December 26, 2008
Three arguments, Angus' brother and I had a run-in, 5 hangovers, 10 people with the flu (myself, Angus and the babies included), 16 people in the house for 24 hours, 1 moody 16 year old, a whole lotta' food and Jeff nearly (accidentally) setting the house on fire and we have survived Christmas 2008.
It has honestly been a lovely and fun holiday in a number of ways, but I am seriously cream crackered.
-H.
PS-I call Nick's outfit "A Catfood Outfit", as in someday I'll be in a nursing home eating a whole lotta' catnip because of that choice.
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Sounds like you had a rough holiday. Ours (Chanukah, not Christmas) wasn't so easy either, but we are making it through.December 16, 2008
On Saturday we went with the babies to East Grinstead, to a party with all of Angus' former childhood chums. We stopped off at his mum's for a short while and then on to his brother's house. We were early, to help out with the preparations. I played with Nick and Nora, who were fascinated with the other kids there. We set up the travel cot in the spare bedroom and tucked the babies into Grobags, settling them into the cot. With a sigh they rolled towards each other and went to sleep almost instantly.
Friends of Angus and his brother started to arrive. Children danced around the table sneaking crisps and Twiglets. The beer and wine flowed. People laughed and talked.
And one of Angus' friends arrived with a little girl. She was dressed in a pink velour sleepsuit with a pink bunny on the lapel and hung on to the neck of Angus' friend tightly. Her name, as she was introduced to me, was Carly.
I think my children are beautiful. They are beautiful (even though a Flickr group asked me to submit one of my photos of Nick to a group called "Poor ugly infants" - in which case they can fuck right off, and how sick is that, there's a group called "Poor ugly infants"?) and I can't help but constantly think they're beautiful.
But Carly wasn't beautiful.
She was absolutely stunning.
A cloud of curls that are the perfect description of the words "strawberry blond" floated around her head, curling appealingly in thick sausage-like rolls in the back of the head. Bright blue eyes that would make a Hollywood starlet jealous stared out under heavy strawberry blond lashes. She had a dimple you could sink a coin into, and a ready and easy smile.
"How old is she?" I ask.
"How old would you guess?" Angus' friend replied.
I think about my two upstairs, and put Carly at a month or two older than mine (but with more hair). "16 months or so?" I ask.
He nods. "Carly's two."
I gasp. She's an itty-bitty thing, much smaller than my two.
"We take her everywhere we go, and we always carry her," Angus' friend said, holding Carly close.
"Does your Daddy carry you well?" I ask Carly. Then I look at Angus' friend. "Do you go by Daddy?"
"No, I go by Jack," he said grimly. "The courts prefer it that way."
Because Carly is a foster child.
Jack and his wife foster children and Carly was delivered to them a few months ago. When the care worker droped Carly off all she had on was a pair of dirty tights. Carly was raised by drug addict parents who put her in a travel cot and never held her, never talked to her, never interacted with her. She had only herself and a filthy cot for most of her life.
As a result Carly is tiny and still fits some clothes in size 9-12 months. She cannot walk or talk. She's developmentally behind but catching up fast. And even though she was left on her own and starved of attention, she is blooming. She mimics everything. She loves to be held and to be cuddled.
This amazing, stunning, perfect little girl was never held.
"They are re-evaluating her case in Easter. I don't know what I will do if we have to give her back," Jack says hoarsely. "We're all crazy about her."
I feel a choke in my throat and, for reasons I don't quite understand, I go upstairs to the spare room. I am crying. The only thing I know is that I have to check on my babies, I have to touch them. I open the door and walk in, and my children are snoring, curled against one another. I lean over and place a hand on each chest, feeling them rise and fall. I rub their foreheads. I soothe their hair. I whisper promises to them that they will never know what it's like to not be held. Already shaken by Baby P, I now have a Carly to tuck into my heart as well.
And I go back downstairs and, like every adult there, I take my turn holding and playing with Carly. She is passed around, never being left alone for a second, never being off of someone's lap or out of someone's arms. She smiles constantly and looks at the world with intrigue and wonder.
This then is my hope - that Carly stays with Jack and his family. If I could phone Santa and ask for one thing, it's that Carly is loved forever. If I could sell possessions for a price to secure it, if I could auction off part of my sould, I would do so, if only that Carly forgets the early years and knows only laughter and light. That there are no more Carlys left out there to not know what it's like to be loved.
-H.
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December 07, 2008
I know that a number of Americans used to live in this house and the one next door. None of you were around then, during the Second World War, but I'm sure the thought of Yanks living so precipitously near must keep you awake at night. The scent that Americans have - marshmallows, diet Pepsi, and coconut sun cream - could have permeated into your yards. They were so close - oversexed, overpaid and over here. Yet you kept the Americanness at bay, you fought it off with the same bravado you faced staring down the Blitzkrieg.
Then I came along.
And you were good. You had courage. You hugged your partners in the dark corners of your homes and offered courage to each other. You told yourselves that the world had moved on, you could do this, you could accept*.
I behaved myself. I behaved myself so well that you became convinced that the presence of a foreigner amongst your midst - and previously the only foreigner in this area was a Welshman, and I don't think he counts as truly foreign here - was actually an ok thing. Sure, the strange American had her Fourth of July parties. Indeed there was that temporary scare with a shipping container in the front garden, a container you worried more Americans would appear into and live their lives in bumpkin joy in your area. Yes, she and her English partner adopted a dog with the sense of a walnut. And we all survived the scandal of the American being pregnant with not one but two babies, all while being scandalously unmarried.
The shock. The horror. You were all so, so brave.
You had no idea, did you? You couldn't have known. Never in a million years did you foresee the sheer, unimaginable atrocity soon to land on your doorsteps.
Because the tasteful American and her English partner decorated last night. Their Christmas tree is lovely, an ode to constraint and taciturnity. Strings of red and white lights and an assortment of silver bells and glass balls only, this year Angus got the tree of his dreams.
Thank God you didn't see the absolute riot of decorations Helen had on the tree last year. Reindeer, snowmen, and, for reasons known only to Helen, an ornament in the shape of a s'more. You've been spared that, and for that you are grateful.
Even the decorating committee are pleased.
Thankfully the decorating committee are also wholly uninterested in the tree.
But that's inside the house. Inside the house taste, decorum, and sensibility reign. It's an homage to Victorian Christmas inside.
Outside it's all Vegas, baby.
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December 04, 2008
1) First off, to the people who make diapers (I'm looking at you, Pampers and Huggies): Seriously, why bother covering the nappies with Pooh, numbers, and squishy happy characters that should either be frollicking in a Disney movie or making eyes at you from a toy shop window? I mean, it's not like the kids look at their diapers or anything. My two aren't even a little bit interested in their nappies, apart from the tape sections, which they both delight in trying to unstick off of each other's nappies, all while crawling or threatening to drink an entire bottle of Sudocrem or debating the merits of hurtling down the hallway and down the stairs. If you want to cover diapers with something aim for the parents. I'm thinking cocktail recipes, witticisms, or some of the psychotically funny shit from this site. Don't pander to the kids' asses, they're not looking.
Alternatively, cover the entire outside of the nappy with tape. That'll not only keep 'em happy but we can anchor them against the changing mat, much like the premise behind those Wacky Wall Walkers that were cool (up until they got covered in dog hair and wouldn't wall walk so much as hurtle to the ground anymore so you threw them away.) Of course, when the babies get covered in hair like the Wacky Wall Walkers, we won't throw them away but we will present them as the new animal/human hybrid.
2) Oil of Olay undereye anti-wrinkle gel should come in vat size. That gel is the elixir of life. Put it on under your eyes and it's like you have sellotaped the bags away. I love it, it works far better than the poshy shit I used to have but can no longer afford (are you listening Lancome? Are you? It's over!) Oil of Olay needs to make anti-wrinkle forehead gel, too. It should be in something the size of a pumpkin, and it will change the world. Yes, it's full of chemicals that are probably re-writing my genetic code so that when I am 80 I willl look like Dr. Phil, who will have fucked off so many people by then that there will be wanton crowds of bandits roaming the streets beating to death anyone who either resembles Dr. Phil or who has a Texas accent, just because it's so close. But I'm ok with that, because I can be shallow and say that on limited sleep Oil of Olay makes my undereye area look good.
Too bad it can't help with the rest of me.
3) Courtesy of sleeping wrong the other night I woke up with a screaming neckache. Why is it that makers of muscle cream (called Ralgex over here, but I believe in the States it's Deep Heat/Red Heat/Ben Gay/some other combination that inappropropriate Google searches are going to find this post based on) smells like foreskin soaked in formaldehyde? Is it too much to ask for a nice lavender or gingerbread scent? Do we have to smell like old people soaked in chemicals just because our muscles ache?
4) Am still waiting for my second iteration of anti-depressants to work (Post-natal depression is hard, Barbie!) I think we need to make injectible ones. Or a small capsule you pop under your nose, like one of those ammonia capsules/smelling salts that help you wake from a swoon (because life is all about the swooning). This anti-depressant capsule would be broken open during moments of extreme crying jags courtesy of dog food commercials or shouting fits when your partner uses wire cutters to cut his fingernails instead of using the requisite clippers. It should happen soon, this capsule, because I'm quickly headed for "raving bitch" today. Will go get more coffee and see if that can act as a panacea.
5) I wrote up my Christmas cards and sent them out yesterday. The nursery had set up a mailbox to drop the mail off yesterday and I thought How helpful! I'll totally take them up on it because I am involved in the nursery and my children's upbringing! I am one with the nursery! All those who say that people who use nurseries and don't love their children should fuck right off, because my nursery set up a postbox that says "For the kids to leave their Christmas cards!" and I'm all about being involved! In a rush yesterday (as I'm in a 4-day conference that has me lingering on the edge of suicide) I dropped off my beautiful babies and whizzed the cards (already stamped and ready for Mr. Postman) in the box.
When I went to pick up the babies, I saw the box had been edited to say "For the kids to leave their Christmas cards for other kids in the nursery!"
I sighed.
I am nothing if not a fucking idiot.
I went into the baby room, got greeted by two babies who hurtles themselves at my knees (clearly because at nursery they lack attention and nurturing. This is what happens when you let other people raise your children, right?) and the nursery staff, with a laugh, handed me my cards, which as I carried out Nick cheerfully dripped a snotty nose down some of them (sorry Grandma). The babies giving other babies Christmas cards, come on. What's next, baby Secret Santas? Won't they give each other a packet of wet wipes and call it a day?
I'm not big on writing Christmas cards, so for the few "real-life" friends who read here, if you didn't get one this year it's either because A) I stopped loving you, B) I forgot about you, C) my failing right wrist is making writing difficult or D) you strike me as a reasonable sort of person who won't be offended by an e-card.
In response to the Christmas Card Debacle, I want to bring back the newsletter. You know the one, they were big in the 80's. It would talk about the year, with a few badly Xeroxed pictures included, and embody a complete sense of "Boy, do I not want to be doing this at all". A typed up letter that you hand-write the name on, sign it, and maybe add a PS that is personal but in a very half-ass way, like "How's Holly doing?" or "Here's to Ho-Ho-Hoping that mole was benign!".
I'm totally bringing that bad boy back.
-H.
PS-no one from any company mentioned above has endorsed or paid me to discuss one of their products here, but I'm totally open to being bought. Oil of Olay, I'm looking at you.
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December 02, 2008
The job is going very well. I'm happy here, and so far I like what I'm doing. The projects I'm taking on maybe aren't the most exciting thing in the world but I got a pay rise (very much needed), I have a fabulous boss, I get on well with my colleagues, and for the first time in ages I like going to work.
On the other side, Angus' job is filled with such stress and politics that it's keeping him up at night. My former boss is playing games and stealing Angus' work (Angus has proof no less) and taking credit for ideas Angus generated. In addition, my former boss has misled Angus' boss (my former boss and Angus are peers in the same organization) and Angus got in trouble for three things he didn't do. He's now trying to deal with his boss professionally and clear his name. I've suggested he engage HR, I think he's headed that way. His working life is very difficult, and we want to get him out of there but the shutters on businesses have come down in turns of hiring, courtesy of the holidays and the recession. Just when I get a job that makes me happy his job descends into hell.
I'm mindful, however, that things can change. With that in mind I've decided to take a piece of what people suggested in calling the new job, and from here on it shall be known as The Gig. I think giving it some kind of adjective in conjunction with the name is dangerous - if I call it "Fabulous Gig" it's all but setting me up to start hating it. So The Gig it is, and thank you for the suggestion.
Melissa and Jeff arrive the 21st of December for 9 days. We haven't seen them since Halloween as we couldn't get dates worked out. There's a bit of stress there as well - we wanted them to stay longer but the Swunt threw a strop. This would be the same Swunt that last year wouldn't let them come here until last minute, and then when Jeff was going to stay in Sweden she forced him to come here as she booked a trip to South America for herself (as you do when you're unemployed and broke, of course).
My dad asked me what the Swunt was going to do for the holidays by herself in Sweden.
My response was shocking in the levels to which she's affected me: "I don't care," I replied. "She can sit in her house and cry for all I care."
That sound you hear would be karma gallopping in to kick my ass in return for my complete and total apathy for the woman.
The Swunt has sold their house. She was shocked at the amount of money she got, she didn't get anywhere near what it was valued for a few years ago, which tells me that she hasn't read a fucking paper as most of us are aware that the housing markets have collapsed. She and the kids are moving in January. They are moving to the middle of Buttfuck, Sweden. Melissa will be commuting 5 hours a day via train for school and Jeff has a 2 hour commute via bus per day.
But hey - the Swunt gets what she wants, and that's what's important.
Angus had suggested Melissa get a one-room flat in Stockholm. This caused arguments all over the place - I was stressed to fuck as not only am I unsure if Melissa is mature enough to handle this (something Angus isn't sure of either) but I didn't know where we were going to get the money to handle this. We're already broke, paying for a flat in Stockholm would be like bleeding a stone.
Angus set the record straight - Melissa works in a stable and her money is appropriated by her mother to care for their horses. Angus suggested that money go to a flat and an education instead of horses. The Swunt put the smackdown on that and used Jeff to deliver the message.
Jeff and Angus are ok now. Melissa and I discuss things via Facebook where, I'm happy to say, she has loads of photos of me and not a single one of the Swunt. But I know that a lot is about to change.
The kids now live 2 hours away from an airport, and it's a regional airport. This regional airport connects to a regional airport here, so instead of a 30 minute drive to Heathrow we'll be fetching the kids from an airport 2 hours away from our house. It doesn't take a genius to know that we'll be seeing les and less of the kids now.
We worry that Melissa will drop out of school, but at least another school closer to home has been located. It's no where near the education that she would have had, but hey - the Swunt's happy. That's all that matters.
Jeff will be starting a new school and that's one area where it may be a good thing - he's being badly bullied at school for being half English. He's been attacked a few times now, and is counting down the days until he's done with this school. I feel bad for him - he's so sensitive, things are so hard for him. But he doesn't do change well at all, and a new school is sure to send him into orbit. At least next Fall he'll start going to an English school there in Sweden, where he'll fit in better.
And we're also constantly aware that the Swunt may (and probably will) come after Angus for more money. He's been paying the child support from a Swedish account he has for the past few years. The account is about to be empty, though, and so the money will have to come out of his salary. My pay rise basically covers, per month, what she should be paid, but I can't tell you how I cannot bear to give that horrible woman any of my money. I fully support that child payments need to be made, but it galls me to think that I work for my money and she just sits on her ass, claims unemployment, and soaks it up. Angus agrees (and never once suggested my pay rise help pay the Swunt, that was my private paranoid fear) and so once he pays out of pocket I'll pick up more of our household costs and I'll pay those, while he pays her.
He's stressed about his kids and their wellbeing.
I don't blame him - I think this whole situation is awful, too.
But hey! Dammit, it's the holiday season. Joy and good wishes and love to all.
Almost all, anyway.
-H.
*Does that sound like a racy title or what?
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December 01, 2008
Judging.
Not judging as in "starring guest host of X Factor", but people judging me.
I got it on our Thanksgiving, when people kept complimenting my stepmom on her cooking. "Your apple pie was fantastic!" they'd tell her.
Hang on, I'd cut in. I made that.
You? They'd say, their eyebrows going up. But you have work and twins! You can't possibly cook as well.
It's easy. You just bunk off work and ignore your children and let your house cave in under the dirty laundry and tell your boyfriend to fox trot oscar. Then - and only then - can you make the perfect apple pie.
I've been getting it a lot recently. The first occasion was an incident between myself and Angus- sister-in-law, the one married to the sanctimonious one that I call The Minister. This sister-in-law (let's call her Terry) was a stay-at-home mum for years. Now that their second daughter has gone off to school she's studying children's education at university. And she's very, very opinionated. When I went back to work she had her husband call us to tell us that children "in care" don't bond with their parents.
To which I say: Complete, total, utter, unbelievably thick and heavyweight bullshit.
She made it sound as though my children would wind up wandering the streets, hugging on to the knees of any available person who might possibly offer them any scrap of affection. Instead of asking for a quarter they'd beg for a cuddle. Instead of asking someone for the time they'd make unintelligible monkey grunting noises, as no one spent any time teaching them a form of language. There I was, busy clawing and killing my way up the corporate ladder, and I would have to be held up by a little thing called nurturing.
I went wild when Angus told me this (he was the one who took the call. It's really best that he did). He handled his brother and sister-in-law and I firmly requested that this issue never come up again. Ever.
Flash-forward to a month ago, when we met up at Angus' Mum's house. We went over to the house on a weekday, having taken the afternoon off of work, and took the babies with us.
In comes Terry and her youngest daughter, a 5 year old for whom the word "handful" is putting it politely.
"Hello," she says breezily. "I'm home today because my daughter is sick. Children take priority over work when they're ill, you know." she said pointedly, looking at me.
It was one of those slow-motion moments for me, one where my mind had only one thought:
Oh. No. You. Dih'unt.
She's lecturing me. Me. Me, who took days off of work to deal with rounds of chicken pox. Me, who was off two days just last week to be with my sick daughter. Not once have I left my children bleeding out of their eyes at the nursery. Never would I let them cough up a lung without me around as I had a meeting to go to.
And I take a hit at work each time this happens - now that I have to go to work the laundry piles up. Dishes take more time. I get my quality time with the kids but the chores I would've done in between conference calls now need to be done when the babies go to bed. And Angus' workload has increased to the power of ninety, so the housework gets done when the babies nap during the weekend (also? Hey, the blogging has been hit hard by the new job.)
I love spending time with my kids. They are brilliant fun. They are also an incredible amount of work - they're into exploring, so you spend a lot of time chasing them around. Nappy changes have become a challenge as they like to try to crawl while you're changing them, and not only are you trying to change one of them but you've got to keep track of the other. And there are days like this past Sunday, where they're not feeling well and nothing you do is right so all they choose to do is shout and cry. There are times - regular times - when I'm honestly glad to drop them off at nursery. That might be a horrible thing to say but it's true - when the babies are in a bad mood I'm actually glad to hand them over to their carers.
Because the truth is the babies love their nursery. They like their carers, who know how to handle kids and are still sought out by children who have graduated into older rooms and want to come by often to say hi to their former nursery carers. The babies often have a grand time at nursery and they feel completely secure. I've dropped in unannounced and by surprise a number of times, and every time I've come in the babies have been having fun, the majority of time sitting on their carer's lap and getting lots of attention.
My one biggest issue is that I want the babies to feel secure and loved. I know, absolutely, that they do. I can see the joy in their faces when they encounter whatever new activity the nursery has set up for them in the morning. I also get the benefit of seeing them positively light up and hurtle towards me when I show up, grabbing on to me and giggling. I love picking them up from nursery, it's one of the best parts of my day.
I got it again today - I went to a doctor appointment for my wrist and the consultant looked at me over her papers. "It says here you have young twins," she says reading off of my hospital notes. "So you must be an unemployed stay-at-home mum."
Yes. Yes I am. That's why I'm wearing a skirt, heels, and carrying a laptop bag. I sweep softly and carry a big PC. "No, I work," I reply. She looks at me and raises her eyebrows. I can feel her judging.
I work because I have to, and since no one is privy to my financial affairs just trust me when I say that I have to work (and don't feel the need to tell me how I could cut back on things and quit my job. Once again, we need to have two incomes here.) But even if I didn't have to work, I think I would still choose to. I think it's right for our family - I love the babies to bits but sometimes I need a break, just as I think it's good for them to be with othes. It's my choice and I'm not for one moment saying that anyone should do what I do. I think we all need to make our own choices for what's right for our families, and is it too much to ask to just support each other on the decisions? What, is it more attainable to ask for world peace? Eyeliner that seriously, honestly won't run?
At least I didn't, until I came across an old friend on Facebook. She's clever, well-educated, and talented. She's now a stay-at-home mom to her 8 year old daughter, lives in Texas, and spends her time taking care of the house and has a small side business sewing rah-rah skirts and is, apparently, a born-again. I read that and thought: Jesus, where did my friend go?
Then I smacked myself, because just as I bitch that people judge me, there I went, judging her.
Maybe we all need to stop judging, full stop*.
-H.
* Except for my sister. It's totally ok to keep judging her.
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November 28, 2008
We're getting ready for tonight.
Hope yours was as full of smiles as ours has been so far.
-H.
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)November 26, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving from my beloveds to yours.
-H.
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Stupid, I know. Mumin died a year and a half ago. My little black and white adventurer fell asleep on the operating table and never woke up again. In the grand scheme of things, Mumin isn't going to change anything, her contributions (the occasional vole and, once, an explosive puff of feathers on the living room floor) will be forgotten. But I've been thinking of her just the same, her and her adventures in the back garden with Gorby, the noble wondermutt, the incapable and slightly moronic sidekick.
It's ironic in some ways that she passed away - she was always my cat. Maggie was my ex-husband's cat and Mumin was mine. She'd curl up on my lap every night and make biscuits on my thigh. She wasn't too bright, that girl, but she was loving. The irony part of her passing is that in her death we're left with the angry cat Maggie.
Maggie was a rescue cat. I didn't understand why no one adopted her until we took her home and she revealed she wasn't so much a cat as just a concentration of unbridled nerves. She was wild. You couldn't hold her, couldn't touch her, she just wanted to scream around the house and race up the curtains. She's calmed down a lot now, but she's still not the most sociable cat.
When Maggie jumps into your lap to be pet it's not a relaxing thing. You are tense the whole time because at some point - likely when you've let your guard down - she decides to springboard off of you using her claws as traction. You will inevitably be left with small puncture marks making it look like a vampire bat has played hopscotch down your leg, and there is no doubt that you will also have let loose with a "Jesus Christ, Maggie!" scream of pain.
Petting Maggie can be a tense affair.
I've been wondering recently if maybe we're reaching a point where it would be ok to think about getting another cat at some point in the future, and if that's not a wishy-washy commitment I don't know what is. We have a lot going on, so much so that it wouldn't be fair to add another being into the house, but I do feel that you should either go two cats or no cats, that they like a little company (even Angry Maggie). Not to mention that kitties cost money (which we don't have a lot of excess of) and need time to integrate into a household consisting of one stupid hound, two shouty babies, five unfinished bedrooms and a partridge in a pear tree.
Not too long ago I took Gorby for a walk on a nearby farm and there, on the path, as a skinny scrawny black kitten. I tried to coax it to me after tying Gorby to a tree out of eyesight, but it was too scared. It took off, and I spent almost an hour swimming in stinging nettles to try to find it. All I got for my reward was a series of painful rashes on body parts and a kitten that was not to be found. I went back to the same site a few times with cans of herring, but I haven't seen the kitten since.
At some point we'll be ready for another kitten. I want it to be another rescue one, one that is young and we can teach it not to be afraid of the Big Bad Dog because without question the Big Bad Dog is more afraid of the kitten than vice versa. I think I'd like a ginger cat this time, a divergence from our usual monochrome color scheme of pets.
Maybe it's unusual, taking a long while after the death of a pet. I think the norm is to go and find someone who can help heal the edges of the hole left behind. Perhaps waiting so long to get another is a little Mrs. Haversham.
I just want Mumin to know that she's not being replaced. She could never be replaced. And a year and a half on she is still thought of with love and not with sadness, and I hope that's enough for her in whatever kitty heaven she's in.
Hopefully it doesn't have voles up there.
-H.
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November 24, 2008
I'm all about the end of the world scenarios. I often wonder how long it will take Mother Nature to reclaim the earth should we all stop acting like littering assholes. There was a TV documentary on that recently that I recorded and watched with sad fascination. The answer to how long it will take is not very long at all. Mother Nature's itching to put the smack down on us monkeys.
Seriously, I am a pessimist. I'm usually bracing myself for the end of the world, whether literally or metaphorically. I don't actively want it to happen, mind you, I'm not cheering for the end or anything. But I recognize and accept this makes me a very dark person indeed, but here's the truth of it - I assess people on their ability to survive based on civilization as we know it collapsing.
Honest.
My ex, Kim, rocked the house in that scenario. In fact, I would wager that was a part of my attraction to him - should the end of the world come he'd just go about his business protecting, defending, foraging, building. If you were to look in the dictionary under the word "Survivalist" you'd see "See: Kim. See also: End of the world." Kim could survive anything.
Well, apart from leukemia that is.
But they don't really teach you how to defeat an autoimmune disease in scouts.
Angus is also quite practical. While I think he'd be a bit behind on the defending the fortress aspect (pacifist), he's got the practicality back. I have no doubt that should 90% of the population die off and we lose electricity and running water and the like he could sort it out for a house. He could install solar panelling and get the electrics going (and in fact, he really wants to do just that). He could get water flowing, which is good as not only do we need water but I have my lingering poop phobia, which luckily is not impacted by strategically foul nappies. Angus could grow vegetables and wring chicken necks and all sorts of things. Give the man time and no doubt he would be making his own wool and knitting fisherman's sweaters out of it.
In bed later I start off. "So if 90% of the population dies off, do you think you can re-build?" I ask him.
"Yes, I'm reasonably practical."
"I'm practical too," I say.
"Uh, Helen, no you're not," he replies.
"Sure I am. I can grow vegetables."
"They all died," he points out.
"Well, yeah, but that's because I forgot to water them."
"Plants need water."
"I'm totally on that for the end of the world," I promise
"I could grow wheat," he says proudly.
"The fuck you could, you have no idea how to grow wheat!"
"I sense a bet coming on."
"And what are you going to do with it, grind it?"
"Yes, rather like I grind cumin when I make curry."
"You know nothing about milling wheat," I grumble.
"What's to know? You just grind."
"And what do you do with the chaff, huh? Huh?" I ask.
"You can't hook up electrics or water," he says, changing the subject.
"No, I can't." I also can't sew, can't wring chicken necks, or anything like that. I think about it. Come to think of it, I'm not very practical at all in the end of the world sense. Sure, I can get a family dressed and out the door on time, I can pay my bills, I can re-start the wifi router and I can cook a mean risotto, but in terms of end of the world stuff, none of that's very practical, is it?
I realize it - I would be screwed. Should the end of the world come and a handful of people survive, I'd be toast. Because here's the really ironic part - I just know I'd survive. I would. I'm not full of myself or anything but I would definitely make it, which is strange since I catch every little bug that even looks in my direction. Angus, however, the healthy ox that he is, would bite it. Nora wouldn't make it either, but Nick would (thereby bucking the odds here). I don't know why I am so morbid like this, I just am. I'm not happy about these details, but if we're talking end of the world illnesses I know where the Grim Reaper stands in our house. The virus would take the most useful one in the house (Angus) and the one who gets sick and takes it to an extra-sick level every time someone even says the words "head cold" (Nora). I can tell that Nick and I are 90 percenters. Which is a bit ridiculous, since I can't divine water and he would rather spend his time looking at lights and chucking toys across the room.
Instead of acting like a Utopian hippy I would be forced to drive cars around until they ran out of gas, since I haven't the foggiest how to force a petrol station to work when their pumps die. Nick and I would hop into shops for clothes and live on preserved food. McCoy's would be our staple (cheese and onion only) and, once we used up the available supply of UHT milk, Nick would be bounding into drinking water and/or milking our adopted cow Betty for the Vitamin D goodness (I'm not milking Betty, the thought makes me uncomfortable. This is why we have kids, as they are born pure and unadulterated from our weird squickiness.) I would head for the Highlands, as it's not well populated up there and I can re-enact Brigadoon. We'd read by candlelight a lot, and reminisce about Angus and Nora in a loving way, unrestricted by the images of them at death which would probably involve boils, festers, and potentially even that whole "body loosening of the small intestines". That part will scar me. I may be mute for a little while after witnessing that.
Gorby will survive although Maggie won't, largely because she's just so angry the virus won't be able to resist the pull of her negative energy. Gorby will become slightly more useful in bounding around the sheep we have, sheep I have no idea what to do with because I can't shave a sheep, can't make my own yarn, can't knit, and can't stand the feel of wool against my skin. The sheep will dot the countryside around our house and mean I can't go walking in certain areas due to my Sheep Shit Phobia.
We'll have horses, too. And chickens. We'll eat a lot of eggs and I will occasionally slaughter a chicken for Nick and his protein needs, although I will remind him constantly that I did this horrible deed for him, and I will take comfort in the fact that with the end of the world came the end of talk shows, so he won't know this is something he should complain about later in life to a tearful audience. I will tell him stories of paninis, bananas, and chocolate milkshakes. We will talk of movies and Dr. Who and the Vienna Choir Boys. I'll tell him about airplanes (and make sure he never utters "aeroplanes") and of the days when I used to work behind a desk with a computer, you know that thing we use as a paperweight? We'll be dressed in diving wetsuits and canvas tents, since that material won't degrade and seriously? I can't sew. At least we'll be waterproof, even though when we walk our rubbing thighs will spark.
In my Utopian vision we have running water.
I'm not going to vary from that, because it will just make me freak out about poop.
The end of the world. I've totally thought it out.
Which is good, because I've woken up this morning with a temperature, a headache, and a sore stomach which might be psychosomatic but I think is more likely karma's way of saying You think you are a 90 percenter? Bitch, please.
-H.
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November 21, 2008
Really.
I am very, very happy here. I got a phone number yesterday, I get my own laptop today, and soon my phone arrives. I am badged and car-park stickered. I don't have my own desk but none of us do, hot desking is the norm in this industry. I have had a few meetings and a few training sessions, and although I was booked to go to Helsinki for four days next week to meet a systems expert, that's been postponed and I'm not actually sorry about that - next week is Thanksgiving, and my folks are flying over and we are hosting a big dinner for about 20 of our friends and neighbors, which would've been a logistic nightmare should I have flown back in just in time to work on Thanksgiving. Not to mention that Angus and I usually have a massive blow-out before we have a big event and my stress levels were fairly high.
I am the first in a large department of people that will be based in this UK office. The company I work for now is a very large international company whose headquarters are elsewhere. Another guy has come on and two more appear in the next few weeks. It's nice being the first one here, actually. It helps you feel like you get to start the routine as opposed to going with the flow.
The chap who showed up yesterday is a nice man, an Englishman who seems to live life a little fast. Surprisingly he's younger than me - I say surprising as I've always been the youngest and the only female. Even though I'm still the only one with girl bits, I suppose it was inevitable that younger people than I come along in the department. Time marches on, after all, and it's leaving little crow's feet all over my face. He's nice, I like him, and I think we'll get on well, but he catches me a bit off-guard. He's into everything and drives fast lives fast moves fast is fast.
He leaned over the cube wall yesterday. "So what's your passion, Helen? What is it that makes you tick?"
God.
Um.
I looked at him, rather unblinking.
What's my passion, what's my passionÂ….what does make me tick?
Christ, nothing makes me tick. Nothing that I want to share, anyway. Doctor Who (dork), riding men like lawnmowers (whore), TV in general (sloth), commenting on newscaster's ties (loser).
What do I love? What do I live and breathe for? And does passion really work that way?
I think about it, after fobbing him off with a non-sensical answer. I tell him my passion is scuba diving since I think that's easiest. The truth is I like and enjoy scuba diving but it's hardly anything that can be described as a passion.
In my everyday life, I feel strongly for many things. Strong feeling wrapped inside a core of privacy is how I would see passion - passion doesn't need to be worn like an armband or a shield, used to warn off people should they diagnose you as apathetic. Passion isn't living and dying for something to me, it's simply something that you hold tightly.
My children, obviously. I love to get them in the morning and I love to put them to bed at night (sometimes for reasons other than "I love to tuck you in" and more for "seriously, you are a great kid, but dear God am I so over you for today"). I love to sit on the floor with them and play with them, and I adore it when they reach out for me to hold them or crawl up to settle in my lap.
Angus. Angus is someone I feel strongly for. We've had our ups and downs - with a whole shedload of lows so rough recently that I wondered if we needed mining lamps - but even when we can't stand each other he's still my boy, and he always will be. We're getting on a lot better now and I am hopeful for the holidays. We could use some good holidays. Last year wasn't so stellar, and this year I have images of a tree, our newly-extended house, babies who understand holidays more, and family, all bound up in sugar plum scented wrapping.
I adore travelling and always have, but it's not really possible right now. We're out of money, the economy is shit, and now there are 6 of us to pay for travelling. Angus also isn't keen on travelling with the babies, they're not always easy to juggle around. Travelling is wonderful, but due to the house extension and our sheer lack of funds, it's simply not going to happen for some time.
Writing. Writing is something that I love, whether a blog or a story or a novel that has stymied in the past week since I've been laptopless. I enjoy writing, I think about writing, I want to write all the time.
Reading is another something that makes my fingers twitch. There is nothing I collect, I don't see the point in accumulating things, but I confess I covet books. They are a weakness and always have been.
I feel strongly about children and animals, but that's more along the lines of donating money and shouting at the TV when stories occur that break my heart. I could do more, I should do more, and I have signed up to do some volunteering work with kids in January via a voluntary organization here in the new company.
But none of these things are parts of me I want to tell anyone about, particularly people I work with. I donÂ’t want to return to the days of making shit up to suit people, but at the same time I continue to be a private person. I'll talk work, and I am happy to hear people talk about their lives, I just want to keep my things close at hand.
And I worry a bit - Angus always said my passion about things is something he found attractive. Am I still passionate about things? Have I lost passion or just gotten more mature about how I handle it? Is being more mature about my feelings a failure, am I letting myself down, am I less of a person for not being so ardent? Can people see in my quiet that although I'm not shouting about my feelings, I still feel very deeply about things, that I carry them so close to my heart that they're melded to the sides?
And how big a dork am I for putting so much thought into this?
-H.
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November 17, 2008
How can it not?
Last night for the first time they showed a photo of the little guy, one when he was close to the end of his life. His golden curls were shaved off. His eyes are sunken in. He's covered with chocolate - done by his mother to hide the bruises her boyfriend had inflicted. I won't copy the photos but am linking them, and asking us all to look in on the photos not to gawk but to know and understand that this can never, ever happen again.
Even though I know it will. It will happen again. It's going on right now. As long as you have sick, twisted people who take see the vulnerability in children and animals, you will have abuse. I just want us to work towards an end to it, to work towards protection for children. To not try to save them is incomprehensible.
When they showed the photos last night it's safe to say I came completely unglued and started shouting and ranting at the TV. The story haunts me, and gets stuck in my head and makes me spin around in bed when I wake up, which happens often. I'm going to be avoiding the news for a while, not because I think an ostrich-head-in-sand approach is the way to go, because I obviously don't - thanks to you we raised £925 for Children In Need, and I sent in a message to the BBC telling them this, and that we wanted it donated in the memory of Baby P.
I keep hugging my kids. It's also made me a bit paranoid - courtesy of crawling and getting into things Nick and Nora get bumps and scrapes. I worry that people might think I raised a hand to my babies. I'd kill myself before I ever harmed my children, and if someone else hurt them? I'm not a vigilante, not in the least. I'm also a pacifist to the core. But if someone ever hurt my children there is no where in the world that they could hide from me, because I would come after them and I would bring every fiber of anger that I own.
The photos of Baby P stay in the periphery of my thoughts. Bright blue eyes. Stunning cheeks. He should have been saved, he should have been caught. Apparently there were subsidy changes and the cost of taking a child from its family went from £150 to £4000. This, they speculate, is why he was sentenced to his death. I guess we have an answer to the question of what price human life.
I'm avoiding the news for a while because I'm all too aware of what's happened to the little guy, and it's actually too much for me to handle.
Isn't that awful? Isn't that selfish and disgusting? I'm 34 and it's too much for me to handle.
He was 17 months old, and he had to handle it every single day.
**********************************
As I mentioned, we raised £925 for Children In Need. You're all completely fantastic and wonderful. I watched Children In Need and cried and raged and, of course, shrieked on the Doctor Who clip. For those who supported I hope you enjoyed peeking in on our lives. I told you we were shockingly boring. The camera was pretty constantly in use, so I think people checked in a lot. I think someone watched The Omen over my shoulder with me (I'd never seen it and it was on late Saturday when I was feeling a little tipsy. This was the remake, and it was pretty creepy.) If you did peek in, can I ask what you saw? I'm curious to know what our lives look like from a different perspective.
**********************************
We got an email from a guy we both used to work with. Once upon a time Angus and I worked on the same project (back when hangovers were something other people suffered from and I was still an idealist. So, like, a long time ago.)
Picture someone you know or work with who is very proper (we're talking tie to work every day, even though no one else wore one).
Picture them as being a bit...unimaginative.
Go with obstreperous, too.
Then find out that he's just got a book published. But it's not just a book - it's sci fi meets L. Ron Hubbard meets the Bible. It's like a form of religious science fiction.
Dude.
That's really all I kept saying.
Dude.
I never saw that coming. He wrote a book. He wrote a sci fi book. He wrote a sci fi book with a dash of God on the side.
And I'm tempted to order the book but it just sounds so crap. This isn't me taking a pop at our former colleague, either, because I actually like the guy. The plotline just doesn't do it for me. And I like science fiction (although I don't really read science fiction, I haven't gone into that breach.)
I'm prepared to eat my words on this one, I just don't know that I'm prepared to eat his.
**********************************
And now, I have to get ready and go to work. My new job awaits. My dad rang to wish me luck and tell me not to wear pajamas to work.
Dads.
So useful.
-H.
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November 14, 2008
Tonight is Children In Need, and we're only £35 away from doubling the original target I set for fundraising - let's hit the £800 mark and then some! Thank you emails have gone out to those who donated, and another email went out this morning with login details for the webcam, and I know of at least one person who's checked in on us (I am not your monkey!) The money you donate goes 100% to children, as all the admin and actors and sets and webpages and everything is all donated. Children In Need supports children all over the world, and I've written the BBC to tell them that we are heading towards £800 in donations (come on! We can do it! Even £2 will help, any little bit is so gratefully received!) and to tell them that the donation from Nick and Nora is in memory of Baby P.
I still can't get that sweet little boy out of my head.
Baby P can never happen again.
Please - even £2 to help prevent any future Baby Ps.
I've showered. Walked the dog. Had some yogurt and far too much coffee. Angus and I are headed out for the day to run some errands, the first of which is to stop by my local office of Dream Job to hand in my PC, badge, phone, login credentials, and Blackberry.
I am officially off.
The irony of a lot of this isn't lost on me - I am starting a new job on Monday, and it's almost 5 years to the day that I lost my job with Company X. I will have been working for Dream Job for 4 years 9 months - exactly the same amount of time I worked for Company X.
But this time I'm jumping. I'm not being pushed.
It's a scary time to change jobs, but I've not been happy where I am. People speak so highly of the company, and I am honestly excited.
I also am calling out to you for help - what shall I call the new job? Leave your suggestion in the comments, we'll see if we can find a good one.
I've cleaned out my laptop. I've set the Out of Office Reply. I've changed my voicemail greeting.
In 20 seconds I'm going to finish this post, clear the web cache, and close the laptop down for the last time ever. I'd be lying if I didn't say it makes me sad.
It's been a great run with Dream Job, and I am grateful. I honestly am. I am also hopeful for the future.
10 seconds...
Goodbye Dream Job.
Thanks for everything.
(Photo not mine. I'd give credit but no idea who took it.)
5
4
3
2
1....
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November 11, 2008
Yesterday Nora got it. It started with vomiting all over the sheets in the middle of the night and continued with fever, chills, and listlessness. She stayed home from nursery while Nick went. I ignored work for the majority of the day - I only have three days left with Dream Job and I've handed over my projects. Not like I'm needed or anything.
I don't quite know how to say this without coming across wrong, so I'll just say it - I don't like that my children get sick. I hate seeing them unwell, it's so hard to take. But I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like how she slept on my chest and lap for most of the day. I don't want them unwell, but I do love spending time with them when they are.
*****************************
Our next door neighbor has pegged it. It seems pretty disrespectful to word it like that, but she was 98, blind, and deaf. According to her son if anyone was ready to go, she was. She refused to stay in a home and so the NHS had to send carers round to check on her four times a day. Meals on wheels also delivered to her, but occasionally she wouldn't answer the door so they'd turn up on our doorstep asking if she was on holiday.
"She's blind, deaf, and pretty much unable to walk," we'd reply. "Chances of her heading to Ibiza are pretty slim."
She was renting the house as well. She'd been there since sometime in the 60's, and was in a grandfathered rental agreement that meant she paid pittance for the place. Under previous rental laws in the UK, it was basically impossible to either evict people or raise the rents, so we're guessing she paid next to nothing for a house now located in the most expensve and most populated part of England, courtesy of its proximity to both Heathrow and London (why we also had to move here).
Her son was hoping the owner of the house - a wealthy man who lives nearby and previously owned most of the homes in our area, including ours which he let to US servicemen during the war (an aspect I find very cool) - would sell him the house. Her son, it has to be said, is a total prick. We've tangled with him twice and our builders tangled with him once when Sonny Boy was being a sanctimonious tosser. We've been hoping he doesn't buy the house.
And now the house is going on the market. Angus checked it out yesterday by sneaking over and pressing his nose to the windows. It's been emptied and the owner of the house stopped by today to tell us he's listing it, and that Sonny Boy is gone. It's in a lovely position, beautiful land, great garden and, but whoever buys it is going to have a real renovation/restoration job on their hands. Our house needed a new roof, and we can tell that house will too. Additionally, it hasn't been updated since the 60's and that screaming orange color? Not so cool anymore.
Anyone interested?
It means new next door neighbors, which we welcome, although now that our neighbor isn't blind and deaf it means an end to summer al fresco sex unless we later want to see ourselves on You Tube.
*****************************
17 more days until I can start watching Elf and not be considered just a little bit sad.
*****************************
Yesterday, staggeringly, Molly jumped in and donated to our BBC Children In Need page and took us to the arbitraty amount I hoped we would raise. I am beside myself with gratitude and I have written in to the BBC to hopefully get plugged on Friday night (although many of us are raising money, so I'm not holding my breath.) I'll record BBC Children In Need in case they show Nick and Nora's photo, and if they do that (which, again, is doubtful) then I'll load it onto this website.
I'm not finished yet, though. For every person who donates, you'll get a login and password to the webcam in our living room, so you can login and check out our life for a short period (probably this Friday night, for Children In Need, and part of Saturday). Additionally, you'll get a thank you email from the babies, with information on it that I wouldn't normally give out (so if you donate please tick the box saying it's ok to get an email from me, otherwise I can't get the info to you!). This, because Children In Need is important to me. I support several charities personally (among them the NSPCC, Dog's Trust, The League Against Cruel Sports, The RSPCA, WWF and Bliss - if you see a theme amongst these, you're not wrong) but the only one that I would actively beg for is Children In Need because any charity that gives 100% of the donations to the programmes and work to help children is ok in my book.
Please consider donating. We have three days left to make a difference.
-H.
PS-Teresa, are you out there? I've tried emailing you but it gets bounced. Haven't heard from you and just kinda' worry.
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November 09, 2008
But when they were better:
We have five days to Children In Need. It's next Friday, and this is a charity that I back fully and believe in completely.
The background behind Children In Need is here.
The reasons why it matters to me is here.
Times are hard for all of us, but children shouldn't be the ones that have to pay the price. Even a few pounds or dollars can help, and every single penny you donate goes directly to Children In Need, 100% of the donations actually go to the charity.
Nick and Nora's donation page is here. I've set a preliminary target of funds, but I'd love to see that get busted.
Love and thanks from a pukey household.
-H.
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November 06, 2008
It was the medical company contractor who works with the new company I'm joining. I had to fill out a medical form, which was shockingly uncomfortable. There was one section asking about depression/anxiety/your average run of the mill "I'm going crazy" problems. I came clean there and said I had been treated in the past 12 months for postpartum depression. I also refused them permission to contact my doctor.
So they called me.
"Oh yes!" I said laughingly. "I had PPD. I'm all better now, treatment started in January and ended in August. I was weepy, but all fixed now!"
"Excellent!" the woman replied. "I'll make a note of that. Good luck in your new role!"
And isn't it funny, really? Isn't it absolutely fucking hilarious? Isn't it all just a great big goddamn wheeze that 24 hours after that conversation I've been back to the doctor and have another pack of those anti-depressants clutched in my hot little hands because things in the home are so very not good and I'm feeling like millimeters from losing my fucking mind? Isn't that a scream in the great karmic merry-go-round of life that I weaned myself so carefully off the tablets just to go right back on them as soon as they've cleared my system?
Six weeks ago something broke in me. Broke-o. Went snap. I have spent years post therapy parading around with normal(ish) emotions, and in one fell swoop I go wild with anger. Wild. Angrier than I even was all of those years ago, those years that I was hellbent on self-destruction and self-flagellation. I haven't written about it on this site (or even told anyone about it) but for six weeks I've been at boiling point with everyone in my life apart from the babies, who as always are exempted from my issues, and people at work because they don't really factor in my life. While driving a woman cut me off and I had to pull over and put my head between my legs because all I wanted to do was ram her and pull her from the car and beat the fiery stuffing out of her. The remote control stopped working last week and the little fucker was seconds away from being hurled straight through the plasma screen.
Sleep issues are back, my self-esteem is struggling (about my writing now, in particular) and I have a lava flow of rage just under the surface. Just scratch, just a little bit, and you'll get magma under your fingernail. I am not myself, I can tell I am not myself, I can feel it, I just couldn't do anything about it.
The doctor said today "see: depression. See also: postpartum." The Latin plural of this being "we definitely took you off the medication too soon, nomino patri, fili, spiritus sancti". Look under Wikipedia and you'll find the additional explanation of "Guess who's starting therapy again, only not with the therapist she had before and knows and trusts because he's too expensive time and money-wise, so you'll get someone local, someone you can Supersize and get fries with that."
And I'm so bitter.
I've no right to be, but I am.
I'm so, so fucking bitter.
-H.
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October 30, 2008
The following things are annoying me greatly. Please to fix.
1) For each time I have to hear "You know PMS comes monthly, you just have to deal with it" I'm going to kick you in the nuts. While you're writhing around the ground, vomiting blood and begging to die, I'm going to say "You know your scrotum is vulnerable, you just have to deal with it."
You have a nutsack.
I have PMS.
Let's tread a little carefully, ok?
2) Such a to-do. Andrew Sachs needs to get a sense of humor. Jonathon Ross needs to further develop his sense of decorum, although the granddaughter in question is 23, and not an 8 year-old, like the media would have you believe. And Russell Brand quit? I care...why? Russell Brand is considered a sex object over here, although I fail to see why. To me, if you find him sexy you need your eyes checked and a prophylactic round of antibiotics prescribed.
3) It's the end of the fucking world as I know it, and no, I don't feel fine.
4) I spent time this morning in an MRI, which has gifted me with a staggering migraine that makes me want to pop open my head, pull out the right-hand side of my brain, and close the lid again. All this to allegedly see what's up with my wrist. I also forgot to remove certain items from my pocket before the MRI, and did you know that MRIs shag metal reader strips on things like credit cards and parking tickets? Let my lesson be a lesson for you too.
5) I'm going to invent a tampon that doesn't do the pendulum when you remove it. You know what I'm talking about. You're sitting down, pulling the string (the Mooncup and I have broken up, see) and once you've reached the point where the downward motion takes over for you, you get The Swing. The Swing is a force of its own. The Swing inevitably hits the inside of the toilet seat, meaning you have to clean it every damn time you remove a tampon lest the males in your house complain that not only do they have to lower the toilet seat for your feminine ass, but they have to view a bloody Pepe Le Peu-like line up the middle of the seat during that time of month. I need a non-pendulum tampon plan.
6) Speaking of pendulums, tomorrow's our anniversary and I am bleeding like the Nile. Kind of puts a halt to my Naughty Nurse Routine. Nothing's sexier than bichon frise-sized tampons, me clutching the bottle of ibuprofen like it's the elixir of life, and my ceaseless begging for lower back rubs while wearing my I Have My Period Granny Panties. I am so hot.
7) We're off to the mother-in-laws' for the afternoon, with two teens, two teething toddlers, and a stonking migraine. I really like my mother-in-law, but she talks for England, and it's a scientific fact that anyone with Crumplebottom blood running through their veins cannot say goodbye in under two hours. The other sisters-in-law agree with me. You can start packing people up all you want, but there is no way everyone is getting out the door in anything resembling a timely manner.
I wanted to do some fundraising with the babies for BBC's Children In Need. I am a huge, huge fan of Children in Need, they truly do amazing things for children and families - they help disadvantaged children and families by supplying desperately needed help, including mental health treatment which (as you know) I'm a huge supporter of. Every year I cry like a baby during Children in Need programme. It's not too late to set something up, I just know the economy has us all down and it's not a good idea to try to fundraise, but Children In Need? It's important to me.
9) Tomorrow's Halloween, and I haven't hung up a single fucking decoration. My favorite holiday and it sort of escaped me this year.
-H.
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October 24, 2008
I spent 8 hours interviewing today, being grilled left right and center, having to give impromptu presentations and go through round after round of testing.
Out of hundreds of applicants, I was a finalist.
My last interview was with a consultant whose job it is to add a valued and considered business and cultural opinion to the interviewing. And she told me as I left that she's going to recommend to the three other managers that they send me an offer letter next week. She said me and my experience were perfect fits.
I walked down the steps of the building feeling like fucking Rocky Marciano.
I feel like I stuck up for myself today.
Even if it doesn't come with an offer - which I truly hope it will - I fought for my career and my worth today, and I can't tell you how that feels.
-H.
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October 22, 2008
I pulled my coat tighter around me and walked into the station, feeling like I wasn't an imposter, feeling like maybe I belonged there. I was already tired by the time I walked into the station, so I bought a bagel and some coffee. I waited by the window of the bagel stand for them to toast it, and I looked around. An Asian woman, a tiny slip of a thing, fairly waltzed past me.
Elegance, I thought. I'm lacking elegance.
I took my bagel and coffee and started eating while walking to the building. The sun was out, slamming into the surface of the Thames as I crossed Blackfriars bridge. An oil drum bobbed in the fast current of the water, and I wanted to stand on the side of the bridge and raise my hands and jump - not for suicide, but for the thrill of simply jumping, that moment of having air running through my hair, my fingers spread and catching the wind.
Impetus. I'm lacking impetus, my mind whispered.
I got to the building and headed to the conference room. I took my coat off, pulled out the laptop, logged in. I got my wrist brace out of my bag and slid it on. I sighed, thinking of an email exchange I'd had.
Hi Mom -
Just thought I should let you know I've been diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. It's genetic, and so perhaps you and the rest of the family want to get tested.
I got the reply: Well you didn't get it from my side of the family.
I had buried my head in my hands when I read that, and my mind laughed. Yes, Mom, that's the important part of all of this. The blame. That's what's integral to this discussion.
Some things never change.
Metamorphosis! my mind nearly shouted. You can no longer transform yourself! That's the problem!
Last night I got boilingly angry with Angus. Furious. Incredibly upset and disappointed. And this morning as I sit here, still feeling like stone, I realize what it is that I'm really missing.
Grace.
I lack grace.
I combine my inadequacies together and tie them around my neck like a necklace. I don't get upset anymore at my failings, I simply try to accept that like any used car, I could use some work. I'm the person I am, and it's fine. And what Jeannine said yesterday really resonated with me - I'm known to be a very happy, optimistic person, but inside I'm always a bit melancholy - and I like it that way.
My necklace and I have the blues too, and it's ok.
************************************
I came back from London yesterday floored at how many people said hi. To those who de-lurked, well done you. I read each and every comment (twice no less) and even replied to a few. You folks are so interesting - way more interesting than I, I'm just a dork. Reading about you was so amazing! Mothers, fathers, grandmothers, infertiles, fertiles, singletons, divorcees, and the huge number of academics (must watch my spelling and grammar more now). I am awed and humbled and it's funny, but I enjoyed reading about you. It's nice to know who's out there taking a peek into my life. Thank you.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
10:12 AM
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October 21, 2008
Hey, how about them joints?
Have been doing a lot of research and tomorrow am booking an appointment to do some testing to see if I have That Other Kind of EDS, because I do have some symptoms of that as well. The really bad kind. What I have is just bad, there is a really bad out there too.
But in the meantime, I'm off to London today for a full-day meeting in what I think and hope will be my last business jaunt to London for Dream Job. The world is spinning, life is moving, and my last final interview is on Friday, so by this time next week hopefully there are more options. Even if not, there is at least one option - I have an offer. I'm outta' here.
So since my head's a bit screwed up and I'm off to London still a bit dozy from bad dreams and my babies are chatting and giggling upstairs and oh my God does train travel stress me out and do you have any idea how underprepared I am for this meeting today? I'm taking an easy way out.
You know so much about me.
Tell me something about you.
If you want, that is.
It'd just be nice to know something about you, there on the other side of the screen.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
05:55 AM
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Post contains 235 words, total size 1 kb.
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