At 32,143 and Starting to See the End

I'm finally back.

I haven't had the chance to blog lately because I've been at Indigo's and for some reason I can't log on to the wireless network. I'm connected by cable now, so I ca blog.

A lot has happened since I last blogged:
-Sam revealed to Olga that Tim openly cheats on her, and this upsets Olga because she is realizing that she is becoming the WAG that she never wanted to be
-An article by Rita Skeeter in the Mirror about the WAGs Boo!-bie Mansion exploits does not sit well with Fernando, and it is revealed that Olga actually doesn't trust Fernando
-Olga has started studying for the MCAT so she can go into sports medicine, and Fernando isn't very supportive

Olga explains that things between her and Fernando aren't always bad, and that sometimes they have fun:


Soon after I began studying for the MCAT. While Fernando didn’t disapprove openly, he had his passive aggressive way of doing it. Whenever I would leave my study materials around the house he would somewhat angrily ask, “Whose is this?” which was a little odd considering that it was only the two of us living in that giant house. That was generally his method of cleaning, anyway.

While Fernando and I were slowly growing further and further apart, I don’t want to imply that every second was meaningfully painful. It wasn’t all depressing and melodramatic. Some days were wonderful. For Fernando and I, the best days weren’t those overly hyped and over-planned ones like a romantic day at the spa followed by a romantic dinner. My god, we never went to the spa. For me, romance is in the randomness. Like the Sunday that Fernando’s evening practice was cancelled.

I had planned on spending the day making paper switch plates, which would add instant style to any room with an easy, inexpensive technique. Sometimes a switch plate is best when painted to blend with the wall, but that has never been my experience. Sometimes, as is my opinion, a room gets a lift when you make it stand out by adding colourful extra-wide ribbon, sheet music, wallpaper, or a map of a favourite place. I was planning on customizing all of our light switch covers with maps of Spain and Canada, some polka-dot ribbon I found at the craft store, and the sheet music of Beatles songs. Thank god that I didn’t ever get around to doing this. My life makes me very sad sometimes.

When Fernando had found out about my planned activity, he immediately demanded that under no circumstance would I spend his free day doing lame and pointless crafts. At first I protested, citing the face-lift that I felt our house needed. He wouldn’t hear any of it. He forced me to leave the house without so much as looking back at the yards of ribbon I had purchased, or those old book-smelling maps.

We watched through the curtains of the kitchen as Julio Iglesias appeared to be burying a dead body, we painted the tree house in the backyard, and we bought a fisheye camera, just because. Then things got really crazy when Fernando decided that he wanted French fries. To be honest, I don’t think that Fernando had eaten French fries in years. But on this day, he decided to take the plunge.

As we sat in the neon glow of the local McDonalds, Fernando complained at length about his outfit.

“It’s just a big mess,” he whined. “It has no sense of purpose.”

I was pleased that Fernando had invited me to check him out, and I took a moment to notice his outfit. He was wearing a light wash of jeans with a ho-hum brown belt, and a Union Jack jacket covered a white t-shirt. I wondered for a while why the hell anyone would design such a jacket, then further why anyone would sanction the creation of the jacket, and finally, why anyone had bought it at all. These thoughts led nowhere.

“Maybe the problem is that there is nothing to bring it all together. Perhaps a hat?” I offered uselessly.

“A hat?” Fernando openly scoffed. “I think that would add confusion.”

I agreed, cursing myself for having suggested such a foolish thing.

“Well I don’t know, Fernando. You can take the outfit off soon, though,” I tried to console him.

“That just isn’t soon enough.”

“Fernando, I really don’t think that getting naked in a McDonald’s is the answer,” I urged, although the more I thought about it the more appealing it was.

“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking. Maybe I should buy something on the way home,” he said as he swept the tray into the overflowing trash.

“Fernando, it’s twelve-thirty. No place is open. I’m sorry.”

He gave me a sad, dejected look as I took his arm and slowly led him to the car. Suddenly, his ears perked up, his eyes lit up, and every part of his body appeared to become excited. And yes, I am talking about every part.

“Look!” he shouted as he pointed to a store that I had never seen before.

It was like it had come out of nowhere. In fact, I think that it did. Someone up there knew exactly what we needed, right when we needed it. This was certainly that.
Across the way, lit up with shimmering and heavenly lights, was the 24-Hour Belt Emporium. There was nothing about this store that wasn’t spectacular; there were long white columns, extravagant velvet curtains, signs that sparkled like their own little Las Vegas, and a statue of a father and son holding on to the same belt, gazing in each other’s eyes lovingly. I was suddenly angry with myself for not having spent every day in this beautiful belt menagerie.

Fernando excitedly led me into the store, and squealed with glee at what he saw. There were rows and rows of belts, as far as the eye could see. All three floors of the Belt Emporium were exploding with belts: utility belts, studded belts, woven belts, chain belts, leather belts, fabric belts, pieces of string that could be tied around someone’s waist, extension cords, wide belts, thin belts, even suspenders. I pondered for a moment as to whether it was appropriate for the Emporium to sell suspenders, as some would consider them to be the anti-belt. Since one cannot wear both a belt and suspenders at the same time, they are forever battling it out for outfit supremacy. But then I decided that it was an accepting environment that only aimed to do one thing: keep people’s pants up. If it can do it, the 24-Hour Belt Emporium will sell it.

As I stared longingly at a belt buckle with a beer bottle opener on it, Fernando saw it: he referred to it from then on as mi amore. No, it wasn’t a particularly lovely lady; it was the belt. The belt to end all belts.

He moved towards it in a zombie, dream-like state. Words were useless; he would have challenged god himself to properly describe this beauty. While I’m not god, I’ll give it a shot. The belt was white with holes evenly spaced around the perimeter, approximately one and a half inches apart. The buckle was a stainless steel silver rectangle that would perfectly accent the crisp white.

As he reached for the belt, another hand shot in as fast as can be and nearly snatched it, but instead the two were in a match to the death, each holding onto the belt as if their lives depended on it. In a way, I think that they did. Shocked, Fernando gormlessly looked up to see who the perpetrator of the attempted belt snatch was. Her hair was a medium brown, long in the front, attempting to be straight but showing its weakness in the back with small curls. Her cheekbones were very prominent, but this was likely due to a generous amount of blusher. Or was it bronzer? Green eyes shot Fernando a death stare, and arms cloaked in a turquoise t-shirt with a white tie pulled for the belt with increasing desperation.

“Get out of here! This belt is mine!” she shouted, her face showing the strain of muscle exertion.

“I’m sorry, but I really need this belt,” Fernando pleaded.

“You’re right,” she said as she looked Fernando up and down, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to you. Who do you think you are, some flyboy who thinks he’s the applesauce? I think you’re just balled up, the bank’s closed! Beat your gums; I’ve got a beef. You’re not the big cheese, you bimbo!” she cried as she tried to kick Fernando with her black slip-on Vans.

Mistake number one: what the fuck did she just say? And mistake number two: never try to kick a football player. It will never end well.

The attempt at violence seemed to have sent Fernando in a rage, and he pulled even harder to try to make this odd woman release the belt. This caused even more of a frenzy; in her attempts to free the belt from Fernando’s grasp, it looked even more like she was doing the Charleston with an accompanying shimmy.

Finally, it appeared as though Fernando had had enough. In one swift movement, he tripped the woman and spun around, freeing the belt. She watched in a daze as Fernando slipped the belt through his belt loops. You might think that there is no way that he could put his belt through all of those loops in time, but you would be wrong. If I had to compare it to something, I would compare it to when the young King Arthur pulled out the sword from the stone; it was like that belt was destined to be around Fernando’s waist.

I was in awe; suddenly the Union Jack jacket, which had seemed so out of place before, looked perfect. He lay perfectly still in the store, his jacket open over his sculpted, incandescent chest. I wondered where his shirt had gone, and why. His glistening, pale lavender lids were shut, though of course he didn’t sleep. A perfect statue, carved in some unknown stone, smooth like marble, glittering like crystal. I think that everyone in the store stopped belt shopping and stared. Then, everyone burst into wild applause.

Embarrassed, the woman left the store quickly, mumbling about the Suns of Ipswich and King Lightning. As she left, I suddenly saw a striking resemblance to Fernando, but I let it go quickly. It was one a.m., I was in a 24-hour belt store, and I think that one of the happiest moments of my life was when Fernando put on that belt. Was I delirious?

Sadly, most days weren’t like this. There were a lot more days where we didn’t see each other because he was on the road, playing in some other wonderful and exciting European city, and work kept me behind. There were other days when we barely talked, because in a lot of ways, there was nothing to say.

Return to the Boo!-bie Mansion

Last night was an epic night of tears, jeers, and more than a few beers. That's right, it was the first Esmonde writing weekend. We tried on some nice bridesmaid dresses, polished off a Heineken mini keg, and rocked out to Epic.

Writing for me has gotten back on track, I had some week two blues (which will likely continue) but sitting on 26,000 words, it feels pretty good. I just wish that my book wasn't so damn depressing right now. Olga has decided that she wants to apply to medical school so that she can go into sports medicine, and when she told Fernando he was less than excited. Olga commented:

I know that Fernando wants more than anything for me to be happy, but it will always have to be on his terms, and not interfere with his own happiness. He wants me to support him, which of course I am happy to do, but not at the expense of myself.

While I was writing yesterday Green Eyes by Coldplay came on, which many of you will remember was the song that described Fernando's feelings for Olga, and also why I decided that she should have green eyes. It made me sad to see how far they've come from there, and in a lot of ways, they're completely crumbling.

Speaking of Fernando, he just scored a goal five minutes into the first Confederations Cup match against New Zealand, and the commentator said that he is a "cool customer." Couldn't agree more. It was as smooth and rich as Swiss chocolate. Oh, and as I've been writing this, he scored two more goals. Hat trick Fernando!

Anyway, here's the return scene to the Boo!-bie Mansion:

I had vowed never to never return to the Boo!-bie Mansion. It should however be noted that while this implies that I would someday have some desire to return, this is exceedingly incorrect. I didn’t think that it was a necessary vow at the time, more like an insurance policy and a re-affirmation that I would never re-enter an establishment that welcomed patrons with a rather busty ghost. Little did I know that on the first Thursday of every month, the Boo!-bie Mansion is an all-male review for those special lades out there who enjoy it when their drinks are mixed with a certain appendage and dollar bills are picked up with butt cheeks. Apparently the WAGs were in the mood to get wild, and I would be strapped in along for the ride.
But here I am, once again walking through the notably squeaky door at the corner of Wood and Black Cock Lane. No, I didn’t choose to come here. Rather, I was dragged. Against my will. It was Steven Garrison’s wife Victoria von Beckheinzman’s twenty-fifth birthday, and because her husband was busy at practice that night, she wanted “the girls” to come out for a night of debauchery and penis waving-about. I’m not sure why I agreed. Maybe it was because I didn’t really think that I had any way out of it. God knows I didn’t. No matter the reason, I was in the Boo!-bie Mansion, and when in such situations, one must drink heavily to combat the creepy atmosphere.
The men on stage looked very odd indeed; it was a regular monster mash. One was wearing a sheet with a strategically placed diamond cut out. Another man was so hairy that his only costume option was probably the werewolf and wearing a fur posing pouch. Or maybe not… The vampire had edible (or so I hear) blood smeared all over his body with a small bat hanging from his “love staff.” Victoria’s words, not mine. A mummy was dancing seductively while slowly unwrapping his bandages. A man-o-lantern had a face painted on his stomach, and nothing else. Well, unless you count the “cheeky” face painted on his posterior. I wonder if Victoria could confirm if this was edible. I hope not. One man, who I assumed to be an ode to “Thing” from the Adams Family, was covered in head to toe with black paint, save for his “manhood.” Finally, there was a Frankenstein stripper, who was oddly doing a robotic shimmy accompanied by the Charleston. To say that I was uncomfortable would be insufficient. It was an extremely sexy nightmare.
While I tried not to focus on the ghoulish chaps on-stage, I couldn’t help but notice one of the boys who was tanned to an orange crisp, had a ridiculously good body, and was wearing tiny white shorts (but not for long) and the mask of the serial killer from Scream. He was dancing in a come-hither and, dare I say, bewitching manner to the tune of ‘Hips Don’t Lie.’ His sure didn’t.
We ordered a large cauldron full of the “Boo!-bie Brew,” which was ladled out using a penis-shaped spoon. Don’t ask me how a spoon can be penis-shaped. Just trust me. While we didn’t imbibe the Boo!-bie Brew with fallopian tubes, we drank it so fast you would think that we did. We also ordered cauldrons of “Bloody Murder” and “Axe on the Beach.” To conclude, things soon got messy.
Soon there was dancing on tables with the werewolf and the vampire, and the removal of the werewolf’s furry posing pouch, which was soon placed on Victoria’s finger, and a chorus of point dancing ensued. While I attempted not to participate, I was soon pulled on top of the table by Sam to dance to the Harry Potter theme song. It was difficult to get my groove on to this ditty, so I soon descended back down to my spider-shaped bar stool.
Robin van Egeraat’s wife Mary Kate, who can often be distinguished by her hipster garb (but I call them shitsters), threw her shoe at the man-o-lantern. Perhaps this action was inspired by his repeated insistence that she lick the edible paint off of his buttocks. Perhaps not.
Hilarity, confusion, and pandemonium soon resulted when a drunk and disorderly Cindee Saracen (Hank Lampard’s current squeeze) was dancing with the Scream murderer so vigourously that his mask was removed accidentally, revealing his true identity: Antonio Mourinho. No one was sure exactly why he had this moonlighting gig; sadly, we would never know. He shouted, “I’m Antonio’s brother… Tonay…” before shuffling off quickly in shame. Oddly enough, this did little to damper the spirits of the revellers. However, this strange occurrence would take centre stage in my dreams for years to come.

Oh, and because I didn't have the internet yesterday, I didn't include the craft of the day. I'll stick the two in later when I write.

Hilarity Ensues With the Oddball Neighbour

Fernando with a bobby pin. Kickette found this to be objectionable, I just liked it. Good luck to the real Fernando at the Confederations Cup in his game against New Zealand on Sunday!

I had a lot of trouble writing this week. I sucked. I tried to write from Fernando's perspective, but that was an abysmal failure, so I stopped. I feel like I'm in over my head in writing Olgando, since it is basically going to be really depressing until the end, which could still be depressing anyway. But there is always room for hilarity. This is a sad/funny scene that I want to share with you:

Fernando and I moved into our new house on 13 Cutestory Lane in Woolton (a suburb of Liverpool) in January. We moved from small and comfortable to large and imposing. We had built a life in our new apartment; it had started out with box furniture or furniture that was yet to be put together, but it ended up as a real home. Fernando had taken classes so he could learn how to put the furniture together (yes, he really did have to do this) and we put up photos of our families and friends. I started making crafts to add that special touch, which probably gave the impression that a particularly artistic child was living with us.

Our new house was beautiful, and had everything anyone could want. Four bedrooms, four baths, two storeys with a large basement, huge windows, a wrap-around porch, a balcony coming out of the master bedroom, and there was even a tree house in the backyard. But it was just the two of us, and we didn’t need room like that. We didn’t have enough furniture to fill up the cavernous rooms. Before, our apartment had been so small that you were forced with the other occupants, even if it was against your will. The house was so big that you could lose someone, even if you had been looking for them. Our apartment had been full of love, but this place just felt empty.

Maybe I was just waxing nostalgic for our first little home. This would surely be the place where we could make new memories. You can always buy new furniture, or you could even invite people over. Maybe we would have children here, and the house wouldn’t feel big enough. Maybe.

What was interesting about our home was our neighbour, Liverpool goalkeeper Julio Iglesias. I knew he was weird initially, but when he was my neighbour, things continued down that path a lot further than I would have liked them to. For example, on our first night in our new home while Fernando was humming to himself and softly strumming his guitar, I began to hear distant drums and sounds of bugles coming from afar. You need to understand, this is not the typical sound mosaic of Woolton. That, my friends, consists of silence, rich snootyness, and more silence. Not drums, nor bugles. I stepped out to our balcony to investigate the source of this ruckus, which can only be described as several people (perhaps a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal) coughing loudly simultaneously. I immediately discovered the origin of this ruckus was Julio, on his porch that matched ours, and apparently was much too close for my liking.

“I heard Fernando plucking away on the old five-string, and I thought I would join in for a jam sesh,” Julio told me, cutting off my planned question of ‘what the fuck are you doing.’

“Oh,” I responded, “I didn’t know that you played the, uh… bugle…”

“Oh yes,” he almost shouted, enthusiastically. “Some women say that a guitar is sexy, but I’ve always found that when I whip out my bugle, it’s like attracting flies to honey!” Or me to a pile of jock straps. But I didn’t say that. Also: there had to be a better way to say that.

So, in this situation, apparently he is honey, while women are flies. Inappropriate, at best. I couldn’t help but wonder what Julio’s wife must have been like, or, as I would now always picture her, the “winning” fly. I made a mental note to go over there and introduce myself as soon as possible. I was enjoying myself.

“Hey Fernando, Julio wants to jam with you. Why don’t you two serenade the whole neighbourhood?” I turned and asked him, despite the fact that he was furiously mouthing ‘no, no, no!’ At this point, he had no choice but to participate.

When we re-emerged on the balcony together, I was able to get a better look at the spectacular outfit on Julio. Alone, I could have accepted his red and white zebra print parachute pants. It would have been difficult, yes, but I could have chalked it up to an ironic fashion choice had I really put my mind to it. But that wasn’t all. He was wearing a stomach-exposing wife beater, with what appeared to be a bedazzled Emilio Estevez in profile. Upon further inspection, I determined that it was not circa ‘Stakeout’, but circa ‘Men At Work.’ When he turned around, he revealed a bedazzled profile of Charlie Sheen circa the same film. Underneath in glittery gold loopy scrawl it read, “Friends by choice, brothers by Martin.” His abysmal outfit was further aggravated by the fact that he had painted cat’s whiskers on his face, but only after several failed attempts. There were smudges underneath the final product. Underneath, there was a tiny moustache.

Fernando was somewhat less taken aback than I was by his unorthodox appearance, but followed my lead in simply smirking impishly and holding in laughter.

“What do you feel like playing, Nandorino?” Julio asked. I could see the obvious dislike that Fernando had for that nickname in his face, yet once again, he said nothing. “How about some Bread? Creed? Nickelback? Girls Aloud? Ooh, how about the Pussycat Dolls? Or even better, how about we bring in my children, who can act as a children’s choir?”

Fernando may have been considering the jam session before, but after that potential song list, his mind was clearly busy with ways to get out of it.

“I’m sorry, I would love to experience a joint guitar and, uh, bugle jam session…” Fernando began, while Julio smiled in agreement, “but Olga has head lice and I have to comb her hair. You know how it is, with those little combs and how you have to go over every strand. And Olga just has so much beautiful hair, it will take all night if we don’t get started!”

“Hey! That is not true!” I shrieked. “I do not have lice!”

“Don’t be ashamed, I’ve gotten lice from the dogs so many times before,” Julio nodded sympathetically. “See you tomorrow at practice, Tor Whore.”

After we went inside and closed the door (as well as locked it) I hit Fernando on the arm harder than I should have and glared just to let him know how little I appreciated the lice comment.

“You’re going to pay for that, Tor Whore! All of the girls are going to avoid me now!” I cried.

“I had no choice. What’s a little lice rumour compared to hearing a Creed jam session with a bugle?” Fernando asked. I knew he was right. But it turned out that there were even more pluses to the little white lice lie.

“Maybe now Tim O’Shea will stop rubbing his crotch on my head,” I commented.

“Maybe that’s how you got lice in the first place,” Fernando joked.

“I don’t have lice. You made it up, you loser,” I joshed.

“Yet...” Fernando said as he grabbed my head and tried to rub it against his crotch.


Also, a dream scene that inspired a section of Jill's novel. See how much fun we're having!!! I took Chris Baty's advice for bolstering word count with weird dream sequences:

“What am I doing here?” I ask Robin, as we stand at the Anfield centreline.
“What do you mean? It’s the Champions League final, we’re a goal down, and we need you out here! Snap out of it!” Robin responds, in that thick Dutch accent.
“But I’m not a professional soccer player!” I call out to him as the play begins, and I am suddenly being attacked by all of the members of the Dutch National Team.
I run in the other direction, trying to avoid the inevitable pile-up where I would be at the bottom. Anfield echoes in a chorus of boos, and Kickette bloggers take photos of my legs and circle the cellulite maniacally. LoveLamps, who looks mysteriously like Paris Hilton, hits on Fernando on the sidelines, but he is staring angrily at me and yelling.
“I knew that you only pretended to love me so that you could steal my position at Liverpool!” he shouts, running onto the field in flip-flops.
“Fernando, that isn’t true! I don’t want to play for Liverpool! How did this even happen?” I scream back at him.
“Does Barry Manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?” Sergio Ramos asks me while laughing. Confused, I look down to notice that I’m wearing a scarlet crushed velvet suit with a matching vest. I have a sneaking suspicion that my hair is bleached blonde, short and spiky.
“Why am I wearing this?!” I call out in confusion, but no one seems all that bothered by it. The play continues around me, but Fernando rushes towards me, shouting something unintelligible
“You’ve ruined my career,” Fernando spits. “I wish that I had never met you.”
“No, Fernando! It isn’t true!” I cry out. But in your dreams, nothing happens the way you want it to. When you try to run, you can never run fast enough. When you try to explain something, nothing comes out.
“I knew all along that you didn’t care about my career. You only cared about yours!”
The dream fades, replaced by another where I am performing ‘Copacabana’ in the Bram Stoker Museum in front of Bastian Schweinsteiger and Tim Higgins.

My Book is Breaking My Heart

I just wrote a really sad scene between Olga and Fernando. They break my heart. I know that this part is really long (please bear with me), but it was a really key scene in the book.


The Liverpool team Christmas party took place on December 27th, two days before the resumption of the Premiere League play. Liverpool was doing pretty well in second place behind Chelsea, in position to put together a pretty comprehensive title challenge. Apparently, all the boys were pretty ready to cut loose before launching this come from behind attack. That they did.

When Fernando informed me that no wives or girlfriends were allowed to go to the party, I assumed that it was to be a guys-only affair. Evidently, this wasn’t entirely correct, which I would find out later. Fernando came in at four a.m., assured me that he had a good time, and passed out in his suit. Everything was fine, until I read the paper two days later:

Liverpool Caught in Trashy Christmas Party Scandal
Just days before the Premiere League resumes after the Christmas holiday, the Liverpool lads, true to form, are embroiled in a scandal that will have their wives and girlfriends fuming.

The Liverpool Christmas party, which took place at the luxury John Street Hotel, was the site of much champagne guzzling, dirty dancing, and apparently, sexual assault. Twenty three year old Michelle Smith claims to have been sexually assaulted by Liverpool defender Clive Brosnan, but charges are still pending. Both declined comment. A guest at the party said: "The drink was really flowing - waitresses were handing out pink champagne to whoever wanted it and the players seemed to be drinking beer, vodka and whisky."

While Hank Lampard led the team in a karaoke version of ‘Mustang Sally,’ other team members headed for the dance floor for some hip-gyrating moves with the hand-picked models, actresses, and shop girls that were in attendance. The wives and girlfriends were not permitted to attend. Sergio Ramos and Antonio Mourinho were reportedly the life of the party, with competing gold and silver track suits respectively. Not to be outdone, Sergio Ramos was sporting a necklace complete with seashells, sea glass, and ceramic shards. How beachy! He also did a particularly sexy belly dance to ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ while Mourinho looked on jealously. The spotlight wasn’t completely taken by Ramos, however, since revellers report that Mourinho later did a striptease revealing a gold-plated jock strap.

Things got even more racy as the night went on, with many footballers and beauties heading off to the roomy terrace for a sneaky snog. Tim O’Shea was reportedly “running around, lifting up girls’ skirts and making foghorn noises,” claims Alyssa*, one of the attendees. “He then went around trying to give wet raspberries to the other boys, but they put a stop to this quickly.” Says Pamela*, another partygoer, “Everyone was hooking up that night. I snogged Fernando Torres. He was shy, but a great kisser. I asked him about Olgalina, but he said that they had broken up.” Ouch for Olgalina. Some sources indicate that her name is in fact Olga Vennegoor of Hesselink, but until we receive confirmation, we will continue to refer to her as ‘Olgalina.’ Robin van Egeraat was reportedly more reserved, sticking to dancing by himself and hanging around the snack bar, guzzling the tiny pizza-style hors d’oeuvres. When asked why he was being such a party pooper, he responded, “Our wives aren't here tonight. Can you imagine their faces if they saw what was going on? This is for one night only. I’m on my best behaviour, anyway.” Good on him. If only the other red ‘devils’ had behaved in such a manner, they might not be in such hot water today!

A local news agency reported seeing a stretch Hummer full of players outside the Boo!-bie Mansion at 9:30pm, but said it drove away when a photographer was spotted.

The Boss Bernardino Pinturicchio is reportedly furious with the team, as he had only reluctantly agreed to the party to begin with. Despite warnings that they should be on their best behaviour, the lads clearly had their own ideas. They should expect an extra difficult practice on Monday, and the jewellery shops should expect an extra rush of business!



I sat for several minutes, wondering what the hell I should do to respond to this. A rational response was all but impossible at this moment; how could you have expected me to be rational at a time like this? A rational person would have taken the “innocent until proven guilty” stance, or realized that people make up stories and sell them to the press all of the time, to try and get that fifteen minutes of fame. Instead of calmly approaching Fernando, giving him the time to read the article, and having a composed discussion of what really happened, I did the exact opposite. I knew that it couldn’t be true, but I felt humiliated and scared.

“Fernando, please explain this!” I shouted at him as I placed the paper (meaning threw it down violently) in front of Fernando. Before my angry outburst, he had been preparing a protein smoothie and humming ‘Beautiful Liar.’ I hoped that this wouldn’t be some unfortunate foreshadowing.

He stopped blending his drink and glanced at the paper. The grin on his face (which always accompanies any Shakira song) disappeared as he read on. He probably didn’t know that the wildness of their party had gotten out. When he got to the part about him “snogging” some girl at the party, he became angrier than I had ever seen him. Granted, I had never really seen him mad. But his face, contorted with anger, almost scared me.

I was lost for words; I didn’t know where to start. Questions formed at a rate of 100 per second, each one needing an immediate answer.

“This isn’t true. You know this isn’t true,” he said, barely above a whisper. He was too angry to yell. It was even more alarming; I wished he would have screamed, he was almost at an awkward calm.

“Do I, Fernando? How could you not tell me that there were ‘models, actresses, and shop girls?’ Don’t you think that it is something I deserve to know, that my fiancée went to a party that I wasn’t invited to, yet there were hundreds of women who are incredibly beautiful, and practically drooling for a chance to sleep with you? Does this not strike you as something that I should know about? Did you think that I would just never find out?”

He sat silently for a few seconds, thinking deeply about what he should say next. He always did this when we fought; I was always hysterical and shouting things that I didn’t mean, while he was as solid as a rock, contemplative and calm. It drove me crazy, but if he were to act half as histrionic as I always did, our fights would have never ended.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he finally said, after what seemed like a century of silence. “I didn’t know that the party was going to be like that. I would have told you before if I had known.”

“But why didn’t you tell me about it after? Did you develop some kind of Broca aphasia?” I was gesticulating wildly, almost hitting the Lady Diana-Prince William wedding commemorative decorative plate that Fernando’s host mother Elizabeth had given him as a parting gift. I was hesitant to allow it to be displayed in our home in the first place, and right now, I wanted to smash it.

“I… Don’t know. I’m sorry,” he said simply. I waited for him to apologize even more, beg me to forgive him, but he didn’t. Apparently, that was all he had to say.
And now to deal with the elephant in the room.

“And what about this ‘Pamela’ girl?” I asked riotously, making angry quotation marks with my trembling fingers.

“I didn’t meet anyone at the party named Pamela! I don’t know what this is talking about!” he cried in response.

“It’s a fake name, Fernando! Of course her real name isn’t Pamela! Did you hit your head?” Normally I’m not this mean to Fernando, but right now I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt him like he had hurt me.

“I didn’t make out with anyone! I hung out with Robin, okay? I only danced when they played ‘Let It Rock’! Please, please believe me, I didn’t cheat on you! I would never!” As he said this, my angry façade broke down, exposing how I really felt, which was petrified. The tears started to fall slow at first, but they rapidly picked up steam until I was unable to coherently say anything.

What if he had cheated? What could I have done? I can’t leave him. I am more dependent on him than I ever would have wanted, or I ever would admit. I can get angry with him, but really, he’s the one in control. If this was a power struggle, I knew that I was on the losing end, despite however it may have seemed from the outside. I needed Fernando so much more than he needed me.

He couldn’t cheat on me; my mind could hardly venture into a world where this would happen. I didn’t think that I could deal with it if he did. I felt so scared. I was always bad at love; I love too hard. I love until it’s unreasonable, despite the fact that it’s unfair, and long after I should have stopped.

As Fernando held me, stroking my hair and trying to talk me off the ledge, he assured me, “People make things up all of the time. You’ll go crazy if you believe everything you read.”

“Please be honest,” I was able to get out in short gasps, “please tell me the truth. Did anything happen at the party?”

“No,” he assured me immediately, looking me straight in the eye. “You have to trust me.”

“I do,” I responded, mostly because I wanted to. It was easier to believe Fernando than to not. In that other world where I didn’t know that he was telling the truth, everything would have crumbled. I had to believe him, because the alternative was so much scarier and something that I didn’t think I could handle.

Except that I didn’t fully believe him. And as I sat there on the kitchen floor, with tear-stained cheeks and red eyes, I decided that it was easier to pretend that I didn’t have any doubts. Fernando’s arms, which were wrapped around me in a supposedly loving way, felt more like chains.

Back on Track

I was pretty despondent after some disastrous writing sessions where I didn't feel that anything good was coming out of my writing, but then after some good advice and inspiration, I continued today and things went well. You may recognize some old friends:

Fernando and I hadn’t planned a single thing for the wedding. We knew it would be in Valencia, and in the summer while he was off from work, but that was it. We hadn’t set any kind of date for it; we wanted to wait until Fernando could afford to have a beautiful (yet intimate) wedding. I didn’t really feel like a bride, I hadn’t done any bride-y things, but suddenly I wanted to try on dresses, just to see what it felt like.
The shop was small, with light hardwood floors and wallpaper with two-toned, beige stripes. An elaborate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a beautiful light pattern on the wall. A mirror stood in front of an elevated platform, and racks of dresses lined the walls.
I hadn’t really talked to any other brides, but when I walked into the shop, I wished that this trend could have continued. There was only one other group in the shop, and they were giggling and cheering loudly. Each member wore a pink terry cloth tracksuit, with their position in the bridal party bedazzled in the ass area. They were also wearing t-shirts which were a lighter pink, reading “Homegirl of the Bride- Julie’s Wedding,” along with their names. It was one of the most disgusting sights I had ever seen. What was more disgusting was their loud discussion of some underwear they planned on purchasing for the bride, which were to read ‘Groom Parking,’ with an arrow pointing in a very obvious direction. I would not continue to be friends with anyone who thought it fit to purchase those for me. They would be kicked out of the wedding party.
A friendly, older woman with short white hair and an old-lady tweed skirt and matching jacket, most likely with shoulder pads, who introduced herself as Lucille, quickly helped me. However, I could see a twinge of annoyance in her eyes when I was unable to answer what kind of dress I was looking for. Princess? Ballerina? Column? Mermaid? I didn’t know what those were. She assured me that I could try on some of all of them so I could get an idea of what I wanted.
As I was waiting in the changing area, a fellow bride, who I assumed to be with the pink tracksuit group, emerged from a changing room wearing what can only be described as a complete monstrosity. It had baggy sleeves that went down to her elbows, too many pick-ups giving the impression that she was wearing fifty pairs of underwear and that it was accidentally tucked in to all of them. She was wearing an iridescent veil that had hundreds of butterflies embroidered on it. Each one appeared to have a curly moustache. Even worse was the central heart pattern, which, I might be crazy, seemed to have Emilio Estevez’s face in the middle, circa ‘Stakeout.’
She began to cry, and rushed to the platform to show it off to her bedazzled bridal party. I have never heard anything worse in my life; it sounded like what I imagine one would hear at the gates of hell. I quickly covered my ears and ran to one of the curtained changing rooms. Apparently, it did little to dampen the sound.
Lucille brought several dresses soon, and set to helping me try them on. The first was apparently a “mermaid” cut with delicate lace and a “sweetheart” neckline. I was just inspecting it in the mirror when my cell phone rang, the caller ID indicating that it was Fernando.
“Hey, you’ll never guess what I’m wearing right now!” I said, figuring he would be excited that I was trying on wedding dresses.
“It’s always been a dream that a woman offer up that information without me having to ask!” Fernando laughed stupidly. “Please tell me it’s edible underwear!”
That was probably one of the last things that I thought Fernando would ever say. I could practically smell the alcohol across the phone line.
“Where are you, even?” I inquired.
“Uh… I’m at… the Boo!-bie Mansion!” he slurred.
“Oh my god, what is that?” I didn’t want to hear things like that in the beautiful dress I was wearing.
“It’s a haunted house strip club! Did you know that they existed? It’s amazing!” he raved. “They did a line dance to the Monster Mash! Without any clothes!”
“Wow Fernando, that sounds… Great… Why are you there, though?"
"They put a bag over my head and dragged me here. Apparently they say that I work too hard..." he lamented. “Guess what just happened! Tim just got kicked out! He hid in a coffin, jumped out and motorboated an unsuspecting stripper!”
“That sounds like Tim,” I said, concerned for the stripper.
“Can you come and pick me up?” he asked sheepishly.
“Sure, Fernando. Where is it?”
“It’s on Wood and Black Cock street,”
“Uh… Do you mean Back Colquitt?” I responded, while wiping tears of laughter from my eyes.
“No, I’m really confident it’s Black Cock.”
“Alright…”
* * *
I was embarrassed to go anywhere called the ‘Boo!-bie Mansion.’ My pride wasn’t ready for a blow like that. But things got worse when I approached said mansion, when I realized that the logo contained a rather busty female ghost. Who could possibly think that this was appropriate? Fernando and Tim, apparently.
After pushing through the fake cobwebs and spiders, I could hear an eerie tune with wailing and shrieking. I wish that it was a soundtrack, but it seemed to be the strippers. They all had long black wigs, ghostly or skeletal make-up, a few vampires, corsets, red eyes, long black boots, and bras made of mini jack-o-lanterns that somehow lit up. I easily spotted Fernando’s iridescent blonde hair and scintillating bare arms, but he was with a group that I recognized. While Tim wasn’t with them, I did identify Hank Lampard, Sergio Ramos, and the goalkeeper Julio Iglesias. Sergio was wearing a light yellow button-up with brown circles around the centre. He topped it off with a beige fedora with a brown ribbon, red and blue feathers, and some large sticks that caused it to tip at a jaunty angle. Additionally, he was wearing some classy fifties cat-eye sunglasses, despite the fact that he was in a very dimly lit room. Julio was sporting a construction pylon orange mesh wife beater tucked into some high-waisted black trousers, and an oversized orange and red Hawaiian shirt. His nipples featured prominently in the wife beater. He was additionally inexplicably wearing a ski mask, only with small holes for both eyes and his mouth, as well as science safety goggles. Finally, Hank was wearing a turquoise leather cat suit with fringe under the arms and a plunging neckline, as well as a maroon feather boa. He was also wearing a tiny top hat, with a mesh veil falling over his eyes, adding to his aura of mystery. This shocked me.
It seemed as though they had imbibed many of the strange green drinks served out of tiny cauldrons. They were bubbling and steaming appropriately. As if anything here was explicable, there was an inexplicable chilli pepper wreath centrepiece, which caused a wave of fury indoors as I wondered why the fuck I had been subjected to this monstrosity.
“Olgalina! You’re the only WAG that has shown up to pick us up! The others refused!” Hank cried. He actually cried a little.
“Well, you know me…” I responded. They didn’t know me, but I didn’t know what else to say.
Fortunately, Fernando did not appear to have gotten dressed in the dark, in a drag queen’s closet. Well, that was mostly Hank. He was wearing jeans, a white and grey striped sweater, and a white belt. Sadly, he was also wearing painted sneakers with multicoloured spots and stripes. He looked almost as drunk as he had been the night that he had scored his Juventus Champions League goal.
“Olga, my love!” he shouted as he came over and tried to slow dance with me despite the fact that there was no music. I put a stop to this quickly.
“No Chinese Chainsaw Massacre!” Julio muttered under his breath. Everyone ignored this.
Just then, two people that I recognized, and one that I did not, took to the stage and began a saucy performance of a medley of ‘I Dream of Jeanie,’ ‘You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,’ and ‘Greased Lightning.’ They were announced one by one. First there was I Dream of Gino, a Shrek look-alike. Next there was a brown-haired and brown-eyed, teen-stached beauty, named Sidney Lou Who. I quickly realized that it was Pittsburgh Penguins teammates Evgeni ‘Gino’ Malkin and Sidney Crosby, apparently on vacation. Finally, there was King Lightning, who seemed to be sans pants. She had on a shocking amount of clothing: pill box hat, black uniform jacket with red trim and gold buttons, matching skirt, gloves, but her bottom half only wore a pair of satin dance trunks, and some silk stockings with the seam up the back.
I looked around and realized that the waitresses were wearing slashed clothing, axes that seemed to be going through their bodies, and make-up that gave the impression that they had been beaten up. I made a comment to Fernando about how inappropriate it was that the ‘Boo!-bie Mansion’ was eroticising violence against women, which was not well received by his peers.
Sergio Ramos unceremoniously began calling me “Olgalina the Feminazi,” Julio began booing and wouldn’t stop for ten minutes, and Hank said to Fernando “college women are more trouble than they’re worth” and that “women should be seen and not heard.” I vaguely heard someone suggest Fernando “keep that bitch on a leash.” I think that it might have been Tim O’Shea, hiding in the coffin.

My Story Has No Plot, Yet I'm at 16,003 Words

I want to take this opportunity to welcome myself back to the NaNoWriMo blogs, a little earlier than I thought I would be. I can see that Indigo and Jill have had quite the time this weekend.

Jill, I am thinking of visiting you on Thursday-Saturday, and we could drive to Toronto together. What do you think? I will call you.

In story news, I have no idea what should happen next. Here is some of the new stuff that Olga has established:
-Fernando is going to be raking in the spinos next year, as he has gotten a big raise (over $1,000,000)
-Olga's parents are still angry with her
-the season is over, Fernando has a one-month break
-Olga misses home, the Canadiens won the Stanley Cup, and Daniel Alfredsson was disgraced
-Olga dislikes being so dependent on Fernando, since she has no friends (except for Sam)
-Olga's job sucks

I'm thinking that Fernando and Olga should go on a vacation, to liven things up in my book. I also think that they should have a fight, but I have no idea what about. I don't know what will happen between now (June) and Christmas!! Please, does anyone have any suggestions?

Here is my excerpt, with a borrowed character from Scott's novel:

Some days of work were good. Some were bad. And some were complete hell. Like this one. Harold Potter always tried to pawn off the more boring physiotherapy tasks on me, as well as the more asshole football players. Today was no exception. Gordon Tootie (why is everyone named Gordon?) looked like a string bean, and an underdeveloped string bean at that. His thick, unruly black curly hair cascaded down onto his dickey. You might think that he was wearing the dickey under a sweater, but you would be wrong. It was just the dickey. You might also think that this was the first time that he had worn only a dickey in public, but then you would also be wrong. He had obvious tan lines around the dickey. He had a creepy, and obviously Transylvanian accent, and when I asked him about it he claimed that he was from Northern Manitoba. When pressed as to where exactly in Northern Manitoba he called home, he became angry, which only emphasized the Transylvanian twang. There was obviously something more going on there, but when it comes to potential vampyres named Gordon, I generally like to just stay away.

In some freak accident involving Gold bond, a pink cardigan and a line painter, Gordon Tootie, the reserve team defender, had hit his groin (I suspect he was sans jock strap, and possibly sans pants). I was helping him to ice it, and giving him directions on how to not injure it further. Sadly, it was the most boring groin conversation I had ever had, and additionally, he was acting particularly bored for a guy that was discussing his groin with a tall, blonde woman. But such is work.

“I recommend you stay away from Gold Bond in the near future. If you do, I think that you can make it back in about a week,” I counseled him.
“If that was a joke, I’m not laughing,” he hissed in his blatant Transylvanian accent.
“It wasn’t a joke, Gordon,” I replied, trying not to let this little ass hat get the better of me.
“Are you almost done? I have a lot to do, so could you please hurry your sweet ass up?”
“Yes,” I replied, through gritted teeth, and hit him in the crotch a little harder than he would have liked, and went him off.

Some of the kids that I had to work with were real assholes. I understand that they’re upset because they’re injured, but yelling at me won’t make them heal faster. Maybe I should conduct some kind of study so I can conclusively report my hypothesis.

The first team members weren’t much better. They generally weren’t as bratty (well, other than Antonio Mourinho who comes in with mysterious wrist injuries once in a while) but they had entirely new sets of problems. When you’re that rich and pampered, you generally think that you’re entitled to everything. They even have “player liaison managers” (I would call them low-paid gofers) who essentially change light bulbs, hand-wash their jock straps, and hold their umbrellas in the rain. They even wear those snappy outfits like Farnsworth Bentley, who is Puff Daddy’s umbrella holder. When first team members would come in to the clinic, they would usually be accompanied by a gofer, and make disgusting demands. The worst I ever heard came from Hank Lampard, who wanted his gofer to go and pay off a paparazzi photographer who had captured him in a compromising position with a woman who was definitely not his fiancée. He discussed this right in front of me. Sergio Ramos too had to pay off a woman who had seduced him via web cam, persuading him to expose himself. She had plans to post the pictures on her online blog. Apparently, the pictures were not at all complimentary. He claimed that it was the cold, or the camera was improperly scaled. Whatever, Sergio.

Sadly, my co-workers weren’t a bright spot in my day, either. Harold had a type A personality, wanted everything to be just right, and yelled at anyone that failed to live up to his unreasonable expectations. He had made excessive use of his label-maker (which he named Trudy, much to my discomfort) and he alphabetized everything. It took me forever to understand his pointless systems. Bastian Grubauer failed to live up to any of my expectations. I thought that he would be fun like Bastian Schweinsteiger had been, but he was actually the opposite. I know it’s inappropriate to make comparisons to Nazis, and it took all of my energy to keep them confined to my twisted mind. Sadly, I didn’t understand anything that Iker Bernebeu said (he had a very thick Spanish accent) so I had to smile and nod whenever he talked to me, since I felt bad when I asked him to repeat himself. He thought that I was a total idiot. Rupert Hall was a total pervert. I wish that just once when I talked to him he wouldn’t blatantly stare at my chest.

A Much-Needed Day Off

Since I finished yesterday with an impressive word count of 14,472 (I wrote a lot at the airport, since Dad's flight was delayed I had an extra hour and a half of waiting). I decided to take today off so I could get my creative juices flowing. And honestly, I'm spent after writing the Gordon the Vampyre/Sons of Ipswich scene. I don't think I have ever been more entertained by myself, ever.

Tonight Sam, Scott and I are going to Scott's cottage for some footvolley, tears/jeers/more than a few beers, and of course, writing.

I will leave you with a cute picture of Nano Nando. Good luck with the writing everyone!