December 31, 2003

The Ship Of Fools

Ok, well I am back now from my ferry trip to Estonia, and more on the lovely city of Tallinn later, but things have gotten very, very weird at home first.

Partner Unit came to pick me up from the ferry boat, and he waited for me outside of customs. I walked out of customs without seeing him or him seeing me, and headed for the car. When I discovered he wasn't there, I rang him.

It was like a bomb going off.

He shows up within minutes, livid. "Where the fuck have you been?" he screams at me.

Now, I had spent the whole evening before in a state of severe fucked up seasickness. I had had a miserable evening and was tired. I didn't understand what he was talking about. "What?" I asked. "I just got off the boat."

Him (screaming): The fuck you did! I was waiting outside of customs. There was no way I could have missed you. So where the hell have you been and what have you been doing?
Me: I have been in Tallinn and just got back! What are you talking about?
Him: You have NOT been to Estonia. Who have you been with and where have you been?

We get in the car. I pull out my boarding card, my room key card, and my passport to show him the Estonian stamps.

Me: See? I just got off the boat. See the customs stamps? The boarding card? You just missed me from the boat, that's all.
Him: Right. I don't believe you for one second. You're a liar.

Then it was a bomb going off on me.

Me: you're joking, right? You can't be serious. I just got off a boat, and I have all this proof, and you don't believe me? Well that's just too bad, since I just came from Tallinn, from that enormous boat right there, and you just have to believe me.
Him: Well I don't. I don't know where you've been, but it wasn't to Estonia.

I angrily slide my mushy muddy boots off, and some brown snow slings onto the dashboard. He snaps.

Him: Wipe that off my dashboard! IMMEDIATELY!
Me (feeling my knees lock up with stubbornness): I will in a second. First, I want you to admit I was on the boat.
Him (turning and screaming directly in my face): You are a fucking bitch. FUCKING BITCH!

And it made something inside of me snap. I should have been angry, sad or scared. But I am done feeling that way when he gets angry. I felt a laugh bubble up and pour out of my mouth, a freedom from fear that I have when he gets angry. I felt suddenly light and exonerated.

Him: do you wanna' hit me? Do you?
Me (turning to look at him and slowly wiping off the snow): Nope. I'm not like you.

We finally get home (not without him threatening to throw me out of the car several times), and discussed breaking up. I will take the dog, he takes the cats. The house will be posted on the market soon. He will keep most of the property.

There is one caveat-Dear Mate is staying with us for a few days, which I am so grateful for (although he was supposed to stay until next Monday, and I am quite sad that he won't be here then). So we went grocery shopping and wound up getting into it, and we decided that we would wait and see what happens when I get a job. But more or less we don't really have what it takes to make a relationship work.

All that we didn't say was: It's over.

But that day is coming.

So I will celebrate New Years tonight with Partner Unit, Dear Mate, three bottles of champagne and masses of fireworks. I will end the worst and best year of my life-I tried to kill myself. I lost my job. My marriage is over. I met Mr. Y again. I found that I am stronger than I ever thought. I realized how dearly I love my family.

But I am not sad. Instead, it's time to start living again.

Happy New Years, everyone.

-H.

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December 28, 2003

Sleep, I Need Sleep!

But I am not going to get any.

Back in Stockholm now, with all the luggage and Partner Unit and I splurged and upgraded ourselves to business class on the flight home using his frequent flier miles, so that made the very long journey quite bearable.

It's too early in the night in Dallas to call and check on my stepfather, but he is home now and I got to hug him and wish him well. And at the airport, when my mother and sister dropped us off, my mom and I cried buckets.

Buckets.

And she asked me please couldn't I move back. And I have to admit as I walked to the check-in counter, my neck felt cold and tight, like I had been clenching my throat too long, and I found myself trying to memorize and soak in all of the truly American things in that airport, just to tide me over, to keep me safe, to make me think of home.

Home. Funny that that was the word I chose while typing this out.

But I am still not moving back there right now.

I miss my family madly, and learned a lot about them (and about myself) over the holidays. I have MASSES to tell you, some of it funny and some of it sad, but right now I need to try to get some sleep before I keel over. I am heading off tonight on a two night trip to Estonia with the chicks (why Estonia, you may ask? Why not? I reply) so I will be back Tuesday, although I suspect many of you are partying hardy still.

And for all you that live far away from your moms...just give her a call, yeah? I think they need us as much as we need them.

-H.

PS-pic coming on Tuesday, when I download all the holiday pics from my camera!


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December 26, 2003

Short Update...

...Since life is chaos!

My grandmother is doing better now, although her back is still in masses of pain. But the bad news is, my stepfather has been rushed into emergency surgery as his retina has detached, so must be operated on immediately or he will be rendered blind. My mother is at the hospital and Partner Unit, Sister and I are taking a care package out to her shortly, and we will provide a constant food and ferry service today and tonight. My mother is insisting that we go to the Dallas Stars game as planned, since she I think she actually wants to be with my stepfather alone and they won't be operating until about 10pm. So Sister, Partner Unit and I will go to said game, but duck out of it after the 2nd period so we can wait at the hospital with them.

The hospital, which sitcks out in my memory as the last place that I ever saw Kim alive. The very same hospital.

Life always comes full circle like that.

Tomorrow morning Partner Unit and I leave for Chicago, and will have to sprint between terminals to catch our flight to Stockholm. We can't change our tickets, the airline won't let us, or we would do to stay and help my mom. So the next time you will hear from me is Sunday. If you're looking up at the sky tomorrow, think of me as I whiz by overhead.

And think of my stepfather, as he has his eyes operated on for the third time in three months. I know I will be thinking of him, and of my mother, my sister, and my grandmother.

God I love my family.

-H.

PS-I chopped all my hair off.

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December 25, 2003

That's What Families Do

In the midst of the decorating, wrapping presents, humming "O Holy Night" under our breath, last minute dashes to a wildly insane Best Buy and the grocery store and getting lasagne ready yesterday, despite the "Santa Alerts" reported by the news and by NORAD, there was one fact that none of us could overlook:

My grandma's condition was worsening.

At 3:00 pm yesterday my mom and I took her to Baylor for an MRI, since her back needs surgery soon. Grandma was given two valium and two percocet, and by the time we got there she was a bit out of it. Baylor was empty, there were no waiting patients and minimal staff, so we joked with them and told them how much we appreciate them (which we do). Then Mom and I helped Grandma into the gown, and they wheeled her in for x-rays.

My grandma is a difficult woman. She is, hands down, the most negative person I have ever met in my life. You find a cloud with a silver lining and she will tell you about the lead poisoning you will get from it. At times I have feared this woman and her razor sharp tongue (three years ago at Christmas she made a few caustic remarks about how fat she thought I was, and when I returned to Sweden I lived on one bowl of soup a day for about three months. It was only when people kept remarking to me how ill I looked that I started eating again). At times I have tried to find other things to occupy my mind when she went on a rant. But most of the time I just don't listen-she has indeed had a horribly difficult life, and so if anyone has the right to be bitter, I would say it's her.

My mom and I sat curled up in the patient dressing area, our feet tucked around us, and just talked and-believe it or not, in that environment-made each other laugh. A steady whir of the machines hummed in the hallways, and a chriping sound (like a little birds) pinged off the walls as the machines readied themselves. And my mom and I just sat there and talked about all manner of things-high heels. Sausages. Things we don't like about our bodies. My mom mentioned how hard it is being the parent to her mother now, that it was a new role that took a lot of work and adjustment, and I thought of the masses of work my mom had been doing, and was just awed again by the stength of my mother. We just sat there, in the little cubicle, and made each other feel like things would be ok. It made my heart ache knowing that we could still feel close like that.

When my grandma was done they wheeled her back to us and she was really under the hold of the medication, she was so out of it. But the good news is, she wasn't feeling any pain, so it was a comfort to know that she had had enough medication to knock out a racehorse but finally escaped the gasping pain she'd been feeling. Re-dressing her was slow since she'd had a lot of medication, and at one point she turned to me.

"You get to spend your Christmas Eve in the damn hospital." she muttered angrily.
I knew humor was called for here. "It wouldn't be a family Christmas is one of us hadn't been here. In fact, I am thinking of needing an appendectomy tomorrow, so if you think you get center attention for this, you're wrong."

She laughed, and I was comforted by it.

As we exited the hospital a nice man went out of his way to hold the door for me, since I was pushing her in the wheelchair, and it drove home again to me just how polite and kind people are in the U.S. It's one of the biggest things I miss about the U.S., the small banter and kind chat with strangers.

When we got home Mom went in the house and readied her bed while Grandma and I made the slow walk to the house with her walker. I chatted away and encouraged her to keep going. But halfway through, the medication hit-the nausea she had been fighting was too much, and she was sick on the sidewalk. We stopped, and I told her it was all ok, we would just stop here for a second, and we slowly started moving again. We took a few steps and she was even sicker than before and all I did was tell her it would be ok again. Relax, it's ok. I'm right here.

Mom came outside and I told her what happened, so she dashed inside to get a bucket and a wet face cloth. All I could think was that we needed to get Grandma inside, laying down, to help her.

We made it there, in the end-Partner Unit, Mom and I wheeling her inside on the computer chair from upstairs. Mom and I put her to bed and she was asleep instantly, which was good.

Hours later as we had lasagne, she came out to join us. She had a few bites but was struggling with the medication, so kept dozing softly. She turned to us at one point.

"How bad is this? You get to go back to Sweden and tell them bad how your Christmas Eve was!"
"What are you talking about?" I joked. "Santa brought a load of Percocet and Vicodin for Christmas! We will be the envy of Europe!"

She laughed again, then went off to bed. I helped tuck her in. And just as I was leaving, she was sick again in the basin we had put by the bed. Mom came running and she and I stood there and soothed her and cleaned up. Mom cracked jokes and got a few smiles from my grandma, and as mom went to get a new basin, grandma turned to me.

"What willl they think when you go back to Sweden and tell them about your Christmas Eve?"
I smiled at her. "All I will be telling them is I spent time with my family. And I am, so stop thinking you've ruined Christmas Eve. You haven't. I never once thought that."

Mom came in with the newly cleaned basin, I pulled the covers up over my grandmother's shoulders, and as I did so saw she was already asleep.

I hope when she wakes up she is not nauseous, but I also hope the pain medications are still working a bit. She may be a terribly bitter woman, but she is still my grandmother and I love her very much. If I could take on her pain I would, but we all know that life simply doesn't work like that. And as we spend time thinking about my grandma and hoping that she will be ok, my mind plays back to what my mother said, that this stage of our lives is where we are the parent to our parents. And I know that if and when my mom needs me, I will step up, too-hopefully with the Titan-like strength that my mother has.

Because that's what families do.

Merry Christmas.

-H.

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December 24, 2003

Just to Say...

Today will be spent making lasagne (our traditional Christmas Eve dinner), watching Scrooged and A Christmas Story, and later this evening my mother, stepfather, sister, Partner Unit and I will play Trivia Pursuit, Hearts and Scattegories, which means that someone will lose an eye or an appendage since we are so competitive.

We will crack open the wine about 4:00 pm, and be lit up like a Christmas tree by about 10, and then in the morning we will wake up, make coffee and the traditional Christmas Breakfast (bits of bacon and sausage chopped up and mixed in scrambled eggs with cheese, and cinnamon rolls. Only my eggs will be sans the dead animal by-products). Then we open presents, eat until we're ill, and go for the other limbs of our loved ones as we continue playing games.

Finally, I am back to understanding our rituals. The way that Christmas has been in our family as long as I can remember. And although I maybe don't feel a big tug on my heart when I fly into U.S. airspace, I do feel a big tug when I know the ritual that is Christmas.

And so with that, I am off to the grocery store. And I just wanted to say, to all my non-Christmas celebrating readers: take the day off and kick back and relax.

And to all of you: Merry Christmas.

-H.

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December 23, 2003

The Lion Sleeps Tonight.

An interesting discovery came up when I was talking to my therapist. He and I kept having mass confusion, until we sorted it out, and I realized that my definitions are a bit wonky.

Basically, when I refer to my family, I am talking about my mother, sister and I. Not my dad or anyone else. It is my mother's defintion, this description of family, and it is one that is almost like a sacred code with my sister and I. The nuclear family in our household are the three women that bonded together to survive some pretty horrible circumstances in our early lives.

My father is not included in that defintion. But nor is he any longer such an outcast.

And I realize it must be hard for the men in our lives. My stepfather, married to my mom for over 11 years now, is not technically part of this definition. Neither are the men in my sister's or my lives. My Grandmother (mother's mother) is more a peripheral part of the family definition. Now, we don't go out of our way to exclude the men or make them feel bad, they are just...seperate. Not part of the war veterans that is the family's early years, they're foot soldiers that came along after the big battles were done to help with the small skirmishes. Or it's like the analogy of the mother lion protecting her cubs, and killing aything that comes near them. And even though the cubs have grown and have dens of their own, it doesn't make it any less feral a situation.

The women in my family are known for many things. We can be moody. We don't talk about our problems. We are ferocious readers and love to laugh. John Denver and the Muppets are the Christma Bible. We are subject to depression. I am perhaps the only one that is too stridently, in-your-face independent, but that's not a characteristic to boast over.

All the women in my family also have one unique feature about us-give us pain medication and we hallucinate like mad. My grandmother had some tests done last night, and she came back from the hospital hyped up on painkillers and muscla relaxers and screaming with laughter. It was hilarious to see her in such a good mood, and we then started comparing notes. Apparently, I am the winner of the hallucination prize as once I thought I was in 7-11 with a reindeer trying to buy beef jerky, and all I kept saying was "Oh thank heaven for 7-11!"

Last night Sister and I got on better than we have in a long time. It's weird-sometimes I think that they see this blog and we all start thinking or something, I don't know. My mother relaxed enough to let me help her take care of the house-she's running ragged taking care of my ill grandmother, and my stepfather just had surgery for a detached retina, so he is basically blind and needs taking care of, too. I think my mother has this attitude of "I can take care of it, I can take care of anything". And I understand and recognize that feeling, since I have it too. But the truth is, none of us can handle everything, and at the end of the day if I do all the laundry, no one for one second will think she dropped the ball.

My God, I think that woman can carry a fucking boulder, not once would I think she dropped the ball.

This morning as she headed to take my grandmother to yet another doctor, she stopped and asked if maybe just she and I could do lunch. She looked tired but pretty in a pale pink sweater, her eyes searching mine to see if I liked that idea. And I felt a big smile on my face and I replied that I would love that. And she hugged me and I smelt the familiar green tea scent and the softness of her cheek, and I knew that sometimes grown/up lionnesses still need to venture back home to mom, for a cup of reassurance.

-H.

PS-I love Oda Mae's suggestion of getting drunk with my sister, so I am buying a few bottles of wine to do so now. And if that fails, Jennifer, Ilyka, and Mitzi-brace yourselves, darlings!

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December 22, 2003

Santa's Going to Bring Tranquilizers

Santa's going to stop by this house in Grapevine, Texas later this week, and when he comes, I predict bloodshed.

I've been good all year (ooh, except for on Thanksgiving), but I am single-handedly undoing all the goodness that I have known in just 24 hours of exposure to my sister. It turns out that sibling rivalry doesn't really disappear, it just morphs in time into biting sarcasm and hostility. The house has become "The Brady Bunch", only it would be like if Jan was a crackhead and Marsha was a college dropout and the three boys were gay. And the Dad was nailing Alice.

It's like stepping into another world.

Some background:

My sister is 7 years younger than I am, and we have always had a love-hate relationship. When we were younger, I took care of her. I protected her from the vicious marital rows that took place in the house, and when my parents split up and my mom had to bust her ass to make it in the workforce, I became a second mom to my sister. Sister and I could have some pretty vicious rows ourselves. I remember one occasion when I threw an entire collection of tupperware drinking glasses at her. She rallied and threw a case of steak knives at me. Of course, it was all cleaned up by the time authority figures were home from work, and Bob's your uncle.

But somewhere along the line we started to drift apart, and I think that was when I moved away. Where once she and I went to a movie every Friday night (even if there was nothing interesting on) and she was my best friend, she became someone that I don't even really know. She split up with her boyfriend of a few years, and I didn't even know about it until a few weeks later. She's very busy with the cheerleading she does (she's a cheerleader for a professional sports team here in Dallas) and I am very busy job hunting. We just both moved on in our lives, and both of us were bad at keeping the other one involved.

So now if you put us in confined spaces such as a car, the house, or the state of Texas, then there are pretty good odds we are going to go after each other. At least we are consistent-we still do this.

For example: last night we needed to decorate the tree. My mother caved in and actually bought a really lovely tree, with a squished up back (we only buy things with little cosmetic problems really, in this family. When I was younger I would only buy stuffed animals that had a problem-an eye missing, an arm sewed on wrong-since I knew it needed a home. My mother is the same. I think we're maybe mental in that respect).

Sister only wanted lights and tinsel. I wanted the same, and with colored ball ornaments. Mom wanted some of the sentimental older ornaments, too. Partner Unit, Grandmother and Stepfather, watching said spectacle, had no opinion. When Sister was done with the lights and tinsel, she refused to help out further.

Me: What are you doing, help us with the ornaments?
Her: I am not having them, I'm refusing out of protest.
Me: Oh come on. It looks better with them.
Her: No, I don't want balls.
Me: Yeah, that's what I heard about you.

She smoldered. I hung ornaments on her shoelaces. She was not amused. Mom dug out a box of particularly older but pretty ornaments, and proffered them for use.

Me: Those are pretty, I like those.
Her (Sister, that is, saying to me): You can't use those, those were from your first marriage.
Me: So what? I don't care about that, do you? (I asked Partner Unit. He indicated he didn't care either).
Her: Oh great, so you're going to have ornaments from your first marriage on the tree.
Me: I don't associate them with it at all. It's not a big deal.
Her: Whatever. It's your failed marriage.
Me: Yeah, I appear to be averaging one of them a decade.
Her: Yeah, like that's something to be proud of.
Me: Yeah, well at least I admit my mistakes.
Mom (in a nervous frenetic way, trying to divert an argument): Isn't the tree lovely? It's lovely right?
Grandma: You know your Great-Aunt Verna was married four times. Just don't be like her. (Great-Aunt Verna was a particularly messed-up character in our family tree that was mentally unstable and screwed her parents out of a great deal of their fortune).
Me: Yeah, but that's because she was a ho.

Grandma nods. Stepfather slaps his forehead. Mom convulses into laughter and Partner Unit looks horrified. Sister looks at me.

Her: See, something to aspire to.
Me: Are you ever pleasant and nice to be around? I'm just asking.

She walks off. Of course, we later had a very conciliatory conversation on music half an hour later.

I haven't gotten drunk yet, but it's happening tonight. And if I am good and don't fight with Sister for a few more days, I am hoping Santa drops off some tranquilizers. I may not make it through the ho-ho-holiday season without some.

-H.

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December 21, 2003

So This is What The U.S. Looks Like

Alive and ok in the U.S.A. And I have managed to have Starbucks everyday thus far, in a trend that I am becoming alarmingly dependent on. I can now say: "Venti non-fat caramel macchiato" in my sleep. I wonder if there are actual traces of caramel in my bloodstream.

I am now in Dallas, sitting in my mother and stepfather's study, wrapped in a blanket and paralyzed with back problems and insomnia.

Cool.

NYC was great. Much sightseeing was done there on Friday, we saw Rockafeller Center, Grand Central Station (several times, since that is the setting for the book I am writing so I wanted to make sure I didn't screw it up!), the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Times Square, Soho, Chinatown, Wall Street, and the WTC site.

A guy tried to hit on me at the WTC site. Talk about weirdly inappropriate.

We also saw the movie "Big Fish", which I thought was lovely and sweet. We saw this since I somehow injured my back and was forced to walk around like an 80 year old woman for the latter half of Friday. I injured my back about 2 years ago, and now in times of severe stress or if I've slept wrong, it acts up again and feels like a steel pole is soddered to my spine. I'm getting better, but Saturday morning we didn't even leave the hotel, since I couldn't walk.

The flight to Newark was amazing. We got upgraded and put in business class, which on an Airbus 330 trans-Atlantic flight kicked a clown's ass. We were hammered about halfway through the flight (here is your before take-off wine. And your appetizer wine. And your dinner wine. And your dessert wine. And your aperitif. And a few more glasses just because you have really nice breasts), wearing strange green socks and armed with comfy quilted blankets. If you pushed a button that looked like a bed, the amazing jumping seat contraption unfolded and you were whisked off into slumberland (or alcoholic passing out in our case). It was fucking fantastic. All it was missing was a sparkly vibrator to make my plane trip even better (or John Cusack seated next to me. You know, the live version of the sparkly vibrator). I bet they would've kicked my ass right out of there had they known I was recently unemployed and that my silver frequent flier card hadn't a donkey's chance in hell of going up a level any longer.

Arriving to Newark International Airport was a bit strange. Just as we had arrived, the snow started to whiz down out of the sky. It took a while to arrange transport to NYC, but once that was done we stood out in the blistering cold to wait for it.

Him: So how does it feel to be home?
Me: I have never lived in New Jersey, honey. In fact, I had never been out of the airport here before.
Him: No, I mean the U.S.
Me: How does it feel to be back in the U.S.?
Him: Yeah. You're home now.

I looked around. Was I really home (not thinking about New Jersey here)? Did I feel anything special?

Me: Sorry, but it doesn't really feel any different. I don't feel suddenly comforted by being in the border of the U.S. just now. It's rather like being in any other country that I am a visitor in, only I know a great deal more about how this one works.
Him: That's funny. Whenever I fly back to Sweden from anywhere, even if it's just for a few days away or anything, I start to relax immediately when I am back in the borders of Sweden. I just know I'm home.

Whew. Now I'm really depressed.

Partner Unit and I have been having a number of extremely frank talks. We have discussed Ed the Evil One going to his mother, who has a house in the country and is fucking mad about the dog. We have discussed selling the Dream House. And we have discussed how we never talk about anything serious, and never have done either.

We also got into it on Friday when I told him that I am thinking of cutting my hair. He is dead against it. We started discussing as we shrugged on our coats to go outside.

Me (lifting my hair out from under my coat): I am thinking of cutting all of my hair off. I will send it off to Locks of Love.
Him: I think it's a terrible idea to cut your hair. I'm dead against it. I think you're ugly with short hair.

I waited a pause to notice a smile on his face or something.
Nothing.
He was serious.

Me: You're calling me ugly?
Him: With short hair, yes.
Me: Well, I'm in a transitional phase, and I feel the need for a big change in my physical appearance. Anyway, I had short hair when you met me.
Him (putting his hat on and walking out the door): Yeah, and I still somehow stuck with you anyway.

Ouch. That hurt. It also strengthened my resolve. The hair is going, and I think I will go for this cut.

I am nothing if not stubborn and rebellious.

-H.

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December 18, 2003

Start Spreading the News

...I'm leaving, today!

That's right, in just a few hours Partner Unit and I head out to what could be a very long and difficult holiday. We fly from Stockholm and spend two days in New York City, then continue on for 7 days of ball-busting with my family in Dallas.

I would've asked some of my faves to get me those drinks that I am owed while I am out and about (ahem...Drew and my muppet Don) but seeing as I am with Partner Unit and he has no idea I blog, it's not a good idea. We'll be splitting up soon enough, I would guess, no need to lose my shirt in the settlement, too.

So what does this mean? It means Helen will be making sure she sees some sights in NYC on the 18-20th. Then I will be flying back to Dallas, to see my mother, grandmother, stepfather, and the sister that is currently not speaking to me. We shall all live under one roof (with the extended mother-in-law wing to accommodate my quite-ill grandmother), along with 5 dogs, 6 cats, several fish tanks and a cantankerous cockatiel that just won't die.

Good thing the house is huge. Otherwise we would likely wind up killing each other.

My plans? I get to see a Stars game, which excites me no end. I am going to Target to find my salvation. I plan on taking more photos of a cereal aisle. I will be seeing "Return of the King" and buying some new jeans and girlie scents at Bath and Body Works. I will be worshipping the goddess that is American TV. The rest of my time will be spent relaxing, trying not to fight with my family, trying not to seperate with Partner Unit while there, and trying not to lose my mind.

And above all, my mind will be busy trying not to see Kim in every nook and cranny in Dallas. Go away, Kim. It's time I lived my life without you now.

I just hate going back to Dallas. All those fucking ghosts.

So my blog will be quiet until Sunday, which is the first time I get Internet access. I promise-much updatage and much action will be happening in my life.

Since that is the only way I know how to live it.

See you soon!

-H.


PS-I just passed my 6-month blogging anniversary. I hadn't even realized it happened. I started off blogging and not a single person would read me (other than Dear Mate and Best Friend) to having the world's bestest ring of people reading my blog, and commenting on everything from my haircut to my job loss to the fact that I think swallowing is ok. Get ready for the next 6 months-I'll be here, and glad to know some of you will be, too!

PPS-Simon is one of my favorites, and since we love him, we most go, en masse, and vote for him here as one of Asia's best bloggers (Newcomer category). The competition is close, and he needs us. Do it for the children.

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December 17, 2003

Allow Me To Burn Your Bra

Well, I'm not burning mine, after all. I have super-cut lacy demi-bras that I like too much, so just loan me yours for the duration of this post, ok?

Last week, Best Friend and I consumed entirely too much curry and beer in a little Christmas celebration for two. During said meal, he mentioned the latest "Men's Health" magazine discussed the ideal criteria for determining if a woman is wife material, which Best Friend summized in a mail for me. It is thus:

- Good wives are interested in being good moms
- Good wives have that sex trigger that you just want to keep pulling
- Good wives drive like guys. Driving is a great measure of competency
- Good wives understand how to nurture and grow your money
- Good wives have a sense of humor (or they wouldn't have considered you!)
- Good wives are not being treated on an outpatient basis for anything

Allow me to vomit copious amounts, please. Just a sec now...

OK, vomiting done. I briefly considered just giving up dick and going gay if I am to be judged on this crap criteria, but instead allow me to rebut, if you don't mind.

- Good wives are interested in being good moms-what a stupid statement. What woman, on becoming a mother, doesn't want to be a good mom? Huh? I mean, do you know of any pregnant women watching "Mommy Dearest" and looking for pointers? Do you think any of them are contacting Michael Jackson for valuable parenting advice? Stupid criteria.

- Good wives have that sex trigger that you just want to keep pulling-so if we aren't wearing a layer of clingwrap and dancing on the coffee table, inviting our female friends over for a threesome for the evening, or dropping to our knees and unzipping your fly in hurried and rushed motions for a little throat yogurt, then we are not the ideal woman? Let me tell you, gentlemen-it's a two-way street here. We want to be treated like a whore in the bedroom and a goddess in every other room in the house. Remember that, and we will reward you nicely. Of course, we reserve the right to make you treat us like a goddess in the bedroom, too. Just read the signals, boys. Read the signals.

- Good wives drive like guys. Driving is a great measure of competency-then every single man I have ever been with is thereby a complete waste of Darwinian strategy. Partner Unit drives slower than a hearse in a funeral procession. Kim used to do odd things like superglue briefcases to the roof of his car to see how many people would gesture wildly to him on the motorway. These guys were nimrods at driving, but good men.

- Good wives understand how to nurture and grow your money - it's called shoes. They're the gift that keep on giving. Talk about the perfect investment! Or better yet, I will nourish my money. You nourish your own fucking money. Individual accounts, baby.

- Good wives have a sense of humor (or they wouldn't have considered you!) - good people have a sense of humor. Bad people think clowns are funny.

- Good wives are not being treated on an outpatient basis for anything - that's right. So the woman you love being treated with chemo? Dump her. The woman who was molested as a child and is seeing a therapist to get over it and rebuild her life? Yeah, she should go.

Clearly what Men's Health wants you to look for is a woman who can't wait to have babies, is healthy as a horse, drives like Mario Andretti, works as an investment banker when she's not busy trying to devise new ways to get you off, and thinks Jim Carrey is God.

You know who the perfect wife is? A woman you can't wait to talk to first thing something happens in your life, be it good or bad. A woman you can't keep your hands off. A woman you can talk to about anything and everything, and is someone you can even fight with and still make up at the end. It's a woman you find exciting, even when she isn't around you. Someone who sometimes has a problem and needs you there to help her find the solution. Who you can't resist holding her hand. Someone who takes up a thousand minutes of your day. The perfect wife is the woman that you fall in love with. Don't let any stupid, irresponsible fucking magazine convince you otherwise.

The answer, boys. It's all there.

In the meantime, if I am being judged by this criteria, then I am going to arrange my foursome now, to be chaperoned by Jean.

-H.

PS-Holy cow, I couldn't believe the response I got to long versus short. Long won out 23 to 17, but I am still going to think about it and dwell. It may just happen-Laura was bang on, it's because it's a transitional thing. So let's see what happens...but I love that you guys gave me your opionion. I read and re-read all the comments. But sorry Guinness and Stu-I'm not going blond

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December 16, 2003

I Hope You Had The Time of Your Life

My days are all laying out to be the same.

0730 - wake up
0730-0745 - masturbate (sometimes it takes a little longer than other times, unfortunately)
0745-0800 - get up, wash off the battery operated palytoys, turn on pc, turn on phones, login, check e-mail and blog
0800-0930 - send in CVs and enter new blog post
0930-1000 - talk to Dear Mate on the phone
1000-1500 - watch DVDs, read, and check email in hopes that a job has mailed me. Possibly shower, possibly wash hair, though neither one is guaranteed.
1500-1600 - walk dog, clean house, etc.
1600-1800 - cook dinner, clean house, check emails, cry a bit
1800-2200 - watch tv, eat dinner with Partner Unit, check jobsites, and generally wonder what's happening with my life.
2200-? - stay up, insomniac, continue wondering what's happening with my life and where it's all headed.

Thus is a day in Helen's life.

And through it all, I look around me and wonder what I'm doing here. Lives are being torn apart. Dear Mate and his Partner Unit are splitting up (in fact, Dear Mate will be staying with us over New Year's, which I am much looking forward to). Mr. Y and his Partner Unit are splitting up. Best Friend and his Partner Unit are headed downhill, and me and my Partner Unit are spiralling down as well. I'm thinking of starting a club for people that are in the midst of/headed for a breakup, let me know if you want to join. All that's needed is a cloudy head, a fuzzy heart, and the ability to leap tall gin and tonics in a single bound.

I look at Partner Unit and think about what a good guy he is, a good friend with a big heart (since you asked, Jiminy!). And then we try to talk about something that upsets me and it all goes to hell and ends up in a fight. There is perfect peace and we get along well, provided I never really tell him how I think and feel. If I am Surface Helen, with Surface Problems, then all is well. It's like sometimes we both get pulled back by who we are as a couple. I will start to tell him of my despair about being jobless, and then I see the stricken look on his face and pull back, thinking...Right...This is not who we are. He will take it personally and I will fuck it up, so better just deal with it alone.

Even though I love him, I am not sure that he and I can ever really make it. I can't talk to him. I never could. But whereas once upon a time that was what I wanted, a partner that didn't ask questions and didn't need to know, I find now that in order to get it all out and live life in the real zone, I do need someone that wants to know, that wants answers, that wants...well...me.

So I turn to Dear Mate. I turn to Mr. Y. I turn into myself and to my blog to seek answers. Mr. Y has come through like a star, as perhaps you expected to hear. We have daily contact, by email and text (although I am now paying for my phone bill, so I text rather less than I want to, but there you have it.) But I am not hanging my horseshoe on him in hopes that he will get me out of this mess-he has a mess to go through, and I have a mess to go through, but at least neither of us are doing it alone.

I am trying, anyway. I am trying to imagine a future that is not here.

-H.

PS-about the job: I am still waiting to hear back from the recruiter. We had a long chat last night, and since neither of the candidates that Dream Job wants are available, it looks as though we have the following options:

A) have a phone interview on Dec. 22nd and a face to face interview Jan. 5
B) have a face to face interview on January 5
C) have a face to face interview later in January
D) send Simon my best suit and teach him about the network differences between GSM from WCDMA.
E) pay to fly back to London for the 22nd

I hope the recruiter calls me back soon.

This doesn't solve my citizenship/visa issues. If I don't get my citizenship in time, Dream Job has to file with the government to get me a work permit, which can take up to 6 weeks (thereby I should have citizenship). I can imagine that they are not going to be excited to do this. I am faxing the Swedish government today urging them to speed up my application, but no idea what reason to give as to why they need to do this. The good news is the other candidate I am up against is actually employed, so likely couldn't start right away either.

PPS-am trying to decide if I should cut all my hair off or not. I present you with a current photo and an old photo, let me know if you like long or short (but I am not going back to red).

Short hair

Long hair

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December 15, 2003

That's What That Story Means!

You know that story "The Gift of the Magi", where a poor couple decides to swap gifts, only they are young and foolish and make the wrong choices?

I fucking hate that story with a passion. It fills me with a sense of awkward embarrassment, and I hate that. But I think now I get the story now.

I have a problem- I have received two more rejections on jobs that I stood a chance for today, as I am "too technically oriented". But the one job that I REALLY WANT, my dream job, has called to tell me that I am one of only two candidates that they want to interview. They want to interview me and another guy in London on the 22nd of December and will decide that day which of us will be hired and will tell us then. So I could possibly have a new job with a big raise and a new future before Christmas. Or I could end up the year along the same miserable lines that I have experienced thus far.

The big problem is I have tickets to the US, and will be in the US then with my family. I have called the airline, and the tickets cannot be changed or refunded. I bought and booked these tickets in August, and my family is preparing for us to be there.

Not sure what to do-do I cancel my Christmas for a chance at a job, or go to the US and lose the best news and first major lead I have had since losing my job a month ago? Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Think good things for me. And if there is a higher power, please let him/her/it decide that I have paid enough dues this year and help me find a break.

-H.


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Burning Away the Past, One Box at a Time

I have started cleaning out the attic and storage spaces of the house. I have been cleaning like a woman possessed, changing things, throwing out things, getting rid of things. I want to pare down my existence and get it all into just one box. To get rid of all my material things, all my connections to the past, and only be connected to right now, to this moment, to what happens next.

It helps that I have two fireplaces in the house. They have been going non-stop and I have been burning anything that is fit to burn. This, of course, causes problems in the amount of ashes left behind and necessitates me having to clean out the ashes each morning, as it is about six inches thick at the end of each session.

It's like a giant rummage sale. 'It's Helen's past! Everything must go!' I don't know why I am doing it, perhaps I am preparing myself, perhaps I am just purging, perhaps it is something I should have done ages ago.

I remember just before I moved to Sweden I got rid of almost everything. When I moved to Sweden I had a grand total of 15 boxes and those four pieces of furniture. An entire life lived in one small truckload of goods. I gave away everything else-hundreds of books, a house full of furniture. I don't regret giving any of it away, and I haven't missed it. Ironically, one of the greatest lessons I have learned thus far in life is that possessions are nothing, really. This is not to say I'm not sentimental, for I am. Deeply. I have the quilt my grandmother stitched for me just before her arthritis got too bad to hold a needle. A yellow plastic bath toy that was a gift from my grandfather. Gifts from people that I have loved.

Maybe I am doing it all again, only in a more destructive way. This morning I threw out almost half my CD collection , all of my old journals, and some videos (all of my DVD colletion will kept and not minimized). I went through two boxes of papers that I had and managed to burn one and a half of them. My books are the next to go, although I will just take them to the library in Stockholm and hope they bring someone some peaceful reading. Only a handful of the books will stay with me-'Calvin and Hobbs', 'Griffin and Sabine', 'Flags of Our Fathers', 'The Lovely Bones' and a few others that touched me deeply.

I am determined to be ruthless. Anything related to my ex-husband (other than our divorce decree) went up in a whoosh of fire about two hours ago. Anything that had to do with university, other than my diploma and a letter from Sallie Mae saying I was all paid up also joined the fray. Old car payment books, bank statements, little incidentals having to do with past jobs'¦they all went.

Love letters stayed. They got boxed up and boxed up again. I will keep them, even if I don't read them just now. It's nice to know that I was loved like that at one time, and so love letters will stay, if only as a memory of how young I was once, and how naïve.

And then I got to my box of photos. Endless photos of endless times in my life. Me with Julia Roberts red hair. Me with the Gwenyth Paltrow 'Sliding Doors' short haircut. Me with hair down to the middle of my back. Puppies that grew into dogs, Christmases that were celebrated years ago, and pictures of my first house, a beautiful little number in Dallas. My mom. My sister. Some of the parade of morons that were the men in my life at one time. Snow, sun, sea, sand. All of it in there.

And as I reached my hand into the box to start chucking photos into the flames, I pulled out two photos. One was of my grandfather, sitting in his favorite armchair, laughing. His army issue glasses were falling down the bridge of his nose and the remote control teetered dangerously on the armrest. His cheeks were red and at his feet was his favorite dog, a cattle dog named Babe.

The second one was a picture of Kim, my beautiful Kim, sitting naked in front of a table. The slope of his back was graceful, a burn scar marring the upper left shoulder, the skin moving to lean ribs and a softly sculpted stomach. His legs were crossed, but a ridge of black hair ran down his chest, fanning out just above his pubic bone to the part the camera did not catch. I remember running my hands up and down that back as he sat up in bed. I remember the feel of his stomach pressed against my back at night as we slept.

My God, he was so beautiful.

I put the two pictures back into the box, added my old love letters, and closed the lid. I may be on a quest to rid my heart of my memories, but I cannot rid my mind of these images. The craziness that I am going through right now would lead to a desolation someday, as I realized that I would not have pictures of these parts of my life, the good and the bad, the heaven and the hell.

I think about all the times I have been to antique stores and looked through boxes of old photos. It amazes me that the photos have come to rest there, in a box marked '10 for $1.00!' These pictures are lives. They are unmarked, unclaimed, resting silently for a stranger like me to flip through them and witness their lives, their intimate moments which I haven't been invited to. Women holding babies up to the camera. Graduations. Photos of Ellis Island. A little girl holding a pineapple up to the camera on holiday. Kids tobogganing in a white and gray blur of motion.

The clean and purge will continue, but I feel proud of myself that I have not lost my pictures. No matter where I go in life, I want that stupid box to come with me, even if I never open it again. It's proof that a life was lived with some purpose, that someday even if my pictures wind up in some antique store it is proof enough that I was here. And someday if you are in an antique store and find one of two people looking madly in love, and flip it over and see on the back 'Kim and I, September 1995', then go ahead and buy that one. Perhaps it's me.

And if that picture is bought by someone, perhaps he and I will live on after all.

-H.

PS-Kim and I can be found here, in case anyone has some reading time and wants a good cry.

PPS-Check out Jim's "The Best Of Me" Symphony here.

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December 13, 2003

The Darkness and The Light

Today is a holiday here in Sweden. It's called "Lucia Day", and is the day of the year when it is the darkest (symbolically that is, as the real day with the shortest amount of daylight is December 23), the day when winter smacks you across the face to remind you that in the north, you should never take the daylight for granted. There is no daylight at all in the north of Sweden today, and just a few hours of it here in Stockholm.

The day is celebrated by a short processional led by a young woman wearing candles on her head, surrounded by a chorus of others holding candles, and they sing traditional songs in a way of marking the darkness, and noting how now we will start getting a few minutes more of daylight each day. It's a way to mark the darkness, but also a celebration that light is coming back. It's the direct contrast to Midsummer, which is celebrated with wild drunken orgy-like abandon in the middle of July, the day in which the sun doesn't set really.

I was Lucia once in a Lucia parade, dressed in a white gown with a red sash, a crown of candles in my hair and a wreath of flowers in my hand. It was my first December in Sweden then, and I just stood there and smiled while the others sang the songs, since they were in Swedish and I didn't understand it all then. The chorus are men and women dressed in white robes and red sashes, and the men wear a tall white triangular hat that looks uncomfortably like the attire of the KKK, but it has nothing to do with that whatsoever (I am relieved to say).

And it is very cold, very gray outside today, although a bit lighter in appearance since there is a light snowfall. I have had a fire going all morning since I couldn't sleep, and today will be spent cleaning, applying for jobs, and picking up the last few Christmas presents that I need to buy.

On Lucia day you are supposed to eat a special type of baked bun, called a Luciabulle. And on the four Sundays before Christmas, we light advent lights. One candle is lit and allowed to burn just a bit on the first Sunday. The second Sunday, the first candle and a second candle are lit and allowed to burn just a bit, and so on.

This year there are no Luciabulle in the house. There is no advent taper lit and ready to go, it is still in the box it was hastily stuffed in at the end of last year, getting dusty in the attic. There are no decorations, no lights, no sign at all that it is the holiday season here. Neither I nor Partner Unit feel the need to celebrate this year, nor do we see the need to drag out all the decorations when it is just an empty celebration.

All this might sound pretty down, but in fact right now I feel ok (perhaps it's all that curry I have been eating). I am still endlessly sending off CVs. I still have absolutely no idea what is going to happen with my life, my career, my location, or my relationships. But right now I'm ok. I just sit, write, look out the study window at the falling snow, and I don't mind that it's the darkest day of the year.

Because at the end of the darkest day of the year comes the light. The light which will, despite the cold, start to pervade the little corners and areas of each little house and garden. Proof that after the longest night, the sun will come back and illuminate our lives.

And I have to hope that the light will find me, too.
-H.

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December 12, 2003

Bob's Your Uncle

Oh my God, does my head ever hurt. Not only do I have a hangover, but I simply cannot remember all the earth-shatteringly important solutions that Best Friend and I came up with last night.

Sorry about the mix of British English and American English here. I have recently noticed that I use a lot of British English terms. For example, I call an apartment a flat. I don't mail things, I post them. I don't get drunk I get pissed, but when I make fun of things then I take the piss out of them. And I have picked up the Aussie phrase "No worries", which I use with abandon, even when the situation maybe isn't suitable for it. Late for an appointment? No worries. Did you hurt my feelings and you're apologizing? No worries. Bleeding out of your eyes? No worries.

I think I picked it all up from Dear Mate, Best Friend, and Mr. Y. They're all English, and remember I have a thing for Englishmen. Plus, being an American living over here I got a bit tired out of everyone making fun of my phrases and terms, so I think I just adapted in order to survive. This change has not gone unnoticed by my family, who think I am being uppity. Whatever. I think they can lecture me about how I speak when they realize the term "fixin' to" is not socially acceptable either.

It isn't helped by my choice of viewing material either. Whenever I watch the stodgy Victorian films I start talking like them. It's annoying, both to the listener and to myself.

I have just watched (again) the film "Pride and Prejudice", you know the 6 hour bonanza starring Colin Firth. I fucking love that film, but it really messes with my language for a while afterwards. For example, I had a phone call with Dear Mate the other day after finishing Disc 1 of the boxed set.

Me: Whatcha' doing?
Him: I'm headed to a customer meeting shortly, in my whistle and flute.

Let me explain here: in Cockney, they have this language pattern in which they take rhymes and make that the object. You have to be pretty up on the Cockney to have a discussion with Londoners, or you can get very lost very quickly as it becomes patently clear that you are not speaking the same language. Whenever I talk to someone who uses Cockney, I am generally about three sentences behind while I try to think of stupid rhymes that could match their meaning. So "Whistle and flute"= suit. "Dog and bone"=phone. "Sceptic"=Sceptic tank=Yank (American. And I hate that one).

Me: Your quaintly aggravating colloquialisms do tire me out.
Him: What?
Me: What?
Him: What the hell are you talking about?
Me: I would apologize for my superfluous terminology, but that would be foreswearing myself, as I feel no regret.

Geez. I need to get off the Victorian period dramas for a bit. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some job surfing to do and then I think I will watch "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure", to bring the language and the IQ levels down a bit.

-H.

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December 11, 2003

*Hic*

This is my first post completely pissed.

Best Friend and I decided to celebrate our Christmas Party early, so went out for a curry and waaaaaaay too much beer. I am home now, and everything is WILDLY funny. Best Friend and I not only managed to solve each other's relationship woes, we somehow managed to solve all the evils of the world. Weird. I bet we both fail to remember all the details by morning...

That's right. Not only have I blogged nekkid, I have now blogged drunk.

Hmmm...wonder what my post in the morning will be like...

-H.

PS-God, you have no idea how many times I had to correct all the spelling errors in this little post. *Hic*

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By The Way, Did You Know You Sucked?

I think I have sent out about 30 or 40 CVs (resumes) so far, and I have had five hits. One I didn't get (but didn't expect to, either). Three I am waiting on (one looks quite promising and I will hear back from them next week, one I won't get since I am not already in the UK, and one is a wild card). And one I have already had one interview on, and am waiting while the company dicks around and gets their act in gear to complete the series.

Interviews are ok, actually. I don't mind them. I think I interview well, and in general my experience has been if I can get the interview, I can get the job. It's getting to the interview that is the problem. I have been getting rejection letters, both in the post and via email (now there's the gift that keeps on giving), and even have a file in my email account called "Rejections".

Keeps me humble.

The letters are roughly so:

"Dear Helen,

Sorry, but I have to tell you that at this time you aren't considered for this position. Well, it's not just at this time, it's really any time. See, you suck. I know that sounds harsh, but it's about time we came forward and told you how it is. Suck it up. We think you should stop sending CVs to anyone. Ever. Just go dig a hole and hide yourself in it. Really, think of the favor you will be doing humanity.

In the meantime, we have hired a babboon to perform this job, since a babboon is more interesting and a better conversationalist than you. The babboon also plays with himself during work hours, which we realize you will only do in the safety of the disabled toilet, if done during work time. It's an entertainment issue, see.

So we wish you the best of luck, but totally understand why Company X dumped you. Do yourself a favor, go into prostitution. It's really your only option.

Best Regards,
Etc."

Just kidding. My rejection letters look more like this:

"Hi

You have some excellent skills- Thank you very much for your application which I have read with interest. Unfortunately I cannot shortlist you for this vacancy as I have received some applications which match more closely my clients requirements.

I would like to retain your details however so that I can contact you when something else comes up that suits your skills. If you do not wish me to include your details on our database please return this message with delete in the subject matter.

Once again, thank you for your application and I am sorry that I cannot assist you at this time. I hope to be talking with you soon though.

If you secure a position meanwhile could you let me know.

Best Regards,
Etc."


My fear is getting a weird interviewer, too. I have nightmares of this kind of scenario:

Job (that's as in "employer", not the biblical put-upon character): So, Helen. We see Company X made you redundant. Tell me about that.
Me: Well, Job, I lost my job a month ago due to length of service with the company. See, in my unit, I had the least amount of years with the company, so unfortunately I was one who had to go.
Job: Right. (Writes on clipboard) Waste of Space. Check! Now, I understand that there were a few rumors about you from other groups that centered on you. I understand that it was said you were crazy, scary, and that you were an absolute imbecile with regards to job knowledge. Care to comment?
Me: Well, I can state unequivocably that those allegations are false. I am neither crazy nor scary, and I am actually highly trained in telecoms.
Job: Got it. (Writes on clipboard). Delusional. Check! Now tell me, since you've been unemployed have you been depressed? Upset? Considered doing us all a favor and killing yourself?
Me: I have been quite down, yes. But I am also determined to rise from the ashes and succeed and not let this get the best of me. I have not considered suicide and will not do either. I attempted previously in my life, and I know that's not the path for me.
Job: (Writes on clipboard). Not a closer. Check. What's the maximum number of men you have had sex with in one day?
Me: What!?
Job: Just checking for efficiency.

I know that won't happen (but betcha' you're wondering what the maximum number is). I know that interviews will go well, I just need to get to them. And explain my visa issues. And get them to hire me. And start over.

You know. The small details.

Off to send more CVs now.

-H.

PS-Mr. Y has been thoroughly supportive througout all of this. More on him soon.

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Luuk Update

Luuk is now bound for Jean in Alabama, having just had too much sex, alcohol, and cigarettes with Don.

Luuk has turned out to be one popular bear (and I wish I could have his frequent flier miles!) Some info: he is a bear I bought in Belgium and travelled around with. He is now making his way amongst the blog readers, who take pics of him and post them on their sites (or mine, if they do not blog). You can use the search tool to the right on my sidebar and check on what he looks like and where he's been. My goal is to link a seperate Luuk page to my site, but right now my current pc sucks a clown's ass, so that will have to wait.

Let's work it thus: I have a list here, and we will have this be the "shipping to" list. If the timing is bad or whatever, we can move names around. But otherwise, this is the order in which the little man sees the world. If he sees a town more than once, that's totally OK! It's about perspective-what is it that makes your town great for you?

That, and the bear is just so damn cute that of course people want to host him...

And I slept with him, so I can vouch for his coolness.

OK, so here's the list as I have it. And if you want to add your name, simply comment here and I will just tack you to the list.

Jean in Alabama
Simon (you should get him around New Year's-what a party!)
James
Joey
Kat
Erik
Brass in Colorado

David in Texas-Alamo, baby. You know what to do.
Pylorns in Austin-I see 6th Street drinking in Luuk's future!
Ted in D.C. - Everyday Bear for Senator!
Tiffani in Cleveland-Rock and Roll Hall of Fame sounds GREAT!
Jennifer in New Orleans-Luuk goes voodoo!
Sue in Indiana-take one of your gorgeous country shots!
Robert in Jersey (the island) - one of my favorite places.
Kaetchen in San Francisco-wonder if Luuk will go to a bath house?
Carlene in New Orleans - he needs debauching. Definitely.
Guinness in Sacramento- I trust you, Guinness, to get my guy drunk.
Suz in Kansas City-maybe a Chiefs Game? You decide!
Melodrama in Calcutta-damn this bear gets to visit India and I don't!
Michael in Minneapolis - that poor bear goes from India to Minn. Brrrrr!
Hilary in Halifax - Where the real bears play hockey.
Light&Dark on Canada's West Coast - my little guy will be a native Canadian in no time.
LeeAnn in...you know what, LeeAnn? I have absolutely NO IDEA where you live, girlfriend!
Beth Donovan in Ft. Leavenworth - Luuk on horseback, what a FAB idea!

-H.

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December 10, 2003

Rocking Around the Vacuum Cleaner

Morning.

Sorry I didn't post yesterday, at first I was a bit skitsy and depressed in the morning and then I had therapy, which made me further depressed. Not only did I get to do some Oprah moments and talk about my childhood, but my cool therapist shed some light on my dwindling relationship with Partner Unit and actually got me to understand a few things. This depressed me further since I know I will likely have to give up my very cool therapist, as I have only had job hits from the UK.

Then I had to take Ed the Evil One to the vet for his rabies vaccination, and by the time I got home I had enough time to find out our lousy modem had broken (which you see is now fixed), talk to Best Friend and find out his marriage is on the rocks, too, get into a helluva argument with Partner Unit, and have a depressing round of mails between Mr. Y in which it is clear that I am not helping him feel better, before finally settling into bed in the misty haze of a sleeping tablet and getting the first full night's sleep in about a week.

It's fucknuts, and I have decided to not think about it today. Instead, let me tell you a little story.

When I was a kid we were always in a car headed somewhere, just my mother, sister, and I. When my mother and father were splitting up, when we had to visit ill grandparents, what have you, it seems like most of my childhood was spent looking out a passenger window. Speaks volumes, really.

My mother had a great way of entertaining my sister and I. We would listen to music from the 50's, and to the old classic radio shows in the pre-TV days on tape. Maybe you know the ones? We used to paticularly love listening to the radio show "The Shadow"-they were great, and to this day, I get a big kick out of hearing the words "The Shadow knows...."

Anyway, one Christmastime when we were young we were on a trip to somewhere (my guess is Kansas, but I can't be sure). We had listened to the tapes several times and were bored silly. So at a gas station pit stop, my Mom emerged from the Shell station with a tape in hand. This tape has become the foundation of all holidays with my mother, sister and I ever since.

That tape is "John Denver and the Muppets-A Christmas Together."

That's right.

Laugh if you must. I know I would.

That tape kept the three of us serenly occupied the rest of the journey. And then the next year, the tape got pulled out and we sang our heads off to the thing. And the next year. And the next. Until in no time, it just wasn't Christmas in our house without the smarmy sounds of John Denver, acompanied by some poorly singing Muppets. We absolutely loved that tape, and it never went unplayed at Christmas. Ever. When I left home, I made a copy of the tape and played it every Christmas, endlessly, to the extreme annoyance of any man that happened to be passing through my life at that moment.

Four years ago, just before I moved here, I was strolling through Target to pick up some last minute things I would need in Sweden (said products included a one pound bag of Twizzlers, some Christmas socks, and a supersize box of my favorite tampons). I was about to head to the checkout, when I saw it: John Denver and the Muppets-a Christmas Together...on CD!

I bought it immediately. I finally had my own copy. It would always be Christmas in my house, as long as I had that CD. Unbelievably, this was the second time Target had come through for me (I think I could find my salvation in that store, if only I knew what aisle to look for it in).

So my CD gets played every year. Repeatedly. And it steps on every last fucking nerve of Partner Unit's, but that CD is Christmas to me. Now, I'm not religious, I don't care about things like that, but whenever I play that music I am whisked back to memories of being with my mother and sister, and always headed someplace better than the one we left behind.

But this year my depression had me resolve: no Christmas. There isn't a single decoration in our house (the only house on the block without), and there won't be, either. No lights. No tree. And my John Denver and the Muppets CD will remain in said cabinet. I am not interested. There will be no Christmas here.

But last night as I sat in front of the TV, feeling very small and alone after my Partner Unit fight and my inability to be any remote kind of comfort to Mr. Y, I realized that I am just punishing myself, when perhaps this year I have been punished enough. So I pulled out the CD.

Everyone has their holiday traditions, whether it is Christmas, Hannukah, or another form of celebration. We all have a way of celebrating something at the end of the year, be it on the 25th, the 1st, whatever. And this CD is the very essence of my Christmas spirit. This is my tradition. And I will only be letting myself down to not go for it. Stupid, really-it's just a CD. But it's also a source of regular comfort that I have known most of my life.

So now, if you will excuse me, I am going to blast that puppy at top speed. I am going to vacuum the house (either naked, or wearing the one-piece Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas I have been wearing. I am just so sexy.), singing at the top of my lungs, and I am going to party with the dead country singer and his Muppets chorus.

Christmas will come whether I want it to or not, and at least I can feel like I am not alone for it. I have a CD full of folks that have made my Christmas journies with me.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:39 AM | Comments (28) | Add Comment
Post contains 1052 words, total size 6 kb.

December 08, 2003

The Point Of Me

Once upon a time, a confused and wary little girl grew up. She was a bundle of emotions, a rather complicated little girl, and even at a young age she kept things to herself. She made a lot of noise about a lot of things, but none of these things were ever of any significance, it was all a diversionary tactic to run and hide herself. People all thought she was cheerful, colorful, and open.

The truth is, she was not.

The complicated little girl grew up into a very complicated teenager. She was the class clown. She was also the smart kid. She had no friends to speak of, and she liked it that way. She had no color in her life.

The teenager grew into a complicated woman. She is the one that others tell all their problems to. She is the one that everyone in her life thinks they know. She is the one who others turn to for a laugh. But the cracks started to show in this complicated woman a year ago when she tried to kill herself. She shocked and amazed every single person in her life, because the truth is, none of them really know her at all.

And then the complicated woman broke out of the little mold she had made for herself, the mold which painted the world in the singular shades of black and white, and as of one month ago she saw that the world was a spectacular array of greys. Some things still were black. Some things still were white. But there were far more colors than she had ever thought she had ever seen.

The complicated woman is me, and everyday I think that maybe I am more simple than I give myself credit for. Because at the end of the day, all I want is to be held by someone that understands that I am screwed-up. That will be able to listen when I finally figure out how to speak. That will hold me when I want to sleep. That will forgive me when I fuck up.

Partner Unit and I had the first honest talk in a long time on Sunday night. We discussed the fact that we were more companions than romantic partners, and that we had been drifting apart for more than a year. We decided to have us live on a day-by-day basis for a while. If I take a job in the UK, then we will see where life takes us. If I don't have a job by February, then we are selling the beautiful house, my little Dream Cottage. We will then rent a flat in the suburbs, and I will sink even further into the sludge.

Mr. Y and I continue to talk, and I have no idea what will happen. I cannot even guess, I do not even know. What I do know is coming. But I can't help but wonder...

The complicated woman has become a complicated blogger. Blogging seems to be full of the transitory, and the die-hards. When I think back six months ago, I wonder about those that were with me in the beginning. Are they still here? And in a year's time, will most of you still be here, too?

If you are, I promise the ride will be just as wild as it is now. There's no other way of it, in my life. Because at the end of the day, what fun would life be otherwise?

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:23 PM | Comments (26) | Add Comment
Post contains 594 words, total size 3 kb.

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