October 29, 2004
Here's some info on the very major things we have happening over the next 5 weeks, a whirlwind of activity that leaves me nervous, breathless, and excited all at once. Yeah-this is one of those This Is My Daily Life posts, as opposed to a These Are My Fucked-Up Feelings post, so bear with the perceived mundane with me.
Angus and I printed out monthly Outlook calendars until the end of December, and we found, sitting there with a red pen, a glass of wine, and some stinky cheese, that nearly every single weekend from here on is taken. First off, Melissa and Jeff arrive tonight to stay with us for 9 days. Angus is really excited and I have to say-I am looking forward to seeing them too. We even have a "just us" day on Wednesday, as Angus has a company function to attend to and so I get them for the evening-oh yes. There are plans. I'm thinking Shark Tales, pizza, and I bought them fizzy Lush bath bombs to try out (hers explodes pink hearts, his a blue fizzy wave).
I'm not yet nervous, but I think maybe that will come.
Next weekend we still have Melissa and Jeff and will be celebrating the thoroughly English holiday of Guy Fawkes' Day down in Brighton. This will be my first Guy Fawkes celebration, but I can assure you-we will be buying fireworks. Guy Fawkes was the man who tried to blow up Parliament, but was caught and executed, so now England celebrates November 5 with fireworks and burning Guy Fawkes effigies.
See? Who says they're repressed here.....
The weekend after that, Angus and I have cheap flights to Palma de Mallorca (when BMI offers you flights for £4 per person each way to destinations all over Europe, you kinda' can't say no).
The middle of November we are moving into our new house, and I have to say-I am pretty excited about that. Larger kitchen, two toilets, larger bedroom and-orgasm of orgasms-a dishwasher. What's not to like (besides the pain and hassle of moving, that is)?
And the weekend after that, we're in Sweden.
That's right.
One month from today on November 29, we will be flying home with my cats.
It's been fraught-all the airlines' web pages are wrong-we booked tickets together assuming we could go and get the cats and bring them back in the cabin. Turns out the UK doesn't allow animals in the cabin unless they're seeing eye dogs, so my beautiful girls will have to go in cargo, for which SAS feels they have the right to charge me 5,000 SEK for (that's nearly £400, or over $700). I am fighting with this, since I not only think it's exorbitant, but their website led me to believe that I could take them in the cabin with me. Had I known they are only allowed to be shipped as freight, Angus and I wouldn't even be going to Stockholm, it would just be arranged for X Partner Unit to drop them off.
There is angry email and letter-writing going on in this house.
Despite that, I am so utterly excited. I imagine you're probably sick of reading about it, but I just ache for my cats. I think of them a thousand times a day. My perfect, wonderful, precious babies, my bitches, my gorgeous cats will be here in one month. Maggie and Mumin-I am dancing with excitement. Soon they'll have the pleasure of meeting Melanie's other baby she sent me.
Here are My Girls:
The weekend after they arrive, Angus and I are off to Amsterdam (remember that BMI deal? Yup. We bought tickets to Amsterdam). And since I am not interviewing, I think I will try a little bit of that space cake, thank you....That, and we get to meet one my oldest friends and her boyfriend for dinner in Amsterdam, so I am looking forward to that.
In the meantime, I am passing time. Thinking of Christmas shopping. Watching the leaves outside the window fall. Autumn is here, and it's here with every foggy, grey, rainy moment possible.
But there is, of course, Halloween. One thing that I just adore about the US and its customs are the holidays. Fall begins the steep slippery slope that is holiday joy-kick it off with Halloween and follow it up with Thanksgiving (which I hold every year), then ice the cake with Christmas and New Years.
I just love Christmas (note to self: must pick up John Denver and the Muppets Christmas CD from Swedish storage while in Stockholm. Am sure Angus won't mind me playing it over and over and over again). Christmas shopping is to be completed by Thanksgiving. Decorations to go up. A Christmas tree to be bought and decorated and cards to be sent out (and this year, we will be sending out joint Christmas cards. Ooooooo....) I love the holidays. I may be jaded and hurt by life, but the little kid in me still gets all whirly and girly over the holidays.
I also have to say-I saw the trailers for Polar Express a few days ago, and when I saw it I felt a wave of stabbing homesickness for the US so terrific it brought tears to my eyes.
Halloween gets celebrated in this house, and in fact the terrace we live in will be having Trick-or-Treating. Our neighbor Sally set it up, and I exclaimed with delight.
"The kids will come round for candy?" I said, happily.
"Sweeties. They'll come round for sweeties. We don't call it candy." She said laughing.
Sorry, but if you're winging bit sugary wrapped goodness into the bottom of a plastic orange jack-o-lantern, it can't be anything other than candy, honey. Really.
I love Halloween and I love the traditions of it. I carve pumpkins every year, and spend time savoring the pumpkin seeds, which I bake and swoon over after torturing my orange gourd. Witness my expert carving and our jack-o-lanterns that I light every night.
And finally, here is me getting into the spirit of things. I bought my witch headband a month ago and have been wearing it, I think, ever since. Angus just rolls his eyes and grins, but I just love giving any little bit of the holidays that I can. I am such a dork. That, and I'm not sure which is scarier-the witches or me with no makeup.
Sometimes, you just don't have to grow up, or if you do, at least you can do so kicking and screaming.
-H.
PS-Yahoo! is fixed again. Our pc was attacked by a Trojan virus and had to be rebuilt. If you'd invited me to be added, all of the cookies, etc were lost, so if you want to ever chat, afraid you have to invite me again, as I have no history in my Yahoo account. more...
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:42 AM
| Comments (16)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1174 words, total size 7 kb.
bises!!!!
you and munchkins will be fine too you know. I wish I had a dads step common law wife who bought me things from Lush I LOVE that place. the heart massage bars, slammer shower gel... ahhh must stop or will spend rest of day coveting!
Anyway, SOOOOOO happy for you that you're getting your babies. I miss mine when I go on vacation so I can only imagine how you feel. Just keep on sending them love...they feel it.October 28, 2004
That said, I often can't stand the silence of myself, and so use a barely audible thrum of the radio to drown out my thoughts.
Last night Angus and I went to Bristol to hear my favorite artist in the world, Sarah McLachlan.
I can't remember how many times I've seen her, but I think this was my fifth concert of hers (including two Lilith Fairs). I am not her oldest fan, nor am I her most ardent. But she is perhaps the only artist in the world that I will just buy her CD, without hearing a single song from it, if she has a new one out. I eagerly await them and then listen to them over and over again.
I even remember the first time I heard her music.
I don't remember the exact date, but I do know it was 1994 in Arlington (Texas). I was with an ex-boyfriend, a tall man who looked eerily like Anton Le Vey, and we went into a music store to visit his roommate. It was very late at night, and the music store was transitioning (in the timeless way of capitalism) from a tiny shop into a Blockbuster Music. I walked in and let the fluorescent lights suck the intelligence from my mind and dig my face with sandbags under my eyes. I was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, my standard college wardrobe. I was tired but awake, occupied but alone.
Anton Le Vey lookalike talked to his roommate while I chatted with the manager who was a friend of mine. I was talking to her, when I realized that something was telling me to pay attention, something was telling me that there was more to be aware of other than her latest failed party escapades. There was something in the air that was overwriting the buzz of the lights, the suction of the shelves of CDs, the drone of my life.
It was the song Fumbling Towards Ecstasy.
I asked my friend the manager about it, and she shrugged.
"It's this Canadian chick. I love her music, but people have been asking me to turn it off."
I bought the CD on the spot, having only heard that one song. And the next day, after listening to the whole thing, I blew my monthly budget for food (these were college times after all) on her previous CDs. And in a very cheesy tribute, I have to say-with her music I fed one part of me instead of the other.
It sounds roadie ridiculous, and in a type of slavish music-fan addiction that I don't generally cater to, but I have always adored her music. There is something calming in her voice, something that turns on the swaying Devil. I don't for a minute think she writes songs that are just like my life, that are just like how I feel, even if sometimes the songs are twinging my heart and mind in similarity. Her songs are, I think, for her. She just shares them with us, and for that, I am honored.
Her music became a catalyst for me. I'm not sure how many chardonnay-soaked evenings I have spent listening to her music, candles lit. I sit in front of the PC with the music playing, drinking, and before long I can look up and see I have 5 pages written and I don't remember writing a single word of them. The music is inexoribly linked to parts of my memory-thinking about Kim's death used to bring Hold On into my head. Full of Grace is my last winter. Answer got me through interviewing for Dream Job, and moving to England.
And Do What You Have To Do used to bang around my heart when I thought of Angus.
"The yearning to be near you...
I do what I have to do.
And I had the sense to recognize
That I don't know how to let you go."
Because I never could let him go. I never can. It's as simple and as complicated as that.
Her concerts were sold out in London, so we went to Bristol last night. I was worried about our seats-we were in the stalls and by the picture of the Hall, pretty damn far away from the stage. We park up and go for a fantastic Nepalese meal beforehand, and then realize the Hall is across the street. Literally.
Remember High School assemblies?
Yup. That's the size of the concert hall.
We were in the 24th row from the stage, and for the first time in my life, we were close enough to actually see her. I remember attending a sell-out concert of 20,000 screaming fans at Lilith Fair, and she was a dot on the stage (and I had covered seats for that!) The hall was tiny, the seats bumpy, the place obviously a movie theatre from the 1950's.
Angus laughed at my giddyness. "What did you expect? Concert halls in England are much smaller than they are in the US!"
I'll say.
And the concert was fantastic. She came on and explained that she had no idea what to expect in her first UK tour, so she chose to play her favorite songs. And thus we were treated to 2 hours of a show in which the entire band seemed to actually enjoy themselves, in which she sang songs I had never heard her perform in concert-all my favorites, including Fear and Answer. I was beside myself, a chair-rocking, lip-synching basket case who "Woo-hoo'ed!" during every applause. The tiny theatre took in the sound and bounced it all around us. I have never been to a concert in such an intimate setting again, and I just loved it.
Angus too thoroughly enjoyed the music, and as we left I was high as a kite, the Devil in me still rocking from side to side. I got to attend a wonderful cozy concert with my best friend. I got to spend an evening with speakers pointed at me, as we listened to the dizzying heights her music has. And above all, I got to quiet the troubled soul, and there is no compensation that is too much to offer for that.
Sarah-
Thanks for a fucking fantastic evening. I'm not one of those scary fans, I won't pick up grass you've stepped on, I don't want your used bubble gum. I don't even want your autograph.
I just want to say thank you. You've been in pain, and I've been in pain. And sometimes, when I least expect it, what you've created has helped me see the forest from the trees. Sometimes you stumble across someone honest enough to put their issues and pain on display, and you learn more about yourself from them, more about how to think and feel and love.
And when you meet them, you just have to always hold them in your heart.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
10:43 AM
| Comments (17)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1312 words, total size 7 kb.
October 27, 2004
A cup of coffee, a shower, and a kiss goodbye from my lovely Angus as he drops me off at the train station, leaving me to sidle up to the train platform on a quiet Autumn morning. I stand at the edge of the platform, looking out. The morning is dim and foggy, and as I stand looking up at the grey sky a sheath of leaves drops from the trees overhead, drifting down to the train tracks like the confetti in a bridal shower. I bundle my scarf closer to my neck and zip up my jacket, feeling the chill in the air for the first time, feeling the decided draw of fall sink into my bones.
I remember my dream, and think about it. In college I had a French professor who I very nearly had an affair with. A 40-something year old Frenchman from a wealthy family, he had bunked out of the life he had (he used to talk about the massive chateau his family had back in France) to buy a large house in the suburbs of Arlington, to idly teach French at the local university while trying to figure out where to go with his life. It was an advanced French class I was in, one in which we were required to speak only French in class. Of the class of 8 people I knew he fancied me, and I knew it not in that smug "somebody likes me" kind-of-way, but in the honest way when something in your stomach just tells you that's how it is. One evening he had a dinner party at his house and I was invited, along with a number of others. He invited me upstairs to see his bedroom. He showed me the monstrous room, leading me to the bathroom, keeping his hand on the small of my back, rubbing it gently. I saw, in the bathroom, an enormous jacuzzi bath and a separate area for the toilet, strangely separated from the rest of the bathroom by old-fashioned swinging saloon doors. When I peeked over the doors, I saw Paris Match magazine on the floor'¦and track marks in the bottom of his toilet bowl.
I went right off of him then, and we never did hook up.
And as I stand there looking out over the train platform, I think about my life in the heavy-handed way I always look at my life, like a bug under the glass or a case study in a text.
I used to say that I have no regrets, that life is too short to regret. I used to think that having a regret meant that we spent time churning and burning in our hearts and minds over endless "what-if" and "what if I had only done that?" scenarios. And when you're as burdened as I am by endless movie clips of the past, that's an area you just don't want to go to. There's no more room for personal pugilism in my heart-I have enough endless replays of knock-outs in there.
It's slowly, over time, I have learned that I am not above regret. What makes me so special, that I have no regrets? What makes me think I am above everybody else, that I can attempt to live life so carelessly, so without responsibility? That time is over now. I am the ridiculous anime unicorn, whispering softly "I never had regrets. But I do now. I regret."
My list of regrets isn't enormous. It's not two stone tablets that I have to carry around on my back. My regrets are quiet moments, little things that, from time to time, have the sepia tint of "what if", have the painful burning orange of "if only I had/hadn't done this'¦" Or even, "if only I had done this better."
I don't regret not hooking up with my French teacher. I don't regret switching to anthropology in college, as it has taken me where I am. I don't regret either of my marriages. I don't regret trying to kill myself although I am very sorry for the pain it caused others-it was the wake-up call I needed to try to start working on myself, to try to stop keeping everything inside. I don't regret moving to England and working for Dream Job, and I don't regret a single moment of time I've had with Angus (in fact I am grateful for the moments we get).
What do I regret?
- I regret not being there more for Kim while he was ill. I know the outcome would be the same, I know he would still have died. I just always thought he would make it, and knowing what I do now (fucking hindsight and all that), I would've tried to get more time with him before saying goodbye forever. I should have sat by his side, I should have called more, I shouldn't have had such faith that he would make it. And I don't even think we would've been together in the relationship sense'¦I just wish he would've known how he had me at his side, as his friend, until the very end.
- I regret once saying something terribly cruel to my grandfather. I was young, I was angry and I know he forgave me. But I regret it all the same.
- I regret hurting anyone who was hurt, with regards to Angus and I. That said, I don't really know how I could have gone about things differently, or how to do have made things better.
- I regret not standing up for myself more often in my life. I have been run down, run over, run ragged so many times in my life, and it fills me with a quiet inner-rage and hatred when I think about how I didn't do something to defend myself more.
- I regret that I am so closed up and closed-off that I haven't got very many friends. I wish I could open up more. I wish I had opened up more.
- I regret my self-destructive and self-abusive behavior. Some of my scars are obvious, and the ones that aren't run very, very deep.
- I regret not holding Angus' hand in Boston.
- I regret giving up my dog, Ed. I wish I had him still and I miss him terribly.
I'm sure there will be more, I'm sure that the list is not exhaustive. But the truth is, the regrets don't lay heavily on my soul all the time. Idle moments of idle pain, and then when it passes, it's ok.
Maybe it's that way for everyone.
-H.
PS-Angus and I are off to Bristol tonight-my favorite singer in the world, Sarah McLachlan, is going to be performing there, and luckily we have tickets. I am so pleased...
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
12:24 PM
| Comments (11)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1255 words, total size 7 kb.
October 26, 2004
They say that, and I am one of those who believes it.
I have found that I have a confirmed case of Expatismus Encephalitis-now that I have left the country, now that I fit into that queasy bracketed lay-term "expat", I don't fit anymore. Now that I have been outside of the US borders for 5 years (next month), I'm like a square peg that doesn't fit into a round hole, and no amount of bashing me with the little wooden Playskool hammer will get me back in the tray.
It's as though, upon leaving the country you came from, the Border Guards take away your rose-colored glasses and smash them beneath their heel, forcing you to forever have to face looking around the world in the shapes, sizes and colors that things may actually come in. Once upon a time, I was the biggest idealist in the world-you could actually make millions of dollars overnight in the US. The streets, while maybe not paved with gold, were certainly paved in the sparkliest type of concrete that was available. I thought dreams could be plucked from the air and made true with a little elbow grease and fairy dust.
I was so innocent. I grew up on military bases, where we didn't even bother locking our doors...even when we went on holiday. I had thought racial injustice went out with the 60's and was over once Rosa Parks got up from her seat on the bus. I thought anyone who wanted to come to America could, and were welcomed with open arms and had help making massive successes of themselves. I thought that the elderly were cared for, health care was free and widely available (it was free to us in the military, after all, so my basis was that it must be free for everyone) and that my country was the country of dreams.
That all changed the second I stepped off of those Air Force Bases and saw the real world.
When we landed in the US, once again I had this feeling...I've been here. I sort of know what's here, I sort of know how things are done...but something isn't right.
I felt it for ages. A certain twitch of "What's-the-matter-itis?" a furrow in the back of a mental brow that begged to be itched. When we walked off the plane, settled our bags in the faceless, soulless, appetiteless United Red Carpet lounge, I lay stretched out on an armchair and tried to figure out what I was feeling.
Around me were businessmen with their laptops plugged into neighboring phones, busily hammering out emails on urgent-looking Outlook drafts, all of the apostrophes dipped into them screaming "This mail is important, notice me!" winging out to assault other email inboxes the world over. They importantly flipped open their mobile phones and banged their way through phone conversations. I've been you, Buddy. I think to myself. I've been my job, and my job has used me and didn't even leave me a $20 on the dresser.
And it just continued until I realized what was wrong.
I hadn't felt like I had come home, just as on previous visits to the US, I hadn't felt I had come home.
Granted, a lounge in an airport, Washington D.C., and Miami have never been my homes.
All around me, I simply felt as if I was another traveller in another lounge in another airport-while I knew the language, while I knew how things worked, no part of me felt relieved, felt a sigh of comfort. It just was.
Had I really become such an orphan?
When we got to Miami and had showered and changed, that's when the world started to make more sense-and in a true salute to capitalism, it started making sense with products. Things I'd missed and once I saw them, I enjoyed them. Sun Chips. Hawaiian Fruit Punch in a can. "Built Ford Tough". Boston Market. Old Navy.
The US may not be paved with gold, but it is paved with options. So many options in so many directions that it's always possible to switch lanes. The options range from location, career, to the minute like food and drink.
Over breakfast one morning Angus ordered "The American." The waitress grinned.
"How do you like your American, sir?"
"Tall and brunette!" I interjected.
"What kind of eggs?" she asked him.
"Fried." he replied.
"Sunny side up, over easy, over medium, or hard?"
He looked at me. "Over medium." I answered.
"Sausage, bacon or ham?"
"Sausage."
"Toast or bagel."
"Bagel." he said wearily.
"What type of juice? Orange, pineapple, orange, tomato, or grapefruit?"
"Orange."
"What type of coffee? We have-"
"I just want some breakfast." Angus moaned, burying his head in his hands.
We have so many options. So many examples of choices that we can make, as Americans. From something even as mundane as breakfast.
Americans are also hyper-friendly. One thing that Angus and I have noticed is that Americans, the world over, will always ask other Americans where they are from. Always. You can be up to your neck in mud in the jungles of Belize, and you will hear:
"So, where are you from?"
"I'm from Philly."
"No kidding! I'm from Boise, but I have a cousin in Philly. South side!"
"Really? That's where my uncle lives!"
I think it's because America is a big damn country, and full of people that have moved around a bit, who like to talk about home.
We got it a lot-the where are you from. And hearing the accent in my voice, "England" didn't suffice, I was generally pressed for more info on really where was I from, in which case I resort to saying "Dallas", since that's where I spent the most time.
Americans like to ask questions, and they like to talk. And maybe it's because I have spent too much time in the "keep-it-to-yourself" commercial land of Sweden (you're lucky if sales stuff just don't chuck the goods at you, let alone talk), but it always takes me off-balance when the sales staff are so friendly and chatty. But I like it when they are.
On the diving boat, one of the couples we were with were from Atlanta. And very chatty. And she gave me the run-down on her life within the first five minutes-I mean, I heard a lot. Second marriages, job crises, children, commutes...I heard about it. She finally ended the chat and turned to Angus.
"An Englishman, huh? Bet it's weird for him to be married to an American!"
"Oh we're not married," I said, adjusting my baseball cap.
She stared at me and-I swear-moved away a fraction of an inch. "Really?"
"Nope." I replied cheerfully. "Marriage isn't really that big a deal in Europe anymore. Not as many people get married, they just co-habitate. Which is what we are doing."
She looks at me. I wonder if this is where I should sing my classical rendition of "I'm a Little Heathen" to the tune of "I'm a Little Teapot".
We got chatted to everywhere we went, perhaps because I am so bouncy and all over the place, perhaps because Angus is so cute and has such a lovely English accent, or perhaps that's just what Americans do.
When we left, I didn't feel a twinge of sadness or loss, other than the fact that I could've used more time on holiday. I honestly enjoy going to the US to visit and would very much like to make it a once-yearly trip at least, but I can honestly say that it doesn't really make me sink my feet into the ground and say, with a delicate whimper, "Thank God I'm home." (well, until I turn the TV on at least. I still love of the TV.)
But I don't sink my feet into the English soil and sigh with relief either. I do have to say though-I feel like I am relatively at home here, and I do honestly love living here. I do want to stay here. I see the good and bad about England, but then I see the good and the bad about America. I love both countries, but for different reasons. Strangely, I feel like a child to both countries, while at the same time a child of neither. Maybe calling myself an "orphan" is a bit harsh...what I really am is someone who hasn't found what I want to call myself.
So I'll just call myself Helen, and love both countries anyway.
I reject the theory that we can be a Citoyens Du Monde...but I accept that sometimes, if we just don't fit into that round hole, we can pick ourselves up and try to figure out where we do fit in.
-H.
PS-we've had one of the Tabby Bombs in the house a great deal-ironically, it's the really shy reserved one we've had, the one who doesn't much like to be pet. Now she does. It's strange-we asked her owners where her sister is, the one who is outrageously friendly and flirty. Turns out, the other Tabby Bomb passed away last week, apparently the victim of a poisoning.
It broke our hearts, and now her surviving sister has an open-door policy in our house. Always.
PPS-I have joined this, as an effort to kick myself and get some writing done. Wish me luck...
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:26 AM
| Comments (16)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1589 words, total size 9 kb.
October 25, 2004
Here's a rather long summary-pictures are attached, and you can click on the link below the embedded pics for a larger version.
Angus and I left for the airport on Thursday morning-the horrible weather matched our sour moods, as the fighting continued in the car. Bad weather made for bad traffic, upping the stress levels ten-fold and making us hate our lives. Luckily, as we made it through the bad traffic and were blistering a path towards Heathrow, Angus took my hand.
"Everything will be ok." He said, staring out the window.
And from then on, it really was.
We got upgraded to business class on the long flight to Washington Dulles. Now there's the way to travel-champagne flowing throughout the flight, incredibly comfy chairs, and complimentary socks to keep the little footsies warm. The flight attendants may still hate you, but then, don't flight attendants always hate you? The 8 and a half hour flight passed quickly, and then we had a short stay in Dulles before catching a flight to Miami. Going through immigration was easy-strangely, there were virtually no queues in the American citizens line, and since Angus is (according to English law) my common-law spouse, he went in the same line as me, as my family member. He got the fingertip biometric scan (which both of us are opposed to), and then the immigration guard smiled at him, and in a flash of humanity said, "Welcome to the US, sir." And, turning to me, he winked. "And welcome back, ma'am."
Once in Miami, we picked up the rental car, Angus swinging it out of the rental car building. It was dark, we were tired, but getting on well and looking forward to a hot shower. Our hotel, the Cadet Hotel, wasn't far, a short jaunt to South Beach, so we would be there soon.
But swinging out onto the street, we woke up quickly.
"Get over! Get over! Wrong side, wrong side!" I shout, as Angus pulls the car out of the garage and starts driving...the English way. He jerks the wheel over and we both laugh, relaxed enough now to know that we are ok, that the car is ok, that the other drivers were maybe a little confused but would shrug and say "Hmm......Foreigners."
We get to South Beach and find our hotel, gratefully jumping into the shower and peeling our travel-weary clothes off. The hotel itself was quite smart-a swish 1920's design with colorful painting and soft white beds. We change into comfy shorts (my God it was so hot there!) and hit the streets, looking for some food and some wine to enjoy. As is our usual pattern, the first grub of the holiday was simple-we went into Burger King and scarfed some greasy food. Then we popped into a liquor store and indulged in American wine fare-Beringer it was for us back in the room, and it was nice stuff, too.
The next day was easy-we walked around South Beach to take in the sights. The beaches were clean and deserted and the water was so warm and perfect. We walked along the beach for ages, letting the sand and sea pet our feet, letting the sun soak into our English-weather weary bodies. I found a piece of old board washed up on the beach, soaked through and covered with a thin sheen of algae. It was clearly a part of some boat, and was waterlogged through and through. I debated keeping it and taking it home with me, but in the end I flung it back into the sea, figuring that it probably wanted to be home with its sunken mates somewhere, and who was I to deprive it?
I really do think like that.
Anthropomorhpism and I get on well.
In the afternoon, after a nice boozy lunch and a bit of pizza, we went swimming. The water was heavenly-warm and reasuring, as warm as bath-water and a lovely turqouise color, and there were only a handful of other swimmers out there. We spent a lot of time just relaxing in the water, watching the airplanes come in, and naturally (it being us and all) we got down to some hanky panky in the water.
That evening, we went to a nice restaurant, then to a local bar to enjoy a personal favorite of mine-frozen margaritas (which we had throughout our stay. See the sidebar pic). Heaven. Absolute heaven. We half-watched one of the Red Sox/Yankees games ongoing, neither of us big sports fans, and soaked up the evening atmosphere, our skin tingling, our heads filled with alcohol and our stomachs filled with food.
The next day we spent shopping-right now, the British pound is stunningly strong-bad news for Americans travelling to Britain, great news for those of us who get paid in British pounds travelling to America! With an exchange rate of £1=$1.80, the shopping was mighty. I bought an armload of books that are difficult to get-a watch and digital camera joined the our household. And the best news? Angus bought a pair of flip flops, which his girl thought he looked incredibly cute in.
The one thing I do have to say about Miami itself is this-it really helps if you know Spanish. I picked up a lot of Spanish living in Texas, and I could often understand what people were saying to me, I am just utter crap at speaking it. Utter. Crap. And there are a lot of parts in Miami where speaking Spanish-or even just understanding it-would be extremely helpful. I had known that Miami has a large Spanish-speaking consituency, I think I was simply unprepared for just how large it is.
The next day we got down and into domestication and trooped off to a laundromat to do our laundry. Our flight left for Nassau in the evening, and so we had lots of ambling time in the morning. We dined on some authentic Cuban cuisine for breakfast while the world's fastest tumble drier did its business. It was a smal hole in the wall restaurant, frequented by the locals, and the people behind the counter had friendly smiles and enormous helpings, with tortillas roasting silently behind them. We walked hand in hand back to our hotel, enjoying one last luxurious walk on the South Beach shores. We checked out of our hotel and just drove along the beaches, enjoying the warm afternoon, stopping along the way at another Cuban restaurant for some spicy fare.
Miami International Airport is not actually that large an airport, but they do seem to have a stunning number of people whose job it is to constantly stop you, asking for your ticket and passport. Constantly. I think we were asked no less than 5 times, once within view of the last person who had just asked us for our info. It never ended. I understand security is needed, but come on. This is definitely not an efficient use of anyone's time.
The flight to Nassau was short and sweet, flying over waters that came in colors I had never seen before, over islands that looked like the perfect paradise get-aways, a Castaway option come true.
Stepping off the plane, we were hit by a blast of warm air and a sparkling sunset that ribboned the sky in purples and reds. We were whisked in a taxi to our hotel (the one that practically delivers you to your hotel room via a water slide), which was situated on an island just off the coast of Nassau, an island called Paradise Island.
The other hotel was the Atlantis.
And man...was it something. An enormous coral-colored structure towering over the surrounding Paradise Island, it was almost as though Walt Disney whipped up a fairy tale castle and plonked it down on angel white beaches.
We had never heard of it before, we simply chose it as Expedia.co.uk got us a good deal on it. Apparently, it's world-famous and has the single most expensive hotel suite in the world there-an enormous suite that costs a total of $25,000 a night (no, we didn't stay in that suite. We both work in telecom, after all). The hotel was enormous-riveting towers of lit up coral-colored wonders. It looked like a fairy tale castle. It was the single most surreal hotel either of us had ever stayed in.
Once dropped off, we checked in, and after a bit of wheedling (including me saying: "We're so in love, and he's been so romantic. If you can help us get a nicer room, he might even be more doting and charming!") we get upgraded to a nicer room, complete with a balcony over the sea. We go for a walk around the grounds, and are amazed-there are various tunnels that take you underneath enormous acres of aquariums, tunnels that show you barracuda, grouper, reef sharks, starfish and (my favorite) eagle rays and manta rays. At one point you walk under what's called the Predator Lagoon, a huge aquarium with any number of different type of shark, some of them hovering at about 10 feet long (my reaction? "I saw this movie-it's called Jaws. Isn't this the scene where we see a man's arm hanging out of the shark's mouth, holding a grenade?")
The next day we spend time by the pool and by the beach-crystal clear waters and perfect, sugar-like sand.
Taking a friends advice, we head to Goldie's for dinner, a little shack-like restaurant in an area of Nassau called the Fish Fry. Goldie's is painted in every color under the rainbow, bright cheerful colors that complement the face that the tables are plywood rejects and the conch shelles get slung from the kitchen window to an enormous pile outside. We ask the waitress to bring us whatever she likes, and I have to tell you-the food was incredible (as was the local drink, called Sky Juice-coconut rum and gin. And the waitress gave us extra gin to, as she said, "take us to the sky"). She set a steaming plate of conch fritters before Angus, smiling at me.
"I hope you took your birth control pills, honey! Cause conch makes a man potent, you know what I'm saying?" she says with a lazy wink. We laugh.
After Angus devoured the conch fritters, she returns.
"You know, I think you're right about that conch...I am feeling a bit on now!" he tells her, grinning at me.
"You feeling sweet, baby? Got a little juicy for your Lucy?" she asks, and we roar with laughter.
"Juicy for your Lucy" has now become a catch phrase in our house.
Tuesday we leave for an island called the Blue Lagoon. It's beautiful, sunny, gorgeous water. And you know what?
I fell in love with another man.
It was love at first site.
I even briefly debated leaving Angus for a life with him.
His name was Andy, and he was gorgeous-young (19), huge brown eyes, white teeth and a strong muscular body.
Here's a pic of him flirting with me.
I still dream about Andy at night.
Wednesday was a special day-Angus learned how to dive. He took a "resort-dive" lesson, and was certified to dive with instructors. We packed up our stuff and went to Stuart's Cove. Since I am already licensed, I didn't have to dive with the instructor, but we wanted to be on the same boat, even if we couldn't be in the same group. We were obliged, and off we went, speeding our way to a few wrecks and a wall reef dive.
In my group, we had me, the Divemaster, and two American couples armed to the gill with the fanciest dive gear I had ever seen in my life. Angus was in a group with one other American resort-dive guy, and their instructor-ironically, an Englishmen, spending time in the Bahamas before heading off to do work for the British Army.
As for Angus and myself, we had only rented the basics-fins, BC, regulator, weight belt and mask and snorkel for him (I'd brought mine. Due to my flat Asian face, I have to use a child's mask and snorkel. Seriously.) The other couples cleared out their dive computers, spent ages tugging on their wetsuits, and fucked around forever with their kit. This was how it was in the water, too-once at the site, I was the fist one in the water, and then had to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, when the others got in the water, they spent most of their time dicking around with their gear. They also pissed me off by touching the coral, and carelessly flicking their fins against the delicate sea fans-I just wanted to scream: These are alive, folks. Kill them, and they don't come back. The other divers were aghast that I was only wearing a swimsuit (as were Angus and his dive buddy and English dive instructor) but to be honest, the water was glorious and warm, even when we went down to 85 feet. I wasn't cold for a moment. It was sheer heaven diving in the water, feeling it surround my arms, waist, and legs.
When we returned to the surface, I saw Angus on the boat. I asked him what had happened, and it turned out that his regulator had malfunctioned, and he cancelled his dive-it had made him too nervous. I couldn't imagine how nerve-wracking that would be-the first dive ever and the air malfunctions. But my brave boy decided to try again, and he would try to do the second dive.
The second dive was the dive site that was filmed in the James Bond "Never Say Never Again" film. We went down, and there I was inspecting the wreck used in the movie upside down (I often hang upside-down in the water. Why limit yourself to one perspective when, in the only instance in life, you can have any perspective you want?) when I saw some familiar trunks swim past me.
It was Angus.
And he was diving.
I was so proud of my boy.
The dive finished about 40 minutes later, and back at the surface, Angus was thrilled to have been able to dive. I couldn't stop hugging him, and I was so pleased. The divemaster turned to me.
"You're a natural underwater. You're like a little mermaid or something." he said, shaking water out of his hair.
Maybe so. Maybe it explains why I've always loved the water so much. Down there, there's only me. No need to worry about what I say or think or do. It's just me, and just the water, and a healthy respect for what the depths hold.
Thursday was leaving day, but before we left, we did something that I have never done before-we rented a jet-ski.
It was fantastic.
My arms wrapped around Angus' waist, we flew across the water, the sun overhead and the water warm and inviting. At one point I looked over and saw that the sky had been punctured by one of the many cruise ships that went by, it seemed to be pouring directly into the water, because no matter how hard you looked, you couldn't tell the sea and the sky apart. I was blissfully happy, and utterly relaxed.
In fact, the whole trip had been relaxing. In the Bahamas our cell phones didn't work, so we simply winged them into the hotel safe and forgot about them. There were computers in the hotel in the Bahamas, but neither of us were tempted to use them-behind the blinking screens lay The Real World, full of work, telecom, issues. We were utterly cut off from The Real World, and for the first time in my life, I was absolutely happy to be so. We spent time laughing, reading, talking. Political discussions on tv got turned off. Newspapers were ignored. Evenings were for drinking and eating good meals. When we had a spare quarter we fed it into one of the many machines in the Bahamas casino, and even though we never won, we also never felt inclined to try to play more money.
The trip home was rough, full of angry airline employees, tired Helen and Angus, and no upgrades. But we made it home (with all our luggage), and now have to face the real world-work, moving house in a few weeks, visits from people, and our tans peeling from our bodies.
I'm still relaxed, though.
A bit more about my feelings tomorrow.
-H.
PS-major pc problems here. If you've sent me an invite on Yahoo! then I have lost all my data due to broken cookies. I hate broken cookies. I much prefer them whole and dipped in a little bit of milk. Also, the sidebar on the London Streets skin is a bit wonky, and I have no idea how to fix it-it's located at the bottom of the screen, for your convenience. Or you could choose the Subway skin (my fave), or the phone booth skin (Angus' fave).
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:36 AM
| Comments (21)
| Add Comment
Post contains 2956 words, total size 19 kb.
October 22, 2004
The holiday was fucking incredible and I loved every minute of it.
More from me later. Right now, I'm jet-lagged.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
12:36 PM
| Comments (25)
| Add Comment
Post contains 37 words, total size 1 kb.
October 14, 2004
Last night was not good.
Instead of being loving and preparing for holiday we had angry fights and, for the first time ever in our relationship, I slept on the couch. Today, my face is the size and color of a tomato due to the crying and my soul is incredibly stung.
Let's see if my passport photos match either of those descriptions.
I guess I have to say this:
- I think I am incredibly un-special, although I was certainly hoping that Angus thought I was
- I am very sorry for one of the things I said to Angus
- I wish he could be a little more understanding of how some of things he said have me feeling like a bowl of tasty shredded wheats.
- I am about as sexy as a snail in Michael Jackson's garden
- I wish we could be friends. I wish he could hug me and try to fix it with me. I miss him.
- There could be no life without sleeping tablets
- It has to get better today, it just has to. I can't bear the thought of a 15 hour flight feeling like this, and not being friends with Angus.
- I feel terrible today.
- I look terrible today.
- Just when I think I have picked myself up and am dusting myself off, I become worthless all over again.
- I am so mad about my boy. Even when I'm angry.
I'll be back on Friday, October 22.
Behave.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:32 AM
| Comments (25)
| Add Comment
Post contains 296 words, total size 1 kb.
October 13, 2004
It was late at night. It was a summer evening and the weather was muggy and rainy, a sheet of rain pouring down in constant succession. I didn't really know what it was that made me get into my car and drive so late at night, and when I think back I still can't remember, either. I do remember that my beloved Stars had recently won the Stanley Cup. I remember that I was long-distance dating X Partner Unit. I had been diagnosed with skin cancer and various bits gouged out of my back to remove it. I was working upwards of 80 hours a week. My family wasn't speaking to me. My adored Grandfather had just died, and Kim was alone in a white hospital bed at Baylor University, wearing the batik we'd bought in Belize and dying of leukemia.
I had fallen into one of the worst depressions of my life, second only to last winter.
I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I lost masses of weight and found myself needing to scrub the kitchen floor at 3 am, to bake cookies at 4 am that I would just give away at work. I couldn't make sense of anything, I couldn't figure out what anything meant. My mind raced at hundreds of miles an hour, and a trip to the doctor put me on medication to try to sort me out. I was supposed to take two pills four times a day, but that day I had taken more than that.
A lot more than that.
And so it was that a rainy night found me in my car, driving with no purpose. Eckerd's? Did I want to stop at Eckerd's and pick up more over-the-counter sleeping tablets? Could I stop at Taco Bell, they'd be open, maybe I should eat something? Texaco'¦maybe Texaco would do. Maybe the car and I both needed fuel, maybe we both had tanks running on fumes.
Somehow I found myself pulling into the parking lot of the church, a church I had never seen before, a church I didn't even attend. I hadn't been to Catholic service in many years, a more lapsed Catholic than myself didn't exist. If I were to step into the confessional it would likely go up in flames as my overwhelming catalog of sins hit the wooden floorboards with a yellow pages thud.
I get out of my car and start walking into the church. The rain is coming down in sheets, but it didn't hurry me. There is something purifying about summer rain, something more resolute about it than fire. When I got to the church, I opened the doors, flooding my face with so much light I had to blink'¦
'¦and music.
Exalting, dizzying, pitching music filling the corners and rafters of the small church. A single man stood on the dias, a sheaf of music in his hands. He was dressed plainly in a black robe, and I immediately took him for a monk. His voice was unwavering and pure, hitting high and low notes with the melody of the church chant, a dramatic monotone sound that has a way of reaching into me and putting seeds of calm into my stomach, sweeping out the rubbish from my soul and splashing around a bit of lemon cleaner.
Like the savage beast, I was entranced by the music, by the candlelight. If God was anywhere it would be here. If God dared to be in my presence, if he dared to face me and all that had been thrown at me, it would be here. This small Catholic church with its beams of music ravaging my thoughts, cutting through them and stopping them all in their tracks'¦this was where God was.
And I had a bone to pick with him.
I reached the bowls of water at the end of the pews, and in an old habit dying hard I dipped my fingers in them and crossed myself. I made my way slowly up the aisle, noticing a few people at prayer in the wooden pews. I sat down in one of the pews and looked around, trying to understand what I was doing here, trying to figure out where God was. I saw a tiny drip of dried wax on the edge of the pew and with a short fingernail I scraped it off, easing the waxy substance under my fingernail and coating it white. A small puddle of water appears on the pew around me as my damp clothes leak out onto the pew, but I imagine a church is one of the few places where they are supposed to just be glad you're there, regardless of what you're wearing or how dry it is.
As I sat there, I could feel the medication I had taken swirling around in my brain, touching little mushroom patches of chemicals on my senses and synapses. I felt a wet patch on my face as I realized my nose was bleeding, and a shuffle through my pockets helped me find a torn-up and rain dampened tissue to use to try to stop it. I sat there, holding my nose, wondering where God was.
A movement to my right and I turn my head to see a man genuflecting and leaving an area. It was a special prayer area, a little pocket of private prayer space. Is that what you want, God? I ask. A special audience?
I stand and, still staunching my nose bleed, I make my way to the quiet area. There are only 4 pews here, facing a statue in the middle of the Virgin Mary, with rows of the lit votives-a necessity in Catholic churches-highlighting her from below. Her cheekbones were high and arched, her arms open, folds of cloth chiseled out of the marble, covering her from head to toe.
I kneeled at one of the pews, ignoring my bloody nose. My back ached a bit from the recent surgeries as I reached my hands forward in prayer stance. This was hitting bottom, an atheist in a church, a non-believing sinner amongst the resolved and pure. I understand why people need their religion...but religion didn't need me.
God? I ask. Are you here?
No answer.
Do you know what I have been through? Do you? I know I am supposed to think that you are there for me, helping me and guiding me, but you know what? I am utterly alone. That stupid saying, that ridiculous verse where I am supposed to think that I am not walking alone, that you are carrying me? Yeah. I don't think that for a minute. I am walking on my own here, and I am doing it through fire.
I wait, wondering if this is the part where God interjects, but I am met only with the lingering sound of the monk and his lilting singing.
I stopped believing in you, so I suppose it's fair to understand why you stopped believing in me, I continue. And I have made mistakes-boy have I made mistakes! But I was taught as a little, naïve girl, that you are supposed to overlook mistakes, that you are supposed to be there anyway. And you know what? I am so ready for you to stop fucking with me, God. I am done!
I stop, wondering if I shouldn't have cursed to God, then realized that I actually didn't care if it did offend.
God, I say, wiping off the still small trickle of nosebleed from my face. You have no idea. Do you know what's happened to me? You've taken away my grandfather. Now you're gunning for Kim. The world has turned against me and you've smacked my body with skin cancer-have you seen the scars? Have you? It's true I don't really care about scars, but I can do without the pity, God. I see how people look at it, and I can do without the pity.
I sit there, quietly, and as I utter the next words, the tears gush from my eyes and I sob hysterically.
I'm so tired, God. I'm so tired, I just can't take any more.
I stop my monologue then and just lean forward and sob and cry and rage into my folded hands as the simple truth hits home. I was just so utterly deep and bone-weary tired. I cry for ages, I cry until I feel my head pounding, I cry until I get those ridiculous and very-telling hiccups that show when you're all sobbed out. At some point, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's the monk, who had finished with his singing and I hadn't even realized it.
'My dear,'Â he says softly. 'I am here to talk if you need it. And God is here to listen.'Â
I wipe my face off and stand up, facing him. 'No he's not." I say firmly. "He's not here, I've been checking.'Â
The monk looks startled.
'Thank you for your kind offer, Father.'Â I say, turning to leave and digging the car key from my soggy pocket. 'But God and I have nothing more to say to one another.'Â
And I leave.
And I drive home and clean the kitchen all over again, working off the medication.
And although I light candles at every church I come to in memory of those I loved, I have never prayed again, and I am sure I never will.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:00 AM
| Comments (18)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1666 words, total size 9 kb.
October 12, 2004
Shortly before I was about to graduate, I got a call into the Dean's Office. The Dean was a retired Jesuit priest and perhaps one of the greatest examples of a hippie that I had ever met. His office had an incense corner that burned a patchouli smell, a heavy cloying smell that kept making me wonder if there was a confessional booth somewhere nearby or if there was a CCTV camera in the room that was wired up to God. He had a massive South American rug on the floor of his office that has whole chunks of it missing, chunks taken by the mice that lived in his office. He didn't want to destroy them, so he let them multiply instead.
Creeped out by the thought of mice or little mice droppings, I couldn't sit down during the discussion.
He had called me to his office as it turned out I wasn't allowed to graduate unless I took 4 physical education classes. Four. One whole extra semester. I was outraged.
"What right is it of the government to dictate that I take PE?" I demanded. "What do they care? Just let me finish and become a contributor to the nation's labor market!" (Oh how idealistic I was in those days. I wish I could go back and give myself a cuddle...and a smack on the head as I staunchly tell myself to get a fucking grip.)
He shrugged, his enormous beard shaking. I think I saw something move in it. I swear I did. I wondered if Jesuit priests let mice live in the beards.
It freaked me out.
I took my battle to the academic committee, convinced as I was that I was correct (oh, foolish, foolish Helen). I lost, naturally, and thus did not graduate on time as I signed up for my final semester-4 swimming classes.
On a whim and with an extra jolt of student loan money, I realized I could switch one of the classes for a scuba diving class and become a certified diver. I figured-I'm only paying 5% interest on this loan, why the hell not? It also would help me get over an irrational fear I had of water-I was terrified of the deep end of the pool and would swim like a maniac in the deep end, so convinced as I was that maybe something evil could ooze out of the filter.
I took the course and was floored by how fantastic scuba diving was. I loved it-even when I had to get my certification dives in one of the green Texas man-made lakes. It was wonderful.
And I've never regretted that one.
We leave on Thursday, and my dive card, dive log, and mask and snorkle are coming with us (the rest of my dive kit is in storage in Sweden). Angus (who is being incredibly sweet and lovely) has agreed to take one of those resort intro dive classes to see what all of the hubbub is about. I have preliminarily booked up a time slot at a dolphin research and rehabilitation center, where we can spend some time with the flippered friends.
And I am already dreaming. Nothing in the world is more relaxing to me than snorkling and diving. When I get to the warm waters, if the visibility is good and the marine life is ample, you can't get me out of the water. Lead me numbly to the crystal blue waters, the parrot fish lighting up the coral, the manta rays silently lurking on the ocean floor, stealthily moving on with a graceful push. Let me dive through coral farms and see the dark, enigmatic shapes of the sharks at rest.
One of my favorite memories is of swimming by myself in the Seychelles, and playing tag with an enormous group of zebra fish. The sun lit the water up all around me, the coral sparkled under the water, like little flashlights to light up an already dazzling space. A small octopus floated by, and I held a finger up next to one of the dangling arms, feeling tiny suction cups tickle the water-bumpy raisin surface of my finger. I was alone in that moment and completely at ease in the warm and pefect water.
I have never seen the point of birdwatching-what, are the birds going to do something interesting? Are they just standing there, eating and looking daft? is there are reason I should be wasting my time looking for a red-headed pepper peter eater? Likewise, Angus has never been big on fish, he hates the idea that they can touch his legs, and he doesn't really see the point of them.
I'm hoping we can address that.
I can't wait to take my man into the water, to show him the world I find so incredibly relaxing.
This, since this is the only man that I have ever been able to relax around.
Last night I dreamt of swimming in the warm blue water, fishies all around. I dreamt that Angus was swimming with me, and at one point he looked up at me and grinned, excitement and happiness in his eyes. I dreamt of sliding through the warm water, of my hair floating around my face, as I take his hand and we keep swimming.
-H.
PS-Offer accepted-we got our little house! Happy dance now....
PPS-I mailed off two important letters in the past few days. One is my absentee ballot-I find it important to vote, and I feel it's a privilege that should be exercised. The other letter is a story-it had to be under 1800 words and I just made it at 1791 (brevity and I have never been friends). I have entered a writing competition. I am sure I won't win, and I am absolutely terrified at the rejection option, but still...I had to reach a hand up and break through the surface somewhere.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:39 AM
| Comments (24)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1020 words, total size 5 kb.
October 11, 2004
Broken gutter gushed water down the house for some years.
Said water leaked into the walls and door frames of one part of the house.
Said walls were soaked with wet rot and damp damage, and the door and window frames were rotted.
Angus was utterly depressed and furious which thus sends me into Uber-supportive overdrive. I whipped into a frenzy of "What-Can-I-Do-To-Help" mode, and as an end-result I worked like a demon for pretty much the whole weekend. I don't actually mind it, when things need to be done I have this hidden switch in the back of my head, a little metal flick-switch that is set to "on" or "off". This switch gets thrown during DIY times, since I go mental when houses are in chaos and things need to be done.
I flipped the switch.
I painted almost the entire inside of the house...all three stories of rooms.
And then I cleaned it all from top to bottom.
And you know what? I didn't mind it at all.
Angus also worked like hell and got all the man jobs-climbing the world's scariest ladder to fix the broken gutter (it cost £20 for the gutter piece. If we had known about the gutter ahead of time, the problem could have been solved. Fixing the damp may cost roughly 1000 times that price. Fucking estate agents.) Cleaning out the fully insect-infested loft. Locks, latches, hinges, lights...it was all his territory.
We stayed with his brother Sam and sister-in-law Jane and their utterly perfect daughter Jilly Thursday night and Friday night, and Saturday we slept on an air mattress in the empty cottage. Jilly is one of the most perfect children I know of-a sweet-faced three year-old whose upturned face sparkles, whose little girl cuddles smell like milk and oranges, with a little hint of that toddler smell that no one in the world can copy. A little girl that if you turn to her and say: "Dude" she'll grin and say: "Sweet."
She makes my ovaries throb to the beat of an Indian drum and makes my arms ache so much it's nearly impossible to hold a glass or maneuver silverware.
This weekend I learned the following:
1) It's very easy to get over an irrational fear of spiders if you simply have no other choice. Fall in England means you have to deal with spiders moving in due to changing weather. Fall in England in a house that has been vacant for 30 days means you have to wade through the cobwebs and just wearily pluck the occasional spider from your hair without flipping out on a level with Sandra Dee.
2) If you paint enough, you wind up with a wrist so sore that it's as if you have provided a hand job to the entire Navy fleet.
3) Sometimes you just have to have a little sex in the afternoon to remind you of what fun you can have in an empty house.
4) If you have a fight sometimes you have to draw a line under it and agree to disagree. He may think I said something fucking insensitive, and I may think he's being an over-reactive jerk, but sometimes it doesn't have to be the end of the world.
5) Any guy that understands why you will get down off a ladder and stop painting just to rush to the radio to turn off the horrible Destiny's Child song and then get back off the ladder to turn the radio on when you think the song is done, is a keeper.
6) I really hate painting. Especially the nasty glossy trim paint that is fucking impossible to get off your skin and if it lands in your hair the only way to remove it is to face the business end of the scissors.
7) I am a lot stronger-emotionally and physically-than I ever thought I was.
Even though I have said that Angus should keep all of his love letters and host them in our house, it didn't stop me feeling a little weird when I uncovered a very old bag of cards he'd written 15 years ago to his ex.
9) Then again, I don't imagine he would be very comfortable if he found things I'd written to other people.
10) He writes lovely things.
11) I'm going to keep him.
12) I can't wait until we have a house of our own. Big garden, big windows, discussions about what lights are good and what lights are ugly and disagreements on the painting schemes await. I honestly can't wait.
13) I miss my dog so fucking much that it makes me crease over in half to try to ease the hurt from my heart down to my toes, where it can take up space and keep my feet firmly planted.
14) The knowledge that you are the one who is mostly responsible for tearing apart a family does get easier to bear over time, even if the feeling never truly goes away.
15) During the argument, I thought: I want to go home. And when I thought that, I meant our little house in Whitney Houston, our little home with the little bed and the little staircase. I yearned for it so much that it floored me to realize...I think of this as home. This is my home. It's my home, and I love living here so much. I'm not sure I have ever really had a home before, but I most certainly do now.
16) I think that some houses can have too many ghosts, even for me. I was glad I didn't take my spare bag that I keep packed with my insecurities, as it turns out I wouldn't have used them anyway. I was ok, and except for a few moments, Angus was ok as well.
17) You can have Egg McMuffins two days in a row for breakfast and still love them.
We attended a party the last evening we were there in Brighton, of a couple that he was acquaintances with and whom had an enormous house and an appetite for party. We had been in terrible moods before the party due to an argument, but we knew it would help us feel better to get out of the house. We went to their home near the water, a home the size of Buckingham palace packed to the gills with people and throbbing music, a bar that was squeezed tight with bottles of every variety of heady and absorbing alcohol. We got drinks and started chatting to various people, getting to know them.
At some point, I felt a hand lift up my shirt and massage my back, moving from my bra-line to the top of my lacy thong. From the corner of my eye I see Angus holding his drink and chatting to some guy, acting innocent as his other hand slowly traced lazy circles on my skin. It made my back tingle and my heart ease up as our moods lightened. I also realized that Angus was by far the most attractive man there, and it made my chest squeeze knowing that he was mine.
Our hostess came by with towels. She handed us two and smiled, pointing to some French doors with long talons ending in French tips. "The pool's out there, if you're interested!"
"We didn't bring our swimsuits." I reply apologetically.
"So? That's no problem. Just go without! Lots of people do, and no one is looking anyway."
Aha. Really? Angus and I look at each other and grin. There was really only one alternative after that.
We go to the French doors.
We open them.
The pool is deserted.
Off go all our clothes and we jump into the pool.
I have never in my life swam in the buff. I have never had the freedom or pleasure of all my limbs and bits feeling free-flowing movement as I cut through the surface of the water. It was utterly liberating and fantastic to feel such warm water all around me and over me, to know that I was doing something considered a bit naughty to most people, and doing so during a crowded party. I absolutely see the point of nude beaches now.
We spent a lot of time in the pool laughing and enjoying ourselves, and got out reluctantly, feeling very hungry and more than a little turned on. We found some food and more wine and ate hungrily, eyeing each other and giggling like teenagers. I found I just wanted to keep touching him, to keep exploring the contours of his face and neck. We went back to the house a little bit later and curled up into each other like tadpoles, falling asleep in the freezing cold house and creating a nest of warmth in the bed.
Sunday we came back to Whitney Houston, most of the work on the cottage in Brighton being complete. The estate agent is sending people around to fix the damage done by the tenant, so Angus is breathing a bit easier now. I walk to the local store to pick up a newspaper, and the autumn sun is warm and inviting, the leaves blowing around the streets. The cricket green has been roped off until next Spring, and I look around and think of just how much I love this place, of just how much I love this life.
We take a champagne bubble bath at home, laughing and relaxing. We eat focaccia and stinky French cheese for dinner, and in the middle of the night we wake each other up for a round of room-darkened whispering sex, falling asleep afterwards and waking up with smiles on our faces.
This is my life, and I never want to give it up.
This is my man, and I never want to give him up, either.
-H.
PS-we have put in an offer to let another house since ours is going up for sale. Just waiting to hear back from the estate agent now. The house is almost exactly like the one we are living in now, only it has parking spaces and two bathrooms instead of just the one. I loved the house right away-it's older than the one we're in now, it has an enormous and modern kitchen, and it has a story to tell-during WWII a German bomber dumped his bomb off next to it as he circled back around to fly back to Germany after a bombing raid on London. The house next door was utterly demolished and this house has an enormous repaired crack on the outside wall where the bomb damage was repaired.
I'm in love with it. We should hear back if our offer was accepted or not today. If it's accepted, we will move in the middle of November-just before we get my cats. And moving will be hard and arduous, a difficult job of packing up and lugging all our belongings and leaving this little house we love in Whitney Houston...and moving the great distance that is this new house.
This new house...which is literally across the street.
Oh, the agony...
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
10:09 AM
| Comments (20)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1920 words, total size 10 kb.
October 10, 2004
Seriously.
It's a wonderful cause.
And if you donate $50, you'll:
1) Feel better.
2) Save lives
3) See if you can tell which is Helen's completely exposed rack.
Donate now!
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
05:39 PM
| Comments (8)
| Add Comment
Post contains 52 words, total size 1 kb.
October 07, 2004
And before you even think it, no we're not going off to get married in the Bahamas. Or Miami, for that matter. This is just something that has me thinking.
I've been spending a lot of time surfing web sites and reading about the Bahamas in the Rough Guide (which usually has all kinds of great info, if you don't mind it from a backpacker's perspective. Which I don't. But I am not going to backpack my way across the Bahamas.) It seems like the Bahamas really only cater to two major audiences:
The Americans.
The English.
The melting pot of tourists this is not, which is ok since I can get that in London on a Wednesday morning.
We have been looking at various types of options and accommodations. The first type are massive resort style hotels that appear to have waterslides from the lobby to your hotel door and every drink has multiple umbrellas in it and is delivered by a leprechaun. The other type are the sniffy, quiet, please-why-can't-you-just-leave-me-alone hotels (and you must say that with one arm thrown over your forehead and pronounce can't as "cahhhhn't"). And you know-the waterslide to our hotel door one appears to be winning the race at this point.
We've booked a cute and intimate hotel in Miami. Maybe the Bahamas are more of a playtime. That, and we need to find ample beach space for a little al fresco loving.
It had to be said.
When I look at the hotels, I notice that nearly all of them offer a wedding service as part of the hotel, and all of the hotels have honeymoon suites. Honeymoon suites that apparently include fizzy-lifting drinks when you check in, flowers, and hopefully a heart-shaped bed that will vibrate on command. I wonder if they even have poshy prophilactics and lubricants cooling by the side of the bed in orchid-strewn water. One can dream, anyway.
Angus is completely put-off by the idea of jetting off somewhere to get hitched. He figures...what's the point? Why go away to get married, if you're getting married to be married. Going away, in his mind, is unnecessary.
To me, a wedding away is of interest. It appeals to me. Let's be honest-I have been down that rose-strewn aisle twice. I've had the church do, and I've had another venue (my first wedding was in the theatre where my ex-husband and I worked. We got married on stage-does it get more All My Children melodramatic than that? I think not.) A wedding away also highlights that for some people, a wedding is a private event, an event to be shared between the two of them. I think a wedding away would be a lovely idea-it would be personal and I could be free of the reminders that my side of the church would be empty, that the pews behind the bride would be painfully thin, save for a few wonderful friends and anyone else who felt sorry for me from Angus' side.
At the same time, I know that weddings and the very definition of a wedding are the interpretation of a culture, of a family. Traditionally it's to bring two households together, and as we change as a society, the households have started to include friends that are closer to us than siblings, as well as acquaintances just looking to get drunk. A wedding in and of itself it supposed to be an event that brings families together-a thought that (in Angus' and my situation) fills me with extreme trepidation.
Really makes the getting-married-on-a-sunset-lit-beach-with-just-a-few-people-and-flower-leis feel and look wonderful.
I thought more about weddings. I clicked on a link on one of the hotel's sites about how they arrange weddings, and I saw pictures of women looking head-to-toe meringue. We are talking a Massive Tulle Invasion, or what I think of as Women Who Didn't Grow Up To Be the Ballerina They Wanted To Be" pictures. Man...those dresses are much. I look at those pictures and think...wow, that idea is so wildly unappealing, I am at a total loss for words.
And I am never at a loss for words.
A good friend of mine from university is about to get married and has chosen a simple but extremely lovely and elegant dress. I checked out some links of the dresses they are looking at, and I realized that I too would be of the simple and lovely dress range. Not only that, but I wouldn't even wear a white dress, or anything that even touched the possible eggshell color spectrum-in the back of my mind I could hear the outraged whispers: She's wearing white? That prostitute!
Looking through the links, I realized that at some point I stopped thinking of weddings as the things that fairy tales are made of, the plastic figures on the cake and the white satin garter belt that would twist its way around my thigh, and started thinking of weddings for what they are...as the entrance to the truly serious arena of marriage and of partnership. Maybe some people have the two events perfectly linked in their minds, but previously life was BW (Before Wedding) and WDIDN (What Do I Do Now?).
This is something that I hadn't considered in my previous relationships, I am ashamed to admit.
I think I have truly become a grown-up now.
I talk to Angus about my thoughts and hastily make it clear that I am not edging for a wedding as I talk to him (I felt it best to explain the internet history on the PC, lest I have to talk him down from the ceiling if he saw the wedding dress links I'd been perusing) and tell him my thoughts...that if it were to come up someday, the truth is, I'm not so interested in the wedding. I would be interested in the marriage.
I'm in this for the long haul, for the partnership, for the long-term friendship and access to all the bonking a girl could ask for, not for the feeding of the sugary cake and throwing of the bouquet. Once upon a time I couldn't see past the thick bridal magazines and the enormous reception, but now...now I can see a wedding would be the prelude to the opera, the opening act to the rock star concert. Big weddings are lovely and great, just maybe not for me. If it came to it, the wedding could be however he wanted, since that's not what gets my heart a-flutter.
I tell him this as our favorite sitcom, Ny-Lon, finishes for the season. In it, the Englishman proposes to his American girlfriend.
"That's a bad idea, mate." Angus says to the tv screen. "Never ask a chick unless you're sure of the answer. The rejection would be excruciating."
"Do you think?" I ask.
"Yeah. I would never ask you unless I was sure of your answer."
Hmm...interesting. "So what do you think my answer would be?"
He considers. "I dunno. About 50-50, if I'm honest."
"Really?" I ask, surprised.
"Yeah." he says, candidly.
"Would you say yes or no if I asked you?" I ask him.
"Honestly? I'm not sure." he replies, looking at me.
Relax, Angus. You're safe. In my post-feminist world of I-can-do-anything, I still have a bit of traditional soul left in me. The proposing? That's a Man Job, if anything is.
-H.
PS-we're off to Brighton today for meetings and to start fixing up Angus' former home, which is hopefully going on the market soon. Nothing from me until Monday (including the long email I owe you, Dane!)
PPS-it occurred to me that I don't really comment much in my own comment section. Honestly, it's because I usually post in the morning then often don't get to check it until the evening, but don't think for a moment that comments get ignored or overlooked. I pay attention.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:21 AM
| Comments (15)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1325 words, total size 8 kb.
October 06, 2004
Fall is here. Pumpkins, fallen leaves, the smell of fireplaces lit in the evening. Dramas on tv reflect the dark that comes earlier and earlier in the evening. The world is getting ready to sleep, while our household is coming to life.
Yesterday morning Angus and I drove together to Newbury-home of this office, home of our former flat, and home of a convenient train station for me to get to meetings in Maidenhead. We made our way to Costa first for a large Americano (neither of us can function in the morning without some java). He went to a nearby travel agents to grab some brochures-we are going on holiday next week and hadn't been able to narrow the choices down from Miami and the Keys, Malaysia, and Thailand. We sat at the table with glossy brochures offering stunning and loyal views from resorts, brochures that showed the best of the options while making us wonder what they weren't telling us, brochures that held people's dream vacations on each and every page.
As we were sitting there, a voice mail popped into his phone. He listened, his face unreadable, and as he hung up he popped his small phone into his shirt pocket and looked at me.
'That was the estate agents. Our landlord wants to sell the house. We have to move by the first week of December.'Â
I nod. 'That house at the end of our drive is just now up for let.'Â I reply. 'And two people in the terrace are moving out in November.'Â
And we sat there, thinking. We gathered up our brochures and our coffee, and left, heading for the train station. He kissed me goodbye and we went our separate business ways.
On the train my phone vibrates warmly in my pocket and lets me know that Angus has sent me a text. I check it, and there is a lovely message from him that says he liked my post from yesterday and he's strangely upbeat about finding a new place, since he thinks we can find something better.
And I burst out in an enormous smile, as I felt exactly the same way. I wasn't depressed, in fact far from it. My mind was racing about the possibilities we had in a new place, in new walls and new floorboards, in a house with a logical bathroom layout and a larger garden that we could cavort about in naked if we so chose. My fingers were itching to get to the internet and check homes that we could start looking at.
Our house in Whitney Houston has been fantastic. Small, perfectly contained, with lovely neighbors and a large kitchen. It was the first home we've ever had together, the first space that we lived in that was just us, a space that started off with the basic equation of how we are together, leaving us to fill in the details.
He started looking at holidays and homes simultaneously, texting me throughout the day with options. I didn't have an internet connection until lunchtime on someone else's PC, so I punched in the web address of the leading candidate as everyone snacked on sandwiches and salt and vinegar chips. Once the screen came up, there was a beautiful white house with black timbered ceilings and a nice layout, in our village.
'That's a nice place.'Â I heard behind me, and I turned around to see the entire Gerbil Testing team I am on looking at the screen.
I had forgotten to change the PC to desktop view only, and I was now showing a potential house on the projector screen to the entire conference room.
I figured: Fuck it. Let them give their advice. So we went through the rest of the options, people weighing in on the various features and cheering at the idea of garages, parking, and one poor soul that cheered when he saw a jacuzzi bathtub (proving it's not only girls who like the bubble baths!)
When Angus and I went home we drove through Whitney Houston and reviewed the other homes available. We went to the gym but I was seriously unable to focus, my mind racing of things to do, to read, to review on-line. We aborted our workout and headed home, both of us strangely in very good moods.
Stopping for petrol, Angus stood outside filling the car while I laid about the hood of the car, harassing him.
'Hey! This hose vibrates!'Â he said, referring to the inky black gas hose that hummed and whirred as it poured motion lotion into our thirsty Alfa.
'Really?'Â I ask.
'Maybe it's something for you.'Â He replies. 'Think you can get off in 46 liters?'Â
'I don't want a dirty hose near me.'Â I sniff.
He grins.
I realize what I said.
I grin.
'Why not?'Â he replies. 'Isn't that how it usually works?'Â
When we get home we warm up some soup and turn on the PCs. Truly a couple of the new century, at one point we were both on the couch, laptops on and wifi igniting the household. We watch our favorite show and continue surfing, my focus divided as I surfed airlines and hotels.
We went to bed late and I walked into the bedroom to see Angus laying in the bed, only his eyes visible and mischief in his eyes. I pull the covers back and take off my clothes, sliding onto the cool sheets. Suddenly, my thigh brushes against something with a pointy edge, and I reach down to find a tube of KY lubricant hidden among the sheets.
I hold it up.
'Hey! How did that get in there?'Â Angus asks, looking mock confused.
'Is this a hint?'Â I ask grinning.
'More like a potential guideline, if you're not too tired, of course.'Â
I pop the cap open.
'I've been craving you all day.'Â He says warmly.
And I lube up and climb onboard the merry-go-round.
In the end we can't sleep and so both have to resort to melatonin, too much going on in our minds. As I lay there in the bed, with a warm and cozy Angus beside me, I look at the walls of our little bedroom in our little house. I think of the day we moved in, when I dropped everything and planted flowers. I think of looking up at the window at the sounds of Angus singing. I think of the arguments we've had, and I think of the exciting-Venice. Dressing up to go to London for an evening. People coming to visit. Making dinner together.
And I think, as I fall asleep'¦.I wonder if this house will miss us when we're gone?
And I answer myself right away. Of course it will. It must do. In the 140 years this house has been around, no one has ever loved this house as much as I have.
And I fall asleep.
-H.
PS-The good news? We are off next week for one week. The deliberations changed halfway through the evening-for various reasons, things got knocked out of competition, and now we are headed here for a few days, then a few days visit here.
I can hardly wait.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
11:05 AM
| Comments (21)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1324 words, total size 7 kb.
October 05, 2004
I spent some time with me in the evenings. Just with me. And once upon a time I hated the sight of myself, I hated the earthy stretch of my skin and the RAM and ROM whirring of my memory, I wanted to find new and inventive ways of torturing the corporeal and the inner. But after my time alone, I now have started to think that I am content inside of the cleanly swept floors of my mind. I can set myself up with a book and a rocking chair and not spend time full of self-loathing...I can just breathe.
Isn't it amazing? After 30 years, it takes being with someone to teach me how to be with myself. And that's a gift that keeps on giving.
I did all the things I had planned. Watch chick flicks? Check! Get drunk on white wine while (fantasizing) watching Colin Firth? Check! Dance on the coffee table in my tank top and boxer shorts? Check!
This is not to say that I didn't miss Mr. Y terribly and eagerly await his return, because I absolutely did. I think-if anything-his being away has shown me just who we are as a couple. It helped me figure out who I was. And it reillustrated how he felt about me-while he was away Mr. Y sent me a number of text messages, nearly all of them including how much he loved and missed me.
All that, and he vows he is not good talking about his feelings.
He came home on Saturday night, and I was one million miles of excitement. I had prepared a gourmet meal-mini stilton and spinach souffles as appetizers and green and white lasagne as a main course. I had bought champagne-pink champagne, just to up the sicky factor-and some a nice bottle of red to have with dinner. Unable to hold still with anticipation, I had cleaned the house to the nth degree and checked his flight status on the web constantly. I was so eager to see him and so anxious to hold him that I was like a little girl wondering when the tooth fairy would finally show up.
And he came home.
And he didn't disappoint me.
He was feeling a bit sad, but better I think for being back. He had been in Sweden packing his belongings from his former house, and I know myself how hard and how depressing it is to disentangle oneself from a life that you no longer life. I look at our hardwood floors, our wide windows and thick walls of the house. Is this home for you? I ask, with a whisper and hitch of hope in my voice, and it is only then that I realize how important to me that he thinks and feels it is.
He smiles at me. "Yes. I'm home now."
And just like that, our family is born.
We sit on the couch, the candles lit, and talk. Then we don't talk, but instead keep our hands on each other and watch The Dish (we're both big fans of The Castle. The Dish was good, just not as good.)
At some point my thighs start going higher and higher on his leg, and I smile secretively when it makes him tremble and garners a reaction in his trousers. We smiles and takes my hand. "Shall we go upstairs and interfere with each other?" he asks, and grinning we head upstairs.
I follow him up our narrow staircase, and I think...This relationship is so stable, so incredibly good. I have never in my life felt more grown-up and yet more wild about someone. All those years, all those heartbreaks. Maybe it was all just practice, and since I had such a crap batting average, I have had to spend more time in the Minors before being drafted up, to the real stadium, with real seats and real lights.
Once in bed we spend some time investigating each others' bodies, touching and tracing to see if anything changed while we were apart. I knew every curve and every shadow of him. We felt and touched and did it all, and it was exactly as I knew and missed it.
I lay on top of him once done. "Rotate." he said, our cue for sleeping positions, and I turn over on my left with him spooning me from behind, his knees behind mine, our bodies still warm.
"Do you love me?" I ask.
"I love you." he replies.
"Do you have the hearts and ponies for me?" I ask, referring to our code word for passion ("passion" is a little too soap opera, even for us).
"I do."
"How much do you love me?" I ask.
He sighs, thinking. "My love for you is like the Yangtze River."
"What...Chinese?" I ask.
"No. What's the long one? Oh yes. The Nile. My love for you is like the Nile."
I grin. "Tell me."
"The Nile is fed by three rivers. The White Nile, is like my love for you, so pure and clean. The Blue Nile, is like my love for you, so loyal and so true."
I smile.
"And the Nile's shallow, rancid out-pourings are like your ass-"
I shriek and try to tickle him. "You blew it!" I exclaim, giggling.
I'm so glad to have him home.
-H.
PS-We have decided on a name change. No longer will my beloved boyfriend, my partner and lover, be called Mr. Y.
Everyone? Meet Angus.
Angus? This is Everyone.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:34 AM
| Comments (21)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1015 words, total size 6 kb.
I spent some time with me in the evenings. Just with me. And once upon a time I hated the sight of myself, I hated the earthy stretch of my skin and the RAM and ROM whirring of my memory, I wanted to find new and inventive ways of torturing the corporeal and the inner. But after my time alone, I now have started to think that I am content inside of the cleanly swept floors of my mind. I can set myself up with a book and a rocking chair and not spend time full of self-loathing...I can just breathe.
Isn't it amazing? After 30 years, it takes being with someone to teach me how to be with myself. And that's a gift that keeps on giving.
I did all the things I had planned. Watch chick flicks? Check! Get drunk on white wine while (fantasizing) watching Colin Firth? Check! Dance on the coffee table in my tank top and boxer shorts? Check!
This is not to say that I didn't miss Mr. Y terribly and eagerly await his return, because I absolutely did. I think-if anything-his being away has shown me just who we are as a couple. It helped me figure out who I was. And it reillustrated how he felt about me-while he was away Mr. Y sent me a number of text messages, nearly all of them including how much he loved and missed me.
All that, and he vows he is not good talking about his feelings.
He came home on Saturday night, and I was one million miles of excitement. I had prepared a gourmet meal-mini stilton and spinach souffles as appetizers and green and white lasagne as a main course. I had bought champagne-pink champagne, just to up the sicky factor-and some a nice bottle of red to have with dinner. Unable to hold still with anticipation, I had cleaned the house to the nth degree and checked his flight status on the web constantly. I was so eager to see him and so anxious to hold him that I was like a little girl wondering when the tooth fairy would finally show up.
And he came home.
And he didn't disappoint me.
He was feeling a bit sad, but better I think for being back. He had been in Sweden packing his belongings from his former house, and I know myself how hard and how depressing it is to disentangle oneself from a life that you no longer life. I look at our hardwood floors, our wide windows and thick walls of the house. Is this home for you? I ask, with a whisper and hitch of hope in my voice, and it is only then that I realize how important to me that he thinks and feels it is.
He smiles at me. "Yes. I'm home now."
And just like that, our family is born.
We sit on the couch, the candles lit, and talk. Then we don't talk, but instead keep our hands on each other and watch The Dish (we're both big fans of The Castle. The Dish was good, just not as good.)
At some point my thighs start going higher and higher on his leg, and I smile secretively when it makes him tremble and garners a reaction in his trousers. We smiles and takes my hand. "Shall we go upstairs and interfere with each other?" he asks, and grinning we head upstairs.
I follow him up our narrow staircase, and I think...This relationship is so stable, so incredibly good. I have never in my life felt more grown-up and yet more wild about someone. All those years, all those heartbreaks. Maybe it was all just practice, and since I had such a crap batting average, I have had to spend more time in the Minors before being drafted up, to the real stadium, with real seats and real lights.
Once in bed we spend some time investigating each others' bodies, touching and tracing to see if anything changed while we were apart. I knew every curve and every shadow of him. We felt and touched and did it all, and it was exactly as I knew and missed it.
I lay on top of him once done. "Rotate." he said, our cue for sleeping positions, and I turn over on my left with him spooning me from behind, his knees behind mine, our bodies still warm.
"Do you love me?" I ask.
"I love you." he replies.
"Do you have the hearts and ponies for me?" I ask, referring to our code word for passion ("passion" is a little too soap opera, even for us).
"I do."
"How much do you love me?" I ask.
He sighs, thinking. "My love for you is like the Yangtze River."
"What...Chinese?" I ask.
"No. What's the long one? Oh yes. The Nile. My love for you is like the Nile."
I grin. "Tell me."
"The Nile is fed by three rivers. The White Nile, is like my love for you, so pure and clean. The Blue Nile, is like my love for you, so loyal and so true."
I smile.
"And the Nile's shallow, rancid out-pourings are like your ass-"
I shriek and try to tickle him. "You blew it!" I exclaim, giggling.
I'm so glad to have him home.
-H.
PS-We have decided on a name change. No longer will my beloved boyfriend, my partner and lover, be called Mr. Y.
Everyone? Meet Angus.
Angus? This is Everyone.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:42 AM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 1019 words, total size 6 kb.
October 04, 2004
I've spent all day trying to get the internet to work.
I spent over an hour and a half on the phone to various absolutely clueless technicians, battling through screen after screen of settings, making me want to tear my hair out . I was on hold for a total over 45 minutes throughout the process, when in the end, I was finally being assisted by 4 product specialists and one telecom engineer. In return, I painted my toenails, read a whole magazine, and managed to pee undetected while allegedly going through settings on my pc (it helps that the bathroom is next to the study). The diagnosis, in the end, was thus-our broadband router has bit the dust. One would be ordered and made available within two working days.
With a sigh, I closed the pc. Unable to check work mails, unable to blog, unable to even look up a phone number for the Alfa dealer that was providing a 12,000 mile service to our car, I had to resort to-sob-the actual yellow pages. The paper ones.
So Karl and I went to the movies. We saw Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, which I advise you to see only if people are holding guns on you and every person you know. And even then, you need to decide how altruistic you are prepared to be. I mean-are you willing to lose your Aunt Edna if you don't have to sit through one of the worst cinematic pieces in history?
I'll let you decide.
Karl and I go to pick up the Alfa. The men there take Karl outside to show him the car and discuss the issues, while I pay the bill. It amuses me-not only is Karl not remotely inerested in cars, it's not even his car. They just assume that he must be my partner and he must be the "car person". In the end he smiled a lot, nodded, looked grim, and thanked them for their help. I paid the bill and got a nice mechanic to cut us a deal on a car part. Sometimes it helps to flash a big smile (as is expected of the chick, I guess).
The Alfa's paint isn't doing well-it has some blisters and flaking paint from where bird poo landed on it. Apparently, birds in England are different from birds in America, as they have Super Acid Screaming Shit, which eats through paint in a matter of days if you don't remove it (which we now do, having learnt our lesson). They say it isn't under warranty. I ask how much a new paint job might cost.
He scratches his head. "I don't know, luv. I reckon it'd cost about £4000.00"
"Bloody hell!" I exclaim. "I could get new breasts for that price!"
There is a moment of silence as I realize that my internal dialogue mechanisms have failed and I have actually said that out loud. Karl doubles over in laughter as I weakly smile and apologize. The men smile shakily. Karl and I bid a hasty retreat.
I get home and see Mr. Y at the computer...with the internet working. All he did was open it, move one cable, and voila. Houston, we are go for liftoff.
Figures.
So I am off in a second to catch up on work. Just one more thing. Do you want to cure cancer? Yes. Of course you do. Do you have $50? Do you want to donate it, perhaps?
Because Mr. Y and I are having a photo session tonight, all in the name of a good cause. We will be taking photos-one clothed, one unclothed (and I'm hoping it winds up being a romp session, cause I could really use a round of how's-your-father). It's the unclothed ones that cost you but it's for a wonderul and fantastic cause-we will be donating the pics to the Blogging for Breast Cancer Boobiethon.
What the hell. I've shown them for plastic Mardi Gras beads, this is the least I can do.
So open your wallets, your hearts, and your eyes.
Umm...interested?
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:18 PM
| Comments (8)
| Add Comment
Post contains 705 words, total size 4 kb.
October 01, 2004
After sweating it out on the elliptical machine, the treadmill, and the weights, I showered and dressed (noting with a shrug that I'd forgotten to pack an extra pair of undies and would thus have to go commando under my sweatpants to get home) and popped into the grocery store to pick up a few things, and headed home. It was about 7 pm then-the sky already darkening, and I opened the windows of the car to let the air rush in and cool my face, still warm from the workout. There was a little bit of traffic, the last of the straggling commuters headed home, and the radio was playing soft and soothing music.
Without warning, the car in front of me swerved wildly off the two-lane road, veering onto the shoulder. Confused, I sat up higher in the seat to see-directly in front of me-a pair of headlights headed straight for me. With a jolt, I jerked the wheel to the left, sliding onto the dirt shoulder as well, the scream of car horns in my ears. Shaking, I turned to look out my open window to see a silver BMW convertible, gripped in the throes of road rage, illegally overtaking another car which was apparently going too slow for the Beemer's tastes, all by swerving into the lane of oncoming traffic and assuming that the cars that were following the rules of the road would swerve out of the way (which we did). I saw in my rearview mirror two other cars careen out of the way of said Beemer, before it overtook the car the MBW felt risking lives was worth, and it screamed out of view, engine wailing.
I remember, from the corner of my mind, someone advising that should that happen, it's better to allow them to hit you-at least their insurance would cover you. But at the speeds that little BMW was going on the village roads, I'm pretty sure that would've been one accident that I wouldn't have been walking away from. I was shaken that overtaking someone at the expense of other traffic was so vital, so important, that they couldn't wait a few hundred meters to the next roundabout to try to escape someone.
And the irony? Once upon a time my car was my life, I used to be a road rage driver of about the 7th degree black belt. Violent, vicious, fast driving, zero disregard for my own safety (however very careful of others). In my way? Get out of it. Think you'll cut in front of me? Think again.
But a life of trains, tubes, and a boyfriend that likes to drive have cured me of it. To be honest, I don't even like driving anymore. I find it stressful, uneasy. I have always been one that finds driving soothing, I fall asleep at the wheel. I would much rather someone else drive or I take public transport than be subjected to driving behind the wheel.
So I went home, still confused by what I had seen. I made myself some boxed macaroni and cheese (which I had a bit of then promptly threw away-when did they get so damn salty? What, like the taste might be so bad that a whole bottle of sodium is needed?) And I sat on the couch and wondered.
What would have happened if I hadn't swung out of that car's path in time? What would have happened if I had been a bit dozy, if I had been messing with the radio or checking my lip gloss in the mirror? If I had hit the silver car in an explosion of silver aluminum and hot engine smell, what would be next?
And so I began my wonder about what would have happened if I had died.
Which, ironically, didn't occur to me when I tried to commit suicide almost two years ago.
If that car had hit me, what would I have left behind?
I opened a beer and went into the bathtub, another Lush bubble bath bar oozing me up for girlie-scented comfort. I thought about the immediate aspects of it, the logistics which (in my everyday life) I am so crap at thinking about. I have the common sense of a ground squirrel, so when I think about the practicalities, I pride myself.
How would they get me out of the car? And once they did, would they know from my mobile phone to call my beloved Mr. Y? Would he come right away, on the next plane? Would they roll their eyes in the ER when they discovered I wasn't wearing any underwear? Is it better to wear no underwear than the ratty granny panties that you abhor wearing in public?
Then I realized I was being ridiculous, and after missing my beer bottle on the edge of the bathtub and making a terrific beery mess on the bathmat, I got out of the bath and went to bed. Another quick and relatively unsatisfying round of self relations, and I turned over and tried to sleep, but the thoughts persisted. What would have happened?
I know my Mr. Y would be crushed, I know what it's like to lose someone you love so much, I know the years of wondering and sense of bitter fruitless loss that follow afterwards. Getting over someone you love so much is hard, and if I reverse the roles, I know there is no getting over Mr. Y should I lose him. Some boulders are just too big to ever get around, you just have to learn to live in the shadow of them.
Would there be a ghost in the house, a tall, shadowy ghost of Helen that, when no one was looking, would let the neighbor's kittens in the house and change the station to Will and Grace? My colleagues would be a bit shaken up, I think-as I learned earlier this week, it's disorienting when a co-worker dies, no matter how far removed you are. They laugh and tell me that I'm loud, that I'm funny, that I'm obvious. Would such an obvious marker be moved and missed?
I thought about the memories I would leave behind. Maybe my writing would sit dusty in the humming wires and throbbing hums of the internet. After time, it would all be forgotten, and I would be a used URL that no one else could take. Where I wouldn't leave behind a number of possessions, a great stash of cash, or some beautiful children, I think the only thing I would leave behind was a memory, some thoughts, a phrase or two, and the loss of a love so great that nothing else can ever touch it.
And instead of being morose, instead of feeling I wasn't worth it or that I hadn't accomplished anything, I felt exactly the opposite.
I realized that I don't measure my life in accomplishments, in things, in possessions or money or property. For me it's not about having the house in the suburbs, 2.4 children, a Volvo and a labrador. It's not about a massive funeral full of grieving people who tsk and shake their heads. It's not about the bank accounts and the Prada shoes (although they'd be nice).
It's about the love. It's always been about love. It will always be about love. I have found and touched and kept the greatest love in the world. I have been wildly in love twice in my life, I have loved more three times. I am with a man who is the last and only man I will ever want ever again, the greatest feeling I have ever known. Our rented little village house in our tiny little village, with a job that I enjoy but don't live for, and time enough for life. That's what I've accomplished.
And I am so damn proud of myself, and so full of stupid awe that it's taken me 30 years to learn that the only thing that matters the entire time that we take up breathing space on this little blue planet is that we learn to love with everything we know how to give, and to be loved in return, to feel that we are worth being loved, worth being adored, worth being held.
And never before have I realized that I am so happy to be alive.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
10:30 AM
| Comments (34)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1477 words, total size 8 kb.
49 queries taking 0.093 seconds, 454 records returned.
Powered by Minx 1.1.6c-pink.
