauseous pain that may be accompanied with a series of pops and hitches within the joint. It's possible to have said bastard joint fold up underneath you at the worst possible moment (like climbing a Mayan ruin in a jungle). Such acuteness will confine itself to the patella or pick a side. Popping and clicking comes from within.

3. The hot tearing pain accompanied with exercising-you recognize that you are probably doing some kind of damage but you needed to crouch down and get the mail, you just didn't realize that you might not want to get back up. An Advil dousing will generally numb this to a faint cry to 'STOP' and is easily ignored in the pursuit of showing all that being in your mid-twenties does NOT mean it's time to slow down! Pain will generally radiate down the side or back.

Now, the NHS has been good to me so far. I have a few great fears for the morrow.
1. I will be turned away despite my supporting documentation and assurances by the clinic nurse that the ONE HOSPITAL in my district will take on new patients (if you wish to explore the NHS system, go to their website-it's red).

2. The doctor I see will refer me to a specialist who will see me an do and MRI in eight months.

3. The doctor will proclaim that ice and the Euro equivalent to Advil is all they can offer and I'm screwed.

4. He suggests a diet-I might literally go for his throat (wait for upcoming posts with that one)-or he suggests more exercise to work through the problem.

5. He doesn't speak English.

6. He/She (sorry, don't want to be sexist) agrees something is wrong but thinks that America will be the best place for diagnosis (an I'll pay for a ticket how....).

7. They want to operate right away and lead me to the bearest butcher shop (okay that's a bit gross but if you ever saw Saw or Hostel you would understand).

8. He/She refers me to a PT who will have a slot open in 5 months.

9. I have to pay.

10. I don't see a doc at all but a student nurse.

If #10 happens I'm asking the first brute stranger to kneecap me so I can just go to Emergency or MediVac to Charlotte.

Needless to say, AoY has NOT been in the best of moods. The weather has been lovely (a bit brisk and we even had snow once!), people are bustling about and it's the perfect day for a run through Hyde Park but NOOOOOOOOOO, I have to power walk like a Floridian retiree replete with fanny pack (which my Brit friend informed me was NOT a good thing to say here-I forgot due to pain).

Odd happenings in London today:

1-The Tube seems to have a lot of fires and people caught under the tracks. In DC this made headlines but Londoners seem just impervious to the thought of a dea body by Upingham.

2-T and I saw a cross-dressed man with either the biggest drag queen bra ever or four canteloupes up under a bright blue Naughty Nurse Uniform waiting for the train at Westminister. A very GQ banker literally turned around to stair at the spectacle behind him.

3-My 'D' key is very sticky and difficult to type with. There are millions of words requiring the letter 'd' and there are no computer stores to be found in London, just Surrey.

4-I saw Little Red Riding Hood. Seriously, she had on black tights, red patent leather pumps ala Dorothy, a bright red dress and her cloak (trust, it was no coat) was navy with a crimson interior complete with red-lined hood. I almost applauded.

5-British people will in fact pay more attention to Hilary's running announcement and Bush's visit to DuPont and will demonstrate and pontificate on these issues much more than their own F*d up problems. Maybe it's all misdirection...

6-When you finally get it together and go to a damn doctor your problem area will suddenly 'heal' itself and you magically gain five pounds right before you step on the scale, damnit.

Fact of the Day: The Royal Bank of Scotland, which issues it's own Sterling notes, is the only UK bank to issue 1 pound notes. Okay Americans, we're a bit odd with our $1-which, I hate to tell you, is slated to be slowly phased out beginning soon.

Sea Island (the above is a picture of the Cloister, not anyone's house!)

Again, paradise, plain and simple. It's amazing how many people have never heard of Sea Island. Mention that the G-8 Summit was held there and Davis Love III is the golf pro will NOT help the situation. I will confess that I had never been until college and HOLY COW is it fancy. Dinner on Saturday night requires tuxedo, Bingo is a coat-and-tie affair and designers abound. BUT, in true Southern style, you can always run into the most chic of men and women bumming around in flip-flops, boat shoes and ratty beach clothes when not dressing to impress.

The saddest part of the trip...I missed Bingo! For those not in the know, Bingo is the most fabulous of traditions. Spencer and Hope introduced me to this and it's a family affair. Daddy continues to protest MIGHTILY (I'm too old for this; it's a kids thing; it's too late; I have a tee-time, blah blah blah). I just tell him he's practicing for taking the grandkids to which he replies-"I'll never have grandkids-I have a three pound dog and that's it for grandkids." Sheesh-let me finish graduate school first :) Besides, Bingo rocks. Alcohol is VERY MUCH a part of the evening and grown-ups may be seen knocking them back as their kids compete for decent cash rewards. I once won a bottle of champagne at the Forest Lake Club bingo game but I was 9 so they passed it along-sigh...

Sorry, Sea Island Bingo! It's run by 'Billy Bingo' who is an institution himself. It's probably a sad reflection on the length of time my stepsibs have spent down there but Spence honestly knows EVERY SINGLE PHRASE to be uttered. 'Couple of Ducks' (22), 'Thirty-two skadoo' or something, 'my old football jersey number' 'a couple of good looking legs' (11), and the list continues. Yes, this should be annoying but it's just charming and good family fun. Apparently Barb almost won the jackpot (SO CLOSE!!!!) the best part is the milk and cookies set up for afterwards. Not to obsess on food but it brings back fond Ilahee days....

Having missed Bingo fun I settled for Debi Boot Camp. Now D is a fitness marvel. that woman is *roughly* twice my age (I must be 15) and could kick my ass all over the gym and back. Every morning (thanks jet lag), I woke up just in time for coffee and workout. Luckily my knee popped out and prevented any more strenous workouts after Day 1-such a shame. Actually it totally sucks but what can you do? On the flip side of Debi Boot camp was Camp Gilbert. Barb and RC acted like kids at sleep away camp. There was tennis, golf lessons, shooting lessons, coffee at the veranda, nature walks, sauna, property drives-they had a little intinerary and entertained themselves!

The best part of Sea Island-first time to see Bard and RC, the rents, H&S, AT&T (brother and wife), E-beth (Spence's girlfriend) and myself all in the same location since my brother's wedding. We are nothing if not a loud group and mutal great fun was enjoyed over copious amounts of champagne and nippy boat rides (Dad's little gift to himself). I hated only being there for a few days but it was worth it for family time and to celebrate Dad's B-I-G 6-0! He he he. I might be out of the will now.

As with all Southern things, God forbid we did not stock enough food in the pantry to feed Patton's entire army plus the enemy. Dad must have some latent and hidden love for red velvet cake because not one but TWO appeared over the weekend. For the unknowing, Red Velvet cake is a grand old tradition with the following ingredients: shortening or butter, eggs, cocoa (or not), LOTS o' sugar, red food dye, milk and some vanilla. It's a double-layered cake with a cream-cheese icing. WARNING: If you are diabetic or have thought of becoming one, don't even be in the same room. It will kill you. Steel Magnolias had a fabulous Red Velvet Cake in wedding scene. The groom's aunt made the groom's cake in the shape of a gray armadillo with the red interior-yick!
The cutest thing about my dad, other than his penchant for 'pearls of wisdom' and self-eprecating humor (we're nothing alike, I swear) is his embarrasment at being the center of attention (see, clearly not my dad). We went to Ocean Forrest for his birthday dinner and I think he was honestly a bit steamed when we all sang to him. He HATES opening gifts in front of a crowd and likes watching other people have fun around him. Hmmmmm, apple, tree...one of the best things about my family is their ability to totally ignore his wants and wishes and make as big of a damn fuss as they wish.
Another great thing about Dad is he puts up with hyper-active, aimlessly wondering daughters. I can't golf for shit and am in fact banned from the course unless I get better so Dad and I find other ways to bond. We both love the water but with 8 houseguests and a new boat, it was like the SS Minnow everytime we left the dock. We sort of developed a 'coffee-talk' over the holidays because jet lag had me hopping at 7:30 and Daddy has tee times. It's funny the things that always stick with you because parties, dinner and presents can kind of fall away after a while I can always remember things like sitting by the deck and chatting, or walking around 'Dad's Domain' as I refer to his backyard (he has continual ideas on how to fix lawn problems-they mostly work) and talking, or watching the golf, bouncing along the roads at Milaree. Sometimes it's a bit of awkward silence as if we both have to remember what the other person is actually interested in talking about (!) but there it is. This trip was an hour by the pool in the sun.

Although the visit was WAY too short and I didn't visit the Crystal Burger near I-95 (probably the reason I'm still here), it was a fabulous 48 hours of catching up, long beach walks, great conversations and a return to the good life. I found myself DESPERATELY hanging onto that as I boarded the plane back to England. To recap:
1) At check-in, LaShonda, in her 300 pound glory, sheparded me over to the domestic flight self check-in. In an attempt to follow the rules, I pointed out that I was 'international'. actually, first I said, "I'm flying to London." this brought, "London, KY? This way." "No, England, I'm flying internationally, out of the country, not in the US of A." She took this to mean i was confused about my destination and tried to 'help' me through the process. I had wanted to shoot for an upgrade but LaShonda was not having me miss out on the learning fun of using self check-in. Now, I generally try to avoid being a snotty twenty-something and point out that I have YEARS of solo travel under my belt to odd destinations and can, in fact, operate a check-in machine. This was not to be one of those times. First I insert my credit card, bring up my flights, which she referred to as: "Oh, is THAT where you are going? You should have been in that line (which she had yanked me from)." No shit Sherlock. Sorry Mama, but I was leaving a fabulous weekend and boring a wicked long flight back to a cold country only to return in three weeks on another long flight. I was NOT in the mood to suffer fools.
2) After nearly canceling my reservation, she starts picking out my seats. In the middle. Is she crazy? NO ONE wants the middle seat, let alone on an 8-hour flight. Before I could change back, my original seat was gone and I had to settle in what I later found to be a partially reclining adventure directly in front of the toilet area, both of them. One of which broke halfway though the flight but people continued to use (I found this out from a flight attendant later).
3) I hate connecting. It's irritating and avoidable at all costs. Rushing through Charlotte, I climbed into my booster/smelly seat and prayed for at least an empty row. This hasn't happened yet and why whould today be an exception? My seat companion for the evening was a gentleman who rivaled George Foreman in size and Muhammed Ali in speaking ability. He hailed from an African country but I couldn't sneak a look at his passport long enough to determine exactly which (I'm getting good at 'Guess the Country'). Without so much as a 'Hello, I'll be squashing you all night' he set arms akimbo. Okay, Arms Akimbo in a small area equals he managed to deflate a breast and shove me up against the window, where I remained contorted and highly torqued for 7.6 hours. The loo situation didn't help and I must say that I was in quite the piss-ripper of a mood somewhere over Iceland. His left leg invaded my leg room so I was accordioned up around his limbs like a highly pissed Slinky. Plus he snored. Plus he never got up so I could get up. My knee started seizing somewhere past Iceland and I was cramped, in pain, twitching and damn near ready to go vigilant on his ass.
4) The man in front of me, one of a reasonable height, had no seat partner! He did look back at my predicament as he lazed across 24A AND B and sort of gamely grinned as he levered the seat in front of me into a full tilt before lowering his eyeshades and snoozing happily into the Land of Nod. I almost let me inner four-year-old yank on his seat back and slap my tray table. With my range of movement now totally restricted I sat back and 'enjoyed' the flight. Somewhere over the beginnings of England I finally jammed an arm into my seat companion in a bid to sit up. He looked shocked but I persevered and reclaimed two inches of space. VICTORY IS MINE!
5) I got off the plane smelling like broken toilet and unwashed strange man rather than Dove and Lolita Lempicka. I was waiting for SAS to pick me up but for their sake Customs was a breeze. A hop, skip and a train to a cab ride home later I 100% crashed.


Sea Island-AWESOME; flight back-not so good. I'm still reinflating my right side and the knee has taken on it's own genre of pain but who can be blue with a great house and famly to go home to!

So there are the standard 'You Know You're from NOVA When...' lists (or insert suburb, city, state) that indicate a high level of familiarity with the level of strangeness in your associated area. South Carolina, in all its blessed meglomania, has lists for the Upstate, the Midlands/Sandhills, and the LowCountry/Charleston-we're just that big and important (and shock and awe, we like breaking apart form the mainstream!) But at the state level things seem to disentegrate into the lamest and low common denominator of what it means to be from SC. Phrases such as 'You know someone who works at Hooters/You vacation at Myrtle Beach' (oh GOD, how tacky). Therefore, in the spirit of state improvement, the following is a list of when, perhaps, certain people know they are from South Cackalacky. I tried to do Charlotte, NC but could only get as far as 'You Know You Are A Lifelong Visitor of the QC When...'

1. Weddings, funerals and vacations are planned around football season (I say GAME, you say COCKS). God help you if this is forgotten.

2. You 'have/will abandon' or 'have been/will be abandoned by' your significant other in their time of need (labor, sickness, moving) because it was the first day of dove/deer/turkey/duck season.

3. Gone to the Carolina Cup? Please. You know what year it was by the outfit, the hat, your parking spot and just how intoxicated your parents or parent's friends became at their parking spot. You might have even been placed in the 'jail' (rope corral) or fallen in a Port-a-Potty.

4. You've been to Fort Sumter for a school trip and know the purpose for the big stone blocks littering the streets of Charleston.

5. Your first fake ID either came from the Underground in Atlanta or older sibling.

6. You shop in Charlotte unless it's a trip to Hotlanta, but Charlotte's better.

7. You understand the intricacies of selecting the best Waffle House.

8. You understand that driving into Georgia with SC tags is like flashing 'Open Season' to all troopers. Crying will not work in Georgia.

9. You seen the Grey Man and know about Alice's ring.

10. Pawley's Island hammocks make life worth living.

11. You attend First Week

12. Your first liquor drink at a bar came in a minibottle

13. At one point in time your job/life/in-laws hung on whether you supported USC or Clemson.

14. You met Strom.

15. You've been to at least three weddings of your peers before turning 22, or sent a gift if it was a football weekend.

16. You understand that flying anywhere means a connection through Charlotte or Atlanta.

17. You know people that never really leave the state, except for away games.

18. Church league basketball is a raison d'etre.

19. You went to one of the following: Camp Greenville, Tonawandah, Illahee, Camp Rockmont, Greystone, Sea Gull, Seafarer, Falling Creek, High Rocks, Kanuga, Merri-mac, Hollymount.

20. You went to a camp dance and perhaps had a camp boyfriend/girlfriend.

21. You've done Habitat for Humanity in the LowCountry.

22. There are four cities - Greenville, Columbia, Camden, Charleston.

23. You've made your debut, been a stag, or know someone who has.

24. 88% of your friends went Greek.

25. You know someone with one or more of the following names: Beau (Beauregard), Rhett, Savannah, Pinkney, Simms, Legare (that's Le-gree), Russell, Jackson, Heath, Carter, a double name (and they use both of them), a first name used as a last name.

26. You have done a geneology project an discovered where the bodies are buried (woohoo-Edgefield); there might even be a family graveyard.

27. Swamp Fox means so much to you.

28. You know damn well to get your liquor before 12AM on Sunday morning if you want to have brunch after church.

29. Church is more of a social event than anything else.

30. Sweet tea really does suit all occasions.

31. You got a driver's license at 15 without that pesky driver's education. You now have the insurance premiums to prove it.

32. You do know someone who was killed in a drunk-driving accident or has DWI'd. It probably scared you straight.

33. People are still 'not from around here' even if they've lived here for 30 years. Case in point-"Mabel Johnston Owens, 98, died in Summerville on Sunday. Mrs. Owens, of Albany, New York, moved to Sumerville in 1927..." Oh, and we WILL bring food for an army to your house after a death, birth, illness or move-in, whether you like it or not.

34. You know someone in Iraq.

35. You hope that Mississippi gets the 50th spot in education this year.

36. You can locate Capers an Dewees without a map, have chicken-necked or just necked there and nearly been swept out to sea on the tide.

37. You've gone on a field trip to the following: Peachtree Rock, a cotton field, the state fair, a working farm, the State Museum and the State House.

38. You wish that you'd bought more SCANA shares when Xmas time rolls around and you drive through Lugoff/Chapin/Rock Hill/Elgin/Harleyville and see the 500,000 christmas light natvity with bobbing reindeer, waving Santa, rocking Baby Jesus, and blinking Santa sleigh.

39. Ma'am and Sir are not an option. At least one of your parent's friends has grounded you or kicked your ass for doing something stupid. You have 20 sets of surrogate/adopted parents who don't mind if you show up for supper.

40. You speak a little Gullah. You actually know what Gullah is.

41. Rush's, Groucho's, the Kickin' Chiken, Lizard's Thicket, Maurice's BBQ-just to name a few.

42. You never buy tomatoes in the summer when everyone gives them away.

43. You are pretty sure you've gotten malaria or West Nile Virus at some point from all of the mosquito bites sustained over the years.

44. Hurricane = Part-tay. Snow = OH MY GOD! GO TO THE PIGGLY WIGGLY

45. Snow = There will be no generators, toilet paper, booze, candles, canned goods, water, coolers, or matches left in the State. Plus everyone with four-wheel drive will take the opportunity to test out their skidding powers.

46. I-20, I-77, I-26, Hwy. 326, U.S. 17 - Only roads necessary.

47. You've been to a farm party.

48. Tailgating is a marathon, not a sprint. You've taken shots of Fighting Cock and lived to tell about it.

49. The Piggly Wiggly is a real place- 'I'm Big on the The Pig'

50. Everything you own is eithe monogrammed or has the Palmetto flag/symbol on it and you get HIGHLY insulted if someone remarks or questions 'the bush/tree/shrub' on your person.

And.............the War of Northern Agression is NOT over. We're just takin a little rest.

South Carolina is clearly better than North Carolina. See all of the above.

Wow! So that list could have jsut gone on and on and on and on and on. There are so many truly unique things (okay, secessionist and strange) about this state, let me know if I've overlooked something vitally crucial!

So I'm leaping forward a bit only because life sped way the heck up over the past month and today is the beginning of many slow days. Here are a few weird things I've noted today:

1. In the LSE library we have two elevator cars. Two cars for 12,00 people to share. Here's the weird thing-as the doors close a voice announces "Door Closing" and the voice is a dead wringer for (I believe) Cartman's voice from South Park. That flattened 'doozth cloeszthing' in a weird nasally pitch-dead on.
2. Your computer will ALWAYS have a physical memory dump (and this is not some odd toilet humour) an then run a system check to inform you that your FAT32 (I assume this is the amount of centimeters my ass is growing by the day from sitting in front of a monitor) was a bit broken. These events will ALWAYS ALWAYS occur when you have a deadline, particularly the closer that little second hand ticks towards 4:30 (sorry, 16.30).
3. The instructions to submit your exam will always include: 'must upload by 18.30 BST. Now, I ask ya'll, what the hell is BST? British standard Time? Baltic Summer? Britains Suck at Time? (I later found out it means British Summer Time but by that definition it should only apply in summtertime what what time is that in January?) I figured 16.30 would cover all bases in case of weird lunar/maritime/greenwhich/el nino calendars.
4. If you write your friend in Belize telling her that the weather has been mild and that she shouldn't worry too much about freezing to death, there will be a severe cold snap with 80 mph wind gusts to follow within 48 hours. Sorry Sam!!!!
5. If it's not the hot water heater, it'll be the vaccuum. Stay tuned for photos of me and T hauling a Hoover on the Tube.

The morning-after detritus aside, I slogged to Gatwick for the lovely 8 hour flight to Charlotte to wait in the airport for 4.5 hours before getting on another flight to Jacksonville to get in a car for another hour to drive to Sea Island. I left T sleeping off the holiday cheer and a promise of doing the dishes while I was in the US (still waiting on some of them to get done....)

Flying into America on a holiday is strange. Thanksgiving, while a big deal in some families, is just another day to work for others. After clearing customs I immediately went to my friendly cantina for a much-needed tequila boost and some honest-to-god salsa. Spence prefers the Chili's To Go, being the extensive traveler for his job, but the line was too long.

Fact: Strange people hang out in airport bars
The hardest part about hanging out at the Charlotte airport is the realization that if my house and car were only 20 minutes away and I could drive to Sea Island in the amount of time it would take to wait, take the flight and then take the car ride.
My overfriendly waiter kept dishing up ritas on the rocks and after 4 I realized that slowing down MIGHT be a good idea. Apparently I looked that sad (not to mention decidedly scummy after flying all day).

Fact: Being single and alone on major holidays bites.
With four hours and much alcohol to kill, eavesdropping is a time-honored form of entertainment. Several of my fellow drinkers were simply traveling for work or just getting from Point A to Point B with no turkey (ugh-don't mention the word) waiting with open wings at their destination. Okay, no I had a VALID reason to drink for three hours (boredom and jetlag) but some people just sat there on a major holiday! I compensated for this by phoning every single person in my US cell phone and sending about 40 texts to T back in London, whose thigh apparently turned all shades of black and blue.

Fact: If you fly to Jacksonville on any given evening, you will be with the biggest rednecks on earth who feel the need to broadcast their 'culture' at every possible moment.
They HECKLED the stewardess. Granted, I THINK she had two working brain cells altogether but seriously. You know it's a skeleton crew that was forced to work the holiday when she couldn't operate the intercom and had to read every single safety instruction form the manual and couldn't even get the seat belt fastened out figure out the oxygen mask. The Hooters drop-out girls sitting across from me began to taunt every sentence about flotation cushions that will fall from the panel about you (these girls already have built-in flotation cushions, they were set). After praying that flight crew wasn't quite as inept, we rolled down the tarmac. Desperately wanting sleep and putting up the big "I am not in the mood to talk to my seat partner so back off and go far far away-pretend the Grand Canyon exists between us" I left my earbuds in as a sign. Does this stop a determined Daisy May off to see her cheating boyfriend? Absolutely not. This very nice, albeit slightly slow girl, was from Norfolk, VA. Had I ever heard of it? Yes :) Did she go to Old Dominion? Nope, she couldn't get in but she did go for awhile to another school in Norfolk (anyone know what that is?). I heard all about her family which read like a bad southern ballad. Somebody's uncle is in prison so the baby of the grandmother and her went to the aunt's brother's house but then HE got arrested but the mom, who is an alcoholic, drove up as well and they all went to IHOP for breakfast. The last bit I made up but there was definitely a felon, an out-of-wedlock occurrence and somebody's dad as an uncle as well. Feeling the effects of muchos tequila and not enough sleep, I felt a bit queasy (flight attendant couldn't turn the AC on in the plane; yum, sweaty rednecks, even better when the purse dog in the seat in front of me got a case of the runs.) and did lots of nodding and hmmming. Spotting Sudoku turned into a 5 minute conversation on what it is, how did those Chinese do it (she was close, bless her heart). Out of desperation and gag reflex I mentioned the boyfriend. The 28 year old (she's 20) got out of jail and joined some reserve unit and is in JAX but isn't in the unit anymore and has his own truck and cheats but is the best guy ever and she made him cookies. Did y'all follow all that? Thank God we descended before I threw up or gave the obvious life advice (they should really engage in safe sex-no need to further that particular gene pool to my way of thinking; a tad bitchy but I challenge you to withhold a comment in the face of this conversation)

I love Sea Island because they do everything to the ultimate of luxury. A very spiffy Town Car waited for me to haul my luggage (grrr) to the curb but the driver was a great conversationalist. Scared that I might fall asleep and never wake up we kept up a steady stream of political, social and moral debates. I got the skinny on the life of a Sea Island employee, who famous had been there (other than the G-8 boys), did he like the new hotel, etc. etc. The most interesting debate came in the form of immigration. His parents had legally immigrated from Mexico and he had VERY strong opinions about closing off the border and giving citizenship to illegals (Yes to the 1st, a big NO to the 2nd). A great deal of his argument came from the fact that his parents went through all of the red tape needed, the illegals were not building up communities as Americans and assimilating and incorporating their own culture but rather sticking to themselves and not giving back to the greater community at large. He was very articulate and passionate about this but proclaimed his mother felt even more strongly. These, among other arguments, are similar to ones I've heard from legal immigrants and those who are 2nd generation and lead community activism.

We turned into the gates of Paradise only to realize that neither one of us knew the exact location of D&D's new house. At this point it was 11:30PM EST and I'd been traveling over 20 hours. Content sleep by the side of the road I dredged up mental memories of our plot and we somehow, thank you Lord, found what i perceived to be the right house. Now, our beach house is technically a "duplex" with a common wall dividing the 4 bedroom units with their own backyards, pool, and garages (the only duplexes I know are ramshackle at best). No one had their phone on or couldn't get a signal-the best part of the island-so I walked into a garage and started hammering away at the door. No lights, no unlocked doors, no welcoming embrace out of the cold Georgia night. Me and my suitcase sat in the garage and just waited. FINALLY I get ahold of Spence and we figured out that I was at the wrong house! Whoops. Crisis and tears averted Spence rescued me and we went into the new Casa di Amore!

More on that later...
AoY

Redneck Thanksgiving Y'all!!

I suppose there comes a time in every woman's life where she meets the man of her life, they fall in love, have the grand wedding and honeymoon into matrimonial bliss. But before the kids and after the split level condo with vaulted catherdral ceilings the inevitable must come. PREPARE THANKGSGIVING FOR THE IN-LAWS AND FAMILY. I, on the other hand, managed to cut out all of that romantic fun happiness and agree to host Thanksgiving for 22 people in our flat on a shoestring budget.

To be fair, cooking is fun. It's relaxing, exciting and nothing brings people together like alcohol and free food. Upon our arrival in London T and I agreed that it would be so cute to host a Turkey Dinner for our new British friends since we wouldn't be home for the holidays. So naive, so wrong.

As a masters student one becomes accomstomed to a certain amount of research. I put that and my pechant for procrastinating to work and began looking up turkey preparations and good old southern dishes around October. As the the day drew slowly near, panic set in and I turned to the people who are honor-bound to help you out. Mamas.

Mama1 and Mama2 received many desperate requests via e-mail for family recipes and ideas on how to host an entire dinner using an oven the size of a shoebox, 4 tiny electric burners and a dearth of cooking utensils. Thankfully the women stepped up and had a grand time doling out advice, suggesting themes and reminding me of etiquette. I took most of it, ditched some and prayed to a small baby Jesus that I didn't poison guests.

Shopping in London is always an adventure and looking for Lillywhite Flour, Grandma's Molasses, cornbread mix, ground sausage, Butterball turkeys, Bisquick, pre-made pie crust, pecans, attractive plastic and paper plates for 30, good wine, and basically all cornerstones of a southern meal proved a bit daunting. Mama shipped over South Carolina in a box including loads of recipes, 6 tubs of lard (I have no idea why!) and other goodies to help. Panic slowly set in as flat mate and I debated menu. SOME people eat BBQ and cole slaw on Turkey day and baked beans and pecan pie. Not to name names...Also, having 10 extra guests and a flat mate who admits that she "hasn't really ever cooked a meal before" did not help stress levels.

As doomesdays often do, the draw drew closer and troops assembled. The invitation went out: http://www.evite.com/pages/invite/viewInvite.jsp?event=GTXTZXYWOBVQSSRSYYOK&showArchive=true (if it's not viewable, imagine deer's ass as doorbell to be the main art). My Candian Thanksgiving host had mentioned that she spent over 30 punds on her turkey (which was delicious). I found one at Tesco and for 19 ponds of self-basting (no clue what THAT means still) turkey of unknown caged origin it only cost 12 pounds! Should I have been worried?? Carting it home in a backpack across six lanes of traffic was a great preview of parenthood (the turkey leaked a little bit, was very slippery and caused back aches). I'll pass for now, thanks!

Scouting out ex-pat grocery stores proved to be GREAT fun as I found beloved Tostitos and salsa, American cereals, and INSTANT OATMEAL. Various unnamed people had requested grits as part of the traditional Thanksgiving meal but I demurred stating protocol of breakfast foods. One day, they will discover the magic. T was in charge of desserts but a serious lack of pre-made crusts (we were expected to MAKE them-what's wrong with people! Eveything in this damn country is a pie of some nature and description!) and no pre-made Mrs. Smith's called for investigative skills. I found the Baker & Spice in South Kensington and talked them into hadning over pre-baked pie shells AND the tins. It's quite sad when that makes me feel accomplished. Dinner was on Wednesday as I left for America the next day and others had plans so the three days leading up to the main event saw the two of us up until 3 or 4 AM every night making stuffing, peeling veggies, checking out Mr. Tom's thawing process. I must point out that every newlywed must at some point buy a frozen bird the day of Thanksgiving or Xmas and then cry we it isn't done by 3PM. HELLOOOOOO! Every woman I met ove the age of 40 told me a similar story which makes me thinnk that many husbands drink a lot on family holidays. We later found out that our banging about in the kitchen pissed off our upstairs neighbor whose bedroom is right over the stove, fridge and cupboards. Whoops!

The big day arrives. I toddled off to class all blurry-eyed and prayed to God that people showed up, no one went to the hospital and taht dinner was finished before 10 PM. After 4 DAYS in the fridge Old tom was still a bit frosty, prompting near hystericl phone calls to T's mother (my moms were on the road or on an island). I removed the giblets (another newlywed disaster apparently-cooking the bird with the plastic pouch still inside), washed it thoroughly in the sink (against many website's wishes), and proceed to stuff the small pouch full of fresh veggies and herbs before buttering the hell out of it. This was no low-cal, let's worry about the amount of sugar and fat meal (sorry those who came, healthy didn't factor).
*I must pause to point out the frustrations of fowl preparation. Every damn website had a different method on how to cook an unstuffed bird (FYI-Stuffed turkey cooking is a Yankee thing). Some say wash it, others decry contamination, one site says no butter or the inside. Bringing, which temperature, inject juice under the skin, tie shut, no wait, SEW it shut, put the foil on first to prevent drying out, but wait, put the foil on at the END to slow down cooking of the breast, flip the bird upside down and then flip again, only cook it upside down ,cook and flip cook and flip. thanks to William Sonoma, Mama1 and 2, Dad, T's mom, clemson University, Paula Dean, Martha Stewart, Joy of Cooking and the Washington Post, I am now thoroughly confused and running out of time.-

Moving along, I blindly used family directions (with some Herbs de Provence references from W-S) and propped my laptop up and ran Martha Stewart's "I Will always Make a Better Thanksgiving Than You but Here are Some Tips You Mis-Guided Peasants" streaming video on loop. Rather impressed with my slather and stuff technique I prepared to seat my bird upon his throne of winter vegetables cut into a lattice (small over equals no roasting rack-thanks Mama for the tip). With the interior frostiness I had not been able to thoroughly violate my birds insides but had figured that we were a go for the oven. As I began to tie him up I noticed something was a bit off. What the hell was BREAST SIDE UP? These things should really come with signs stamped on the skin. Long frantic transatlantic phone call story short, I had the bird upside down. My careful buttering would never be known. Flipping 19 pounds of poultry over I realized that the little hole near the top end was larger and in fact, the bird cavity. Great, I had spent a careful 15 minutes washing out and stuffing Tom's ass. Wondeful, and I still had to remove the neck and other assorted meat parts. Close call but a newly stuffed and retied bird went into the oven. It was at this point that T came home from school, noted the butcher string looped around my neck and the frantic look of a strssed woman and immediately poured wine and jumped into her pies.

Four hours and three glasses of white later (maybe it was four-sleep deprivation lowers my math skills) it was time to shower/sober up a tad. Mama mentioned that a smart cook cuts her wine with soda water to prevent drunkedness before dinner and possible ruination of 175 dollars worth of food. We then discovered the limits of our hot water heater so the cold shower provided rejuvinating. T's old roommate was in town and soon became our Errand Bitch, picking up cole slaw from Nando's (I gave on that but happily invited T to figure out brisket if she was hell bent on it). Now, in the land of the South, PEOPLE DO NOT SHOW UP ON TIME LET ALONE EARLY. I barely had my make-up on when the first guests came bounding up our three flights of stairs. With every available burner, pot and surface taken over in the kitchen, I sent them out for beer and more wine. they left, more guests arrive right on schedule and damned if we didn't suddenly have 12 people in our four-butt kitchen chatting away. Feeling a bit like General Patton (the f*ing Normandy invasion took less planning I swear) everyone was banished to our living room where lw lighting and tea lights hopefully helped conceal all of the junk we had shoved in corners.

The bird came out and looked pretty damn tasty if one (ahemm) is to brag. The kicker came upon carving. Dede and Bill had loaned, albeit unwittingly, their Henkel carving set but there wasa little problem. In our house, and indeed in many houses everywhere, one is required to have Y chromosomes to touch meat (I just realized how homoerotic that last statement might be perceived). Shooting, grilling, hacking away and carving all falls under the ageis of being male along with rodent disposal and garabage detail. Stone-dead sober and faced with this enourmous beast of a bird tears threatened. What if I screw it up, make shredded turkey instead of slices. I had watched Martha create her "Bird of Paradise" presentation and felt like a total failure as a woman. I might pause to point out that I may have a slight penchant for drama. Thank God for boyfriends as Christian, who apparently attended Turkey Carving School, stepped in to do the honors. It must be said that NO OTHER MAN STEPPED UP TO THE PLATE!

Yes Mama, I served dinner on paper plates and with plastic cutlery but we have no dishwasher! About this time we all start to notice that our our other hostess might have overserved herself. this was noted with a tumble down the three steps leading up to the kitchen. It caused quite an impressive bruise but God bless her, T didn't barely felt it (two botles of wine will do this). The guest was as follows: 3 from SC and 2 from NC (more or less), 2 Brazilian, one BrazIrish (Irish but raised in Brazil before returning to Ireland), 2 Californians, a Canuck and her Swedish man, Aussies and Kiwis alike. I THINK that was all but we had quite the gaggle. Desserts rocked, wine flowed and we shoved the last guest out the door around 2AM. Ashley, thank God, had done most of the dishes with my drying (I didn't even notice untill we had been in there for an hour-many hands make light work etc.). Our still slightly inebriated hostess managed to lose her camera and say hi to our French neighbors (only friendly when all parties are drunk) before hitting the lights.

One quick packing for Sea Island and it was late to bed, early to rise and time for a plane ride to the old US of A!

Muchos Apologies!!!!!!

Abject, sincere, total and unending apologies. Who knew people actually read this darn thing?? In all fairness I must point out that Spence's link from his hysterical blog http://hugsandpounds.blogspot.com probably generated the most glimpses. But here's what ya'll have to look forward to-
1. Redneck Thanksgiving
2. Sea Island Thanksgiving
3. Xmas nights
4. Italy!
5. Belize!! AKA Central American Wedding

No worries, photos to entertain in case writing wanes...ciao!