After a week of frantically juggling deadlines and writing about a gazillion articles on everything from what women want in bed to creating the perfect boudoir to the impact of new products on the marketplace (spot the odd one out - but it was nice to write something that didn't include mentions of the G-spot for once. Though I couldn't help snickering in a 'Beavis and Butthead' way every time I had to type 'rapid penetration is the key to success.' So maybe I'm not growing up after all.) I've finally got everything in place for my trip to Texas. I've got two more pieces to do by the end of tomorrow, but once they're sorted, I can fly off with no guilt about outstanding stuff to do.
The big thing that I had to sort this week was my visa for the Texas trip. I didn't realise I'd need one until the PR called me to ask if I'd sorted it. I figured that as I'm not actually working while I'm over there - I'm writing it up when I get back, and being paid by a UK company - that I wouldn't need one. I was wrong.
After emails and phone calls and general panicking, it transpired that I needed an iVisa, the appointments for which are at 8am, and only 8am. I made an appointment - grudgingly. I am totally not a fan of mornings - they're an evil invention designed to make feeling groggy a part of life. If ignored/slept though, days go so much more comfortably (I do work until 4am an awful lot of the time, so it's not about working less hours - just working hours when I'm not feeling sleepy and nauseous.) I figure that if I was designed to be up at 8am, I'd be able to eat at that time of day. Eating before 11am is damn near impossible for me - a healthy breakfast of strong coffee and a fag being the most that I can stomach. So, I conclude that my body just wasn't designed for mornings. And who am I to argue with it?
However, I wasn't going to miss out on a US trip because my body objects to mornings, so I crawled into bed at a ridiculously early hour (well, about 1am) on Monday and somehow managed to get myself to the US Embassy for 8am on Tuesday (it did involve a cab for part of the journey, but hell, I made it there which is enough for me)
And I queued.
And I queued.
And I queued.
I'd foolishly assumed that an appointment at 8am meant I'd turn up, having been allocated the appointment, have the appointment and go home. Clearly, I'm stupid. They give about a hundred people 8am appointments so that we can all share the joy of queuing and muttering about bureacracy. That said, there was a strange sense of community about the queue. We all discussed our different trips, complained about waiting and were generally terribly British about things. After about half an hour, a bloke wandered up the queue instructing us that we needed to buy an envelope for £10 cash once we got in, so if we didn't have that on us, we should get to a bank.
The queue halved (the half who were going to the bank machine chuntering, of course.)
By about 8.45, I'd got to the front of the queue (and was bitterly regretting not getting a coffee en-route to the embassy, because my caffeine craving was kicking in big-style). I went through a portacabin full of security guards, another - albeit tiny - queue, a handbag X-ray machine and one of those walk-though metal detector things, and, as always happens, the bleeping started. Guilt shot through me and I started wracking my subconscious for any arms that I might have inadvertently sequestered about my person and forgotten all about. I was blushing and smiling nervously as the security guard asked me whether I was wearing anything metal. Then I remembered the utterly funky purple metal cigarette packet holder that my new bloke got for me (it's got a cool spring-loaded action that can keep geeks - and me - amused for hours.) and gave it to the security guard to check. She looked at it suspiciously, pressed the button on it (so if it had been some kind of incendiary device, obviously, everyone would have been fucked) and went 'Wow, that's cool', when she saw the pack of fags inside.
Clutching my passport and paperwork in hand, I was admitted into the inner sactum; the embassy itself. And another queue. There was more camaraderie with the fellow queue members. A security guard asked some questions (I can't remember what questions because there were so many questions asked that, frankly, it coud have been 'Fruit Salads or Black Jacks?' and I'd have answered in case it was a critical deciding factor on whether or not I was allowed to go to Texas..) then instructed people to go up the stairs - bypassing another queue immediately next to his queue. When asked whether we needed to wait in that queue as well, he said 'I don't know.' It was less than two feet away from him but he had no idea as to its purpose.
So, I headed up the stairs - and was instructed by an official that I needed to go back to the queue I'd missed and buy an envelope there (yes, that aforementioned £10 envelope - clearly made of gold to justify the price.) so I walked back down to another queue (it being queue number four) and waited to get my envelope. Next to me, in the other queue, other people were asking the security guard 'Do I need to be in that queue?' and he was replying with his helpful 'Dunno'. I and another woman in the queue passed on the information to the people in the other queue - in front of the security guard. Who continued replying 'Dunno' despite the fact that now, he clearly did know.
Envelope in hand (the expense now justified as it transpired it was a courier envelope so that they could return your passport) I once again returned to the room at the top of the stairs.
And was greeted by - yes, you're ahead of me here - a queue. More camaraderie. More queuing. I should point out, if you're single, there are probably worse places to pull than the queues at the American Embassy, because by the time you get to queue number five, and are seeing the same faces again, you're beginning to bond with other people in a 'Fancy seeing you again' kind of way.
At last, I got the the front of the queue and nervously handed over my paperwork. The woman said 'Where's the letter from your employer?'
'What letter from my employer? No-one said anything about needing a letter from my employer.'
'You need it if you want to go to the US.'
I went off, head hanging low, to get the letter sorted. It was now 9.30. I had to be back by 10.30 if I wanted to get a visa. With the queues alone, this was cutting things fine, particularly because I also needed to pay for the visa at a bank then take back the receipt to prove it. Something that, apparently, I should have done in advance. And would have done, had they told me about it.
So, I frantically started calling people - directory enquiries to get the PR company's number, a mate who I knew would be awake at that time in the morning, to go online and give me the *right* phone number for the PR company by looking online, the PR company, mates who were based in the centre of town who had access to fax machines. Things were looking shaky. I couldn't find anyone who could help. But then, joy and elation; I went into Pret a Manger to get a coffee (if all else fails, caffeine is the answer) and thought 'Hmm, this is a business. They probably have a fax machine'. I set my eyelashes to maximum flutter, explained my predicament and, bless them, they gave me the fax number and the necessary letter was sent through.
So, back to the US Embassy. I managed to jump the first four queues after explaining the situation to the bloke on the door. And then waited (again) in queue number five (now longer, it being later in the day). I got to the front, handed over my documentation - complete with letter and receipt. Waited excitedly to be interviewed. And... Was given a number and told to sit down and wait for my number to be called.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
There was absolutely no order to the numbers called out; it went from number 13, to 132, to 151, to 126, to 236 (I got temporarily excited as I was number 214) then back to 171. Trying to guess which number would be next became some kind of distracting compulsion. Strangely, despite the camaraderie of the queues, once seated, everyone was silent in a 'tube journey' kind of way; eyes straight forward, trying to work out where the terrorists were - a paranoia ably assisted by the posters on every surface saying 'Beware of bombs' (as opposed to cuddling up with them?) and 'Terrorist hotline - dial 999'.
Then, relief; my number was called. I went up, smiling in a 'I know that Texas isn't exactly sex-toy friendly and I know I'm a sexpert for a living but I promise I'll be good if you let me in your country' sort of way (whilst desperately hoping they didn't ask me what I thought of Bush) The woman asked why I was going to the US. I said 'To be a cowgirl'. She asked why. I said 'To write about it.' A couple more questions - clearly designed to catch me out if I was a terrorist, like 'Are you interviewing any stars over there?' 'Err, no. ... [suspicious look from woman] ...but the trip is being arranged to promote a film' and I heard my new 'two favourite words'.
"Visa granted."
I went off, bouncing and smiling.
Helpfully, a letter turned up this morning explaining the entire process to me. It also includes repeated warnings that visas take 5-7 working days to arrive so I really hope they send my passport and visa back in time. I'm looking forward to being a cowgirl (and finding out how 'Reverse Cowgirl' got its name - albeit in a strictly hands-off 'spirit of journalistic endeavour' kind of way.) I'm not looking forward to the planned trip to see a Country and Western show while I'm there, but hell, there's no such thing as a free lunch (and hopefully, they'll have earplugs in the goodie-bag provided on the plane; a concept that still excites me - the goodie bag, not the plane, which scares me - and should be rolled out across all public transport. How much happier would people be on the tube if they got free drinks, toiletries and a pack of tissues to use when the toddler in the next seat decides people make good wiping posts?)
So, I'm anxiously awaiting my visa and passport, finishing my articles and hoping that the agonizing crick in my neck gets sorted before I leave (now at five days and counting - and painful to the extent that I'm considering acupuncture to sort it even though I loathe needles.) Ailing body aside, so far, thirty is still my favourite age.
I admit it, I'm rubbish, I've been neglecting this site, but I do have a good excuse. No, really. Even by my standards, I've been stupidly hectic, juggling lots of exciting work things along with the somewhat alien concept of 'having a life' (thought it was about time to do something other than work for a bit.)
As you may have picked up if you've been here before, my 30th birthday was imminent when I last wrote a proper post. Well, now it's happened. I'm still alive and not noticeably more wrinkled or grey haired (I had my first grey hair at 25, and my first grey eyebrow hair a couple of years ago, so I've dealt with the 'body becoming decrepit' issue. At least until the first grey pube appears.) So, my birthday is excuse number one for lack of posting. Obviously, I had to celebrate with one or two cocktails which led to a hangover of monstrous proportions (well, when combined with a stupidly glamorous-feeling week when large numbers of people seemed to turn up bearing champagne and flowers - I approve of birthdays).
As it was a 'proper' birthday, I figured canapes were in order too, so that I could feel vaguely Sex and the City. Unfortunately, I learned that SmokedSalmon.com sold canape cases (through the catalogue or phone only - they're not on the website). It was £16.25 for 60 cases. It took me a week - if not longer - to set aside the moral guilt of spending £32.50 on canape cases but I figured 'what the hell, you only have one 30th' and took the plunge. I'm glad I did because they were just *so* cute. And for £32.50, I got to feel like a princess; a feeling that every woman should have at least once in her life.
OK, I admit that the rose-petal-filled swimming pool may have been going too far, but I was carried away by frivolity (and it only cost £2.99 from Tescos, plus the heads of some roses that had gone past their best).
And then, 'thirty' began tainting me. I decided that buying a gazebo was a good idea (£20 from homebase, so again, controlled frivolity). Gazebo; even the word sounds like it was created to be used by aging women obsessed by home and garden accoutrements because they don't have a life. It certainly sounds more suburban than 'big tent with no sides'. Pathetically, I utterly love my gazebo and have become somewhat addicted to lazing under it in the garden, looking up at the stars and the fairy lights which I've decorated it with in a 'definitely breaks every health and safety rule on the planet' kind of way. I am *so* getting old.
Gazebos, cocktails and canapes were only one part of the problem though. As millions of trashy novels have taught me is 'the way things are supposed to be', about a week before my birthday, I decided that I wanted to achieve all of my life's ambitions in the remaining time I had before I officially counted as a 'grown up'. You try posting to a blog when you're trying to fit your entire life's ambitions into a week. Luckily, I rapidly realised that I'd never got round to making a list of my life's ambitions, so I just decided try to fit in anything that I thought sounded like it might be a giggle into a week. (Tip: If you're under thirty, write a list of 'cool things to do' now - and start doing them. Otherwise you'll end up having as stupidly busy a time as I did.)
First off, I decided that I should get some erotic pics taken whilst I was still relatively comfortable wearing skimpy clothes. The wonderful Goddess B came round and I dug out my spangliest outfit along with a secretary style outfit. We had a top laugh doing the pics - she's now become a friend - and it was well worth £200. If you need any erotic pics taking, I utterly recommend her.
Then, I did a bit of a 'family' kind of thing; my stepmum came down to see me and we had a lovely time chatting about growing up and life in general. My dad gave me a toolbox as part of my birthday present which made me feel like a 'proper' adult (albeit briefly); I have a quiet sense of contentment that now, if something breaks and I try to fix it, I've probably got the tool to do it (if not the skills). I'm not entirely sure what half the things in the toolbox are, but I was impressed that it had a Maglite; something that looks cool *and* I know how to use. Though, thinking about it, storing the toolbox containing said Maglite in the bottom of a dark drawer about as far away from my bedroom as it's possible to be probably isn't the most practical thing in the world. Still, maybe when I'm 31 I'll get 'practical' running through my bloodstream. Though I find it unlikely.
But my biggest ambition, that I've had since I was about four years old, is to get a book deal. Or at least, it was. Thanks to the post I made on 5th January this year, asking if anyone knew any agents or publishers, and the subsequent introduction to an agent that the lovely Paul Donnelly set up for me, I've now had an offer for my book. I haven't signed the deal yet, because apparently there are other publishers interested who my agent is waiting to hear back from, but I'm incredibly excited. I had a meeting with the publisher and they were talking delivery dates and covers and marketing and word-counts and all manner of things that made me feel very squeally indeed. Though, obviously, I sat there calmly nodding in a 'Oh, yes, percentage of net receipts... Ah, indeed, first serial rights... I understand exactly what you're talking about' kind of way. But, after getting a translation from my agent (I love that I have an agent. It's still dead exciting.) it transpires that, if I go with these people, I a) Have to finish my book in the next twelve or so weeks and b) If I manage it (and it's not such unprintable rubbish that they throw it aside in disgust and set fire to my as yet unsigned contract) then I'll have a book out on the shelves by Spring next year.
You'd think that'd be enough for anyone. And it was. I've been bouncing for days. But then, things got to explosive level of squealliness. Shortly after my birthday, I received an email from a PR:
'Dear Emily, would you like to come to Texas for three days to learn to be a cowgirl? We're promoting the DVD release of 'Open range' and are taking journalists to Texas to learn how to lasso and bareback ride.'
At first, I didn't believe it; freelancers don't get offered freebies like that, in my experience - and, more to the point, I suck at all things sporty so am quite possibly the worst person to go on such a trip; I can't even ride a bike, let alone a horse. Bareback. But I called the PR, it was legit, and so followed a frantic burst of calls to every publication I could think of to see if they'd be interested in a story on it that would thus justify the PR company's expense. The lovely Blink magazine said 'sounds good to us'. So, next week, I'm off to Texas. The state which, to my knowledge, still criminalises sex toys. Clearly, I'm going to fit in well. Given that it's a three day trip, including travel time, and I think it's about a ten hour flight, that means I should get all of 52 hours - including sleep time - in Texas. Or, more to the point, what amounts to just over a day trip. But sod it, I get to learn to be a cowgirl. And I've never had a broken bone before, so it will probably be a character-building experience.
Given that I had a deeply sucky time of things as a teenager, then spent the vast bulk of my twenties working in jobs that I didn't want to, going out with a variety of unsuitable men (and some really lovely ones) and scraping together enough money to pay the rent, I'm not too unhappy with the way that my thirties are going. I feel content. Clearly, I must be getting old.
After the HIV crisis in the porn industry Seymour butts is insisting on condom use in his movies. What a star. Here's hoping other producers follow suit.