Curried Egg Salad… And A Royal Wedding Countdown

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I’m probably one of the last people you’d expect to be a obsessed with Prince Harry & Meghan Markle’s royal wedding— or, really, any royal wedding. But, alas, I am. I’ve been counting down the days to this event the same way a nine-year-old does before summer vacation. I am EXCITED. Let me clarify that further— I am SUPER FUCKING EXCITED.

It is important to note that I’m generally not known to be a person that lacks enthusiasm in my everyday life. Quite to the contrary— my obsessive nature means that if you were to compare my enthusiasm level to Homeland Security’s color-coded terror alert level, I’ll always come in as at least ‘elevated’ — if not higher. I’m like an al-Qaeda terror attack just waiting to happen.

But, there are times when my excitement hits an abnormally high level. Moments when my palms get sweaty and my heart actually races. And, with this royal wedding, that’s definitely happening right now. This is an extraordinary achievement, because usually I only hit this level of anticipation under these kinds of circumstances:

• I’m drinking my first pumpkin spice latte of the year.

• I unexpectedly see a photo of Henry Cavill online.

• I’m watching the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympic Games on TV.

• I get to write a joke about a dictator (preferably Vladimir Putin or Kim Jong Un).

As these scenarios are quite specific, this finger-tingling level of joy is fleeting and rare. But, this time, Harry and Meghan have delivered big time. They’ve dished me up a giant helping of YAAAAAAAY!

I’m totally committed to this event. I’m reading all the news articles about the wedding, following all The Royal Family’s social media accounts, and watching all the TV specials. It’s been great. While I had a similar attachment to Prince William’s wedding to Kate, Meghan’s Americanness makes this especially exciting. Plus, it’s fun to watch the priggish British press freak out about a bi-racial American divorcée marrying their beloved Harry. It makes me want to stand up and cheer. (If I could actually stand up, that is.)

All that said… intellectually, I am not a fan of the concept of a monarchy. I don’t like the notion that a person can be born into a position that, supposedly, makes them better than an entire nation full of people. It’s dumb. And archaic. It’s why America fought a revolution and why France invented the guillotine.

The monarchy shouldn’t exist in a modern world. It really, really shouldn’t.

But…

The fact that it does exist means that I’m going to soak up the ridiculous, messy spectacle that it is. Like a labrador retriever licking a spoon of peanut butter until it’s completely gone.

So, in the hours leading up to the royal wedding, I’ve got everything planned. Here are the pertinent details:

•   My DVR is set for 2am California Time. While I’m super stoked about the whole thing, I’m not deranged enough to wake up that early on a Saturday morning to watch it live. I’m obsessive, but not fucking stupid. Also, I have my DVR set to two different channels in case one network has a technical disaster. Imagine if, as Meghan is about to step out of the car in her dress, a fucking NBC antenna tower falls on top of a royal horse? Signal lost. Feed lost. I would be majorly pissed.

• I’ve got English Breakfast Tea. The jury is still out on if I will actually drink this on Saturday morning, though. I’m generally a coffee girl (as I’ve mentioned previously), but I might give it a go for the tradition of it all… plus, the tea bag has a pretty label.

Curried Egg Salad is on the menu. I’m making mini tea sandwiches to eat on Saturday morning, too. I’m doing curried egg salad, which is the most ridiculously British type of sandwich I could dream up. (I forgot to buy a cucumber at the store. #fail) It’s important to note that I’ve never eaten curried egg salad before. So, it might be total shit. This is highly possible because British food generally blows.

I will be doing none of these things while wearing a hat. I don’t care if hats are required at British royal weddings. I’m not wearing one. Frankly, I don’t need to wear something that will make my head look any bigger than it already is.

I’d best go… it’s time to rest up for the big day. Look out, Harry & Meghan, here I come!

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Cripples, Loonies & Richard III

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I’m a sucker for a historical tale— as long as it’s full of drama, intrigue and at least one insane king. If the story also has two or three loony royals, that’s even better. Especially if one is suffering from a questionable mental disease that could have been easily prevented if his parents hadn’t been cousins or he hadn’t shagged every woman in sight.

I have a decided preference for true stories— because, most often, the facts are way more interesting than anything anyone could make up. (Err— perhaps someone should tell this to Donald Trump.)

History is full of stories that are, frankly, unbelievable. If you think Game of Thrones is exciting and awesome, you should pick up a book about the Plantagenet family. Those folks were CRAY. Loco en la cabeza. The kind of crazy where one minute they are achieving remarkable victories for England, and the next they are trying to secretly (or not so secretly) murder all their younger brothers before they had a chance to grow hair on their testicles.

Yeah, I’m not kidding.

If you think George R.R. Martin conjured all of his Game of Thrones storylines from his own mind, you don’t know enough about the Lancasters and Yorks. During their Wars of the Roses, the English crown exchanged hands so many times that you’d think it was a fucking game of Hot Potato. The kind you play on rainy days at school during recess. Well, if “recess” were a battle that you had to wear sixty pounds of armor, that is.

I like reading books or watching documentaries about intense periods of history, like these. In fact, I just spent the weekend reading a book by Dan Jones, my favorite medieval historian. Some people like to go to the beach on their days off, I like to read about revolutions, multi-generational family feuds and all the kings named Henry.

Good times.

Anyway, as I turned the last page after Henry Tudor had emerged triumphant over one of history’s favorite villains, Richard III, I started thinking about poor Richard. Sure, he did lots of bad things… but, frankly, so did many other people at the time. Yet, somehow, in the years since, he has emerged as the great supervillain. The Lex Luthor of the Middle Ages. A grasping Voldemort that would lock young Harry and Ron in a tower.

But, what really separates Richard III from all the other medieval baddies? Of which we have many to choose from? He wasn’t the only one to knock off a relative, or two. He wasn’t the only one to steal a crown that wasn’t his. He wasn’t the only one to turn into a paranoid egomaniac.

But, Richard III did have one distinguishing feature. He had an orthopedic disability that caused him to have a serious case of scoliosis. This made him excellent villain material. It’s not surprising that William Shakespeare took that particular trait and ran all the way to the bank with it. It’s super easy to demonize a dude with a crooked and hunched back.

As a person with a disability (and also, scoliosis!), I’m left wondering… if Richard III hadn’t had this medical condition, would history’s recollection of him have been different? Would his contemporaries (and those in the decades following), have had such an easy time shoving him into the “EVIL” category?

At the time, those with disabilities weren’t looked upon kindly. Abnormalities, birth defects and other medical conditions were often seen as a “Curse from God” and punishment for inherent evilness and other wrongdoings. These prejudices persisted for much of human history, and can even sometimes be witnessed today (as much as I wish I could say otherwise).

The disability of Richard III, without question, influenced others’ perception of him. It’s easy to imagine a man that has been “cursed by God” to be capable of really nasty things. Especially in the medieval world where understandings of medicine, the human body, and religion were best left unexplored— and unquestioned. Even William Shakespeare penned these words for old Richard III, leaving us no doubt about how we should view the man’s nature: “I am determined to prove a villain.”

I can say one thing for certain. I’m really glad that I was not born during this crazy period. And that’s not just due to all the beheadings, the wars, and the general miserableness. You see, a girl with a medical condition, like Spinal Muscular Atrophy, would definitely not have lasted for long.

Seriously.

In addition to all the other preventable diseases that could kill me, all it would take is one tiny sniff of Black Plague and I would have been dropped in a patch of dirt outside the churchyard. You know, where the unblessed and cursed are left to rot? After all, sanctified ground within the churchyard is reserved for way better folks— like those that put the decapitated heads of their enemies on spikes outside the village gates.

In truth, I bet my medieval dirt nap would have been met with some relief. “Yay, the cursed girl is gone! Time to get back to sharpening my axe collection.”

Ahh, history. What tangled tales you weave!

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Netflix, Stones & Scones

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When I get bored, or if I’m a little sad, I like watching documentaries on my laptop about old, historical things— like English castles, Russian tsars and evil Nazis dickheads. It’s calming and therapeutic… yet, cheaper than Xanax.

Today, I stumbled upon a documentary about Westminster Abbey on Netflix. You know that big, old Gothic church that Prince William and his wife, Kate, got married a few years ago? Yeah, that building. It’s been around for nearly a thousand years… and it’s THE place to get buried if you are super cool and accomplished. There are kings, queens, princes, dukes and even scientists— like Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin. There are scads of writers, too, including Aphra Behn— who, in the mid-1600s was the first woman to make a living as a novelist, playwright and poet. #oldtimeygirlpower

Westminster Abbey is also the place where the kings and queens of England are crowned. During the ceremony, the monarch sits on this really old wooden chair that was built in 1296. The chair still exists today. It’s survived generations of termites, vandals, and the really fat ass of King George IV, who in the mid-1800s spent most of his time eating large amounts of food and shagging women— all while being addicted to opium. He was a real winner. #momoneymoproblems

The chair was designed to house a special slab of stone beneath the seat. This slab is called the Stone of Scone. It’s important to note that the name has nothing to do with actual breakfast scones, much to George IV’s utter disappointment. Rather, the stone was the seat upon which hundreds of years of Scottish kings were crowned a really long time ago. In 1296, though, King Edward I of England took the stone from the Scots so that it could become the coronation seat for his many future, royal, and sometimes tubby, descendants.

As you may guess, this did not sit well with the Scottish. It didn’t take much to inflame their ire during this time, but stealing their favorite old rock was an easy way to do it. In between eating haggis, playing bagpipes, and drinking whiskey, the Scots stewed about this horrendous act for hundreds of years— even after the two nations joined together under one monarch. The English refused their many requests to have the stone returned— unwilling to compromise with the plaid-wearin’, brogue-talkin’ heathens to the north.

Fast forward 700 years. (I didn’t promise this would be a short story.) On Christmas Day in 1950, four Scottish students broke into Westminster Abbey with a crowbar and snatched the Stone of Scone from beneath the seat of the coronation chair. Okay, snatched might not be the best word for something that weighs 336 pounds. Rather, they dragged the stone out of the Abbey on an old winter coat and managed to secret the slab of rock across the border to an eager, and joyous Scotland.

British police vigorously searched for the stone for three months before the Scots finally relinquished the stone in time for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation months later. The boys that took the stone were pardoned and details of the investigation were plastered all over the newspapers. Yet, each side still claimed ownership of the Stone of Scone and its history. Eventually a deal was reached so that Scotland could keep the stone for most of the time, except during coronations… every other Christmas, and the 2nd Tuesday of the month. Like a divorced couple’s joint custody arrangement of their 336 pound baby. It was all very complicated.

Strike that. No… no, it wasn’t complicated. It’s actually very simple. England and Scotland, two very advanced nations and pioneers in the development of representative democracy, were fighting over a FUCKING ROCK. A piece of goddamn stone that you can find in any riverbed, on any hillside… hell, even in someone’s weedy backyard.

See, this is why history is so awesome. And this is why I watch historical documentaries to make myself feel better. Because even if I’m having a bad day, a sad day, or I’m depressed about what’s on the 5 o’clock news, I know that we humans have done stupid stuff all throughout our history. The dates and years on the calendar may change, but our stupidity does not.

IMG_3927And there is definitely something comforting in that.

Don’t you think?