November 30, 2004

When You Turn Every Corner and Have a Memory

We arrived in Stockholm early afternoon on Saturday. As we walked out of the plane and onto the ramp, I realized that it was all how I remembered it-Arlanda airport, the ramps, the feel and purring sound of Swedish of the flight attendant on the intercom. There was something so overwhelmingly familiar and yet utterly difficult about it all.

After we collected our suitcases, we went out into the world outside the revolving doors. It was a cold world, a world graced with snow flurries, a world that was utterly dark and grey, a world marked with beautiful Christmas decorations that punched light into an otherwise dark day. I hadn't remembered my jobless November last year wrong-it was that dark. It was that cold.

It hurt that much.

A train ride into the city and a jaunt on the tunnelbana (subway) as the snow begins to fly down in earnest and the day comes to a bitter resignation, the light of day never making it to our eyes. I remember so many things, so many places. A restaurant. A bar. A bookshop. A train stop. All so familiar and yet so far away. My former life all suspended in a snowglobe, a tiny capsule that exists only in parts of my memory and heart.

I was so confused. Parts of me felt like I was twisted and torn-how could I return to Sweden, this land that saw me crash and burn? And yet, how could I not come to this world, this country that helped me find love, this country that holds so many happy memories, this country that helped me know what I could stand and what would break me?

We check into our hotel-a lovely fantastic hotel, the Hilton Slussen (although we know it as the Scandic Slussen, before it was bought by the icky Hilton clan). Angus takes me upstairs and we take a nice warm shower. On the bed, he holds me tightly and makes love to me, cherishing me and charging me with what I needed-pure honest support and dedication. We leave the windows in the room open, windows that face several floors of a workplace, and just allow each other's limbs and lips to travel and transplant, to reassure and reacquaint.

We then head into town, to the area that I used to live in for a family dinner, and after that meet Best Friend for drinks in an Irish bar.

I had forgotten how quiet the snowfall makes the world. I had forgotten the grace that you feel when the snow falls on your face and muffles your hearing, the sweet feeling of a flake landing on your lashes and eyebrows. I had forgotten how much I love looking up at the streetlights and watching the silhouette of the flakes polka-dot my sight. I may remember the cold and the dark, but I had lost sight of how clear the snow makes you feel.

I miss the snow.

I really do.

On Sunday we missed the chance to go to Sirup in Odenplan-my favorite Sunday haunt, a restaurant that serves my favorite American Sunday breakfast-as we had to go to my storage unit outside the city. We found our way there, and hiked in the freezing cold to the Shurgard place, a silent Trojan Horse designed to bring me to my knees. When we get inside there is a bit of confusion-a padlock is on my storage unit and my tears bring the staff there to unlock it.

Inside of the unit is my life. A 150 year-old rocking chair, some hockey equipment, some pictures, and 18 boxes. Boxes that represent thoughts, times, feelings, emotions, experiences. We didn't have much time so I hastily plowed through them, looking for what I needed-some boots. Cookbooks. A few pictures. A blanket my great-grandmother sewed for me. A soft throw my grandmother gave me. The pajamas I lived in last winter. An antique street sign I'd found in one of the flats in which I'd lived in Stockholm.

Mostly what I needed was to feel my possessions in my hands again.

There is no therapy that feels that good.

Angus and I carried the selected items back with us to the hotel, then went and bought a few Christmas decorations for the house. We bought lights for the window. A Swedish candelabra for the house to light up the winter nights. Some Greve and Herregard, some of the best Swedish cheese you can get. I thoroughly enjoyed walking around the Christmas markets with my lovely, lovely boy.

I found that I have no problem trying to flex my Swedish muscle-not only am I not remotely uncomfortable speaking Swedish but I actually enjoy it. Maybe since it no longer counts so much I am willing to give it a try. Surprisingly, my Swedish (and Angus') is actually pretty good and I find I understand nearly everything being spoken around me.

Then Angus goes to meet his children Melissa and Jeff for dinner and a movie, and I meet Best Friend for a curry dinner in our favorite usual place and a trip to see The Incredibles. Angus, Best Friend and I meet up in a bar later and sink some drinks before Angus and I go back to the room and pack our things, before having a quickie and falling asleep.

Monday morning is very stressful for me, as all I can think about is getting my girls and making sure they're ok. As I take a train to the airport I look out the window and watch the falling snow. I realize that I love Stockholm, that I will always love Stockholm, but that it hasn't been my home for a long time.

I found a home.

I found a home in Whitney Houston that I want to stay in for a while, while I catch my breath from having the wind knocked out of me by life, while I massage away the marks from being coat hangered by my fate.

Angus and I had a great time in Stockholm, though, and have vowed to go back again soon-to not only consolidate his goods and my goods in the storage unit, but to also dip into our collective boxes and pull out a handful of our former lives and try to merge them together.

And I realized that Stockholm wasn't my enemy-in fact it's a city that I find breathtaking and lovely. It's a city I enjoy and want to go back to. It's a place that I both understand and find incomprehensible. It's not Stockholm that's the problem-it's me.

We plan on going back, and with Angus' help, I will be able to relax and enjoy the city that is called Beauty on Water. It truly is beautiful. It truly is special and wonderful.

As are some of my memories, which I wouldn't trade for anything.

-H.

PS-internet connection to hopefully be up and running on Wednesday! A return to regularly scheduled blogging (and more interesting/frequent posts!) to occur then!

PPS-my girls slept on the end of the bed. Maggie even likes to keep us company and sit in the bathtub while we're in the bathroom. I am so wildly happy and weepy to have them here, I'm like a Hallmark movie pumped up on estrogen.

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November 29, 2004

My Babies

More about the Stockholm visit tomorrow, but for today: my girls.

I met X Partner Unit at the SAS Cargo terminal, he gave me a slight wave and we walked into the terminal. The snow was falling, as it had been every day since we arrived in Stockholm. We swept into the terminal, and there on a table was the kennel.

And inside were my two babies, looking stressed and upset.

My babies. My girls. My two bright and perfect black and white princesses. At once I fell to my knees in front of the cage and thrust my fingers into the mesh. 'My babies.' I whispered, wiggling my fingers and feeling the white hot rush of tears in my eyes. 'My girls.'

And they thrust the sides of their cheeks against my fingers and I thought: Oh God I missed you both so much.

X Partner Unit and I continue through the transaction, a gentle settled feeling between us, unspoken words of an unspoken life. After the paperwork is filled out, he takes them out of the kennel one at a time and hugs them tightly, hugging and holding Maggie (his favorite) a little while longer, whispering strings of kind words in Swedish. His voice gets hoarse and his eyes get red, and he excuses himself to the toilet for a minute, I think to cry.

And I think: I know how it feels to say goodbye to them. I am so sorry, but I will love them so much you never have to worry about their happiness.

I give him a bottle of nice Glenlivet as a thank you. He drives me to the terminal and drops me off, giving me a hug goodbye.

I meet Angus in the terminal. It's time to go home. It's time to be with my babies in England, the place that I know and love.

The journey was not easy. On the airplane, I read Augusten Burroughs' new book and found myself thinking: You shouldn't laugh. Maybe something is wrong with your babies in the cargo hold (the UK won't allow non-guide animals in the cabin, they have to travel as freight).

As it turns out, I was right.

We get our bags and hustle to the Animal Reception Centre-it sounds like a place where animals are knocking back champagne and relaxing in a hot tub, but the truth is, it's where cages of bars and months of agony lie. It's the quarantine reception place. It's where I will learn if my girls can stay with me or be locked away in a cold steel cage for 6 months, should they find anything remotely wrong with the papers.

It turns out the papers were fine.

But something else had gone wrong.

The vet came out, a blaze of blond hair and concern.

'We have your cats. Did you sedate them?' she asked.

I felt my heart lurch. 'Yes, why?'

'We had to deliver emergency treatment.' She says, looking me dead on.

I feel my face and my future crumble.

After a long explanation that she has to deliver twice I am so wildly panicky, it turns out that Maggie nearly died on the plane journey after a severe reaction to the tranquilizers, necessitating emergency vet treatment (did you know you shouldn't tranquilize animals for airplane rides? I learnt it today, in a very big way.) She was in the kennel, lying on her back with only the whites of her eyes showing. She had to have emergency warming treatment and medication. Mumin was under the blanket in the kennel, a trick she loves. They were placed in a warming kennel and revived, suffering only from some grogginess and a wobbly back pair of legs on both of them.

There were many, many tears from me-of joy, of stress, of despair that one of my girls nearly died.

The ride home was nervous happiness until I heard a weird moan. A strange, supernatural sound that I couldn't identify. I turned around and realized it was Maggie-Maggie, the one that nearly died. Maggie, my motion-terrified cat, my howler on car rides. She was trying to howl.

I have never in my life been so happy to hear her howl.

And now I am in heaven. My girls are home. They are completely ok. They remember me and are so loving it makes me weep with the natural trusting joy that comes with a beloved family pet. They follow me around the house and have slung themselves across my lap (in fact, Mumin's on my lap now impeding my typing, and I absolutely couldn't mind less). I have waited for this day for so long, that now that it's here, I couldn't calculate the utter peace and joy that it would bring me even if I tried. I could use words to try to describe how I feel, only I just can't find any. I don't think they've been invented yet. And the fact that they seem to love and trust Angus just drives it all to home-this is my family, and I love them so much it hurts.

This is Maggie and me.

My Maggie and I.jpg


And maybe you'll let me have an advertising cliche here.

Maggie when purchased: 200 kronor ($20)
Mumin when purchased: 200 kronor ($20)
Maggie and Mumin's rabies shots: 3600 kronor ($360)
Maggie and Mumin's microchips: 1800 kronor ($180)
Maggie and Mumin's final shots on Saturday: 1000 kronor ($100)
Weekend trip to Stockholm to get Maggie and Mumin: 3600 kronor ($360)
Shipping Maggie and Mumin on SAS: 4800 kronor ($480)
Having my babies home with me: Priceless.


My Sweet Babies.jpg

-H. more...

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November 27, 2004

Stockholm, Vad Skont Ar Det

Quick one from me.

Thanksgiving dinner with my lovely boy and some friends last night a roaring success and managed to fill my heart with hope that everything might be ok.

I am now in the SAS lounge at Heathrow off to Stockholm.

I'm going to get my girls, you see, and it's all I have been thinking about. I've been alternating between laughing and crying, spendig £50 on gear for them for when they get here.

I will also get to go to my storage unit and bring back some things I have missed. A life less ordinary all served up in 21 boxes in a storage container.

That's me.

Today would have been the 5 year anniversary of the day I moved to Sweden, and it's the day I go back for my babies. Maybe one of the last times I will be there for a long time.

It's true what they say. Life is a circle, and mine just seems to be growing, a concentric wonder that often leaves me dizzy from the merry-go-round.

Hopefully my next post on Monday afternoon will be from my home, with my beautiful and wonderful cats at my side. My babies. My heart. Something I have missed so terribly it's as though an ache is being filled. I know they're only cats, but in a world like mine when your uterus is silent and your ovaries have nowhere to go, they are my children.

And now my family will really be together.

-H.

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November 25, 2004

Happy Thanksgiving

Today is Thanksgiving.

This morning I dragged my ass out of bed, shrugging off the sleeping tablet that I needed to fall asleep and shaking off my Sims-influenced dreams, and get ready for work in the dark of the autumn world. Angus is away in Germany on a business trip (I have missed him and hope to shag his brains out later), and so the house is silent, echoing only my footsteps. I get ready, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a Gap long-sleeve T, and I take the train into the city.

No one here seems to know it's Thanksgiving.

Then again, why would they?

I had a conference call with some vendors in the U.S. last night. We had a number of outstanding issues so I told them we'd reconvene on Thursday. We were all exhausted, this project is difficult and getting to the nerve endings under our skin. I was looking forward to a hot bath, some Mexican breakfast burritos, and some sleep.

"We can't do the call tomorrow, Helen." one of the guys on the call said.

"We have got to resolve this issue." I urge strongly, desperate to make progress on this project.

"But tomorrow is a holiday. It's Thanksgiving over here in the states." he pleads. "But we can do a dial-in call if it's important to you."

With a shock, I realize I had forgotten that temporarily. "Oh, man. No, I'm very sorry. You're right. This can wait until Monday. I'm very sorry, I can't believe I'd forgotten."

"You knew it's Thanksgiving over here?" comes a surprised voice.

"Oh yes." I say, shifting the gears of the car and gliding home from the train station. "I'm celebrating mine on Friday with some friends."

"You're American?" asks the guy incredulously.

And just like that, I wonder if I have lost my way. The guy I was talking to isn't even American, he's a Scotsman that moved over there for work. He's more at home there than I am, perhaps. It's as though I have lost my American-ism. They're going to rip up my passport. It's only a matter of time before I cave and insert "u" into my words, replace the s with z.

Nah. I'm lying about that one. I'll never change my spelling.

I want to tell him that I know about Thanksgiving. I know it's a day to spend with family and friends. I know about the lunchtime football games. The morning Macy's Day parade while eating cinnamon rolls. The smell of roasting turkey wafting around the stairs of the house. The laughter and clink of the good china being set on the table. The feeling that you're so full you can't eat another bite, even as you butter up another flaky biscuit.

Since moving, I got myself a copy of Home For the Holidays. I watch that movie every Thanksgiving, cuddled on the couch, and eating comfort food, wishing I could be as low-key as Holly Hunter. I have only had one Thanksgiving on the Thursday it should be on since moving (and it was a great one) so my Thursday Thanksgiving evenings are often spent being homesick.

That's right. Thanksgiving makes me homesick. It has every year so far, I can't imagine this year will be different.

Today I am spending my day with two co-workers going through 12 contractual documents line by line. My inbox is backed up so badly that I need climbing rope to get in and out of it. Our house needs some final touches before people come tomorrow. And Saturday we go to Sweden.

There are four more days until my girls are home.

A few years ago I started a tradition based on a friend of mine. She was American in Sweden too, and she came to my Thanksgiving dinner. She stood up during dinner and said that every year her family went around the table and named things they were thankful for. It was cheesy, emotional, and perfect.

I've done it every year since.

I'm not sure what I will say tomorrow, but I do know that the yearly check of what we're thankful for needs to happen. Here are some of mine:

I am thankful I got a new job.

I am thankful I have my Angus.

I am thankful I get my girls on Monday.

I am thankful I have a great man who is able to trim my minge.

I am thankful I found a place to call home.

I am thankful I learnt about Lush.

I am thankful I have been able to touch happy, and know the shape and feel of it on the ridges of my fingertips.

I am thankful I am nearly done with this contractual meeting.

I am thankful I have been blogging. I think it has saved and helped me.

Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy the Macy's Day parade for me.

-H.

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November 24, 2004

I Think I Want A Lite Brite Now

It's a very grey day today-the sky is overcast and dreary. Everything is covered in a layer of London late Autumn murk-a not quite drizzly day getting me not quite drizzled on. For some reason, the sun doesn't even appear to want to come out-like those of us engaged in our daily commute to work, it's just too tired, too stressed.

I get to the train station at Waterloo with a load of gear-my laptop keyboard is dead so I am lugging around an external keyboard and the projector. The weather drips into the pores of my skin and settles somewhere inside my chest cavity, making me yearn for fuzzy slippers, pajamas, and a bowl of homemade soup while sitting in my mostly unpacked living room. It's not a day to leave the house, let alone a day to head into London for a full day of meetings with an over-flowing inbox and a to-do list that makes me want to weep.

The tube at Waterloo is so overwhelmingly full of people waiting to commute to work that the throngs of people back up to the platform. It's a sea of humanity, all reading their newspapers like a ridiculous caricature of urban blight. No one is looking up, looking around, looking alive. It's newspapers and headphones for everyone. I feel my stomach constrict in panic at the thought of joining the crowd, so I turn around and catch a minicab to the office.

London taxis are spacious and full of personality, something straight out of a Harry Potter movie. I love the black cabs, I think they're roomy and accomodating, and they afford windows the size of movie posters, allowing me to engage in people watching. While looking out the window, I realize with a start that it's a black and white world I am commuting into. The buildings are shades of white and grey. The steel-colored sky stretches down to the sidewalk, pouring through the empty tree branches and skittering the dusty and breaking autumn leaves on the sidewalk. It's hard to tell where the grey begins and ends.

People of all shapes and sizes hurry past me. The women are without exception carrying a black handbag, and more often than not, a black briefcase too. The men all have black or chestnut briefcases, and more often than not, haven't tucked their newspaper into it and so have that wedged beneath their elbow.

And everyone that I see out of my cab, regardless of age, sex, or race, are all dressed in black and white and shades of grey. Black overcoats. Black gloves. Grey scarves. Black high heels. Grey stockings. Black boots. Occasionally you see a sparkling sparrow of color, an orange velour scarf around a woman's throat or the randy peek of a green shirt beneath a man's loosely buttoned overcoat. A hidden gem nestled into the look of the person, it's with a start I realize that we are all turning just as black and white as where we work.

Myself included. Black coat. Black knee-high boots. Black dress. Black briefcase. Hair pulled into a ponytail and the only color a pink sweater beneath my coat and a slick of red lipstick.

I am changing into the same color of the world I work in.

I have always dressed in blacks and greys at work. Always. I have a monochromatic wardrobe for a monochromatic world. Maybe the fashion world thinks that the absence of color alludes to creativity in the workplace. Maybe a rainbow vaccuum means we focus harder, without any color or joy to take our eyes away. Maybe we are more serious and austere if we mimic death with our millinery.

Yet color has begun to captivate me. At home, I think of colors. In the new house, I find myself adding bright splashes of color and light into the house-a purple duvet cover. An orange duvet cover. A maroon carpet. Green plates. Riots of color to comfort and assuage and fill the world with light.

Thinking about my world, I realize I always wore black and grey when working for Company X. To fit in with the cold and bitter Swedish winters, I dressed in the camouflage of their world. I hid just as well amongst the gloom and sadness as I did with the meeting rooms. And with that, I realize I do want color. I don't want to drift into the sidewalks and disappear in the masses like an ink stain in a notebook. I want to buy a coat that's Big Bird Yellow. I want gloves the color of candied apples. I want to wear a sweater that's so green it makes you yearn for spring, or a sweater so purple it makes you think of royalty.

I don't want to wear the clothes all at the same time, I don't want to combust into a rainbow-colored explosion, but I do want to wear my Big Bird coat and walk down the sidewalk to my office, helping assure myself and the world that although I am a part of it, I'm not hidden in it.

And as I walk into Dream Job headquarters, I look up at the many stories and the bustle of activities and I want to drop to my knees and cry in sheer and utter gratitude for a company that took me in, that gave me a job when I was blanketed in the grim cover called Black and Utter Loser. I want to sink my hands into it's corporate shoulders and promise to wear colors into the building, to bring life to this building like it brought some life to mine.

Color. For the first time in my life, I want and need color. Maybe as a badge of survival, maybe an illustration of how I've changed, maybe as a show that I am alive'¦and I am so grateful for it.

-H.

PS-Tomorrow is Thanksgiving for my fellow countrymen. I won't be celebrating it tomorrow, but I will on Friday. So for all of you-Happy Turkey Day!

PPS-5 days.

PPPS-I have about 20 minutes of internet time a day and a dodgy keyboard. If I am quiet on other blogging sites, I'm sorry-I'm just not able to get access. It does not mean I have falled off the earth.

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November 23, 2004

Leaving Little Presents

I wonder if places that you leave behind remember you. I remember if homes, flats, apartments soak you into their walls and ooze faint dusty particles of who we are, gently puffing them out into the air and into the pores of the next inhabitants, so that they are forever surrounded by a mist of those that came before them.

I also wonder if residences miss the people that lived in them and loved them.

Because I grew up in the military as a child and later grew up crazy as an adult, I have moved around so much that when doctors now ask me if I can access my medical records from the U.S., I want to laugh. I don't even know what state I was living in then, I want to gasp, let alone which city or hospital. In college I moved so much, simply because I had a crazy ex that somehow managed to find me every time, no matter how hard I tried.

Moving to Sweden seems to have dodged him, though.

I can remember all of the places I have lived, even if I can't remember their address, how much I paid, and the little details like if there was a washing machine or whether or not it had a balcony. I remember the base housing I lived in at the US Air Force Academy in Colorado. I remember driving to it and watching the mountains unfold in front of me from my child-like back-seat view. I remember my view of the Rockies from my bedroom window and the time the snow piled so high it sealed our front door. Before I left that place, I wrote my name in the top of my bedroom closet, near the ceiling.

I wonder if it's still there.

In university I lived in those cheap type of apartments you see everywhere. Plaster-board walls and crappy kitchen. When I would move out I would fill the nail holes on the walls with toothpaste instead of filler. It worked a charm.

Later I lived in an older house in Dallas, in a really rough neighborhood. It was my house, my first house and my first time being really single, my own tiny two-bedroom home, and I loved it so much that I have no doubt the walls ooze and ache me, since sometimes I have memories of just how much I loved that place.

I lived in a grand and old flat in Stockholm, a flat that I helped rip out and refit a new kitchen. Before new floowing was laid down, I wrote all over the old flooring-poems, facts about my life, details of who I was. I spread a layer of tiles all over me and sealed it up, but I know that I am a part of the fabric of that house, I am in the details.

I lived in a house on the outskirts of Stockholm, a 100 year-old home that seemed quirky and different and seemed to be exactly what I needed and wanted in a house. It had two fireplaces (one in the bedroom) and I loved sleeping with it lit. The kitchen was new and modern and I spent so mnay hours in there learning new recipes, trying new things, just being alone.

The house we just moved from was so incredibly special to me. Over 130 years old, hardwood floors and working fireplaces. A terraced house in a sweet community. And most of all, my first home with Angus. My first place to learn what it was like to live and occupy space with him. We had a number of incredibly happy experiences and a few very distressing ones, but above all that house was wrapped up in love, and that house was the first time in my life that I have ever felt like I was home.

If there is anywhere that I am soaked into the walls like an atomizer, it is in that house.

We packed up and moved on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. We are beyond sore and tired but are well and truly moved in to the new place and I handed back the keys to the other one yesterday. We are largely unpacked-we still have things to go on the wall, shelves and pictures, things still to find a home. But so far, I am happy in the new place.

Really happy. It's just as old as the other house (hence the lack of closets-older English homes didn't have them built in), with just as much history. The carpeted floors may have less character than the hardwood floors of the other house, but this is now my home and I am growing to love it fiercely.

Sunday night we cleaned out the old place. I went into a little groove under the stairs that I had never checked out before, and found a world of things I never knew were there-receipts from about 50 years ago. A butter-wrapper that looked from the war times. And wrapped in a disintegrating piece of cloth was an antique medicine bottle. It reads: "R Douglas. 21 & 23 New Bond St, London" down the side.

I marveled at it. I loved it immediately. I have taken it to the new place and washed it up, where it sits in the kitchen window as a reminder of the home I loved so much.

I will love this one, too.

Because for some people home is where the people you love are.

-H

PS-That bear is still alive and well, and kicking it back in D.C. I wonder if she's going to get into rocket-building now...

PPS-6 days.

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November 20, 2004

That Which Does Not Kill You

So we are half-moved.

Half-moved, and the big things left to go-PCs, desk, bed, plasma TV, and above all, the couch.

The couch.

The couch that not even Helen in an attempted fit of Herculean strength can try to move. The couch that not even Helen and Angus can move, the couch that will see us begging and bribing neighbors with beer to help us carry it across the street. The couch to end all couches.

I have a thing about me-I hate boxes packed up around me. I never move into a new place and leave boxes to linger, it drives me batty. Things get unpacked and put away, and they do so pronto. There is none of this easy lifestyle for items in a box, the lingering associated with the ease and grace of a moving Club Med. Oh no. You get your ass out of the box and get to work doing what needs to be done.

And in another bit of "I wish I had thought of that before", a visit to the gym Friday morning before moving was a real candidate on the Reasons Why I'm A Fucking Idiot list. Especially since I decided my knees were hurting too badly to run, so I had a real go at my upper arms and shoulders. Said body parts today feel like they have been injected with steel and are so sore it makes me want to book myself into a three-day spa and have massages by a guy named Claude (it would only be massages, really. Angus and I had a fantastic "Say goodbye to this house!" session last night. I think I'll need a "Welcome to the new place!" session later, once my labia de-swells.)

And to top it all off, my ISP has once again decided to mess with my mind and there's no broadband hooked up at the new place. Or even something as unimportant as a phone line. So you may or may not be reading anything new from me on Monday (hence my weekend post).

In short, I'm looking forward to being done moving. I'm looking forward to settling into the lovely new place. I am not looking forward to the requisite IKEA visit tomorrow (we need even little things like toilet paper roll holders. What kind of a person lives in a place and keeps the toilet paper on the floor, I ask you?) and the fact that there is not a single closet in this house (or cupboard, as they're called in England) defeats my No Box rule, which means some storage closets need ot be purchased.

What a life.

They say that which does not kill you makes you stronger. I'm not sure I really conscribe to that point of view, I think it doesn't factor in the "Do I really have a choice?" perspective.

I might have a caveat, though-that which does not kill you may make you stronger.

But if it doesn't kill you, moving will.

-H.

PS-in one week I'll be in Sweden. In 8 days, my babies will be home.

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November 18, 2004

Where She Has Bitten Off More Than She Can Chew

Yesterday wasn't any better.

It started off rough-I had slept very little the night before and wasn't feeling so chipper. I did the Morning Run Around With Ass on Fire trying to get ready and get to the train station to catch an early train to London. I had tried on and rejected three outfits, including the cute pink shrug that I love but can't figure out why I bought an article of clothing that looks like cotton candy. I couldn't get my hair to lay like the chickie did the day before, but heck at least it was close. With a kiss goodbye to a beery hung-over Angus (he'd been to a company party the night before celebrating the success of his massive project at work), I raced to the train station.

The train to London was uneventful, other than finishing a book with a thoroughly unsatisfying ending and leaving it behind on the train in a funk of rejection for spun-silk chick lit. I was just so tired, I swear even my eyeballs had threads of exhaustion woven through them. But the day was full and busy, and I had much to do.

I took a tube to work, then popped into Boots as I was down to my last two tampons, and seeing as how I am Ultra Flow girl, two tampons would've lasted roughly two hours. Not pretty. I then trotted to Starbuck's for an enormous Americano to try to mainline into my brain.

And into the office.

Bob comes in, cheerful and happy (and why wouldn't he be, seeing as he was handing off all his responsibilities to me?) He hands me an enormous fuck-off briefcase. My arms immediately swing to the floor as I gape in horror at the briefcase.

"What is this? Your weight set?" I ask.

"That's the project projector. The one you now get to carry around with you." he says, grinning.

Right.

I go to the toilet and break open a box of said tampons. Once that's complete, I decide to touch up my lipstick and head for the mirrors, where I see I made a mistake with my makeup that morning. On one cheek, I had perfectly blended Benetint on the apples of my cheeks, all lucious creamy Victorian goodness. On the other cheek I had missed blending two dots in, so instead of Victorian, I looked more like L'il Abner.

Fuck.

I blend it in and go back to my meeting. People begin to file into the room. I set up the evil projector and set up the phone bridge, my laptop, and have to talk all the while about resolving access points with my colleague Alex, all the while desperately hoping I could calm down and de-stress. I pick up my Starbucks cup...

...and the seam of the red cardboard holiday cup opens up and spills all over the keyboard of my laptop and my mobile phone.

With a yell I start diving around. I grap my purple wool scarf off of my Boots bag of tampons, dumping the open box in a little pile like matchsticks under a chair. I hastily throw my coat over the exposed feminine products and start dabbing up the coffee. Alex grabs my phone and starts to shake the brown elixir of life off of it. The whole desk is a soaking espresso scented mess. After clean-up, my mouse is dead but the keyboard-bar the number keys-is working.

Shaken, I start the meeting. Introductions, agenda, confirming participation of the 20+ people in the room and on the phone, and start writing up outstanding action points.

Only keys "hjkl" don't work. So I write things that don't involve those letters, getting a titter from the audience as I write up that we will have a meeting on Tursday. The keys from the entire right-hand side stop working. And then, like lemmings, more keys die. The keyboard is well and truly broken.

Ike calls from across the room. "Jason did the same thing once-he spilled coffee on his keyboard, too. But he left it overnight in an airing cupboard, and the next day, it was just fine."

Right. I'll do the same. Now if only I knew what the fuck an airing cupboard is.

So I use Alex's computer for the meeting. The discussion turns ugly, and it turns ugly quickly, as we are all on the edge and the project is rapidly reaching critical mass. People on the phone are hanging up since the phone in the meeting room is so crap, so I reach over to turn it up. I can't reach the handset, so I pull on the cord a little bit...and wind up ripping it out of the wall.

I bury my head in my hands.

The meeting bangs on and it gets heated. I am aware that I have a pending urgent tampon issue at hand but I can't escape to attend to it. It reaches situation critical as I realize that I suddenly feel prison escapees running on the outside of the perimeter, if you know what I mean.

A trip to the bathroom confirms it. I have bled on my knickers. Nice.

The meeting ends on a sour note as people are angry, the project is a battleground. I don't even get to have lunch as I hurry into another meeting, grabbing a yogurt drink to give me some kind of nutrition. Walking into the other meeting room, I bump into the doorframe and spill yogurt liquid down the front of my grey skirt. I hastily wipe it off and attend the meeting.

Then it's off to another meeting in another part of the building. I stride across the building, trying to feel ok about myself, lugging a Boots bag full of tampons, a projector made out of stone, my briefcase and a laptop that is still dripping coffee. People stare at me, but I tell myself it's because I am confident and purposeful.

When I get to my next meeting, Ron is there. He looks at me, raises his eyebrows, and asks me if maybe I want to check my reflection in the mirror.

"Why?" I ask, feeling confused.

He looks down at my skirt.

I follow his gaze. Instead of wiping off the yogurt, I'd managed to rub it in. It had dried, and now it looked exactly like I had been splatted by a drive-by jerk-off. I looked like I had had a lunch-time quickie (I wish).

In other words, it looked like some guy had had an orgasm down the front of my skirt.

"It's yogurt." I say weakly.

"Yeah. I wonder how many times you've said that in your life, Project Mistress."

I shrug and give up. The meeting stars up, a small group of about 5 of us. Two of my team members, Jeff and Dave, start arguing, and are absolutely unable to get along. Ron and I try to mediate, but we give up after Dave starts calling Project Rocket Riding Gerbil a "recovery project". Like the project is so sick that it's in the hospital. Doctor, bring the paddles! This one's in defib!

I don't show it, but I am so stressed I want to cry.

During a break, Jeff talks to me.

"I hate that guy, Helen." he rants. "I'm serious."

"Look, Jeff," I reply. "He's a bit full of himself, but we need him."

"I can't work with him. Forget it." Jeff sniffs.

"Jeff, we just have to try to work together. We have to get this project done, it has to succeed." I say. And I really mean it. This project has to succeed. I won't let it own me, but I won't give up on it, either.

The day ends and I hop into a nearby store to buy something for Melissa and Jeff for Christmas. I then race to the train and catch it seconds before the doors swing shut. I settle into the train, my projector, dodgy laptop, briefcase, and big bag o' presents settled around me. I smell like coffee and I couldn't be more revolting-I have yogurt on my skirt, coffee on my scarf, and I don't even want to mention the unmentionables.

I am so tired I can't even sleep on the train. Instead I feel my eyes fall in two pools into my head. Bags under the eyes? Forget it. Mine have backpacks.

When I get to the house I am so fucking happy to be home that I take a bath and then fall asleep in the study. Angus comes home and makes us dinner, and then we start the process registering our new address with various companies-utilities, banks, insurance, anyone who ever had a passing interest in us, the phone solicitors who will find us and harass us anyway, etc. Angus is getting more and more stressed up about it, I know he finds the process really agonizing, and to top it all off my poor boy has a bad cold. I try to hug him and ask what I can do to help and he snarls an unkind answer at me (which he later apologizes about).

I give up. My day is well and truly shot at that point. We finish up the painful process of changing addresses and I am so tired, stressed, and depressed I feel like I am actually bleeding out of my eyeballs.

I go to bed, feeling far away from Angus and very tired. I have 80 new emails in my inbox. I have 9 voice mails waiting for me. I have only packed a quarter of the house. I am going to be without broadband and now without a working laptop for a week or so it seems (although I think I can buy an external keyboard and use that with my laptop). I feel like weeping and I do so, then I read a bit of my book before falling asleep.

Tomorrow we move.

Tomorrow is a significant day for another reason as well-tomorrow is the one year anniversary of the day I lost my job at Company X.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:37 AM | Comments (23) | Add Comment
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November 17, 2004

There's Always One Of Them

The older I get, the more convinced I am that anytime you leave the house, you're going to bump into a Von PettyPumpkin while at work. It's simply inevitable. I will never escape it.

In fact, just as the last Von PettyPumpkin has left, crying and running off into the sunset tail between his legs and his butt covered in tar and feathers (at least that's how he looks in my mental picture), I get another one. It's fate. It's destiny.

The simple truth is I am always going to have someone fucking with me.

Since taking over the reins of Project Rocket Riding Gerbil, I have had a wider scope of people around me. I actually like almost all of the people I work those. Those I don't really care for it's simply because it's impossible to extricate yourself from their surroundings once they start talking, and no, for the record, I don't want to spend 25 minutes listening to you tell me about the time your daughter attempted Stravinsky at her 6th form class concert. I have brain cells, you know. And most of them are jumping, screaming, from my ears, taking their chances with the 5 foot 9 inch drop.

But there's always gotta' be one. There always has to be one guy that likes to push buttons, or is simply too ignorant (or arrogant) to know that he pushes buttons. For the most part, my team is fantastic-they call me, text me, and even call me The Project Mistress. I would be offended, only I know they mean it well.

After all, my manager gave me the promotion because, in his words, "I have that pushiness and that drive to me, that agressiveness that will show people we don't know how to be nice anymore. And I mean that in the best possible way."

Hmmm. And all this time I'd thought I'd mellowed.

I go to a meeting in Maidenhead today in order to spend 4 hours of my precious young life discussing test cases. 4 hours that will forever be lost in that bracketed decade known as my 30's. Someday I will reminisce: My 30's...they were so great. Well, except for that 4 hours I spent discussing test cases. Man that blew big donkey chunks. It really marred the otherwise perfect landscape of my 30's.

Since I was driving, I therefore was late (it's karma. I can never drive to anywhere on time). And lost. Late and lost and had dripped the contents of the olive oil soaked pasta salad that Emily turned me on to, so naturally I was feeling frazzled. When I finally arrived to the meeting (one hour late), I was forced to sit between Ron (whom I like) and Hadrian (whom I don't).

Hadrian and I had met before. He is a vendor to the Project I am working on, and we pay him to provide a part of the product. In other words, once again, I am the customer here. Hadrian and I didn't get on from the get-go. In the meeting some months ago I pulled out a bag of M&Ms. He immediately held out his hand and grunted: "Give me some."

Shocked, I simply poured some of my precious M&Ms onto his palm. He just looked at them and said, "They're going to leave colored marks on my skin."

Having largely recovered I replied, "That's why most of us learn in kindergarten to eat the damn things before they start leaving weird inky stains on your hands. I'll send you my latest copy of 'Candy for Dummies' to see if maybe you can get some guidance from it."

That said, he wiped his palm of my precious M&Ms, looking annoyed, and threw them away.

He threw them away.

What kind of person throws away candy?

I sit next to Hadrian and Ron, silently cursing my life, my horoscope, my real estate agent, and the Greatest American Hero for no longer showing on TV. The meeting is agony. It just goes on and on and on. Hadrian just drones on endlessly about what is needed, what is missing. And, of course, how he totally anticipated every possible delay and his company was perfect (which is an appropriate way of thinking about it provided you have the IQ of a brick wall and the foresight of a sailor plunking down his cash for a bit of girlie company at the Syphilis Nightclub and Lounge).

He turns to me. "After this meeting, the beer is on you, right?"

I stop writing down some notes. "What?" I ask.

"The beer. After the meeting. You're paying."

"Uh, no thanks. I'm not joining."

"Look, you're the customer. You have the money, right? And you're the one with the most senior position in the room. So you're paying."

Ri-iiiiiight. Is that how it works? Because my manager dumps an entire project on a skitsy 30 year-old with a penchance for saying what she's thinking, then I am buying beer and wasting precious time in that fabulous bracketed decade known as my 30's with this fucknut? Like my life isn't too short already? Like I don't already have a white hair that continues to grow in white no matter how many times I rip it out of my scalp with fear and horror?

I don't think so.

"Sorry man." I reply. "I'm heading home to pack."

He continues to grumble. I am getting seriously annoyed. I have cramps so badly (PMS always comes to an end eventually) that I could honestly feel my ovaries tucking themselves up somewhere around my esophagus. We haven't packed a single thing in the house and we move in three days. I have a number of action points to solve before my full-day of meetings in London on Wednesday. I seem to be making no progress in getting the broadband hooked up in the new house. We are still battling the estate agents over their handling of the Tabby Bomb. I haven't slept well in days. I just had my hair cut and dried in a way I can only hope to mimic and I have a zit on my chin that came with a big smiley: "Hi! I drank my estrogen today!" button on it.

During a "comfort break" (I love that they call it that, when what it really means is we all dash to the toilets), the room starts to empty. Hadrian turns to Ron, eyeing his apple on the table.

"Ron, give me your apple. I haven't had anything to eat all day." he demands.

"Sorry mate. I want this apple." Ron blithely replies, biting into the fruit with glee.

I think of the tube of Rolos I have in my briefcase and decide that, contrary to the leanings I was subjected to in preschool, I absolutely do not want to share my caramel-centered goodness. Go ahead, lecture me. Take away my finger paints too, I don't care, I have Rolos.

I turn to my briefcase to try to do the one-handed Smooth Move. Women will know what I mean. The Smooth Move wherein we extract a tampon from our bags and slide it into the palm of our hands, slowly lifting our wrists up so that the tampon slides quietly and effortlessly up our sleeve, without a russle, and no one asks us why we are off to the toilet with what looks like a dive knife tucked up our sleeve.

"Is that food? Give me the food. I haven't had anything to eat today and I am hungry." whines Hadrian.

And with a silent crack, my will broke. I was simply too tired and too annoyed to care anymore. I had had it with Hadrian and his behavior, and I simply didn't want to deal with it anymore.

Like a magician, I flex my arm down and reveal the hidden plastic-wrapped tampon from its cocoon up my sleeve. I smack it down on the table in front of Hadrian and Ron. Hadrian's eyes bug out and he looks at me. Ron starts a hideous wheezing cough, a gorgeous bubbly sound that is the hilarity of someone trying not to laugh their ass off.

"It's super absorbancy. Should fill you right up." I reply wearily, and start to walk out, before realizing that he actually wouldn't eat the tampon (I hope) and that unless it was Lizzie Borden Day, I actually needed the thing. I swipe it off the table and leave the room.

Pushy and agressive indeed.

-H.

PS-My 7000th comment should be left today

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November 16, 2004

I Take My OCD With Pulp

When I was a little girl I had patterns.
Routines.
Rituals, actually, if I'm going to be weird and honest about it.
OK, I was obsessed.

There were ways certain things had to be done, ways specific things in my environment had to be addressed. There was no going around it, either-to cheat my system would have been a fate worse than...well, a fate worse than something, I never wanted to find out what.

It started out as something small, but grew and grew to mammoth proportions. I don't even know when I started doing it, I only remember that I always did. It became something that was bigger than me, something that was a chain I was tied to.

I had obsessive-compulsive disorder, also known by the acronym-world as OCD.

Oh yes-it's the affliction to have. It's to the 90's what ADD was to the 80's. OCD looked so cute and kooky and gregarious in As Good As It Gets, it was the funny illness that a weird man with the social graces of a frat boy in a boardroom had.

And looking back on it, some parts of it were pretty kooky.

If I touched something with the tip of one finger, I had to touch it with all of them. That was fair, see. I had to be fair to all the fingers. It wasn't right to exclude one of the fingers from the joy of knowing what a formica counter-top felt like. If while rectifying the vast unfairness that was not touching something with the tip I touched something with the side of the finger, it made the whole thing worse. Then I had to touch said object with both the tip and the side of all my fingers.

'Cause that's fair, you know.

It branched out over time. It became a way I walked. If I stepped on the crack of the sidewalk with one foot, the other one had to get the next crack. It was fair. If one knee hit the table, the other one had to. If one shoulder brushed against a wall I had to do a 180 and let the other shoulder brush a wall.

Looking back, I realize I must've looked like a human pinball. I wonder how I ever got anything done. And I always did it, unless I was in a severe rush or something. And the more angst or stress I was feeling, the worse it all was.

And I had to do it, you see. I had to follow through with it, because...well, I never took a moment to check the because. I never knew what would happen if I didn't follow through my routine with all my fingers-if it meant that Rome would crack off and fall into the sea, if it meant my future was limited to goat-herding or asking if people would like paper or plastic. I never knew the consequences for not following up on all the fingers, I only knew that there were consequences and that they were dire indeed.

It grew even more. When I was riding in the car, I had to count the letters in the road signs, silently tallying them in my head. I became a whiz at counting letters, a regular creepy little Rain Man who silently counted up the letters of road signs in a matter of a few seconds, including the punctuation (since that was fair. I couldn't deny the punctuation their grammatical destiny, you know).

As I reached my teens, it grew in scope again. From then on things had to be done in a certain order. My day had a structure like nobody's business, and I hated having it deviated from. I don't know how, but no one around me ever seemed to know of this complete and utter deviation from the norm, no one ever spotted me and thought: Jesus, this kid is cracked.

When I moved out on my own, it took a bigger twist. Then I became obsessed with germs. My hands would get washed anytime I touched damn near anything. All the soaps had to be antibiotic. I carried that hand gel stuff with me even (and still do, in fact, but it only gets used if I simply can't get to a sink anytime soon and have just had to deliver a baby calf from a breech birth in the middle of a muddy farm during the night). I couldn't bear the idea of germs, of little bugs, of something out of my control.

Then when I started thinking about control, I realized I could have control. There were ways that I could force my dictatorship on my tiny Helen kingdom. I could absolutely have control.

I started doing things in fives.
You know.
As one does.

My front door got locked five times. Love, unlock, lock, unlock, lock. My contact case checked five times to ensure I'd floated them in enough saline. The contents of my purse checked five times. To deviate was unthinkable-it all had to be done five times. If I did it five times, I was sure of things, I was in control. No more of this touching things with all my fingers to be fair! No-siree-bob! I had hit the mother lode with how to be the Master of My Universe!

Then one day I realized I had been through every home disaster and natural disaster save one-fire. And suddenly I was afraid of a fire. Terrified. Every electrical appliance in the house, save for the refrigerator, got unplugged before I left the house. Everything. It's a symbol of why I cannot, to this day, program a VCR. I never had to, it was always going to be blinking 12:00 with the number of times it would get switched off and on.

I have to confess I was pretty frustrating chickie to be with me (and, some would argue, still am). I don't know how many times I heard a "Dammit, Helen!" from the kitchen as the boy-of-the-moment realized that his toast wasn't ready, that his toast would never be ready at that rate, that one needed to ensure the toaster had not been subjected to the whims of my crazy fears and unplugged in silent horror and fear that a spark could've jumped down the black rubber line and ignited my home before toast could be toasted.

The final straw was when I realized that the stove/oven might come on. Like, spontaneously, as ovens or ovens afflicted with little green poltergeists are want to do. I had such a fear that suddenly the stove could come to life and blaze the little round orange rings all day until it burned my house down. Or that maybe I had been cooking the night before and somehow failed to see the radioactive glow of a stove left on all night before I left for work the next morning. So the only way to ensure that the oven didn't burn my house down was to check it before I left.

Five times.

And sometimes I would already have gotten into my car and then felt I had to turn back home and check it, in case my five-times-check hadn't been enough.

At that point, I knew my life was being taken over. I knew my rituals were no longer weird quirks, they were things I was desperately clinging to, crazy behaviors I was holding on to. It all became pretty clear to me as I talked to a woman at work one day. She was a clinical psychologist and talked to me about OCD. Something I had done in front of her had her wondering if I had ever been assessed for it (I cringe wondering to this day what she might've witnessed tht prompted her to ask me about it).

She gave me an assessment.

Quelle surprise, I scored off the charts on the crazy-o-meter. And up until that moment, I hadn't realized that my weird patterns and Helenistic routines actually had a name for them, that in fact it had a little diagnosis in the "I'm Crazy DSM-IV".

I went home and thought about it. What would happen if...say...I didn't do these things? What would happen if I didn't check the lock five times? What would happen if I kept everything plugged in when I went to work for the day? Would my life really end if I was robbed? Would the world stop turning if my flat burned down?

The next day I got ready to leave and walked to the stove, readying my hand for the feel of th gritty black rings. I thought about my house burning down. I thought about what would happen if I came home to a smoldering ruin. I thought about my five times rule.

And I thought: What a waste of fucking time.

I left the house and went to work. I thought about my house the entire day, but at the end of the day when I drove up to the apartment complex I saw that my house hadn't burned down. And one by one, I started stripping away the obsessions. My fingers that turned the key in the lock (once only) didn't scream I was being unfair to the other fingers. My toaster never decided to remodel the kitchen by way of burning the counter top up.

Just like that, I was mostly over OCD. Today I wash my hands when they need it or if I have been grubby. I don't count the number of times I lock the door. I only unplug things if I am going away for a long holiday (surely there's a fine line between paranoia and cautiousness, right?). Although the assessment I had two years ago told me that I am high risk for OCD, and in fact my therapist said I did indeed sound like I had it, I only start to feel troubled in times of severe stress.

Well...except for that counting letters in road signs thing. I still do that. Can't help it, really. I like to chalk that one up to being quirky.

After all, there's a fine line between quirky and crazy.

-H.

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November 15, 2004

All the Spanish I Know I Learned from Gloria Campos

Living in Texas, you pick up a lot of Spanish.

I remember a commercial that was done by a news anchor named Gloria Campos, a woman of Mexican descent that appeared to re-embrace her heritage when it became cool to be ethnic again. I remember the commercials she used to do in a whipping Spanish breeziness, advertising the local tv news broadcast she was on in Spanish on an AM radio channel, KRVA (or as she said it, "Kay-AIRRRRR-vay-ah!"

Thanks Gloria.

The Spanish helped a lot while in Mallorca. We've both been to Spain before, for both business and pleasure (in fact Angus had been to Mallorca twice before), but neither of us were that keen on Spain actually, as we had nothing in our memories that stood out as being so exceptional, so sweet, so...something about our travels to Spain.

This trip changed that for both of us.

We took an early morning flight to Palma-the plane was quiet and not so full, we had a row to ourselves that we stretched out in and read a handful of newspapers. We landed without event in Palma, our luggage popped out onto the belt like an overdue baby (proof, for once, that those priority tags on the luggage really do mean something), and then we hopped in a cab to Palma, and to our hotel.

Our hotel was a tiny, family owned one called Hotel Portixol. Angus and I are both big believers that a hotel can make or break the holiday, so we do a lot of research on where to stay, and which hotel to choose. We chose this one since it was recommened in the Rough Guide, and because they looked nice. We got a larger room than we wanted, one with a Mediterranean view, and we opened the doors to our room.

It was amazing.

We had the biggest balcony of the hotel, and two sitting areas that we used constantly while we were there.

View from balcony.jpg

See?

Helen on balcony.jpg

Ironically, the hotel had a very strong Swedish influence- their DVD library packed with Swedish films, some of the staff were Swedish, an entire bookshelf in their library devoted to Swedish titles. As we're both still fluent in Swedish, we debated checking some of them out but decided some "us" time was more on the menu. It was amazing that no matter how far you go, you still take pieces and parts of former crossroads in your life with you.

It's easy to get sappy when they pipe Roxy Music through the overhead stereo constantly.

We went for a long walk around Palma. An older town but very lovely, we enjoyed the little alleys, the creaking buildings. The people were very friendly and the wine (which we partook of a great deal, a great deal of the time) had no problems pouring down the throat. It was not warm outside-in fact, when the wind kicked up, it was pretty damn cold-but we were away and enjoying just being outside.

Palma Buildings.jpg


Palma 5.jpg


We had a massive lunch then went back to the hotel for a siesta.

As one does when one is in Spain, I guess.

And while chilling out on the balcony, I heard a child wailing in true horror.

"Daddy!" screamed the upset child. "Daddy where ARE YOU?"

I was sure there was a lost English-speaking child just outside our door, so I ran to it and opened it. Instead of a child, there was a man sitting calmly on a chair, hands folded. He looked at me.

"Sorry, a little child care and discipline. Are we disturbing you?" he asked, thick English accent pouring around his crossed knees.

I realized that the child was actually in the room next door, and his child was in the room alone.

Nice.

We went down to dinner not long after that-since the rain was throwing it down outside, we decided to eat in the restaurant at the hotel. The food was excellent, especially as seeing there was no veggie food on the menu, I asked if they could make something on the side for me. I got the usual question: "What would you like?" And I gave my standard reply: "Whatever the chef would like to make."

This usually shows the good chefs from the bad ones. The good chefs often love being given an open canvas, the ability to create anything that they like. The bad chefs? Yeah. You're getting stir-fry.

The meal was fantastic-the waiters hovered nervously to check we liked it, and when I pronounced the meal they'd made me one of the best ever, they comped half our dessert.

We went back to the room and sat on the balcony for hours, talking and drinking wine.

Angus Drinking in Palma.jpg

When it got cold, we tucked the duvets around ourselves and just stayed outside, talking. We hadn't talked like that for ages, it felt great to just be calm, to just talk, to just relax. We went to bed not long after. The beds were so comfortable, the pillows fantastic, the temperature perfect, the air tainted lovingly with the scent of the ocean.

I slept so fucking badly you wouldn't believe it.

Angus snored, so I stuffed my ears with kleenex. I was plagued by Kafka dreams. Around 2 am, I heard:

"Daddy! DADD-EEEEE! Where ARE YOU!" screaming through the wall.

Ah. Child care and discipline at 2 am. How kind.

And I'm no parent, and no child care expert, but maybe that kind of thing can be adjourned for a few days, for the sake of others around you in a hotel? And maybe-just maybe, I have no idea you know-it's not a great idea to have a child feeling utterly alone in a foreign hotel room?

I managed to fall back asleep, and around 7 am I heard the mother of the screaming child, with screaming child in the hallway.

"Dad-DEEEEEE!" roared the child.

"Ben!" demanded the woman, knocking on their bedroom door. "Ben! BEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNN!" she screamed, banging her fists and screaming through the door. "I don't have the key on me! BEEEEEEEENNNNNNN!"

For. Fuck's. Sake. Woman. Go down to reception and ask for another key. I hated my neighbors so much that I was plotting revenge in so many socially unacceptable ways.

It was too late for me-I was furious and I was awake. I read a magazine for a while, before waking up Angus and going for breakfast. We had a nice breakfast, complete with many Swedish offerings (not everyday you get offered Kalle's caviar for breakfast. Thankfully.) and then we walked around Palma, doing some Christmas shopping, relaxing, enjoying the day.

Helen Shopping in Palma.jpg

We had a massive lunch, then went back to the room for a siesta. When we woke, we decided we weren't hungry, and so spent the evening on the balcony again, talking and drinking. We were doing much better than we had been-maybe we were still a tiny bit cautious and stiff, but things had vastly improved and the anger and difficulties of the previous week erased from our thoughts. And I felt completely relaxed and calm, my thoughts of work not once popping up in bubbles of thought in my head.

Sunday we woke at a leisurely pace, had breakfast, packed all the wine we bought, and headed home. We talked a lot on the airplane, and even had relaxed ourselves enough to hold hands, give pecks on the cheek, nuzzles on the earlobes. Our luggage arrived with no problem, we headed home feeling relaxed and happy.

Then we got home.

Where we found:

1) Full inboxes with work emails.
2) A letter from the Wiltshire constabulary demanding a courtdate with me and all kinds of other scary things as they apparently are getting assy with me having an American drivers's license after I was caught speeding.
3) More problems from the former tenant of the house Angus is selling.
4) We move house in 5 days.

And last but far from least:

5) The estate agent had shown our house to some potential buyers early Saturday morning. Friday morning, after we'd left, the maintenance man had come in.

And he'd locked the Tabby Bomb in our house for over 36 hours. The poor thing was terrified.

Terrified, and without a litter box.
So she used our bed.
That's right.
Our bed.

The estate agent showed the house Saturday morning-and made a note that it stunk and that a cat had shit all over the bed.

Then they locked the cat in the house for another 24 hours.

The bedding and mattress pad are ruined and packaged neatly into a bundle for the estate agents to deal with, and we are marching off to the estate agent's this morning with the offensive materials as soon as they open, demanding they have them replaced. I'm not remotely angry with Tabby Bomb, I think she's been through enough recently, but I am furious with the estate agent losers. Not to mention, I am horrified that people were shown our house, and that they think we might live like that.

Angus and I wearily looked at each other and counted up in our head the next time we have a weekend away, which isn't coming soon enough.

It's in 2 weeks.
When we go to Sweden to get my cats.
2 weeks from today.

-H.

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November 11, 2004

I Got There First

Since I am often unable to comprehend much else, since I find things far too stimulating and I find the world around me has far too much going on and it all makes my head hurt, I therefore people-watch. It's less painful to people-watch than it is to think about how you feel. It's often easier to watch others than try to figure out the tangled and frayed cabling that represents my own thoughts and emotions. I write books in my head all the time, but the second I sit down to try to let it out from the ridged bumps of my fingertips, it runs away in fear of being revealed, of being shown out.

I watch people everywhere. I wonder about their lives, their thoughts, their hearts. I wonder what lives they lead. I look at the white business guy with the Rasta dreads and the Rolex. The Korean woman and her tiny, perfect feet. The teenagers in their schoolgirl kilts, giggling and texting on chunky pink phones.

I watch people in the gym-one woman in particular, a woman I call Oyster Girl. She's there nearly every time I go there and she's always pushing herself very hard. Where I do 20 minutes on an elliptical machine, she'll do an hour. My 20 minutes on the treadmill becomes her hour and a half, pushing herself at twice the speed. I've never stayed in the gym long enough to see what she does after that, but I imagine it's excessive.

There's always one like her. There was one in Newbury, and now Oyster Girl at this gym. She's hyper-skinny, a little rag doll whose thighs have a gap between them when she stands with her knees together. Her cheek bones are sunken, highlighting dark eyes that peer out of the sweat. Her arms are ropes of sinew, and along the back of her neck the bones still out like little buttons. Her elbow reminds me of the hinge in a hairclip-softly round with visible edges.

But it's her shoulders that get to me.

You can see every single curve of the scapula as she moves. The inside scooped out hollow of the shoulder bone is like the tiny cup of an oyster, defleshed and relieved of its pearl. It's her shoulder-and always her shoulder-that breaks my heart. I want to scoop her up in my arms and hug her and cry with her and tell her I know exactly how she feels, before taking her home and making her a cup of hot chocolate.

And I want to tell her that no matter how fast she runs, there are some things she can never outrun. Whatever demons she's trying to beat...she only has a head start on them, but they'll catch up with her in the end. That's what demons do, after all. They find you no matter where you try to hide.

I've been playing phone tag with the man that I hope will be my psychotherapist. It's his turn to call me today. I'm not kidding when I say I know I am damaged goods-all I have to do is look at the red 20% off damaged goods price tag hanging from my armpit to know that I am a Raggedy Ann Doll with an eye missing and her head sewn on backwards. The good news is, I know my heart is in the right place, a little candy-colored red dot over the center of my chest, often swollen sometimes, but definitely in place.

A few days ago in the gym I discovered something. I have recently started jogging again on the treadmill-to be honest, I love a good run but I have bad knees and they often ache when I do run, so I ruled it out for a long time. I was jogging lightly on the treadmill when MTV Jammed came on the TV monitor that is strapped to the top of the treadmill. I find MTV to be a good channel to watch while exercising-it's nothing you need to pay attention to, it's nothing that will change your life, it's just colorful noise. This show was about Eminem holding a surprise concert in Detroit, at the local university.

It was a good show to be honest, and I was enjoying the enthusiasm of the students who simply thought they were screening 8 Mile for free. I've seen that movie, I actually liked it and thought it was well made-no Hollywood happy endings in it, just what I expect would have been his reality some years ago. The end of the show had Eminem coming onstage as the credits to the movie were rolling, and he'd start singing "Lose Yourself".

And for some reason, once those opening chords started, I found I wanted to run faster.

So I turned up the speed.

Again.

And again.

Until, as Eminem hit the chorus, I was running flat out. My legs were stretching, the TV show was exciting, and it all felt good. And afterwards, my knees were fine.

Tuesday night I went to the gym again. Oyster Girl was already there and the place was heaving with people desperate to look good in their favorite pair of jeans. After some weights and a turn on the elliptical machine, I took a place on a treadmill and plugged my iPod into my ears.

I turned them both on.

I am a docile chick when it comes to music. Angry music incites violent reactions in me. I cannot listen to heavy metal or punk or anything like that as it makes me boil inside-I've reached the middle-aged "light listening" years simply because tough music affects me too much. Yet I knew what I wanted to listen to on the treadmill, I knew that the only thing that could help me was to listen to the rough stuff, the type of music that would vomit hard and painful music into my ears and let the acid burn a way to my brain, melting the synapses as it went.

I turned on a fast, bitter song and started to fast walk.

Then I turned on Nine Inch Nails and started to run.

And after that song finished, Eminem's Lose Yourself came on.

Up went the speed on the treadmill. I was now jogging at 9.0 on the treadmill. I turned the iPod up as loud as I could, so loud I'm sure others around me could hear the dripping leftovers that wouldn't fit in my ear canal waft around their heads (only they were all wearing headphones, too). And I ran.

And after a minute, I thought-Turn it up, Helen.

My thumb went out and punched the speed button. 11.0. I was running now. The chorus of the song thundered in my head, bouncing around my brain. I felt my thumb go out again. 12.0. My pace was fast. My steps matched the beats of the song.

Why stop there? my brain teased my body. Can't handle it?

And up the speed went to 13.0.

My legs stretched in front of me. I watched my bobbing face in the TV screen, not paying attention to what was playing, only focusing on my bouncing pair of eyes in the top center of the tiny set. I kept running, then started pacing my breathing automatically, anaerobically trying to stretch my body further. I felt like a machine, I felt like a robot, I felt alive and dead at the same time, with no room in my head even for myself. The deep-seated stress I had been feeling was under a layer of ice, untouchable to me.

You think you're so great? my brain sneered. You think you're so special? You're nothing. Nothing! Now turn the goddamn speed up.

And I did. 14.0. 15.0. My feet met the treadmill with force as I slammed my feet down on the treadmill. I was viciously angry with myself, my dream about inner rage and explosions making perfect sense with how much I couldn't stand the stretchy rayon feel of the inside of my skin at that moment. My grief and pain and anger and confusion came out, running down my face with the sweat and the acid vomit of the music.

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you'd better never let it go...
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime.

My body screamed in stress and my thumb went out, punching the speed down. I walked fast, feeling the sweat stream down my back. I downed a quarter of my bottle of water. Then in one gush I felt the endorphin rush pour through my brains and seduce my brain. I felt drugged, I felt high, I felt furious, I felt every inch of my skin, I felt alive.

I hit rewind on my iPod and started the song all over again.

And I started running again. Harder, faster, sprint, keep pumping up the speed, it doesn't hurt, it makes you feel better, Move your ass you stupid girl.

At the end of the song my body simply had no more running to give. I stopped running and did a 4 minute cool-down, feeling my thighs burn and twitch, feeling no pain in my knees. My throbbing eardrums and screaming thighs drowned out the thoughts in my head, so all I could hear was the sound of my own blood rushing in my veins.

Oyster Girl was grimly running a few treadmills over from me, her demons making her run longer than mine did.

Today my body still feels tight but great. My breastbone no longer feels like it's taken a few punches. My thighs feel like steel. My knees are absolutely fine, and the self-hatred firmly buried. I'm going to the gym again tonight, and looking forward to another run-although most of the darkness has been resolved in the past few days while I've been silent, a part of me thinks maybe running will check out the attic and sweep out any remaining cobwebs-if there are any-in my soul.

And at the end of the day, I think I've won Round 1.

World? You think you can fuck with me? You think you can run me over and hurt me, to grind me to the ground, to make me bleed? You think you can get to me?

Well fuck you.

I got to me first.

-H.

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November 09, 2004

Nothing From Me Today

Am utterly depressed.

Feelings hurt.

Stressed.

And a little angry.

Sometimes you think you know how something works, that something is different from how things have ever been done in your life and you love it for that, and then someone pulls the rug out from under you and tells you that's not how it works anymore, the rule book has been ripped up (and you were paying attention, you are always paying attention, you would've known when the book was ripped up) and you don't know when it changed or why it changed, all you know is you are left feeling lost, exposed, and incredibly sad.

And you're left feeling even stupider when you accept that the truth is you want that something back, but somehow, you're the only one that seems to remember it and want it.

Nothing from me today.

-H.

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November 08, 2004

The 1735 From London Paddington

On Saturday something unusual happened.

Something tragic.

It may not have made much news where you are-after all, why would it?-but it made big news here. In our house, Melissa and I were getting a heavy jonesing of Sims. Jeff and Angus were busy working on a puzzle downstairs-Jeff has a mind for logic and memory and he's scarily good at puzzles. Melissa and I had just found out our Sims were pregnant (thereby causing me some worry that people might think I spend all my time trying to knock up Sims, when in truth she and I were both bored just controlling our adults) when a BBC alert popped up.

We signed up for BBC alerts on the web page on both our home pc and our laptops, and from time to time they have good info. Sometimes the little bubble comes in and we get annoyed, as it doesn't have any particular newsworthy interest to us. But sometimes they make sense, like the BBC alert that struggled to come in under the heavy Sims graphics page, and somehow made it.

It was a train derailment near Newbury.

This train derailment struck me as something painful and too close to home. I went downstairs to tell Angus, and then Melissa and I logged off of Sims to check the news.

And there it was-succint, raw data full of holes, data that said "more as soon as we know", but punctuated brief silences in the reports with "at least one dead...300 people on the train....scores wounded...entire train derailed after striking a car..."

The train was the 1735 First Great Western service from London Paddington to Penzance. The first two stops of this train were at Reading and Newbury. I know this, as when we lived in Newbury, I took this train a few times a week. It was a fast, convenient service on a faster and newer model train.

I know exactly what the train is like. If you get there early enough, you'll get a seat. The seats are plush compared to the slow service Thames Link trains, a kind of turquoise color. They are 4 across, with large windows punctuating the ends of the rows. If you don't get there early enough, the seats are filled and those that aren't filled are reserved. You wind up standing in the space between carriages, the joiner space that curves and moves with the track.

The train itself is a cacophony of colors. The front engine is yellow-purple, with the carriages purple with streaks of yellow and pink. There's a picture here, where the BBC discusses how the investigation is now taking a look at the driver of the car, who was apparently parked on the tracks. They wonder if he was trying to commit suicide.

If he was, he took 7 other people with him, including the train driver.

And once again, my heart goes out to the man who felt the only way out of his life was to feel the crunch and violence of a 100 mph train. At the same time, I shake my head in grief and sadness that he didn't know any way out of his grief to not injure others in the meantime. In truth, I don't get furious and outraged at people that kill themselves. Instead, I tend to know where they're coming from, and I know that at that critical "go to" moment they can't think straight.

But that was my train once upon a time, and it feels so strange to see what happened.

That, and I have been having a recurring dream for a bit now. It's more of a snapshot part of my dreams, it's never the core scene that is happening. It varies wildly in how it plays out, but it shares one crucial moment, one moment that is always the same. In the dream I am in a train station in London when it blows up-a searing scorch of twisting metal and shattered glass, hemmed in by a ring of fire and black soot. In my dream, so many elements vary except one-my face whips to the side in slow motion and I am knocked to the ground, my cheeks cut and blistered by raining debris.

Then I get up, dazed, and look around and see where others are.

Melissa showed us this dream dictionary website, and I looked up 'explosion' and read:

To see explosions in your dream, signifies a loss and displeasure in business. It may also mean that your repressed emotions and rage have come to the surface in a forceful and violent manner.

To dream that your face becomes blackened or mutilated by the explosion, signifies that you will be confronted with unjust accusations and may suffer the consequences.

I'm not exactly sure I buy into that-I think that dreams are sometimes relevant, sometimes not. Sometimes they are reflections of your fears and anxieties-for example on Saturday I dreamt I was pulling my grandmother and Jeff through a field of fireballs. They were heavy and I could only save one of them. I let my grandmother's hand go and pulled Jeff to safety. The only meaning I can get out of this dream is that I am going to be burning in hell, especially since I didn't save my grandmother.

So maybe my train station dream is just a fear I have. Maybe deep down I worry it could be another Madrid here. Perhaps I worry that the tranquility and love I have for a life here could be destroyed by something as gruesome and heinous as an explosion.

In the meantime, I am strangely drawn to the news stories about the train crash. I know that train. I think I know the tiny crossing it was derailed at. And there are 300 people that I would like to comfort and erase the details of twisted and screaming metal in their minds.

Maybe someday I'll find a way to erase the details of my dreams in mine.

-H.

PS-exactly three weeks from today, my girls-or perhaps I should start calling them our girls-will be here.

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November 05, 2004

Martha Has Nothing on Me

While shopping with Melissa and Jeff on Tuesday, we had to dash into the grocery store for milk and juice (where do kids put all the milk they consume? I mean...really? How is it that Angus and I take 10 days to go through half a litre of milk, yet kids can whip through it within days? What, is it spiked with candy-flavored meth?)

So we're shopping and Melissa runs over to the magazine section to indulge some money in those bubble gum pop rags that have smiley nauseating teen boy bands on the cover, who act all innocent but really spend their weekends with bloddshot eyes snorting cocaine off of the stomachs of exotic dancers (hmmm...two drug references in one post. Should I be more responsible? Should I tell you that I have never in my life done illegal drugs, except one puff of pot in Stockholm in which nothing happened? Ah....fuck it.) I go with her, and there I see it. The answer to my queries of the universe. A sudden staunch tight fist grabbing hold of my uterus and tapping it on the head a la Biff in Back to the Future-"Hello! McFly!"

It's a women's decorating magazine.
Decked out in gold.
And the entire issue was about Christmas decorations.

It was like an epiphany. Angels started singing in a soprano chorus, all of the light in the store was directly on the magazine (except the scanners at the tills, that is. Nothing kills those babies.) and a voice from above said to me: Helen. This is your calling. All you need is this magazine, a glue gun, and several hundred pounds of baby's breath. This is what you need to be.

I bought that magazine.
In fact, I bought two.
Martha Stewart may be in prison, but I have her back-I will single-handedly provide the most rocking, the most homey, the most decorative Christmas ever.

Previously, I have lived my Christmas experiences in a specific, unaltering pattern. Christmas presents are all bought by Thanksgiving, saving perhaps stocking stuffers, and wrapped weeks before Christmas. This is so that I can wander the shopping centres and malls, see all the people running around stressed screaming at shop help: All you have is a remote controlled Rudolph The Red Nose Came-deer red-tipped vibrator? This is your gift suggestion for my Great Uncle? That's all you have? Fuck it, I'll take two! and laugh at them, smug and secure in my knowledge that I have had superior planning skills.

Christmas card lists are done early, and all Christmas cards are mailed out promptly on December 1. Presents to be opened on December 25-none of this evening of the 24th BS for me. Christmas meal is served mid-afternoon, but Christmas on a whole is an entire day to eat to Oompa Loompa proportions. And I always make fudge, which I will again this year, only I will not mention to Angus that the US version of the recipe I use calls for an entire jar of Kraft Marshmallow fluff. Some ancient Chinese secrets are best kept in the family.

Besides, if he knows about the fluff he won't eat it.
I really like saying the word fluff. That extends to a general pleasure in writing the word, too.

I have never been into the crafts thing. I simply am not creative at things like that, and I generally find the process painful and the results unsatisfactory. I am happy buying a rope of shiny tinsel and stringing that over the window, a store-bought wreath gracing my front door. Maybe a part of me is aware that Angus' ex was extremely inventive with crafty things, and maybe a part of me wonders if I should do it, too, if maybe I'll like it, if maybe I'll be good at it. That, and the Halloween lights we did with the kids looked fantastic-it took a lot of time to put up, but I was so damn proud of the work done that it seemed worth it.

This morning in bed (we woke up at 4 am as the thermometer told us that the temperature was freezing. This, so that we could invest in polar gear worthy of the Day After Tomorrow, I guess. And we couldn't go back to sleep afterwards, so we had coffee, a shag, and then a chat. This whole process is to be repeated after I post this. It's a very satisfying day so far.) I told Angus my plans.

"I am going to be the new Martha Stewart." I say. "Except for the insider trading bit, since I find stocks a bit boring."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his eyebrow raised and his hand on my ass.

"I need to find a craft store." I reply. I show him my sparkly gold magazine and expect him to be wowed. I mean, how can one not be wowed? Dressing for Turkey No Longer to be Boring-Learn How to Create Edible Top Hats for Your Tom Turkey! screams on headline. Create Miniature Icicles For Your Home-All You Need is a Snowblower and an Iron Will! recounts a second. Knit Your Own Homemade 3 Meter Tall Christmas Tree Complete With Evergreen Scent! Advises the third. Help Your Mother-In-Law Forget You're a Homewrecker and Find Natural Herbal Remedies To Survive Christmas! says another.

OK, maybe I am stretching the truth on that last one.

Angus smiles at me. "You don't need a hobby shop." he says. "Just get a coat hanger, some moss from the forest, some fir pine cones, maybe some piano wire with some fresh cuttings of evergreen, and there you have it-a natural wreath."

I stare at him. "Dude, don't stress me out. You lost me at 'coat hanger'."

I hadn't envisioned getting grubby in the woods, you see. In my mind, I was like Martha in the kitchen. "Now this," I would say to an invisible camera while using hot glue to create a wreath made of walnuts, peacock feathers and carabiners, "is a classic American wreath, one favored by the likes of Norman Rockwell in his piece 'Climbing Mount Christmas." I would smile pettily. "Oh, hello Paw Paw!" I would say greeting the Tabby Bomb as she walked into the kitchen. "Here's the homemade set of sugar crystal antlers I created for you!"

I am now rethinking the strategy. I do want to make homemade decorations this Christmas, I do want to learn how to do things. Something tells me Angus is correct, that grubbing around in the forest with some piano wire and a foam cut-out wreath as a pattern is ahead of me.

But until that time comes, at least I have a sparkly gold magazine.

-H.

PS-Off to the brother-in-laws for a Guy Fawkes celebration tonight!

PPS-I owe an apology to Margi and Ilyka. They would talk about Sims 2, and I would think: It's just a game, right? It's a game?

It's more than a game.
It's a way of life.
It's also keeping me from writing.

But Ilyka was perhaps not quite honest-she compared Sims 2 to heroin. It's really more like a heroin-crack-alcohol-sex mixture, one that keeps you hooked and even has you dream about Sims.

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November 04, 2004

The Cold and the Dark

I keep banging on about it, but it's true.

Fall is here, as evidenced by the misty car windows, the wilted near-frozen plants, the evening dark that comes before you get home from work.

Fall, Autumn, the so-called season of change, of slow death and slow churn. The leaves change and fall from the trees after an explosion of yellows and reds, colors that every year I want to burn into my memory, and every year I forget how vivid they were the year before. The bitter tang of the crumpled, paper-thin leaves, with veins stiking out and throbbing for a nourishment that is no longer there.

Autumn is here and for some reason, it has me nervous.

I can't really remember the details of last Fall. When I think about it, I remember a broken heart and exhaustion. I recall feeding my past into the flames of the fireplaces, scooping out the grey sooty ashes with a staisfaction of knowing who I was and how I felt could never be found again. I remember the stress of the upcoming job cuts from Company X, wondering if my head was on the chopping block (which it was), and the unmitigated apathy I felt wandering the hallways of work, my boots softly chipping at the floor as I walked. I remember endless days of wondering who I was, where I was going, and why so many unanswered questions dotted the horizon.

And above all, I remember the Fall leading into the Winter, the Winter of My Discontent, the Winter of the unwashed, unfed, uncaring me, the Winter that saw the splintering and disintegration of everything I had known, and the massive phoenix-explosion of what my life became.

And a small, secret, child-like part of me worries another winter like that could happen.

It's so ridiculous, my childish fear. My earnest dread and fright that it could happen again, it could all hurt again. Spending my winter in the dark, in a chair, with the world on fire in a blanket of snow. With my fingers and toes aching and curling up with cold, endless nose-running, and watching the frost suffocate the leaves and tender roses. The endless crying, the companion insomnia, the utter hopelessness and innate sense of embarrassment-I don't deserve to be here, I don't deserve to walk the streets, I don't deserve to breathe, I am the single biggest and greatest fucking failure you'll ever meet on a snowy curb.

I know that I am in a different world now, that I am in a different life. I know that kind of Fall is far from what can happen now as I am a different person. I know that there is someone swinging above me, holding on to my hands and making sure he won't let me go. And there is not only him holding onto me, there is a stronger part of me, a stronger sense of self that is strung below me as my safety net.

Yet it doesn't stop the tiny trepidation that lingers in my soul, falling into my toes with every falling leaf that I see out the window...the hope that I never, ever have another season like that ever again.

And so instead I turn into Angus, the man in charge of my heart, curling into his arms after a round of fantastic loving that I know to have with him. I curl into him and smell the sweet copper penny smell of sex, the smell of sweat, of holding onto your bicycle handlebars too tightly on his upper arms, and I lay my head on him and fall asleep, with no hint of Kafka dreams marring the surface of my sleep.

My world has been an ocean for so long, a ridiculous tempest that strove to drown me and leave me in a curling grave.

It's time I faced my Autumn, and stared the bitch down.

-H.

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November 03, 2004

Moan With Me, Baby

In England it's called having a moan. This does not mean having a wild, passionate afternoon of sweaty hair-pulling exquisite sex. It means nagging, complaining. Bitching. Having a go.

The term amuses me, mostly since in my mind it conjures up images of zombies in torn clothes walking up to people and bumping into them slowly, opening their mouth and saying: "Unnnnnnnhhhhhh." That, to me, is moaning at someone. Well, that, and I think of moaning as the wonderful mid-exploration result of some evening action wherein the guy has his head under the covers, munching at the snack bar.

Although Angus uses the term I tend to not use it so much. I do find it appropriate today-I'm not angry or pissed off, just gently annoyed at a few things. So I am taking today to have a moan, thanks.

*****************************

Dear Disney,

Yesterday I had the opportunity to provide you with £15 of my own hard-earned cash for the pleasure of viewing your Princess Diaries II opus. Now, I was accompanied (and, in fact, urged to attend) by my accomplices in this crime, a 12 year-old girl and a 7 year-old boy. All of us generally enjoyed the first Princess Diaries (some, it must be said, more than others) and the trailers looked moderately interesting, albeit extremely offensive to women and the type of crap Hollywood romance that we had all hoped wouldn't exist in Genovia.

But I digress.

I just wanted to tell you that the 12 year old girl was thoroughly and utterly delighted by the cinematic experience, and was as captivated as all little girls are when it comes to princess fairy tales and horses (and for this I am truly grateful-I like it when kids are happy). The 7 year old, however, was so bored that I had to find new and inventive ways to actually keep him in the seat, including using popcorn as a type of weapon, resorting to bribery, and dancing in my seat to lampoonish themes that allow producers like yourselves to inundate the market with further bubble gum pop.

In short-thank you so much, Disney, for making a film that was a complete and utter pile of boring rubbish. I appreciate it, as it makes me appreciate watching water-soluble paint dry more now than I ever did before. And if you ever show trailer clips again that show a young woman forced to marry and fall in love happily ever after within 30 days, I will personally mail you copies of my divorce decrees that prove marriage is hard work and not to be undertaken with cotton candy dreams, and I will sue your sorry asses for emotional damage as my brain cells jump, screaming, from my brain.

Thank you very much for your time. Say hi to the mouse for me.

Regards,
Helen


*****************************

Dear Ulcer,

Fuck off and take the ass bleed with you.

Regards,
The One Whose Stomach You're Living In


*****************************

Dear Karma,

I think we're even now. Honest. I've been doing a lot of investigative journalism and man-on-the-street polling, and I just want you to know that in the cosmic scorecard of the universe, I think we're all good here.

I know that I have done a lot of good and bad in my life, I know that I am to blame for breaking up a family and believe me-I feel bad about it. But maybe taking my common-law partner's children Christmas shopping yesterday and not only helping them to find Christmas presents for my partner's ex-wife, but buying them too, is a whole new level of "I'm OK, You're OK." I should actually mention, Karma, that I am not too bothered about it and am simply happy that the children feel good about the presents they are giving and are happy that the shopping is all done, and in some sort of weird fit of altruism, I do honestly hope that the ex will be pleased with the gifts her kids got for her. It's just maybe proof that you are evening the score if I am buying gifts for the ex, that's all.

I also have figured out the score on what it's like to be a sort-of step-parent, so you can go ahead and stop kicking my ass about how mean I was towards my step-parents at various times in their lives. I totally get it now, I know it's not always easy, and apologies have been issued. So thanks for that.

Finally, Karma-thanks for the gorgeous little boy hugs I have been getting all week. There is nothing in the world like a little figure hurtling onto your lap and rearranging your arms to comfort their pointy bottoms. My faulty woman plumbing and I thank you for the time you've spent helping me to understand this.

Checkmate,
Helen


*****************************

Dear Man on the Train Next to Me,

Dude, let's talk. If you're getting on the fast train into London first thing in the morning, you need to understand that people are going to be in a hurry and are going to get narked at your assing around with your enormous briefcase and carry-on bag, all the while juggling a cup of coffee. Seriously. Just get on the fucking train.

So I help you on and help you settle in, and what thanks do I get? I get covered in a fog of ancient cigarette smoke and cheapest nastiest whiskey possible to buy. A stench so bad I had to keep my head turned to the side to make sure the remnants of last night's dinner stay in the digestional tract. Man...you can wear all the suit and tie combos you want, if you have a funk settled around you like a fog, ain't nobody going to take you seriously in a meeting. You were funky.

It's called a bath. It's fat-free, calorie free, and may help you recover from that hangover. Or, if I may, maybe you should stay home after a real bender. If you do, my blistering painful ulcer and my sense of smell will thank you.

Thanks For Your Attention,
The Chick Wishing for a Clothespin For Her Nose


*****************************

Dear Reality,

If you bitchslap me again, I'm going to start tripping on a mixture of cranberry dust and fabric softener, I swear. I have so had enough of you. I know you think you're in charge, but just know this-I'm on to you. I know that you lurk out there, as evidenced by the 6 voice mails in my phone I can't be bothered with dealing with, as proof from my to-do list that never seems to get any shorter.

O-ho yes. I know your game. You have us all thinking that life is the Officer and a Gentleman moment where the guy is dressed in a sexy uniform and carries us off into the sunset. The truth is, the next morning they woke up with hangovers and after he got up and used the toilet, she was revolted by the fact that what comes out of his ass isn't lemon fresh, it's more like the slap in the face that only gas can give you. The truth is that guy took his factory lady to base housing, where she then became distanced and bored by being a military wife. That's what happens when the sun rises the next morning. Oh sure-you can have a Hollywood romance-after all, I have one-but it's still marked by reality, where there is laundry to be done, the other person is exposed to my scary menstruation granny panties, and sometimes neither person can be bothered to cook so you munch on bread and cheese.

I also know how you prey on our dreams of romance. I see Melissa look at pictures in her teen magazine, I hear her gush about Orlando Bloom. The truth is, if Orlando Bloom came near her I would fight him off with a fire poker and cut off his Sampson ringlets, then I'd sew her shut and put her in a bubble in an effort to keep her safe, to keep her sweet, to keep her innocent, and to keep her protected from you. From Reality. From the big nasty scary world that she is going have to explode into someday.

Because in the bottom of my heart, I want to protect the innocence of youth as long as it's there. There is time enough for her to know the pain of what "I'll be in touch." means from a guy. It will happen someday that she asks her boyfriend what he's thinking about, and the answer hurts her. It's likely she'll feel like another cog in the corporate wheel someday. I may not know what it's like to be that pure and good inside, but know this, Reality-for now, I am going to keep you at bay. You don't get to have this little girl right now.

The Chick You Constantly Hurt,
Helen


*****************************

Dear Father Time,

You're a real shit, you know that? You never, ever work with me. Ever. When I am on holiday swimming in the water with the love of my life, you make the time go double-speed. When I am in meetings, you slow every grain of sand tinkling into that hourglass go in slow motion, causing me to actually internally hemorrhage from sheer boredom.

And above all you took away some time from me this morning, when all I wanted was to spend time touching and marvelling at the beautiful warm shape that is Angus' leg while he slept in bed. I wanted to trace the thigh muscles and spread the fine leg hairs in between my fingers, I wanted to ease my lips up the strong and gorgeous inside of his leg and see how long it took him to wake up. I wanted to lead up to the other type of moaning, you know, the good kind.

But no. You had to be a fucknut and make me get out of bed to catch the train to London, and come to work.

Thanks, man.

Helen


*****************************

Got a moan? Leave it in the comments-I hate feeling alone. There is strength in numbers.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:47 PM | Comments (32) | Add Comment
Post contains 1714 words, total size 9 kb.

November 02, 2004

Gammal Tanten

In Swedish I would be called a "gammal tanten" which translates to "old aunt", but does not necessarily infer the derogatory "old maid".

It's generally used for women that get along fantastically with children, but don't have any of their own.

Story of my life.

Melissa and Jeff arrived in a flurry of heavy coats and bags, and they were very happy. Once wrapped up in their father's arms, I even got pulled into a hug by the ecstatic Melissa. There wasn't a moment of weirdness, of discomfort, of any of us feeling strange. It just was. And as soon as we left the airport, me pulling Jeff's bag and Angus pulling Melissa's, it was back to the roles we'd left the last time they were here.

Melissa with her arm through Angus, and Jeff and I fucking around and acting up.

And I loved it.

We get to the house and Melissa presents us with some pictures she's drawn...and they're addressed to both Angus and I. They're going to be framed and hung up in the new house. According to Angus, that fact (and the fact she's already bought my Christmas present) are very significant factors indeed, and I have to be honest-I am really, really touched with how great it is to be remembered, thought of, and included.

She and Jeff have an unexpectedly positive reaction to the Lush bath bombs I'd bought them. They exclaimed with glee about them and declared, on the spot, that it was bath time. Since it was late at night, we put them off on it until the morning, but we kept hearing about how bath time was coming, and how the bath products were the coolest things they'd seen in ages. We have a quick meal and sit around the table, with the newly unwrapped board game of Clue (here it's called Cluedo. I have no idea why) sparkly and shiny on the table.

And Melissa and Jeff arguing about who gets to be on my team.

I couldn't believe it.

The next morning Jeff follows me everywhere. If I sit on the floor he sits on my lap. If I dry my hair he sits next to me and demands I dry his, too. If I go to the kitchen, he follows and asks to help. He's my 7 year-old blond shadow and I love him for it.

Bath time is a significant event-we all solemnly troop into the bathroom and stand around the bathtub while Jeff unlaods his blue Lush bath bomb into the tub of water. It fizzes, exploding in sea salt, seaweed, and blue fizzy waves.

Jeff and Melissa are thrilled to bits.

"Daddy!" Melissa says in wonder. "We are going to have a bath every single day that we are here."

And I guess hearing that from a 12 year old and a 7 year old is something spectacular.

Saturday is spent carving pumpkins (Jeff and I made a scary one, Melissa and Angus made a funny one. It is not a contest, however I am of the staunch opinion that Melissa nad Jeff cheated-I mean, who uses a DeWalt drill to make round eye holes, they should be uneven attempts using a carving knife! Sheesh!).

We chat with the neighbors. We take care of the Tabby Bomb, who spends loads of time in the house with us, even extending to overnight stays now.

That evening, we troop to Angus' brother's house. Adam and Terry live in southern England with their two kids, Ida and Erica. We would also be joined by Angus' other brother Sam, his wife Jane, and their daughter Jilly, as well as Angus' mother and stepfather. I was a bit stressed and nervous, as I honestly never know how to approach these events, but it was clear I had a niche all for myself anyway: I was the gammal tanten.

Jilly, upon seeing me, grinned huge and ushered her two year old frame into a hug in my arms. Jeff spent the evening mucking about with Ida or coming to sit on my lap or hold onto me in some way. Melissa asked for my help in covering herself with cobwebs. At various times in the evening, I served some purpose in helping, consoling, winding up, or chasing children. I was trusted. I was ok in their minds. I was someone to turn to, this blue-jeaned American figure with little witches bobbing from a headband.

I watched Ida and Jilly (who are about the same age) dressed up as witches, pushing a baby doll in a stroller all throughout the house. I felt my insides ravage and bleed, as watching their little feet negotiate the tiles on the kitchen floor, watching their upturned mouth full of baby teeth, all I knew and all I could think was that I wanted to have a child so badly I could hardly sit up straight.

Sunday was a lovely day. My sweet Angus surprised me with a gift of Sims 2 in the morning. We spend the day cutting out and hanging up Halloween decorations. Melissa and Jeff and I made caramel apples from the greatest Mexican caramel in the world (thanks, Emily!) We made pumpkin pie. And then we play Clue and eat homemade Toad in the Hole. The house was an absolute disaster area, leaving me to wonder how it is we got so messy so fast and wondering if it was a function of having children around.

A knock on the door, and I stand up to check who it is. Opening the door, I see there are no less than 20 small children, their parents in the back. "Trick or Treat!" the kids cry in relative unsion, giggling.

I'd forgotten that the terrace had arranged some trick-or-treating. I scream with utter delight and feel my eyes prick with tears.

"We're not dressed that scary." replies one little ghoul softly.

I race to the kitchen for the Cadbury chocolates I'd bought and the camera. Whipping out the camera, I turn it on and say: "Say America!" and to a chorus of little kid "America!" I take a picture. Then I hand out candy. And I hurt for them and for my customs from home so much that I fight to keep from crying. We go outside for a bit of Halloween chat with everyone, but wind up inside curled up on the couch, where Jeff falls asleep tucked under my arm. He hussles himself off to bed and Melissa joins him, leaving Angus and I sit on the bed, drinking wine and feeling happy.

Monday I go off to work and then Angus, Melissa, and Jeff take a train up and join me for a Cornish pasty lunch and a shopping spin around Covent Garden (we had to go to Lush to buy more bath bombs. Obviously. My stock was getting dipped into and I think they felt they had to pick their own products.) Much time was spent there and much debate-they each get to pick three and with the usual sibling rivalry they had to make sure every step of the way was fair (as is the habit with siblings, they fight. A lot. But not nearly as violently as my sister and I used to fight.)

We got to see Shark Tales and then have a curry. Jeff takes my hand as we walk and leans into me.

"Helly." he says, using the nickname he's given me. "Jeff is Helly's best friend."

"Oh is he?" I ask.

"Yes. And Helly is Jeff's best friend."

And I know it's only 7 year-old talk, but it warms my heart a bit.

At the curry place things take a turn for the worse-suddenly Jeff is worn out and he gets extremely cranky. Melissa and Jeff argue and Jeff then decides he hates us all and he becomes, quite frankly, an exasperating handful. He rides the train back in a seat away from us, falling asleep but still hating us when he wakes.

Once home, they go to bed, Jeff full of hot anger. It distresses me to see his rapid change in behavior, but then I don't have kids, I don't know kids, I have no idea how rapidly they bounce back. But for the first time, I don't think: He hates me. He hates how I've torn up the family and he wishes I wasn't in his father's life. It's all my fault.

For the first time, I think: Kids. Hope he feels better in the morning, after a long sleep.

And this morning the theory is right. Typing away on our laptops in bed (Angus and I have embraced the wifi experience with open arms), two sleepy children were just in here. They wiggled on the bed and gave hugs and bright smiles, and Jeff seems back to the Dr. Jekyll that I know and love, Mr. Hyde firmly displaced.

They're currently in the bathroom, using a Lush bubble bar.

They're going to Angus' mother's tomorrow, thereby knocking out the evening I'd had planned for them (and I have to be honest-I'm disappointed they're not going to be here tomorrow night. But I am just the father's girlfriend, which means that perhaps (according to extended family) I have less of a say. And anyway, the kids want to go to their grandmother's, so that's that. We get them back Friday night.)

Halloween. Christmas shopping. Little ghosts and witches at the front door trick or treating and Erica and Jilly crusading through the kitchen. The squriming giggly hugs of the kids and the constant chatter and companionship they offer, not to mention the fountains of pure, unmitigated, innocent love.

I am so many things, some of them good.

I am a survivor.
I am a professional.
I am a lover.
I am passionate.
I am damaged goods.
I am an animal defender.
I am alive.
I am a friend.
I am in love.
I am a fighter.
I am a gammal tanten.

I am so many things...except I am not a mother.

And that's something I want more than anything to be.

-H.

PS-to my American friends-Happy Voting.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:59 AM | Comments (23) | Add Comment
Post contains 1701 words, total size 9 kb.

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