April 30, 2004

I Regress

Two days ago on the train (bear with me, it's not another train story), there was a little girl travelling with her parents and younger brother into London. The family sat in two places on the train, since it was very full and the kids wanted to sit next to the windows. The little girl sat opposite me-about 3 years old, I have rarely seen a child so incredibly cute as this one. She and I played "Shyness-Peek-A-Boo", and then she got hungry. She stood on the chair, blond bob swaying.

"Daddy!" she hollered sweetly across the train. Perhaps being so attuned to the word "Daddy", no less than 12 men craned around in instinct, then calmed down knowing they were not the "Daddy" she sought. "Daddy, would you like a buiscuit?"

The entire train-including myself-laughed. And the women on the train-including myself-had a sudden rush of estrogen burst into our uterus due to the overwhelming cuteness of this child. And believe me-there are few drugs knwon to man that are stronger than estrogen.

The little girl then took out a packet of a junk food called Hula Hoops. These are little crunchy rings that one eats in a mindless state in front of the tv, while drunk, or on the train. But there seems to be only one way to eat them-you have to put them on the tips of your fingers like little corn crunchy rings and eat them off one by one.

Which she did.

And me-a virgin to Hula Hoops-wanted them so badly at that moment I could cry. So Mr. Y later bought me some and I then proceeded to eat them, one at a time, from each of my fingers.

They were fabulous.

It made me think. Sometimes I feel so old that I could just fall apart, but maybe there are still some parts of me that are childlike. Quirks from my childhood that never left, connections to a time of guileless youth. I'm not talking about my emotional response (it's no secret that something is not quite right there), but about things that make me happy.

There are things that still make me squeal in delight. I admit it. Memories that are still special to me-eating sticky popsicles in the summer, sitting on the curb in the hot sun and watching the ants dash around beneath, hoping to get a drop of that purple sweetness that I am munching on. Sitting in a crabapple tree and devouring books-and crabapples-in the summer months. Running through the sprinkler and getting blades of cut grass stuck annoyingly all over my ankles.

Lick 'Em Sticks (which I would never eat the sugar sticks from). Little hard candies that came in cute shapes and cute plastic boxes (a coffin plastic box would have vampire shaped candies that would taste not unlike Flintstone's Vitamins. I think they probably were. Fucking conspiracy). Twizzlers and Pixy Sticks. I still crave these things.

I am sometimes such a girl-I love wearing cute slippy pleated skirts and Mary Janes. And I confess-I love to skip, and I have to make sure I never do it in public. When I see swings, I want nothing more to sit on them and pump my legs, making them go higher and higher or, better yet, have someone behind me to push me. I think some moments in a relationship are best defined by the simple: "Do you like me? Check yes or no."

If you offer me an airplane-where you put your feet on my stomach and elevate me into the air-I'll be your best friend. I miss playing on a Slip 'N Slide, this big piece of yellow plastic that you had to spend forever to adjust the water hose on, and you'd always scrape the fuck out of your elbows on the staples at the end of the slide anyway. The Magic 8 Ball is a tool to be revered and trusted for important decisions, such as "Will I have a beer, or would I like some wone?" Shoes come off and feet clad in socks covered with cartoon animals get stuffed underneath me in cars couches, movie theatres.

I hope that part of me never stops in this. And I don't see any sign of it, either. After all, my dream career (other than being a writer) is to be the Quality Tester in a bubble wrap plastic factory.

-H.

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April 29, 2004

Angry Letter Writing

I had an incident.

Surprise, surprise.

The trains that run into London from Newbury (and from this entire area, really) are maintained and owned by a company called First. Now, this company recently has decided to have a bee up its nose, and has security guards and police available at every train platform. One is not even allowed on the train platform without a ticket anymore, which is ridiculous, since you can buy tickets on the train (and I have before). I confess I have never, ever ridden a train without buying a ticket.

Catholic guilt, remember.

These guards are a serious pain in the ass. Not only does it mean the queues for tickets are very long, but more often than not you miss the train you had intended to take, so this means hauling my ass out of bed even earlier than usual in order to make sure I make the queue to make the train.

I was in line to buy a ticket. I was running late. The First guards saw me and all the others in the queue and talked amongst themselves. They saw us line up, talk to the teller, produce various bits of shiny plastic, and buy a very expensive little piece of paper (in my case, my little piece of paper cost me 32 pounds and would allow me to full use of the pride of Britain). My train would be leaving in exactly 60 seconds, and in Newbury, they don't fuck around. They close those doors and don't re-open them again until the next station. Missing this train would mean a 15 minute wait on the freezing train platform, and trying to crowd into the fast train. I had to catch this one. The woman behind the counter was agonizingly slow. I was hurried. I was frazzled. I wanted that train. I could feel beads of sweat pop up on my back. I was irritated-obviously I couldn't raise my hands if I'm sure now.

The woman slapped the tickets on the counter and in a flurry of raincoat I grabbed them, hustled out of the office, and started hurtling towards the train, 30 seconds to go. I reached the doorway where the guards were and-as rehearsed-I produced my ticket face up in order to show him. But here's where the catch was-the receipt was accidentally on top of this (my patented finger trick hadn't worked) and the ticket wasn't visible. So the guard did what he shouldn't have done.

He grabbed my arm to stop me, turned my hand around and read my ticket.
He grabbed my arm.
I couldn't believe it.

I turned to him and said: 'Don't touch me.' But it didn't come out all sassy and 'I'm Every Woman.' It came out like I was underwater and confused. It came out like a little girl would say. It came out like a confused chick would say. He let me go, I hurtled towards the train and got on just as the doors were closing.

But it was too late for me. The mere motion of him grabbing me had caused me to split. I was no longer Helen, I was Helen watching Helen. I disassociated like a big dog, and stayed that way the entire day. I was inflexible in meetings and demanding (and to be honest, I am usually pretty easy-going in meetings). I was angry.

I became some weird vicious vengeant chick, in complete horrific paranoia that someone would touch me. I wanted to go back to the train platform and push him through a plate glass window. I didn't get back into myself until later in the day.

The older I get, the more fucked up I am getting.

First Trains are getting a letter from me. In my world, in no way is it ok to touch someone when you work in a service area. There was a line crossed. I mean-if I had been a guy, there is simply no way this man would've grabbed me. It was because I am a woman.

Where did this guy learn his customer relations? A hoe-down? Did he completely skip his customer sensitivity training, thinking I'm a man of the millenia. I'm sensitive enough. Where had he missed the part that not only is the customer always right-especially the customer paying 32 pounds a shot for the trains-but the customer reserves the right to not be grabbed like a teenage hooligan by Johnny Law!

Maybe I am just too sensitive. An incident happened two weeks ago that has had me very nervous, and with a second incident, I just got pushed over the edge. But regardless of that, fucknut should not have grabbed me.

This morning on the train I had my grim determination face on. I pictured screaming at him. I pictured lecturing him about how there is no fucking way he should ever have touched me. I pictured calling the police and having him arrested. I pictured him crying in the dockets, begging my forgiveness.

What did I do? I bought my ticket. I exited the office calmly and with my ticket up. I walked past the guy-the same guy-who just looked at my ticket then looked away.

But I took his name on his badge as I walked by, as well as the company he represented, and a letter with the most stringent and strict of terms will be used, a letter which will demand an investigation which First (as I have had it explained to me) will be forced to comply with.

Joe, you are going down.

Consider yourself warned.

-H.

PS-I am meeting with Company X today. I am the customer. They are bringing in lunch and preparing slideware.

I can hardly wait.

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April 28, 2004

Little House on the Prairie

Yesterday on the train I noticed something new about myself.

I was bored, the train was packed, and I couldn't get to my book in my briefcase without the Pomeranian of a woman next to me getting snippy, so I just sat there and tried to amuse myself, which I am crap at since I have the attention span of a four year old, and the patience of one to boot. I tried to watch out the window but I hate knowing that my eyes are zigging back and forth. I tried mentally undressing the people around me, but I got hung up on what type of underwear they would be wearing. So I looked at my hands.

And I saw a deep groove in my left hand, a jagged crease that went up from the pulsing base of my palm to the web just below my pinkie. A new line, a new crease in my hand.

This sparked a dozen thoughts in me. That I love the look of women's hands as they age. That I have very long fingers. That there's nothing more comforting than folding my hand in someone else's.

But mostly, it made me think of my Great-Grandmother, my mother's mother.

I have been fortunate in that in my lifetime 4 of my great-grandparents were alive. This Great-Grandma, my Great-Grandma Bessie and her husband, my Great-Grandpa Elmer, were my favorites. They died when I was in college, and I knew them (and loved them) well.

They were extraordinary people. They lived in a tiny house in a cramped and dangerous suburb of Des Moines, Iowa, which they had bought many, many years before that when all around them was just farm land. Every neighbor knew them. Their home was open to everyone, and in a dangerous neighborhood with troubled kids, they were the adopted grandparents to them all. Their hearts were just that big, their door always open.

Great-Grandpa Elmer had four fingers on his hand shot off during the war, and he labored with a heavy, thick, sticky cough the entire time I knew him. He suffered from Black Lung (I almost called it 'The Black Lung' there, apparently England is rubbing off on me, however not only am I not English but I hate bad grammar) from his work in a tire factory, and breathing for him became a horrible and concerning labor.

Great-Grandma Bessie had a heart the size of Montana. She was a strong woman before there were strong women, this woman really broke the mold. She had opinions about many things and wouldn't hesitate to tell you about them. She had wild white hair and an enormous bosom that one would get clasped to from time to time. Her hands were veiny and gnarled, with long fingers that slid through locks of hair with ease when you sat on her lap. Their home smelled of government cheese, vinyl, butter and the comfortable acrid smell of age.

I loved her to death. She had an enormous drawer full of jewelry-some costume, some real-and all of the kids would dress up in it, decorating ourselves like gaudy little divas. The drawer had a mass of pearlescent blue, green and purple beads that would wrap around us a dozen times and that we would play with for hours, and about a million Freemason pins and accessories (they were lifelong Freemasons. I still have no idea what that stands for).

One day she turned to me as I was sitting at the table playing with the beads and said 'Helen, you have the most beautiful profile.'

That compliment stuck with me, and stays with me still.

But Bessie also read palms. She claimed to be psychic, to know things about people that they didn't even know themselves. She would read your palms and tell you your future, her rough fingers tracing lines over your palm, her grip surprisingly firm on your wrist. I can't remember everything she said, only that she said I would have two children and live a long life. But all I know is yesterday on the train, when I saw that new line I thought of her and wanted to show her my line, to tell me what it meant. To sit in her tiny kitchen with the screen door open and the Iowa sun baking the pavement. To talk to her about my life, and see what she thought.

I went home and told Mr. Y about it all. He smiled at me. 'That crease, Helen?' It's not a new crease. It's a wrinkle. See?' he said, and showed me his palms and a few wrinkles that he had there.

I looked at my new crease.

He was right-it wasn't a new line to be interpreted and foretold, it didn't talk of my fortunes. There was no great and secret myth about this. I didn't need my Great-Grandma to tell me what it meant.

It was a wrinkle.

Fuck.

-H.

PS- I have decided I am going to get arrested if I keep reading David Sedaris on the train. I just can't stop laughing. If you haven't read him, please do. Here's a snippet from his book "Holidays on Ice":

"I often see people on the street dressed as objects and handing out leaflets. I tend to avoid leaflets but it breaks my heart to see a grown man dressed as a taco. So, if there is a costume involved, I tend to not only accept the leaflet, but to accept it graciously, saying "Thank you so much," and thinking You poor, pathetic son of a bitch. I don't know what you have, but I hope I never catch it."

This description is in the same essay where he describes his work as a 33 year old elf in Santa Land.

I love this guy.

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April 26, 2004

Circle in the Sun

The summer months must be heaven for men.

The weekend here was warm and glorious-the undertone of chill was, for the first time, completely erased from the air, and instead the world felt as though it was vibrating with energy, with enthusiasm to the summer coming, and with the promise of hot weather. And, accordingly, hemlines went up everywhere. Throngs of people were in the town, men in shorts, women in short dresses, shoulders and arms exposed to the sun for the first time in 8 months or so. Everywhere, people were smiling, chatting, laughing. I half expected them to burst into song, a la 50's musical, but that was a bridge too far.

There was flesh everywhere, as women and men hauled out the warm weather clothing in happiness and excitement. Sundresses and strappy shoes abounded. As far as you could see where pale white figures exposed to the sun, and my white bits were among them. Armed in a tank top, cropped pants, and flip-flops, for the first time in so long I felt warm.

Warm.

Saturday morning I went into the gym, trained within an inch of my life and stretched my muscles tight. Then I did something for myself-I went to the park and sat outside in the sunshine, armed with a book and a sandwich, a pair of sunglasses and an attitude.

I laid down in the grass, feeling the heat soak through my clothes. Rolling about in the grass, I decided I wanted to linger there a while, so I went into a nearby store and splashed out on a fleece blanket. I walked back into the park, laying down in the middle of the park, in the middle of the sun. I couldn't believe the heaven that I felt, the warmth on my skin, the niblets of chill completely erased from my skin. I wondered if the sun had made its way into my bloodstream, not unlike the red patterns in my eyelids that I saw with my eyes closed.

The horrible cold agony of my Swedish winter started to melt away just a little, and I stretched every bit of skin that I could towards the sun. My tank top went up, tucked just beneath my bra. My pants edged down to the rolling bone of my hips, while I hiked the trouser legs up over my knee. I scraped the hair from my face, and just lay there, trying to let every molecule of sunlight onto my skin, scalding every inch of me and trying to burn away the agony of the past year.

No one has ever been so invigorated by the sun than I was at that moment.

I was loathe to leave, but two hours passed in the wink of an eye, and I met Lloyd to see "Kill Bill 2". After that we ate ice cream and then went to a pub, sitting in the sun. All around us were people in cropped tops, sleeveless shirts, shorts. And almost every single one of them had a sunburn. I started to laugh, pointing it out, until Lloyd reached over and pressed a short finger onto my upper arm.

And wouldn't you know it-I had a sunburn too.

Later that night he and I downed 3 bottles of New Zealand chardonnay on the balcony. We wanted to be outside, we wanted to be warm. We wanted to not forget what an incredible day it had been here. When it got chilly, we threw on our Gap sweatshirts and continued drinking wine, talking about work, about ourselves, and about our hopes and dreams in life. With Mr. Y not there, he was a little more comfortable talking about his personal life, and in companionable conversation we drank wine and let the sunshine float back off our skin, and dreamt of more.

Of course, the hangovers we had on Sunday prevented us going out into the sunshine, but the windows were open, my sunburn is fading, and I ache for the sun still.

-H.

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April 24, 2004

Big Day

I have much planned for today-first I am going to haul my ass off to the gym (bikini season is upon us!) then my iPod, the book I bought on recommendation from Simon, and myself are going to sit outside in the park and soak up every inch of sun that my body can get in contact with.

But I was thinking about something, and an email from someone triggered an idea. I haven't re-capped my life from this blog for a long time, so perhaps I should do.

-I am a 30-year-old American living and working in England, who came here by way of Sweden, where I worked for 4 and a half years.

-I have two ex-husbands, one of whom I don't talk about, and one of whom I do. I'm like Ross without the penis and the dinosaur jokes, I guess. The second husband (who I call X Partner Unit), ironically, hurts more than the first. Actually, that breakup just hurts, full stop.

-The first great love of my life was a man named Kim. We were together for 4 years, and then we weren't. I always knew we would be back together again-for surely, that's what love is about, right?-but then he intervened with our plans, by dying on me.

-I am on Life Number 6. The first 5 lives I have lived since April 1, 1974, are all radically different and equally important to me.

-I lost my job from Company X in Sweden on November 19, 2003. It was one of the worst days of my life, which kicked off the worst period of my life. I have a new job, which I call Dream Job.

-I started this blog as cheap therapy, as one year ago I tried to kill myself.

-I am with a wonderful man, one who makes me happy (and has the potential to make me utterly miserable, too). I call him Mr. Y. And I can't live without him.

-Half of my family lives in Dallas, the other half live in Seattle. And the Dallas Stars, despite what you may think from the play-offs, are the best hockey team in the whole wide world.

-I am very confused, I have a lot of issues (the search string for that one would bring my site down!) and I am just trying to figure out who I am and what I am all about.

In the meantime, I blog. And I love it. And I hope you do, too.

-H.


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April 23, 2004

That's All I Can Stand!

Since moving here, I've noticed that some people have a very unique way of dealing with humor-they are rather self-deprecating, but above all, they like to have a go at each other. This is called "taking the piss", and it basically amounts to light ribbing and joking around. It can, on occasion, get to be a lot bigger than that. The closer friends you are with someone (and therefore more comfortable that they won't take offense), the harder the teasing.

Now, this teasing is usually about something that someone can't change, their appearance, their attitude, something like that. You can't take the piss out of someone for coming from, say, Nigeria or China or India, since that would be construed as racist. They don't really make fun of Australians or New Zealanders (once you get past the sheep jokes that the Welsh and Scottish face, anyway). There is really only one country where it's absolutely ok to make fun of a person, and in fact it will be an Olympic blood sport debuting in Greece this year.

It's ok to make fun of the Americans.

And if you get a group of English together and there is one American there, the pack mentality sets in and it takes mere seconds to get the hounds ready to release.

Mr. Y and Lloyd absolutely love to have a go at me for being American. It is relentless, and it occurs almost every night. Occasionally it makes me very angry, but it is pointless to get upset since it only feeds their lust for blood, and the truth is I really don't mind since they really don't mean it. I get it all-when they hear Americans on TV, they start bleating "Wah....wah...". This, since Americans are known for being nasal and whiny, so they call us the Wah Wahs. I am used to this one, only I have to try to control the two of them doing it in public.

Or about the fact that people around me feel the need to say the town, then the comma, then the country. They think it's hilarious that in the US we say "Birmingham, Alabama" or "Dallas, Texas." They would just say "Birmingham", or "Dallas". I have tried to impress upon them that we don't always say it, and we generally only say it when we are talking about smaller towns that others may not know about, like "Killeen, Texas" and "St. Charles, Louisiana." But it's no good-now they say the city, the country, and they say the word "comma", so I get: "I believe the factory is in Atlanta, comma, Georgia." Or "It's being broadcast from Washington, comma, D.C."

And so on.

I get it all the time. From Mr. Y's stepmother about how fat Americans are. From Lloyd that we call it a supermarket (it called "the shops" here). From Mr. Y with the wah wah jokes. From Jeremy Clarkson on TV. From Alex that Americans can't pronounce English names correctly (don't fall into the trap: Leicester is not pronounced "Lie-chester". It's "Lester".) From Mr. Y's pub mates on Tuesday that 80% of Americans don't have passports.

Let's talk about that one-why should we? I mean, I remember when I would scrape together enough money once a year to fly to Europe. It was all I looked forward to, and I was so fucking broke the rest of the time, and others around me would ask: Why do you want to go to Europe? I would reply: It's such an adventure, don't you want to go away with your vacation? To which I would get a shrug and hear: Nope. We're putting in a pool.

The U.S. is enormous. You want a type of topography, you can get it there. Not to mention that families are spread out and holidays are spent visiting them. And the fact that you have to sell a kidney to pay for flights in the U.S. for your family. And above all that we only have 2 weeks holiday, which in most companies you can't take consecutively. So no-we don't really travel (for better or for worse), but I don't think it's because of lack of desire, more like logistics.

It doesn't piss me off, really-I know that they're just joking and I shouldn't take offense. Sometimes it gets on my nerves and Mr. Y knows when I reach that level (which doesn't mean he backs off, but at least he knows he's reached my threshold.) But I have limits too, one of which was reached this week.

I had a meeting with Dream Job people-many of whom I know, some of whom I don't-and we were talking about gerbil standards. Gerbil standards are different between the US and Europe, and so we were trying to determine which standards fit here (this conversation makes way more sense with telecoms terms, but since I think some details should be withheld...)

A grumpy old goat looked up at me. "The Americans use brown gerbils, and we all know that the English grey gerbils are far more superior."

"Actually, Ralph," I reply, smiling tightly, "the Americans have grey gerbils, too."

He snorted, and I watched his white nose hair quiver from the effort. "Well, they're only copying the English. The American gerbils couldn't get their gerbil wheel rolling if someone added a machine to it."

This guy was getting on my nerves. "I disagree Ralph. The American gerbils are just as productive as the English ones. Studies show that they just operate differently."

He snorted again, and looked at his fellow compatriots, who were grinning in support of him. "It's just because someone has a gun on them, that's the only reason American gerbils work. They only work 4 hours a day, the English ones work way more than that."

He laughed heartily at his joke. Something inside of me snapped-I'm ok with gentle ribbing, but this was just too much. He's not my friend, he doesn't know me, and he and his "jokes" could just fuck off.

I swiveled slowly in my chair towards him. I felt my manager's hand go on my shoulder, and he murmered "Easy, Helen." I looked Ralph in the eye.

"Ralph, the American gerbils have been specified to work within 6 hours of each 12 hour shift. In England, the specifications are similar however there are issues with gerbil muscles which makes it impossible to get this done, although work is being done to remedy this. Now, we can talk about this, but if you continue to sit there and insult my country, you can just talk to yourself, as I will be leaving the room. You finished now?"

The room was aghast-they hadn't ever seen my get annoyed at the piss taking of America.

Raplh nodded, we moved on, and people knew then that I have limits too. By all means, take the piss out of things that you think are cute or that don't offend. But don't start that "my country is superior" crap, or I am outta' here. No country is better than another one. We are all just different.

-H.

PS-Mr. Y is away this weekend to visit his kids. Lloyd and I are going to see that "Passion" movie and "Kill Bill 2", but I will likely be blogging since I will be lonely

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April 22, 2004

The Second Round

Last night Mr. Y and I went for dinner with Y's Mum, Stepfather, brother Alex and his wife Terry, in order to celebrate Y's birthday with his family.

I was terrified.

It took me-and I am not exaggerating-5 attempts at picking the right shirt, flinging pastel Easter-egg colored ones on the bed with each attempt before finally settling on the first shirt I had tried on anyway-before we could leave the house.

And we were running late since we'd decided to have sex before we went.

I am so totally the younger-woman temptress, eh?

Anyway, driving down there I played "Fumbling Towards Ecstasy" (nice chilled out music) while he drove. We were both nervous, wondering how it would go. We finally made it-only half an hour late-to a very nice Indian restaurant outside of Guildford.

We walked in-I had taken Mr. Y's hand, but he had let it go as we reached the glass doors. There were the uber-jury, drinking glasses of wine and chatting.

Gulp.

Y's Mum stood up, and smiled at me. "Hello Helen." she said straight away. "How are you?"

Wow. Talk about a complete turn-around. I smiled nervously back, pleased. "I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

And so the evening began. We settled in around the table, me next to Mr. Y and across from Mum and Stepdfather, and Alex and Terry at the end of the table. There was much talk, general interest in lives, and Alex and I talked about telecoms for a while as well. There was a moderate amount of ribbing at my American background (more on that tomorrow), but everyone was very nice, friendly, and welcoming.

Made me wonder what I'd done the last time we met to make things ok now, if anything.

There was no mention of Mr. Y's ex, only a few questions about his children (whom Mr. Y is off this weekend to go visit), and then basically questions about work, home, how things are, and a bit of talk about the past (in which Helen tried to pay attention, but simply couldn't. Hard to follow when they're discussing people they were born and raised with!)

Mr. Y was clearly uncomfortable with any kind of physical contact with me, although I was desperate for some kind of sign of affection (sound the pathetic alert, please)-he rubbed my knee under the table and once touched my shoulder with his elbow, but beyond that he was jumpier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

He promises to work on that.

That's good, since Tactile is my middle name.

At the end of it, full of biriani and Cobra, we all hugged and Mr. Y and I are invited to Alex and Terry's house next weekend, which we will attend. Mum and Stepfather were very kind (although a few times they called me Helena, not sure what that's about). I have to wonder-are they being nice to me out of resignation? Are they being kind since I have shown that I am not the very definition of evil that Mr. Y's ex had possibly painted me to be? Or is it just that maybe they like me a little bit, and think I am ok?

I don't know. All I know is I survived the evening and actually had a nice time.

Sometimes, things even surprise me.

-H.

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April 20, 2004

The Barber Shop

Saturday night Mr. Y and I were on the couch, watching tv and quaffing a nice sauvignon blanc. Mr. Y walks into the other room and comes back with a pillow, a towel, and a few hidden bits in the pockets of his dressing gown. He spreads the towel on the floor and lays the pillow down and turns to me.

'Lay down.' He instructs.

I leap off the couch to comply. I already like the sound of this one.

I lay down and he removes my pajama bottoms, exposing me to the air. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a gentleman's beard trimmer, complete with a number of head attachments, and kneels down over me, surveying the landscape closely.

'I hadn't trimmed it in a while.' I say, smiling. 'I thought it would be your job.'

'Indeed.' He replied. 'I'm just trying to think of what shape to go with.'

And he sits there and looks around the area a bit, perhaps testing the design thoughts in his mind, and then nods to himself, sits up, and snaps a new head on the trimmer. He kneels over me, and clicks it on.

Instantly, I am a sea of squirmy ticklishness, as I am being vibrated by a toy with teeth. Let me tell you-when you shave yourself, it's easy (just a little bit nerve-wracking), since it's impossible to tickle yourself. Have someone else parting the lips, and it's much harder to keep the thigh muscles from jerking around and the bottom from clenching tight.

Mr. Y made a number of passes through the hills and valleys, scooping out the hair with the trimmer, and laying the area flat with just a 2 mm length of fur. He surveyed it critically while I relaxed, feeling my stomach muscles heave from laughing too hard.

He sat up, nodding to himself, and then adjusted the razor head to the one that would make a clean sweep of the shorn pasture area he had left behind. And with a few well-planned moves (which also left me in fits of laughter, as it tickled like mad), the playing field as smooth. He then carefully parted the lips and, instructing me to hold still upon pain of nicking, he gently removed all the hair from inside the lips and around the happy place.

Sitting up, he surveyed his work, and nodded. He had removed all the hair save for one tiny square patch, and he had done a fabulous job.

"Don't get up!" he warned, and so I lay back, feeling my muscles relax again and the air around my exposed parts. Seconds later, there was the sound of machinery as he fired up the dustbuster and removed all the hair from me. Far from being erotic, it also tickled like mad, but I must say it was an effective hair cleanup routine. I'd never been dustbusted before. Guess there's a first time for everything.

The cleanup done, he nodded, pleased with his work.

Then he sampled it.

Again.

And again.

I could get used to this.

-H.

PS-Happy 42nd Birthday to my lovely Mr. Y. I hope you liked your birthday presents.

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April 19, 2004

Letting Go

The other morning I was showering, soaping a warm soapy mesh sponge of white tea scented soap and running it up and down my leg, when I realized something rather profound.

I hadn't thought of Kim in a while.

Kim-the first great love of my life. The man whom I loved to one thousand pieces, whom I always thought I would wind up with and die with, up until his death 4 years ago. The only one on this blog whose name is presented as it really was in real life.

I stood up under the spray of the shower, and tried to think of the last time I thought of him at any great length, and it was indeed true-it had been a while. And it had been a while since I thought of him in any kind of sense of deep and profound longing, as I used to do. Now, when I thought about him, I realized that it had morphed a bit into a drawn-out sense of gratitude and gentleness.

Somehow, in moving on to England, I had moved on from Kim.

I had to think about that a long, long time. Is it possible to take a void left behind by someone, and fill it up with someone or something else? Or is it so that, over time, we just assimilate the hole that got punched into our lives and into ourselves, and we either get over it in time or become a Dickensian tragic figure sitting around in our rotted wedding gowns?

Kiim hadn't been substituted by anyone. I hadn't rolled Mr. Y in over him, to hide the person and place that Kim was. Mr. Y has his own immeasurable place in me, he doesn't share it with anyone else. Maybe it simply is that I just have finally really begun to get over Kim, to finally let him go, to let go of that moment in time when he made me and broke me.

And the greatest realization that I made was this: I don't see him in crowds anymore.

On an almost daily basis, when I was out and about, I would see him in a crowd and go chasing after him, only to reach the shoulder of some poor, unsuspecting man, who would of course inevitably not be Kim. I did this so many times that I lost count. I constantly was on the lookout for him in crowds, in foreign places, in the quirkiest of buildings. Some little part of me know that a man like Kim couldn't be bested by leukemia-he had to still be alive, still be fighting, still give the world a reason for turning.

But I don't do that now. I don't search the crowds for him.

I have carefully wrapped Kim up and put him in my heart, where he will always be. But my aching for him is gone, my torrential tears for what we had dried up. I realize I now look back on him with deep fondness and a bittersweet love, and I always will.

But I am here, alive, and living. I like to think that maybe somewhere he is cheering for me, and glad that I have finally moved on.

I've moved on.

For the first time since his death, I can say that.

I've moved on.

-H.

PS-now that I have the pc working, I am having problems with Hotmail, so if you have sent a mail I am not ignoring you-I just can't get access.

PPS-22 comments until my 4000th comment.

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April 18, 2004

Trainspotting

One of the things that I am confronted with on a frequent basis since I have moved to the UK is a commute, both on the train and on the tube. I live in Newbury, which on a map looks really close to London, but in reality makes for a hellish train ride that is alternately handled on the fast train, thereby making life easier, or on the slow train, which makes me want to commit random acts of violence.

So I spend a lot of time on trains and on the underground.

The trains are always on time when I have ample time to get to the office, and always delayed when I am running late.

That's just the way it is.

When I am not running late, stressed to bits, and wanting to rip out the transport authorities souls and shake them in front of their disbelieving eyes, I just love to people watch. People here are so wildly different from where I am from, either because I never really took public transport in the US, or else because I wasn't ever really paying attention.

Last Thursday, I encountered a number of people that made me take notice. First off, I had the guy on the train next to me-he popped open his laptop and then used the thumb scanner to login, looking at me dodgily the whole time, worried that I would steal the secret formula to some weird chemical he was working on or something. I admit that I was intrigued by this thumb scanner thing-and a bit put out that Dream Job only requires a password from me, instead of a retinal scan-when I noticed that once he had gotten past the security screen, he had fired up Solitaire.

Right. Impressed-ness gone.

Making my way to the tube from Paddington Station, I saw the buskers in their usual places. Now, I have a very soft heart. Buskers see me coming from a mile away, and I generally keep loose change in my pockets to hand it out. It annoys people-including Mr. Y-that I give out change, but the way I see it is, if they're asking me for it, they probably need my change more than I do (I did, however, stop the policy of handing out change while I was unemployed. I figured I needed it then, too.)

If they have a dog they're definitely getting change from me if I have any.

If they play entertaining music or are very pleasant in their musical selection, then they generally get change from me, too. I figure if they're spending time making my trip more enjoyable, it's the least I can do.

I was walking past a guy in the busking station, playing his heart out on a guitar. He actually sounded quite nice, and it was a good song, so I flipped a 50 pence coin into his hat. He looked up at me.

"Thank you, luv." He said, smiling, his shoulder moving under the shoulder strap of his guitar in a breezy manner. "We're all looking for a new god."

Sounds about right to me.

On the tube, I sat down on a seat and bounding onto the seat next to me was a hyper-active young man, all jittery joints and red eyes. He was constantly wiping the end of his nose, which was bright red, and examining his hand. Now, I am no expert on drugs (although I can match you one on alcohol), but this man was definitely on something. He started biting his nails and spitting them out on the train floor, in brief breezy arcs that would wind up somewhere in the middle of the tube carriage. I watched, utterly horrified and fascinated all at the same time, rather like we are when we see a car accident-transfixed without our will. But then Jittery Boy started reaching into his ears and pulling out balls of wax, rolling them up in his fingers and rejecting them onto the floor, managing to still doing the nose rub thing.

The wax basketball was too much for me, and I had to move seats.

On the way back home, I sat in a row of seats alone and was treated to two young boys who thought that the best fun that they had had in ages was to let some serious wind rip and see the reactions of the passers-by. Worse, the passengers kept looking in my direction, and the young boys would dive low in their seats, so I have no doubt that most of the tube folk thought that I should best be kept away from curry houses in the future. I didn't even try to look embarrassed. After almost tossing my cookies, I have never been so happy in my life to get off the tube.

The final jaunt I had was on the train, and I sat next to a group of people, a bit tired and feeling that my cute strappy shoes weren't doing my feet any favors. The people next to me started talking to each other, and my ears did a Gizmo swivel and tuned right at them.

They were Americans.

As they talked about their day, I listened in. He was so jet-lagged. Would Sue like this T-shirt? Did you see that English policeman, the one with the Bobby hat? How about maybe seeing if we can get tickets to see "Mama Mia" tonight? Her feet are killing her, but she is determined to go see Parliament lit up tonight. Isn't this the best fun ever? She wonders if they'll get her postcards before she gets back.

I sighed somewhere within myself, and realized that in that very moment, I was actually rather homesick, and longing for a good long chat with people who are just like me-strangers in a strange land. Instead, I leaned towards them, not saying anything, and soaking up their broad and familiar accents and letting it warm me from the inside out.

-H.

PS-great news-I now have a PC, and I now have broadband. Blogging to recommence (I am very sorry my site hasn't been so active, and that I haven't been to other blogger's sites for a while!), and many thanks to the Newbury Public Library.

PPS-greater news-Sarah McLachlan is coming to England in October, and Mr. Y and I have bought tickets. Only 6 months and counting!

PPPS-greatest news-I got this book from a Miss K (name withheld to protect your privacy, my dear). I absolutely love David Sedaris-I first heard him on a car trip with Kim on NPR many years ago, and found him hysterical while being deeply, deeply honest. I can't recommend him enough. Thank you for the wonderful book, Miss K. It made my weekend!

PPPPS-I am 40 comments away from my 4000th comment.

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April 16, 2004

Seagulls

When I was about 8 years old, I had a long car trip with my mother, sister, and grandparents to visit my great-grandparents (I was lucky enough to have them in my life until I was in my early 20's). They were a distance away, and it was always stressful to go that far, but there are many responsibilities when you have a family, and visiting them is one of them (I loved them to bits, so it was ok with me).

Driving home, late at night, we were all tired. Row after row of Iowa cornstalks hullked by us, sentries guarding the side of the road. There is something spooky about cornstalks, something slightly sinister and evil to me. They look so friendly, with their tufts of silk tumbling out the tops of them, but they cut your face and hands when you run past them, warning you to walk and never run.

I remembered then that there was a cartoon special on that night that I wanted to see. Some Smurf thing, most likely, an entertaining diversion to an otherwise mundane night. I realized that we would not get back to my grandparent's farm house in time to watch the show, that it would be over by the time we made it back.

"Oh no!" I wailed. "I'm going to miss my Smurfs show!"

And with that, my grandmother whipped around in the front seat, sour face and angry disposition, and roared in my face "Helen, you are so god damn selfish!"

I was stung.
I was only 8.
I had only thought of a stupid cartoon, I hadn't meant any ill will.

And it started a pattern of feeling horrible when the "s" word-selfish-got thrown my way. My mother uttered it to me occasionally when she got angry with me, and I never could get the courage to say back to her: Look-I'm really not. I know you're angry, but telling me I am selfish really hurts me, and you know it does. I would give you anything you need or want anytime you ever need or want it. Sometimes I am thoughtless, I know, but I never put my needs and wants about yours or anyone else's.

And I still am that way today. To be selfish means, to me, that you value yourself so highly that you subordinate everyone else's whims before yours. I have many, many faults, but the one I don't have is I don't think I am at all important or above anyone else, in fact I think I am stunningly average and I throw myself on the barbed wire ringed around my heart as often as possible, screaming: Love me! Love me! Love me!

I am the epitome of pathetic.
And when my psychotherapist in Stockholm told me that he thinks I have spent my life trying to be loved and approved of by those in my life, I cumbled like a cookie.

Again-pathetic.

Mr. Y got into an argument the other night, and he called me selfish. I know I appeared that way in regards to this argument, but I couldn't be any less selfish if I tried, and I really mean it-I'm not painting myself out to be a saint (since I am not). And it just brought back this agonizing ache inside of me, that desire to sacrifice all my possessions, all of my emotions, all of my strength, just to say: I'm not. I'll give away anything you need or want from me.

It must be so hard for him, sometimes, battling the 30 years of ghosts and screwed up thinking and behavior that is bundled into the package called Me. He's being really good about trying to understand how difficult I find some things, but I guess it's hard to know where someone's coming from sometimes if you haven't been there yourself.

And as I walk along the train platform, the cries of Selfish! Selfish! Selfish! bang around my head, getting louder and louder, like a flock of seagulls screaming around inside my brain indicting me, and no matter how loud I turn up the iPod I can't drown them out.

-H.

PS-Carlene is right-where is Luuka? Brass or Rob, have you got her?

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April 14, 2004

Pictures and Ghosts

The lunch with Mr Y's Dad and Stepmum was a bit stressful and a bit surreal, but overall it went well. We had a long drive out to their place, and when we got there I was flabbergasted.

Holy cow.

I was nowhere near financially equipped to understand and relate to people on this level. Their home was beautifully renovated, a house I would put at about late 1700's. I felt utterly inadequate, and more than a little bit scruffy, even though I was turned out nicely in a nice sweater and skirt, and Melanie's necklace. I was relieved that Mr. Y, looking very handsome in a Gap shirt and jeans, was not concerned with the trappings of wealth, and was reassuring and kind.

Mr. Y's father-with whom he has a strained relationship-was similar to Mr. Y in many ways-common interests, same jokes and digs, similar builds. It makes Mr. Y uncomfortable to hear this, I think, but then I also get squirmy when I am told I am like my dad, so maybe we are more in common than we both think. His father and mother busted up when he was 12, when his father left his mother for his younger, foreign (New Zealander) girlfriend.

History repeating itself, or are we all subject to the whims of our fates?

But Mr. Y's father was nice, and his Stepmum, while a bit reserved, was apparently no more so than she usually is. She was kind to me, and I saw her regarding me frequently. Perhaps we can be friends, since we have much in common? Perhaps she views me negatively? Perhaps I am even more common than the background she came from?

Wandering through their house, I saw a picture in their sitting room of Mr. Y's ex-wife on their wedding day, the picture blurred out as photographers do, to show soft edges. She looks young and fresh in the picture (I am not having a go at Her, I think we all look younger and fresher 15 years ago than we do now.)

And I was struck inside with a feeling of weirdness.

I was walking around in a home that She had vacationed in. That She was (is) a part of, a family member in. I am an outsider, a new person, and always will be, I think.

I doubt they'll take that picture down-they expect that I know the score, that I have been fully briefed on the situation, and should be a grown-up about it. And that's fine, I can be.

But I sure don't want to go into their sitting room for a while.

The ghosts stayed with me. Going to Scotland, where it was 17 years ago that Mr. Y proposed to his ex-wife. Also in Scotland, where he thought about his other long term relationship before his ex-wife, where he had a very special trip there with the first girl.

We are not new to each other in terms of the love field-I have a past, he has a past, they're things to deal with. I know that sometimes Mr. Y feels uncomfortable about Kim, and I can understand-how can you compete with a dead man? How can you ever be secure of their memory, when you can't be secure in them?

Picture and visits aside, I was handling it all well, up until the end. When we were headed back to the Glasgow airport, I dug into the trunk of the car to stash our candy in the suitcase. Unusually, I found it locked. So I turned to Mr. Y and asked him the code.

He replied the 3 digits, and I thought about the 3 digits.
It hit me what they were.
His wedding anniversary.

Then there were rolls of weirdness, and a wariness of a stupid Samsonite that I am constantly aware of. It's ridiculous-there are many things in his daily life that he had with Her. There are gifts from Her. There are constant reminders, just as he faces in return-I have many things from X Partner Unit. But that suitcase did me in, had me feeling awkward in ways I couldn't reach into myself for, and I can only think this: some things will take time to stop feeling weird about. It will take some time, but sensitivities will (I hope!) start to decrease. This is one of those things.

That, and I hope to god that he will change the code soon.

Anway, as promised, some pictures (isn't Scotland-and Mr. Y-lovely?):

The beautiful Highlands. View image

My dream summer home. View image

I clean up after being dirty. View image

Mr. Y and I, just after a ski-lift ride View image

My piper in Edinburgh. View image

-H.

PS-Jennifer is fantastic. I got this book today and I laughed my ass off-thanks, precious, it was a laugh much needed!

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April 13, 2004

The Highlanders

Just a brief one from me....

Scotland was incredible.

I loved it.

I must go back.

It all started off a bit weird-we had a mad dash to the airport in order to get there in time, and just barely made the flight after getting a really ass-y check in desk (note to self: BMI hates their passengers more than any other airline I have ever known!) We got onto the flight with no time to spare and not seated next to each other, so two rows ahead of my Y, I sat next to a man and his son, and settled in for a one hour flight. Shortly before our landing, I noticed that the young boy was humming a tune, and then he started singing softly. It was cute little kid music, a gentle song, and I started singing along with it in my head until I realized the words the kid was singing. I looked over in horror and saw him closing the plastic window cover as he sang:

"We're going down....we're going to die...." again and again.

Then he started rolling his eyes in his head and smacking his head on the plastic window cover, and I thought Oh my fucking God, is this kid channeling the Big Bopper? Oh my God, this is the creepiest thing ever...

But the young boy's channels must've been messed up, since we landed without incident.

Y and I got into our rental car and headed out north, to the Highlands, to Ben Nevis and Glencoe. And for once, I am out of metaphors. I am out of words to describe what can only be the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen in my life, ever. It was brilliant, lonely, empty, haunting, and thrilling, all in one. Y and I took a ski lift on one of the mountains, which was empty this time of year since there was no snow. And on the way up, with gentle waterfalls and aching cold, I had my hand in Y's lap, helping him to...enjoy...the scenery.

When we got to the top, we decided to do as the Highlanders did, and initiate the mountain.

Wonderful.

We got to our bed and breakfast, a gorgeous and enormous ancestral home run by the most eccentric Scotsman I'd ever met, and settled in for a wonderful sleep. And sleep we did-we slept like rocks, with the window open, showering us with Highland chilled air and wrapped in each other, until a 7 am Y sat bolt upright. He looked at me. Looked at the end of the bed. I looked down then and saw that we had hada security breach during the night.

Curled up at the end of the bed was a fat and very satisfied looking tabby cat. And I, so deeply missing my cats myself, lay in a fetal position, the fat cat curled in the hollow of my knees, and allowing me to scratch the side of her ears for ages.

It was perfect.

We then puttered around Highlands in our rented Vauxhall Corsa, screaming down mountain tracks and laughingly leaning forward to strain back up them on the single track roads. It was great fun, and we pulled into Inverness later that evening, then off to what has to be the most upscale bed and breakfast I have ever stayed in. It was pure luxurious attention to all the details, and Y and I had a romantic morning in the darkness, when he reached out for me.

Then we headed off to Loch Ness (nope, didn't see it) and a drive through the central part of Scotland before settling in Edinburgh, where we spent the day today, walking, laughing, diving out of the rain and getting charmed by bagpipes (which, actually, turn me on like no ones business).

We are now back in Newbury, with a mass of laundry to do, love bits up and down our backs, and the hope that things will stay as good as they have been.

Pics and a few other things tomorrow. including a debacle....

-H.

PS-Dane sent me two boxes of Cap'n Crunch for my birthday, thereby making him my personal hero. Thank you, dearest

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April 09, 2004

What Would You Do?

Sometimes I get upset about things beyond my control. TV shows, for example, can wind me up like nobody's business. A TV show was on this week in England about a man who was on a train and witnessed a woman being seriously harrassed by two men on the train. She looked to him for help, but he didn't come to her aid, and when his stop came, he got off the train and went home.

And once he'd left, the woman was raped on the train.

Now, this was just a TV show, but you can see how it would happen. How often have we witnessed fights happening but didn't get involved? Seen women smack their kids and not say anything?

I for one get involved, I cannot stand people being pushed around. The TV show made me viciously angry, I was wringing my hands, hating the TV show, hating that a man would walk away from a woman who may be in peril, angry that there are men that attack women.

I understand the human need to "not get involved". No one likes to interfere, and no one likes it when they are interfered with. But at the same time, I think we have a social responsibility to get involved. Now, this does not equate to me thinking that we should invade countries that we interpret as needing it. What I am talking about is the basic level, the human level, the interaction of helping out one person who may need you.

I never thought I would be in that situation myself.

Tuesday on the Thames Link train to Newbury from London, I was very tired and busied myself reading the paper and struggling to stay awake. On the seat next to me was a young girl, perhaps about 9 or so, and her older sister, perhaps 14 years old, sat across from her. Their loot was spread out on the table in front of us-they had been to the Gap, Boots, and a whole host of those under-16 type clothing stores whose bubblegum pop blares out onto the sidewalk whenever the door of the store swings open.

A man got on the train and sat next to the 14 year old. He was probably in his late 40's, carrying a backpack, and looking tired himself. The two girls were excitedly going through their purchases of the day, the look of young animation that goes with shopping when you're young, with a handful of cash and no obligations to pay the money back. The 14 year old pulled out a bottle of Cover Girl liquid foundation.

"What's that?" asked the man curiously.
"It's foundation." replied the teen, smiling.
"You don't need that. You're already very pretty."

I looked up over my paper. The teen smiled winningly back, accepting the compliment. The young girl just looked at the two of them, possibly annoyed that their treasure recon mission of goodies had been interrupted.

"How much was it?" asked the man.
"About 5 pounds." replied the teen, shrugging.
"I'm so glad I'm a man." replied the man. "I would hate to be a young girl like you."

The teen smiled back, and turned back to her sister. Something in the transaction was bothering me, but I didn't know what. It had echoes in my head of something that could be unpleasant, but then again maybe I am too sensitive, I can't recognize kindness, or that I am horribly paranoid, so perhaps it was nothing. Sensitivies from that tv show. My past.

But still.

The teen took out a plastic sack filled with tank tops in bright colors reminiscent of parasols on the beach, summer tops that hinted of warm shoulders and suntans. The girls chattered animatedly about what to wear them with.

The man spoke. "How much were those, then?" he asked.
The teen took the tag of one in her pink sparkly fingernail polished hand. "14 pounds." she replied.
He nodded. "I'll bet you'll look real pretty in that."
The teen smiled less winningly this time, no teeth showing, looking down, accepting the compliment. The little girl looked confused and wary, not wanting to engage the man in talks, not sure what to do or where to go, not wanting to talk.

And that coment got to me. I dropped the paper so that he could see me watching him. He looked at me, uneasy with me watching him. He kept his eyes on the girls the rest of the time. I kept my eyes on him. The girls kept their eyes on the table.

As my stop approached, I was glad to see that they were getting off, too. Otherwise, I quite honestly would have asked them if they wanted to sit in the front of the train, in the empty car. Maybe I would've ridden the train longer. I'm not sure, all I know is I couldn't have left them there, not after that tv show, not with the weird feelings I was having about the whole transaction. As I stood, they hurriedly stood with me, and we all walked to the exit before the train pulled into the station.

The little girl looked up at me, brown eyes liquid and cheeks pink. "Can I press the button?" she asked, referring to the lit-up button on the panel that opened the doors at the station.

I looked at her, excited and young, and tried to remember when, or if, I ever felt that way, that young and innocent and naive. I knew in that moment that I never wanted any man to come in and make her feel weird again. I could kill anyone that tried to hurt her, this complete stranger to me, this youthful fresh thing that would be broken by life in her own time, but should never be robbed of it early.

"Sure, sweetheart." I said. And when we pulled into the station her chubby hand proudly opened the door, the finger with the little crescent of dirt under the short nail firmly pushing the lit button, and the three of us stepped out of the train and onto the chilly platform.

-H.

PS-Happy Easter! Nothing from me until Tuesday, when we are back from Scotland.

PPS-I am meeting Mr. Y's father and stepmother today for lunch. Tranquilizers all round!

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April 08, 2004

The Unexplored Territory

A bed isn't just a bed.

A bed, a 4 foot by 6 foot area, is a whole new platform for a range of emotions, options, and challenges.

I gave up on living in my little space and have just settled into Y's space, cramming my few possessions under his bed (and I hate having things under the bed, then I can't ascertain where the monsters are under there) and I sleep next to him every night.

The bed has become many things to me.

A bed is a Discovery Channel. Time spent exploring uncharted territory and curves, to deduce which gentle slopes have had fingers, teeth, breath there, and to leave a flag behind if you were the first. To take a look at the map of scars on a human body and ask where they came from. What is the story behind this one? How old were you? I may not remember where the host of my many scars came from, but can you tell me yours?

A bed is a history lesson. Fingers entwined and laying side by side, on the good nights you tell stories of the day you had today. Of the past, a time when I didn't know you and you didn't know me. Of tales of childhood and pleasures-he was a Scout. I read books. He watched "The Magic Roundabout", I watched "The Great Space Coasters". He lost his virginity on the marker for Greenwich Mean Time, I lost mine in the living room of my boyfriend's parents. Who were you before you knew me? And can I be myself with you, the real me, the one I am just getting to know, the contradictory nutcase that loves you to bits?

A bed is a U.N. peacekeeping zone. In times of war, when harsh ammunition has been hurled, it is a place to negotiate the finer lines of a peace treaty. You offended my nation when you said this. I attacked him when I said that. Careful not to touch borders in the bed, not to cross the lines of demarcation, we battle our way to a Resolution, which culminates in a peace-keeping fierce hug from Y as we lay down to sleep-the anger not abated but the simple desire to touch still there.

A bed is a confessional. I confess my sins, and I receive my atonement. A quick movement from Y hauls me to my back, and he kisses me hard, bruising my lips and grinding his body to mine. I return with my own confession, admitting my stupidity in lines of nail rakes down his back, drawing his head back with gasps of pain and uttered words of admonition. He slides into me roughly, the annointing oil having paved the way for him. I bit his upper arm hard, digging my teeth into the skin and allowing the salt of his skin to pervade my lips.

He flips me in one motion onto my stomach and throws the duvet over my head. From under the down quilt I hear a sweet, soft whisper noise, almost mechanical in nature, and I have no idea what it is. Seconds later, I feel raining fire on my bottom, the gasping sting of leather smacking my flesh and sending the blood vessels scattering, as he spanks me with his belt. And within a few seconds of the belt being lifted, I feel a heated pleasure build in my face and body, a tingling that I have never felt before. Four lashes in all, and then he roughly takes me from behind, finishing in seconds.

After, he gathers me up on his lap, whispering worried words that he has hurt me and apologies for being too rough. I soothe his fears and his brow, telling him that as long as he never hits me in anger, we're good. That I loved it. That I have been absolved of my sins, and he is absolved of his. We fall asleep curled up, and this morning the air of anger is clear, and that sparkle in his eye that he gets when he looks at me is back. I can feel it back in my eyes, too, a catchy edge of humor and lust, replacing the tired and swollen look of before.

My bottom is sore as hell, my lips are bee-sting swollen and he has a perfect plum shaped bite mark on his arm, along with the scattered of freshly-plowed scratches down his back. I wouldn't trade a battle scar for the world.

And it's with satisfaction that I remember my Catholic background and the wonderful absolution that comes with confessing. I know for sure that I will be visiting the bed confessional again, and I am preparing myself already.

Forgive me, Father...for I have sinned.

-H.

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April 07, 2004

The Captain Has Turned Off the No Pollyanna Sign...

This morning I got up just after 4 am and hurled myself down the London M4 to Heathrow. Late Tuesday afternoon I got the request from my manager to attend a one day meeting in Belfast, and since I have not only never been to Belfast, it was also urgent that someone from my team attend, I got nominated.

Belfast it is.

My colleagues told me to pack my flack jacket, but going to Belfast didn't scare me-not only have things calmed down a lot there, but come on-I lived in Oak Cliff, in Dallas. The roughest neighborhood in town. My Rottweiler was armed, for god's sake.

So this morning I was screaming down the motorway to catch a 6:50 flight. I was bone weary tired (having only just concluded the argument with Y the night before), and trying to be positive. I was off to Belfast, a place I had never been. The motorway was empty. Y and I had made up. The sky was lightening on the horizon, and I was looking forward to getting to the weekend-Y and I are off to Scotland for the weekend.

But pulling into Heathrow, I struggled to hold on to the happy thoughts. Traffic got messy. Police patrols were obvious. The radio was only advertisements, and as I tried to look at the sky and be positive about the colors, it came to me. For fuck's sake, Helen...it's five fucking thirty in the morning and you would commit random acts of violence for a cup of coffee. Give up on the touchy feely happy shit, ok?

I gave up.

But Belfast was cool, the little that I saw of it. It was cold and windy, and my meeting wouldn't start for an hour, so I asked the cab driver to drop me off in the city center and then give me directions to the local Dream Job building. He turned to me, speaking through the partition.

"Hubbly bubbly wee bridge bubbly. OK?" he asked.

Oh God. I'd clearly had a language bypass on the airplane without my knowledge.

"Er...could you repeat that?" I asked hesitantly.

"Bibbidy bobbity wee bridge boo." he replied, with a big smile.

Nope. It was just noise.

"I'm so sorry- I'm not used to the gorgeous Irish accent you have. Could you repeat it again?" I asked, worried that he would explode (I really do love the Irish accent. Mmmmmm....)

After another 5 minutes, some exaggerated charades, the sale of my first born child and some finger puppetry, I figured out he was giving me directions to continue straight down the street, and turn right at the wee bridge.

I am going to be saying wee a lot now. I love it.

Walking up the street, I had a short conversation with Y, but it was too windy so I stepped into an enormous community hall type building, and it was like falling into a whole new world-young girls raced about the place with wildly curly, thick Texas style hair, great quantities of makeup, and kicking their legs about while holding arms fully in place.

It was an Irish dancing festival.
I had stepped out of reality and into Riverdance.
Very cool.

When my meeting began, I was (as usual) the only Yankee, and I tried to start it off well. When I stood to begin my part of the presentation, I decided to ease in with a bit of light humor.

"Right. My presentation today should be short, but please do let me know if I am going too fast, or if I am boring. But say it nicely, since I have a fragile ego."

You could hear the crickets chirp.
Tough room.
I tried a few more jokes.
They just looked confused.
I gave up, and have decided that the men I met with were not representative of the Irish peoples.

I am home now and full of Lebanese food, gym visit done, and looking forward to relaxing. And I am going to try out some of my earlier meeting room humor on Mr. Y, see if he laughs.

Then again, I suck a clown's ass at telling jokes, perhaps I'd better turn the Pollyanna sign back on.

-H.

PS-Kaetchen, you are wonderful. I got my presents and I love them madly. Thank you, dearest. I can't wait to start laughing with Sedaris!

PPS-Melanie, you too are fabulous. I had no idea you made jewelry! A pic with me wearing the gorgeous necklace coming soon. And believe me-your necklace is much better than the three diamond one.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:19 PM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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April 04, 2004

When God Looked Away

A recap and photos of Prague tomorrow, but first I wanted to talk about a part of the Prague trip that has been on my mind since we went there.

Terezin.

Walking through Prague's Jewish quarter-an area that was decimated during the Hitler's regime for the answer to the "Jewish Question", you see so many young, fresh-faced Jews who are there as part ofa pilgrimage. Happy apple-juiced lips of young tour members sitting on the curb, staring in awe at the oldest Jewish Cemetary in Europe, with their paper souvenir yarmulke's with the word "Terezin" emblazened on it. You half wonder if they have bought more for their family members, with the words "My son went to Terezin, and all I got was this yarmulke".

But once you've been there, you understand why people are striving so hard to remember it.

Never in my whole life and in all the travels I have had, have I been to a place of greater sorrow.

Terezin is actually a large town about 50 km north of Prague, near the border of Germany. A one hour bus ride on a former USSR bus takes you there with grueling slowness, making you wonder if you should lean forward up the hill as the gears scream in agony, and once you arrive in Terezin you can't understand it, but the town is just so damn creepy. It's eerie. You have to walk 10 more minutes to the smaller concentration camp that is part of Terezin, called the Small Fortress. It was oringially built in the late 1700's as a military barracks and has been a part of horror and sadness ever since.

Terezin was devestated by the severe European flooding in 2002, and so every room has a water line up to about the waist, where the Elbe took over the Elge River and forced it to wash out the horrors of the Small Fortress.

The Small Fortress, which held women, children, men, Jews, dissidents, homosexuals, and POWs, made me feel such sadness and anger at a world gone wrong. The rooms were freezing cold and the stench of sewage so raw in the one toilet each room had. At one point, we had to walk through a courtyard under those words, those horrible words....Work Will Set You Free. I passed solitary confinement rooms where I strained to hear the prayers of those in need, the sadness in the walls, but heard nothing but the wind.

Then we walked into the tiny mortuary, and there is such a feeling of plaintive pain. Tiny shrunken ghost fingers claw at our pant legs and beg us for help. But I couldn't help them 60 years ago...and I can't help them now, even though that is all that I want to do.

Next to the mortuary is a tunnel. I stepped into the tunnel and was overwhelmed by the icy breeze that stings my face and arms. Y and I walk through it, and are overwhelmed by the length of the tunnel, and eager for the tiny slits of sunlight that filter through from time to time, yet are unable to penetrate the cold. When we exit the tunnel, it is to the execution grounds. The mass burial mound. The gallows.

We knew that was on the other side of the tunnel.

We wonder if those whose lives were ended here did, when they started their walk through the tunnels.

When you go back to Terezin, there is a museum there, called the Ghetto Museum. We entered it, and it was there that we understood the full horror, the deeper tragedy than just the one of the concentration camp we exited.

The whole town was a holding point for Jews. The whole town. Jewish people rounded up and expected to live in a "self-administration town", which in reality was a camp for Jewish children and elderly. Secured in a perimeter by the SS. And the elders who "ran" it, the rabbis and scholars, had short jurisdiction-more often than not, they were shipped off to Aushwitz. Buchenwald. The end of their lives.

Terezin served as a shipping warehouse of people, shipping off their human cargo on a regular basis to concentration and extermination camps. They regularly sent a cargo of exactly 1,000 people on trains to camps. On average, none of them survived. The Ghetto Museum? A former boys home during the War.

In all, over 8,000 children were in the camp.
Only 247 survived the war.
The rest met their end in camps.

The town actually was used as a big PR scam, perhaps contributing to those who say the Holocaust was a hoax. The Reich ordered that it be dressed up with cafes and sports events for the Red Cross, who came by and saw lots of happy Jewish community members who lived in harmony and self-rule. In order to "clean up" the town, the Reich ordered everyone to look happy, clean their clothes...and shipped 16,004 elderlyand sick Jews to Auchwitz.

Every one of them died there.

The reality is this town had 155,000 people pass through it, and less than a quarter survived. The second time the Reich dressed up the town, no one came, and so those who were part of the puppet show the Reich had ordered were sent to their deaths in the gas chambers. At the end of the war, dysentary and typhoid nearly wiped out all that had managed to survive the transports.

Terezin tries to rebuild, families are moving in there, businesses coming in. But the streets are haunted, I think, by the lost and angry sould punished for their faith, their dissent, their sexual orientation, their voices.

To those who say the Holocaust was a hoax...sit down. I have some pictures to show you. Pictures of a town and a concentration camp that was filled with people, the Lambs of God that he forgot to pay attention to for a moment. And in that moment, they were lost forever.

Pictures that, to me, prove that God doesn't exist at all.

-H.

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Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:38 PM | Comments (28) | Add Comment
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April 02, 2004

Greetings From Prague!

Wow.

I'm 30 now.

Thanks for all the happy birthday wishes!

Although I still hanker for strappy shoes and orgasms, so I guess I passed the passing 30 phase.

There's a computer with Internet in our hotel, so thought I would whack out a fast post.

Prague is lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely. The city is very old and apparently in a great state of renovation, since many places are under scaffolding and preparing for face lifts. This just adds to the charm, I think. The weather is nice (although not hot!) and there are surprisingly a lot of tourists. Mr. Y and I have observed the dichotomy as thus: the English tourists seem to be in the shopping districts, the Americans in the Jewish and Christian quarters, and the Italian and German tour groups seem to be everywhere (and always with someone holding an umbrella up. "We're walking....we're walking...."

Prague has a great history. I find it ironic that my D&S lover and I are in the area that was once known as Bohemia. What I don't find so amusing, however, is the suffering that Prague and it's Czech citizens went through during the war. We will be heading for a former concetration camp later today, and I find that to be about the most sobering prospect I have ever heard.

Yesterday morning X Partner Unit called from China to wish me happy birthday (very sweet of him), and then Y and I saw Prague Castle, had a waltz around the Old Palace, and walked on the oldest bridge in Europe. We got in a fight in the afternoon over something stupid which is on the border of my memory now, but quickly made up when, at last, my family called me to wish me happy birthday. I don't really discuss it here, but my family and I aren't getting on well at all. I had barely heard from them and didn't get my tradtional midnight call on my birthday. When the phone rang in the middle of our argument, I crumpled like a tin can and Mr. Y wrapped his arms around me.

We're so stubborn sometimes.

Y had saved up my birthday cards from my family and presented them to me with his gifts and a fabulous bottle of champagne. From my family, money and 4 lovely shirts. From Y, a beautiful necklace made with grey freshwater pearls and a gorgeous titanium and gold ring (which unfortunately is the wrong size, but I can't wait to show off the ring when we get one the new size!) Pics on those later

We had a huge dinner at a Lebanese restaurant last night, all cozy lighting and red throw pillows, baba ganousch and hummous eaten with fingers. Then we trooped back to the hotel room, hand in hand and telling stories as we walked by the river, where we made love for an hour. We are slow moving today but happy, and I still find that I can't get enough of Y.

-H.

PS-yup, Laura and Reflection-we're bonking like bunnies

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:53 AM | Comments (24) | Add Comment
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